Wolfe Wanting
Joan Hohl

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

One

She was a mess.

Royce Wolfe clenched his teeth and gave another yank on the driver's-side door of the mangled sports car. A grunt of satisfaction vibrated his throat as the door popped open. The interior light flashed on. Pushing the door back, he stepped into the opening.

The woman was slumped over the steering wheel, her face concealed by a mass of long, dark red hair. A frown of annoyed disapproval tugged at his brows and lips.

She was not wearing the seat belt.

Royce shook his head and reached inside, grimacing at the faint but unmistakable scent of alcohol. Booze and rain-slick roads were a deadly combination.

Brushing the long tresses aside, he pressed his fingertips to her throat. The pulse was rapid, but strong.

The deflated air bag, now draped limply over the wheel, had very likely saved her life.

The woman moaned, and her eyelashes fluttered.

“It's all right,” Royce said, giving her shoulder a comforting pat. “Help's on the way,” he assured her, catching the sound of sirens in the distance, swiftly approaching from opposite directions.

“Wha-what hap—?” The woman blinked, then squeezed her eyes shut, in obvious pain.

“You went off the road,” Royce said, answering her unfinished question. “Crashed into the guardrail.”

And you were going like hell. Royce kept the disgusted observation to himself. The information would go into his report, but right now, she had enough to contend with.

A drop of water fell from the wide brim of his hat and splashed onto her pale cheek. The woman flinched. Royce pulled back, away from the opening. Cold rain pattered on his hat and slicker.

March. Where was spring?

Royce shivered, and shifted his bleak gaze, first back the way he had come, then toward town. The wail of the sirens was louder, closer, as the vehicles converged, lights flashing atop the ambulance and police car.

Well, at least it isn't snow, he thought, shooting a glance at the woman as the vehicles came to a screeching stop—the ambulance facing him, opposite the sports car, the other vehicle, Pennsylvania State Police emblazoned on its side, directly behind his own car.

“She's alive,” Royce said to the paramedic who jumped from the driver's side.

“What you got here, Sergeant?” the police officer asked, loping up to Royce.

“Hi, Evans,” Royce said, acknowledging him. “Female, all alone,” he said, sending a spray of rainwater flying with a jerk of his head toward the car. “Shot out of Pine Tree Drive, back there.” Water ran in a narrow stream from the brim of his hat as he inclined his head to indicate the side road, less than a quarter of a mile back. “Cut right in front of me, doing at least seventy. She lost it almost at once. I had no sooner taken off after her in pursuit when she plowed into the rail.”

“Drinking?” Evans asked, stepping closer to the sports car to give it the once-over.

“I caught a whiff of alcohol.” Royce shrugged. “But I don't know if it was above the legal level.” He raised his voice to the two paramedics working to ease the woman from the car. “You guys come across a purse?”

“Yeah,” the man who had entered the vehicle from the passenger side replied. “Just found it.” He handed it to the man outside, who passed it to Royce.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “Can you tell if she's going to be all right?”

“Can't see anything major from here,” the paramedic said. “Won't know for sure until we get her out of here and back to the hospital.”

“Need the jaws?” Royce asked, referring to the jawlike apparatus used to pry mangled metal apart, commonly called the Jaws of Life.

“Naw,” he said. “She's regaining consciousness, and if she can move to help, there's enough room for her to slide out from between the wheel and the seat.” The man ran a quick glance over the front of the car. “But I'm certain you're gonna need a wrecker for this heap.”

“Yeah.” Royce shared the man's opinion.

“I'll call for one, and get some flares set up,” Evans offered, turning away. He took two steps, then turned back, a frown drawing his brows together. “Didn't you go off duty at eleven, Sergeant?”

“Supposed to,” Royce answered. “I stayed to finish some paperwork, left the barracks around eleven-thirty. I was on my way home when this lady cut out of the road in front of me.” While he was speaking, he kept an eye on the paramedics, monitoring their progress as they transferred the woman from the car to a gurney, then to the rear of the ambulance.

“How's she doing?” he asked.

