Wolfe Wanting Read online

  “The ointment should do it,” Jill said, breaking into his thoughts. “I think we can dispense with the bandage.” She turned away to return the ointment to the cabinet.

  “Thanks.” Royce raised a hand to his cheek.

  “Don't touch it!” Jill ordered, heaving an impatient sigh. “I just cleaned it, for goodness' sake. And now you want to put your dirty hands all over it.”

  Royce grinned at her. He couldn't help it. Jill was the only female he knew who said “for goodness' sake” in that particular tone of exasperation. However, he did hastily pull his hand away from his face.

  “Men.” Jill shook her head as she returned to stand in front of him, preventing him from rising from the table. “So, Sergeant Wolfe,” she said, with a heavy emphasis on the title, “what did you do in there to earn yourself that scratch?” She jerked her head to indicate the other room. “Did you start grilling that poor woman before she was fully conscious or something?”

  “Of course not.” Royce's sharp reply let her know he resented the charge. “I tried to reassure her that everything would be fine, but the minute I started to speak, she went nuclear on me.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I mean, she went off like a bomb, screaming and striking out at my face. Hell, I didn't know what to do with her, so I caught hold of her wrists. Fortunately, that's when Doc Hawk came into the room and rescued me.”

  Jill frowned. “Strange.”

  “Strange?” Royce mirrored her reflection. “Try weird. This has never happened to me before.” He shrugged. “After ten years on the force, I've seen enough accident victims to understand shock and trauma. But damned if I've ever seen anyone fight against someone trying to help them.”

  “Neither have I,” Jill said sympathetically. “But she seems to have quieted down now.” She smiled. “Dr. Hawk is very good at calming agitated patients.”

  “Yeah, I know. She's great.” Royce moved restlessly.

  Understanding his silent message, Jill stepped away from in front of him and headed for the door. “I think I'll go check out the situation.”

  “I'll go with you.” Royce smiled and held up his hands placatingly when she shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Only as far as the corridor, I swear.”

  “Okay, let's go.” She marched from the room.

  Laughing to himself, Royce again trailed in her wake.

  He cooled his heels for twenty-odd minutes, passing the time with the hospital personnel as they wandered by. At regular intervals, Royce sent sharp glances toward the door of the cubicled room, his impatience growing as he waited for some word from either the doctor or Jill. He was tired, and it was now past one-thirty in the morning.

  Royce wanted to go home to bed. Leaning against the corridor wall, out of the way of the back-and-forth traffic, he yawned, stole another look at his watch, and contemplated storming into the room and the cubicle where the victim was confined. He was pushing away from the wall, determined to at least call Jill from the room, when the doctor came through the doorway, carrying the patient's chart and purse.

  “I'm sorry to keep you waiting so long.” Dr. Hawk offered him a tired smile. “But, when I explain, I'm certain you will understand the reason, Royce.” Her use of his first name said much about the working friendship they had established.

  “Problems, Virginia?” Royce arched his gold-tipped brows. “You sound troubled.”

  “She was attacked,” she said, getting right to the point. “Before the crash.”

  “What?” Royce went rigid. “Was she—”

  “No, she wasn't violated,” she answered, before he had finished asking. “She managed to get away from the man. That's why her seat belt wasn't fastened.” A grim smile curved her usually soft mouth. “She was thinking, rather wildly, about flight, not driver safety.”

  “And that's why she went wild with me.”

  “Yes. She opened her eyes, saw a large man looming over her, and...”

  “Thought she was right back in the situation,” Royce said, completing the explanation for her.

  “Precisely.”

  “Bastard,” he muttered.

  “My sentiments exactly.” Virginia Hawk expelled a deep sigh. “She is still in shock, traumatized.”

  Royce gave her a shrewd look. “Are you trying to tell me I can't question her?”

  “You got it, Sarge,” she said. “She is in no condition to be questioned. From my examination, I feel quite positive that her injuries are all external, but I'm having X rays done to confirm my opinion.”

