Dark Memories (The DARK Files Book 1)

DARK MEMORIES

SUSAN VAUGHAN

Copyright © 2016 Susan Hofstetter Vaughan

Published by Gullwood Press

Digital formatting by Nina Pierce at
Seaside Publications

Cover design by
Rogenna Brewer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author at [email protected]. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Revised and Updated. First published as
Guarding Laura.

For more information on the author and her works, please visit:

www.SusanVaughan.com

About
Dark Memories
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Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
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Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter 8
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Chapter 9
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Chapter 10
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Chapter 11
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Chapter 12
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Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
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Chapter 16
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Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
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Chapter 19
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Chapter 20
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Chapter 21
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Chapter 22
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Chapter 23
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Chapter 24
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Chapter 25
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Chapter 26
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Chapter 27
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Chapter 28
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Chapter 29
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Epilogue

Excerpt from
Dark Cover
(Book 2 in the DARK series)

Dedication & Acknowledgments
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Dear Reader
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About the Author
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Other books by Susan Vaughan
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Book Reviews

Copyright

Can they hold onto the heartbreak of the past when he’s protecting her from a killer 24/7

After witnessing a murder, Laura hides under an alias at a Maine lake resort where she feels safe. Until bad-boy Cole walks back into her life. Now a Fed, he has come to protect her and flush out a killer. Together 24/7, they can’t deny the passion between them. As dark memories assail them and a killer closes in, they must learn to trust each other—before their future is extinguished forever.

For my friends Virginia Kantra, Virginia Kelly, Sharon Mignerey, Ann Voss Peterson, Sheila Seabrook, Linda Style, Sue Swift and the members of Maine Romance Writers for all your support and encouragement.

Thanks to the following for sharing their expertise: Virginia Kelly, Sharon Reishus, Warner Vaughan, Chris and Robert DeGroff. And to my previous editors, Susan Litman and Shannon Godwin, for your patient guidance. Liberties taken with Maine geography and any errors are mine.

“SO, LAURA, I see you’re still holding court.”

The racquet slipped from Laura’s shaking fingers to clatter on the tennis court. Ten years vanished in a heartbeat. Only one man’s smoky rumble could hum like that through her nerve endings.

“Thank you, Kay,” she said to the girl who retrieved the racquet. “Um, you girls switch opponents and keep practicing.”

Simmering with awareness and trepidation, she scarcely noticed whether they complied or not. She turned to face him.

Cole Stratton lounged against the gate. Self-assured and arrogant, yet elements of his rebellious youth remained.

The last time she’d seen him he wore leather. His present garb of charcoal T-shirt and khaki cargo pants appeared almost respectable, except for the scuffed boots. Military, not the chain-draped motorcycle boots she expected.

Why was he in Maine? She had to get rid of him fast, before he revealed her identity. If he lingered, she’d have to run again, to find a new sanctuary and a new identity. Her life was in danger. She’d take no chances with a wild card like Cole.

And what consummate gall he had to approach her after dumping her like a worn-out tire on his Harley-Davidson. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to reveal how much he’d hurt her, how much damage his betrayal had caused. She couldn’t trust him.

Her stomach knotted, and her heart raced. It took a minute for controlled breathing, learned in therapy, to ease the tension.

She clutched her racquet in front of her — useless as protection — as she walked to the fence. “What are you doing here? Hart’s Inn is a family resort, not a biker bash. Did your motorcycle dump you, or are you lost?”

His ice-blue eyes drilled her without a hint of the humor she’d discerned in his mocking greeting. His expression was as chilly and unrelenting as the North Atlantic tide.

He hooked his fingers in the fence above the opening. “Can’t a guy take a vacation?”

“Here? That makes a lot of sense.” She propped one hand on a hip. “The Cole Stratton I knew traveled only to motorcycle races, certainly not to a staid old Maine resort. Your idea of vacation was a six-pack and a Saturday afternoon.”

She blinked under his scrutiny. What did he think about the changes time had wrought in her? Cole might be tracing her shape with his gaze, but at least she could keep her scars — physical and emotional — hidden from him. She closed the shirt collar around her throat.

Heat leaped in his eyes, and tension flattened the skin across his angular features as though he were struggling with his thoughts or emotions. His scent, a mingling of aftershave and soap, and another musky essence purely Cole, wafted to her, a lure to buried emotions and memories.

Oh God. She couldn’t let her awareness of him erode her vigilance. She had much more at stake than pride and resurfacing anger.

He plunged a hand into his dark hair, spiking it into disarray. “Hell, I’m not here to hassle you. General Nolan sent me to protect you.”

Laura grasped the fence for support. Trent Nolan? Her breath came in shallow gulps, and she willed her lungs to drag in air. “Why on earth would the director of a Homeland Security agency approach you about me?”

“You don’t want these happy vacationers to know how you got those scars you’re trying to hide. Or how Alexei Markos is hunting the only murder witness against him.” He jerked a nod toward the goggle-eyed kids on the court. “Lose the audience. We need to talk. In private.”

A tornado twisted through Laura, leaving in its path the wrecked illusion of anonymity and safety at this quiet lake. “But how do you know all this? Why are you here?”

“Hey, Laura, how’s the tennis going?” Burt Elwell waved to her from a golf cart laden with garden tools and painting supplies. His curious gaze earned no response from Cole, who gave him a stony stare.