“Okay,” one of the men answered. “She managed to slide out, but she's lost consciousness again.”

A gust of wind blew rain under the wide brim of his hat and into his face. Royce shivered.

“Why don't you go on home now?” Evans suggested. “I'll ask for assistance when I call for a wrecker, then I'll go on in to the hospital.”

The rear ambulance door thunked shut. Royce started for his car, shaking his head. “Night like this, we need every man on the roads.” He opened the door, shucked out of his slicker, then slid behind the wheel. It felt good to get out of the stiff coat and the pouring rain. “You wait here for the wrecker,” he said, tossing the woman's purse and his hat onto the passenger's seat. “I'll follow the ambulance into town. I live only a couple of blocks away from the hospital. I'll go home after I've talked to the woman, and I'll file a report in the morning.”

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.” Evans sketched a salute of thanks for being spared the chore of the extra paperwork, then strode to his car.

Royce tailed the ambulance into the small town of Conifer, Pennsylvania, and pulled alongside the covered, brightly lit entrance to Conifer General Hospital's emergency unit, where the ambulance had parked.

Having been alerted to expect an accident victim, a nurse and two orderlies were awaiting their arrival. Since Royce's assistance was obviously not required, he took a few minutes to fish the woman's wallet from her purse before stepping out of the car. Flipping it open, he read the information on her driver's license.

The first thing that caught his eye was her picture. It was not great, yet even with the inferior quality of the photograph, she was clearly not unattractive. Then his eyes shifted to her name.

Megan Delaney. Nice name, Royce thought absently, his eyes moving up the laminated card, past the issue date, to the medical restrictions. Must wear corrective lenses. Hmm... There had been no sign of glasses when he brushed her hair away from her face. Had they flown off on impact, or was she wearing contact lenses? Check it out.

His eyes moved again, skimming over the expiration date, classes, endorsements and driver ID number, and came to rest on birth date.

The woman was twenty-seven years and three months old—eight years his junior.

Old enough to know better than to drink and drive, Royce thought, especially on a rain-slick road.

His eyes skipped over the top line of information, and settled on one tiny section. Blue eyes. Big surprise, for a redhead he reflected, closing the wallet.

Royce glanced up at the sound of the automatic entrance doors swishing open. With the nurse leading the way, the orderlies were pushing the gurney into the building. Gripping the purse, he stepped out of the car, gave a casual wave to the paramedics and followed the group inside.

“Hey, Sarge!” a fresh-faced young nurse called out cheekily from behind the desk just inside the doors. “Don't tell me you've given up the desk job to go back on road duty again!”

“Okay, I won't tell you that,” Royce drawled, flashing a teasing grin at her. “You want to hit the release?” he said, inclining his head toward the second set of automatic doors, which for safety reasons were activated by buttons accessible only to hospital personnel.

“Sure.”

The doors parted, and with a murmured thank-you, Royce stepped through the opening.

“Are you back on highway duty?” the nurse called after him.

Royce paused in the opening, keeping the doors apart. “No,” he answered. “I was on my way home when this woman crashed into the guardrail. And, since I was coming into town anyway...” He shrugged.

“Gotcha.” The nurse turned her attention to a man who came limping up to the desk, but slyly observed, “By the way, Sarge, I must tell you that your red handbag definitely clashes with your uniform.”

Responding to her teasing comment with a dry look, Royce continued past the doors, which closed behind him, and to the doorway of a long room containing a row of curtained cubicles. The orderlies were pushing the now-empty gurney from the last cubicle.

“Hi, Sarge,” one of the men said as Royce passed by on his way to the cubicle. “Haven't seen you in here for a while. Where have you been hiding out?”

“Behind a desk,” Royce answered. “Where it's dry and warm. No mangled bodies. No blood. No gore.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” the other man said, grinning. As he pushed the gurney through the doorway, he called over his shoulder, “I just love your purse.”

“Yeah.” Royce didn't return the grin or respond to the good-natured gibe as he normally would have. This little jaunt to the hospital stirred too many unpleasant memories, strongly reminding him of his reasons for having accepted the desk job when it was offered to him six months ago.