  “So, if your diagnosis is confirmed, I'll talk to her afterward,” he said. “I'll wait.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “If my diagnosis is confirmed, I'm going to sedate her.”

  “My report, Virginia,” he reminded her gently. “You know the rules.”

  She smiled. “I also know who is in charge here,” she reminded him, just as gently. “Royce, that young woman has been through enough for one night. She needs rest, escape. Your report can wait until morning.” Her tone was coaxing now. “Can't it?”

  Royce was always a sucker for a soft, feminine entreaty. He gave in gracefully. “Yeah, okay.”

  “You've got a kind heart, Sergeant Wolfe,” she said. “I told my husband so from the first day I met you.” Her eyes teased him. “You're almost as nice as he is.”

  “Almost as tough, too,” Royce drawled, recalling the tall Westerner she was married to.

  Virginia Hawk laughed. “I'd say it's a toss-up.” She ran a professional glance over him. “Right now, you appear ready to cave. Go home to bed, Royce. Come back in the morning. I'll prepare her for you.”

  “Okay.” Royce looked at the woman's purse. “But first, I'd better check for next of kin, see if there's anybody—a husband, relatives—I should contact.”

  “I asked. She said no.”

  “She has no one?”

  “Oh, she has family. Her parents retired, five, six months ago. They're on a cruise they planned and saved years for.” Virginia sighed. “She doesn't want them notified.”

  “No husband, boyfriend?”

  “Boyfriend?” She arched her fine blond brows.

  “Okay, man friend, significant other.” He shrugged. “Whatever happens to be current.”

  “Apparently not.” Her lips curved into a taunting smile. “But it wouldn't matter if there were. She said she didn't want anyone notified. End of story, Royce.”

  His lips twitched. “You know what, Doc?”

  “What?”

  “You're even tougher than either your husband or I—and maybe even my superior officer.”

  Dr. Hawk laughed delightedly. “Bank on it.”

  “Good night, Doctor.” Laughing with her, Royce turned and started for the automatic doors. Then memory stirred, and he stopped, keeping the doors open. “By the way, I think she's wearing contact lenses.”

  “She was.” Virginia grinned. “I found them.”

  “Good, I'm outta here.” He took a step, then paused again. “But I'll be back bright and early,” he called over his shoulder. “And if anybody tries to prevent me from seeing her, you're going to see real tough. And you can take that to the bank.”

  Two

  She was waiting for him.

  Megan was sitting straight up in bed, her legs folded beneath her, her fingers picking at the lightweight white hospital blanket draped over her knees.

  Dr. Hawk had said the Pennsylvania State Police sergeant would very likely be paying her a visit early this morning. That had been when the doctor was making her regular rounds, about seven-thirty or so. It was now nearing nine. Breakfast was over—the nurse's aide had been in to remove the tray from the room thirty minutes ago.

  So, where was he? Megan asked herself, unconsciously gnawing on her lower lip. Where was this law officer Dr. Hawk had told her about, the one who bore the mark of Megan Delaney on his cheek?

  A shudder ripped through Megan's slender body. Lord! Had she really struck...scratched the face of a po
liceman?

  She must have, for not for a second could she convince herself that the doctor would have said she had, if in fact she had not.

  Tears blurred Megan's vision. Absently raising a hand, she brushed the warm, salty moisture from her eyes with impatient fingers. She never cried... well, hardly ever.

  But then, she never struck, hit or scratched people, either, Megan reminded herself. At least not until now.

  But there were extenuating circumstances, Megan thought defensively. She hadn't been in her right and normal mind at the time, and she had had excellent reason for striking out at the man...or at least at the man she believed him to be at that particular moment.

  But where was he?

  Megan was not stupid. She realized that she would very likely not be too stable—emotionally, psychologically—for an extended period. Scars would remain, perhaps indefinitely.

  It was not a pleasant prospect to contemplate.