“Terrific.” She waved off the young handyman. The fewer people who noticed her with Cole the better.

“Laura, are you coming?” one of the girls called.

“Can he come and play too?” Kay cooed.

Although consumed with curiosity, Laura knew she couldn’t cut short the lesson. Some parent would complain to her boss, and she didn’t want to have to explain Cole. Even if she could.

“I have to finish the lesson,” she said to him. “Then you’d better have a good explanation.” Hoping that was the final word, she retreated to her class.

Like birds to a feeder, her flock of students gathered around her, clamoring for her to observe their progress. Kay, the oldest girl at thirteen, said, “Who’s the hottie? Your boyfriend?”

“Just someone I used to know.” A friend. A lifetime ago. It had been friendship, at least at first. Maybe she should have remained a timid rabbit like the other girls and not have approached the leather-jacketed rebel in senior history class.

Then she wouldn’t have fallen for him two years later.

For the next half hour, Laura could scarcely focus on what she did. A robot, she shot balls to each girl in turn. As they swatted at them, she mumbled inane phrases of praise and critique.

Her brain swirled with questions. How did Cole know General Nolan? How did he know about Alexei Markos? And how could she get rid of this dangerous man?

For a while Cole stood beside the closed gate. When the parents of one girl arrived to watch the practice, he strolled away and leaned against a tree.

Keeping him in sight as she tried to pay attention to her charges, Laura observed wryly that Cole Stratton never actually strolled. He prowled.

He wasn’t overly tall, about six feet, but God knew what kind of labor must have augmented his lean muscle to render him more imposing than ever. His hair was still as black as night but clipped ruthlessly short, no longer in a thong-tied ponytail. What had been taut lines at eighteen and twenty stretched into deep creases down the lean planes of his tanned cheeks. Thin white scars slashed his chin and right temple.
He’d matured into a man who would invariably draw female eyes. He looked hard, dangerous and — much as she hated to admit — sexier than ever.

She used to call him cowboy. The soubriquet still fit.

Unbidden, the memory of his rescuing her at their all-night, unsanctioned graduation party leaped to her mind. When some of Cole’s drunken biker pals had rolled in, he stopped one from harassing her.
He wore a black Western hat instead of a helmet, and she called him cowboy. Seeing through his tough-guy biker persona, she was attracted to his protective nature and sense of honor.

But that was before he’d broken her heart.

When the tennis lesson ended and the girls dashed away to their cabins, she turned to confront him.

He was gone.

Not knowing whether to be relieved or frightened, she froze. Swimmers’ carefree squeals and the tang of pine scent floated on the light breeze, cooling the perspiration on her forehead.

Thank God, she thought, giddy with conflicting emotions. Maybe she’d dreamed him up, this ghost from her past. Or from one of her nightmares. She emitted a bitter laugh that stopped just short of a sob. Like a ghost, he’d dematerialized. In a puff of exhaust from his bike, he vanished from her life.

He must have.

After zippering her racquet in its case, she hurried toward her cabin.

HELL, STRATTON, YOU handled that like a professional.
A professional grade-A ass.

Cole kicked at the dirt beneath the big tamarack tree beside Laura’s cabin. From there, he had a view of the tennis court, but she probably couldn’t see him.

The sight of her knocked him back with a sucker punch to the gut. As if the chasm of years didn’t exist, he wanted her with the sharp hunger of his youth. And he loathed her with the same intensity. He suppressed a groan.

Why did protecting her have to be his latest assignment?

He clenched his fist so tightly around the multi-tool in his pocket that his knuckles popped.

Concentrating on his mission, he scanned the area. Hell. The DARK advance team was right. This damn resort was an assassin’s dream. Trees all around the cabins and lake. Rambling outbuildings. Plenty of cover and lots of sunbathing civilians to hide among.

Laura’s cabin was smaller than the tourist accommodations and set back from the lake, like the other employee cabins, all simple frame structures. Front door, side door. Both locked up tight. Both adjacent cabins were empty.

Not secure, but not bad.

Flowers overflowed her small window box. Red and white round-petaled flowers — the colors of blood and purity. Purity — that was a laugh.

An older model two-door hatchback was parked at the side. So she still liked old heaps. They had character, she used to insist. An odd quirk of such an otherwise sharp woman. It had made her more intriguing. But he bet she wasn’t any better at remembering to change the oil or fill the gas tank.

He started to smile, recalling how he’d teased her about expecting mechanical things to take care of themselves. But that was in the past. Better left there. His mouth tightened.

Memories were a distraction from the mission.

He had to get her away from Maine. Fast. If Markos’s man found Laura here, Cole and the rest of his team would have a hell of a time protecting her.

Protect her. Right.

But who would protect Cole from her?

He peered around the tree. Demonstrating an overhead swing, she arched with long-limbed grace to whack the ball precisely where she wanted it. Pressed white shorts and a blue polo. Hair sleeked back with a clip that wouldn’t dare let a strand slip out of place.

Everything perfect and classy.

Too good for the likes of a Harley hoodlum.

With the glow of her skin, the golden blond of her hair and eyes the color of maple syrup, she was King Midas’s daughter in living flesh. Beside her regal beauty, the preteens posed as gawky pretenders.