Royce was a good cop. If pressed, he would have had to admit, without exaggeration or conceit, that he was a damn good cop. But, with over ten years with the state police, investigating robberies, working on drug busts and patrolling the highways, he had had his fill of trips to the hospital with torn, bleeding and sometimes dead bodies.

The day would come when, restless and tired of pushing papers, Royce would request a transfer back to highway patrol. But until that day arrived, he'd just as soon avoid the distinctive scents of disinfectant and medicine.

Royce wrinkled his nose at the assault on his senses by the familiar smell, and shoved the curtain aside.

“Doc Louis not here, Jill?” he asked the nurse, a middle-aged woman who had been on duty in Emergency for as long as he had been on duty in the Conifer district. She was standing by the gurney where the woman lay, taking her pulse.

The nurse frowned, concentrating on the pulse count. “Busy down the line,” she said, gently laying the woman's arm by her side. “He's stitching a head wound.”

“Accident?”

“No.” Jill gave him a tired smile, and a shrug of resignation. “Knife fight in a barroom. As you can see, we're pretty busy, and stretched mighty thin. Dr. Hawk's splinting a finger—a slightly inebriated teenager slammed a car door on it.” She sighed. “Just the usual Friday-night fun and games.”

“Yeah.” Royce grimaced.

The nurse frowned. “What are you doing here? I thought you were riding a desk now.”

“I am.” Royce suppressed his growing impatience; he was getting pretty tired of answering the same question. “I just happened to be close by when the lady decided to test the strength of the guardrail.” He shifted his eyes to the ashen-faced woman. “She all right?”

“Looks like all surface injuries. A few cuts, abrasions, bruises—a lot of bruises—but...” She lifted her shoulders in another shrug. “I'm sure the doctor will want X rays after a more thorough examination.”

Royce nodded.

The woman on the gurney moaned.

Jill gave her a sharp-eyed look. “She's coming around. If you'll stay here with her, make sure she doesn't roll off the gurney—” she moved past him “—I'll go see if I can take over for one of the doctors.”

“Will do,” Royce agreed. “Don't stop for a coffee break along the way...okay?”

She grinned at him. “Not even if I bring you a cup on the house?”

“No, thanks.” He grimaced. “I've tasted what that machine passes off as coffee.”

“It grows on you,” she said, laughing, as she pushed aside the curtain.

“That's what I'm afraid of,” he drawled, smiling at her retreating back.

A low moan sounded next to Royce, wiping the smile from his face. Turning, he placed her purse at the bottom end of the gurney, then moved closer to the other end to gaze down at the fragile-looking woman.

She moaned again. Then her eyelashes fluttered and lifted, and he found himself staring into incredibly lovely, if presently clouded, sapphire blue eyes.

The license photo did her a terrible disservice, Royce realized absently. Even with the nasty bruises marring the right side of her face, Megan Delaney was not merely attractive, she was flat-out, traffic-stopping gorgeous.

Facial bruises? Royce frowned, and took a closer look. Why hadn't the air bag protected her from—

She moaned again, louder this time, scattering his thoughts, demanding his full attention.

The clouds of confusion in her eyes were dissipating, and she moved, restlessly, in obvious pain.

Following the nurse's request, Royce stepped closer, until his thigh pressed against the gurney. Bending over her, he placed his right arm on the other side of the gurney to prevent her rolling off, onto the floor.

“It's all—” he began, but that was as far as he got in his attempt to reassure her, because she screamed, drowning the sound of his voice.

“Get away from me!”

Royce started, shocked by the sheer terror evidenced by Megan Delaney's shrill voice and fear-widened eyes. Her hands flew up defensively, and she began striking at his face. One of her fingernails, broken and jagged-edged, caught his skin, scratching his cheek from the corner of his right eye to his jaw.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed, jerking backward and grabbing her wrists to keep her hands still.

She continued to scream, struggling wildly against his hold. “Get away! Don't touch me!”

“What in the world is going on in here, Sergeant Wolfe?” The voice was sharp, authoritative, and definitely female. Recognizing it, Royce sighed with relief.