  On the other hand, unless she kept her mind occupied, it could slip into a reflective mode, recalling—

  No! Megan slammed a mental door on that train of thought. She would need to explain the circumstances to the state cop, relive that choking terror.

  Where was he?

  Megan just wanted it all over with, the horror, humiliation and degradation of the memory. And she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and hide.

  She was trembling—no, shaking—with nerves and trepidation when he walked into the room fifteen minutes later.

  Megan knew him immediately. She did not, of course, recognize him, as one would a friend or acquaintance. He was not in uniform. His attire was casual—jeans, a striped cotton shirt, a tweed sports coat. Fairly new, and rather expensive-looking, leather slip-ons encased his feet. Actually, he looked somewhat like a construction worker on his day off.

  But Megan knew exactly who he was at first sight.

  He did not stride into the room, fueled by self-importance. In truth, though, he did radiate an aura of importance and intimidation.

  He was tall. Lord, was he tall! He was blond, not yellow blond, but golden blond, a shade that would likely be called sun-kissed brown, she supposed. His shoulders and chest were broad, flatly muscular; his waist and hips were narrow, his legs straight, long-boned. And he was good-looking... too good-looking. The comparison of a classic Greek statue sprang to mind; Megan dismissed it at once. No statue she had ever gazed upon in awe, up close or on film, looked that good, that attractive, nearly perfect.

  All of which should not have mattered to Megan in the least at that particular point in time, but somehow did.

  “Miss Delaney?”

  Even his voice was golden, smooth and rich as warm amber velvet. The sound of it set Megan's teeth on edge. She swallowed, quickly, swallowed again, failed to work up enough moisture even to allow speech, then replied with a curt nod.

  He was prepared, which told her a lot about him.

  “Sergeant Wolfe, Pennsylvania State Police.” He raised his hand, palm out, displaying his identification as he moved nearer to the bed for her to examine it up close.

  Megan wanted to feel pressured, put-upon, persecuted, but she couldn't. She wanted to scream a demand to be left alone. But she couldn't do that, either. She looked at his face, at the long red scratch from his eye to his jaw, and felt sick inside—even sicker than she already felt.

  “I...I, er...I'm sorry.” Megan felt a hot sting behind her eyelids, and lowered her gaze. Damn! She would not cry. She would not let this man, any man, bear witness to her weakness.

  “Sorry?” He frowned. “For what?”

  The hot sting vanished from her eyes. Her head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed. Was this a trick? What could possibly be his purpose for playing this “For what” game? He knew full well what she was sorry for.

  “Your face,” she said, unaware that her voice had lost a small corner of its frailty. “I've marked you, however unintentionally, and I'm sorry.”

  “Oh, that?” He moved the hand he still held aloft near to his face, and drew his index finger the length of the scratch. “It's surface. I'm not branded for life.” Then he smiled, and damned if his smile wasn't golden brown, as well.

  How could she think of startlingly white teeth as golden brown? Megan chided herself, staring in near-mesmerized fascination at him. And yet it was. His smile lit up not only his face, but the entire room, like a burst of pure golden sunlight through a dark and angry cloud.

  Megan didn't like it. She didn't trust it. But there wasn't a thing she could do about it. She had run her car, her beautiful new car, into a guardrail. And this...this golden-haired, golden-smiled one-up-on-a-Greek-god was the law. He was in charge here. Although he hadn't yet given so much as a hint of flaunting his authority, he was in a position to do so.

  Just get it over with.

  The cry rang inside Megan's head, its echo creating an ache to fill the void of its passing. Suddenly, she needed to weep, she needed to sleep, she needed to be left alone. Distracted, agitated, she lifted a hand to rub her temple.

  “Pain?”

  Megan wasn't quite sure which startled her more, the sharp concern in his voice, or the sudden sound of his ID folder snapping shut. Before she could gather her senses enough to answer, he was moving to the door.

