Free The Bourne Sanction by Robert Ludlum, Eric Van Lustbader

an unholy din. “I think I am.” After a slight pause, he added: “I thought I was.”
    There’d been a golden glow to his life with Marie, but Marie was gone, that life was in the past. With her gone, he was forced to confront the terrifying question: What was David Webb without her? He was no longer a family man. He’d been able to raise his children, he saw now, only with her love and help. And for the first time he realized what his retreat into the university really meant. He’d been trying to regain that golden life he’d had with Marie. It wasn’t only Professor Specter he didn’t want to disappoint, it was Marie.
    “What are you thinking?” Moira said softly.
    “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
    She studied him for a moment. Then she nodded. “All right, then.” She rose, leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll make up the sofa.”
    “That’s all right, just tell me where the linen closet is.”
    She pointed. “Over there.”
    He nodded.
    “Good night, Jason.”
    “See you in the morning. But early. I’ve got-”
    “I know. Breakfast with Dominic Specter.”
    Bourne lay on his back, one arm behind his head. He was tired; he was sure he’d fall asleep immediately. But an hour after he’d turned off the lights, sleep seemed a thousand miles away. Now and again, the red-and-black remnants of the fire snapped and softly fell in on themselves. He stared at the stripes of light seeping in through the wide wooden blinds, hoping they’d take him to far-off places, which, in his case, meant his past. In some ways he was like an amputee who still felt his arm even though it had been sawed off. The sense of memories just beyond his ability to recall was maddening, an itch he couldn’t scratch. He often wished he would remember nothing at all, which was one reason Moira’s offer was so compelling. The thought of starting fresh, without the baggage of sadness and loss, was a powerful draw. This conflict was always with him, a major part of his life, whether he was David Webb or Jason Bourne. And yet, whether he liked it or not, his past was there, waiting for him like a wolf at night, if only he could reach through the mysterious barrier his brain had raised. Not for the first time, he wondered what other terrible traumas had befallen him in the past to cause his mind to protect itself from it. The fact that the answer lurked within his own mind turned his blood cold because it represented his own personal demon.
    “Jason?”
    The door to Moira’s bedroom was open. Despite the dimness, his keen eyes could make out her form moving slowly toward him on bare feet.
    “I couldn’t sleep,” she said in a throaty voice. She stopped several paces from where he lay. She was wearing a silk paisley bathrobe, belted at the waist. The lush curves of her body were unmistakable.
    For a moment, they remained in silence.
    “I lied to you before,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you to sleep out here.”
    Bourne rose on one elbow. “I lied, too. I was thinking about what I once had and how I’ve been desperate to hang on to it. But it’s gone, Moira. All gone forever.” He drew up one leg. “I don’t want to lose you.”
    She moved minutely, and a bar of light picked out the glitter of tears in her eyes. “You won’t, Jason. I promise.”
    Another silence engulfed them, this one so profound they seemed to be the only two people left in the world.
    At last, he held out his hand, and she came toward him. He rose from the sofa, took her in his arms. She smelled of lime and geranium. He ran his hands through her thick hair, grabbed it. Her face tilted up to him and their lips came together, and his heart shivered off another coating of ice. After a long time, he felt her hands at her waist and he stepped back.
    She undid the belt and the robe parted, slid off her shoulders. Her naked flesh shone a dusky gold. She had wide hips and a deep navel; there seemed nothing about her body he