“Damned if I know, Dr. Hawk,” he answered, shooting a baffled look at her as she came to a stop beside him. “She took one look at me and started screeching like a banshee.” He winced as Megan Delaney let out another piercing cry. “Maybe you can do something with her.” Releasing Megan's wrists, he moved aside to give the doctor access to the patient.

“Get him away!” Megan sobbed, clutching at the doctor's white lab coat. “Please, get him away!”

Dr. Hawk gave him a quick glance of appeal. “If you'd wait in the corridor?”

“Sure,” Royce said, relieved to comply. Turning smartly, he strode from the cubicle, then from the room.

Shaken by the experience, by the injured woman's strange reaction to his attempt to help her, Royce stood in the corridor, unmindful of the usual Friday-night bustle and activity going on around him.

“What happened to your face?”

The startled-sounding question jerked Royce into awareness. He glanced around to meet Jill's surprise-widened eyes. “That woman in there attacked me,” he said, his voice revealing his sense of amazement.

“Why?” Jill looked as baffled as he felt.

“Damned if I know.” Royce shook his head, trying to collect his thoughts. “She opened her eyes, took one look at me, and began carrying on like a demented person, screaming and hitting me. Her nails scraped my face.”

“I'll say,” Jill observed, leaning toward him for a closer look at his face. “It's open. Come with me and—”

Royce cut her off, dismissing the scratch with a flicking hand movement. “It's nothing.”

“It's open,” Jill repeated in a no-nonsense tone. “It needs cleaning and an antiseptic.” She drew a breath and leveled a hard stare at him. “Now come with me.” It was not a request; it was a direct order.

Pivoting, Jill marched down the corridor with the erect bearing of a field marshal, obviously confident that Royce would meekly follow.

And he did. A smile quirked his lips as he trailed in the nurse's wake. Here he was, a sergeant in the Pennsylvania State Police, six feet five inches of trained law-enforcement officer, docilely obeying the dictates of a nurse who stood no more than five feet four inches in her rubber-soled shoes.

But she was a head nurse, Royce recalled, suppressing an impulse to chuckle. Besides, Jill had always reminded him of his mother. Not in appearance, for there was no physical resemblance between the two women, but in manner—kinda bossy, but gentle and caring.

Jill led the way into a small room at the end of the corridor, and indicated the examining table in the center of the floor.

“Have a seat,” she said, turning to a cabinet placed close by, along one wall.

Sitting down on the very edge of the table, Royce watched with amusement as she collected cotton swabs, sterile packets of gauze, a plastic bottle of antiseptic and a small tube of antibiotic ointment.

“All that paraphernalia for a little scratch?” he asked in a teasing drawl.

Jill threw him a dry look. “Do I tell you how to conduct the business of law enforcement?”

“Point taken,” he conceded, turning his head to allow her better access to his cheek.

Royce winced at the sting of whatever it was Jill swabbed on the cut to clean it.

“Big tough guy,” she murmured, laughter woven inside her chiding tone.

“Don't push your luck, Jill.” The warning was empty, and she knew it.

Jill laughed aloud. “What are you going to do if I push my luck?” she asked, smearing the ointment along the length of the scratch. “Throw me in the slammer?”

Royce grunted, but didn't answer; his bluff had been called. In truth, Jill's remark was straight on target. Royce had something of a reputation for being tough, simply because he was tough. But never, ever, did he assume the role of tough cop with women, even felons. It was not in his nature. Royce treated women, all women, with respect...even the ones who didn't deserve it.

“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 policeman?

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.

“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.”

Megan sighed—damned if he hadn't hit the nail directly on the head.

“After all this time, I finally discovered that I personally don't like living there, either,” she confessed. “That's why I jumped at the excuse to come home for a while.”

“You've lost me,” Royce said, in obvious confusion. “Jumped at what excuse?”

“To house-sit for my parents while they're away.” She smiled, and explained, “My parents left three weeks ago on a world cruise. They'll be gone a year.”

“A whole year!”