  “I'll get a nurse.”

  “No!” She flung out her hand—as if she could reach him, all the way near the door, from her bed. “I'm all right. It's just a dull headache.”

  He turned back to run an encompassing look over her pale face, his startling blue eyes probing the depths of her equally blue, though now lackluster, eyes.

  “You sure?” One toasty eyebrow climbed up and under the silky lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead.

  “Positive.” Megan sighed, and nodded. “Please, have a seat.” She indicated the chair placed to one side of the bed. “I'd like to get this over with.”

  “Well...” He brushed at the errant lock of hair as he slowly returned to her bedside. “If you're sure you don't need anything for pain?” The brow inched upward again.

  “I'm sure,” she answered, suppressing yet another sigh. “It'll pass.”

  “All things do.”

  Strangely convinced that his murmured reply was not merely the voicing of conventional comfort, but a genuine and heartfelt belief, Megan watched him lower his considerable length into the average-size chair.

  He should have appeared funny, folded into the small seat, and yet he didn't. He looked... comfortable.

  “In your own words, Miss Delaney,” he said, offering her a gentle smile. “And in your own time.” He glanced at his watch. “I'm in no hurry.”

  Megan felt inordinately grateful for his compassion and understanding. She dreaded the coming purge, the dredging up of details, the accompanying resurgence of fear.

  “I...I...”

  “Start at the very beginning,” he inserted, his voice soft with encouragement.

  “Thank you, Sergeant, I—” She broke off when he raised a hand in the familiar “halt” gesture.

  “Let's make this as easy as possible. Considering the circumstances, I think we can dispense with the sergeant and sir stuff. Okay?” Both toasty brows peaked.

  “Yes, but what should I call you?”

  “My name's Royce,” he said. “Royce Wolfe.”

  Royce Wolfe. Megan tested the name silently, deciding at once that she liked it. “Okay, Royce,” she agreed, “but on one condition. And that is that you call me Megan.”

  “Deal.” His teeth flashed in a disarming smile. Withdrawing a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket, he settled into the chair. “Whenever you're ready...Megan.”

  “I have one question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Well, you said I should start at the beginning,” she said, frowning. “Where? Of the evening, of the atta—” The very word stuck in her throat.

  Megan drew a breath before trying another attempt; Royce was faster.

&nbs
p; “You can start from the day of your birth,” he suggested, quite seriously. “If that's easier for you.”

  “My birth?” Megan frowned again. “Why, I was born right here, in Conifer. I grew up here, lived here until I went away to college.” The frown line smoothed at the realization that starting from the very beginning was easier.

  “That was probably before I was assigned to duty here,” Royce reasoned aloud. “What college did you attend?”

  “Kutztown State, now University.” She smiled. “It offered a great fine-arts program.”

  “You're an artist?” He sounded impressed.

  “No.” Oddly, Megan hated having to disillusion him. “It didn't take long to discover that I wasn't good enough for that. I'm an illustrator.”

  Royce was quick to correct her. “Illustrators are artists. Norman Rockwell was an illustrator, and so was the first of the painting Wyeths....”

  “Well, yes, of course, but...” Megan broke off to frown at him. How had they strayed from the point, and what difference did it make, anyway? “Does it matter?”

  “Not really.” Royce grinned at her. “But you are a lot less nervous than when I came in.”

  Megan smiled. She couldn't help smiling. “Yes, I am. Thank you.”

  “You're welcome.” His voice was low, honeyed, encouraging. “Ready to continue?”

  “Yes. Where was I?”

  “You didn't return to Conifer after college,” he said, prompting her.

  “Oh, right.” Megan shrugged. “I had decided that to succeed, I would have to go where the action was—that being New York City, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” he concurred in a drawl.

  “I was right, you know.”

  “I don't doubt it.” Royce appeared extremely relaxed in the small chair. “I personally wouldn't like to live there,” he added. “But I don't doubt that you were right.”