“Yes. Wild, huh?”

“It sounds great.” Royce chuckled. “I wish I could talk my mother into something like that.”

“Your mother's alone?” Megan asked, interested, but still conscious of playing for time, keeping the moment of truth at bay for a little longer.

“Yeah.” Royce exhaled. “We lost my dad almost two years ago.” He looked pensive for a moment, and then he mused aloud, “Maybe I'll talk to my brothers about all of us chipping in on a cruise vacation for Mom, if only for a week or two.”

“I always wanted a brother.” Megan's voice held a note of wistful yearning. “How many do you have?”

“Three,” he said, laughing. “And we were a handful for my mother. Still are, at times.”

“Sounds like fun.” Megan sighed in soft, unconscious longing. “If I had a brother, he would...” Her voice faded, and she stared into space through eyes tight and hot, yearning for a brother, her father, someone to be there for her, hold her, protect her, tell her she was safe.

There was a moment of stillness. Then a blur of movement on the bed near her hip caught her eye. Blinking, Megan lowered her gaze and focused on the broad male hand resting, palm up, on the mattress. Without thought or consideration, she slid her palm onto his. His fingers flexed and closed around hers, swallowing her hand within the comforting protection of his.

A sense of sheer masculine strength enveloped Megan. Not a threatening, intimidating strength, but an unstated, soothing I'm-here-for-you strength, the strength she needed now, when her own had been so thoroughly, horribly decimated.

Megan blinked again, touched, and grateful for the gentle offering from this gentle giant. Unaware of her own flicker of power, she gripped his hand, hard, hanging on for sanity's sake to the solid anchor, seeking a measure of stability in her suddenly unstable world.

“It may be easier to get it over with.”

Royce's soft advice echoed, joined forces with her own earlier silent demand.

“Yes.” Megan's voice was little more than a breathless whisper. “I have friends who own a getaway place in the mountains,” she began, steadily enough. “They called me up yesterday, said they had come in for the weekend, and invited me to meet them for dinner at the French Chalet. You know where that is?” She met his eyes; they were fixed on her face.

“Yes.” Royce nodded. “In the mountains, along that side road you shot out of onto the highway in front of me.”

“Did I?” Megan swallowed. “I...I never saw you.”

“I know...now.” His smile was faint, but encouraging. “Please, go on.”

“We had a great reunion, and a lovely dinner.” She paused, and then rushed on. “I had two glasses of wine, but that's all, only the two small glasses.”

“Easy.” His tone soothed. “I got the results of your blood-alcohol test.”

Megan released the breath she'd been holding, relieved to know that at least she wouldn't be facing a drunk-driving citation in addition to yesterday's experience.

“Continue,” he said gently.

“After dinner, my friends decided to stay for the music, do a little dancing. I...I was tired, and said I'd pass on the entertainment. I left...and...” Megan shut her eyes as memory swirled, filling her mind with a replayed image. “The parking lot was already filled when I'd arrived, and I had to park way in the back, at the edge of the forest,” she explained in a reedy whisper. “But when I left, the lot had emptied out. My car was the only one back there.”

Megan hesitated, drawing in short, panting breaths. With her inner eyes, she could see the lot, see her car, see herself hurrying to the car, unlocking it, sliding behind the wheel, inserting the key in the ignition even as she tugged on the door to pull it shut.

“I was closing the car door when...suddenly it was yanked wide open again...jerking my arm...pulling me down and sideways, nearly out of the car.” Her breathing was now shallow, quick, and the words were tumbling out of her parched throat.

“Then there was a large shape looming into the opening. A hairy-backed hand grabbed my shoulder...shoved me down...and back inside.” She was trembling, uncontrollably, and she was unaware of her fingernails digging into the flesh of the hand clasping hers. “My face...the side of my face scraped the steering wheel as I was pushed down...down...”

Reliving the horror, Megan didn't hear the door to her room open, didn't notice the figure of Dr. Hawk standing just inside the door, quiet, watchful, poised to go into action should she deem her patient in need of her attention.

“He was all over me!” she cried in a terrified croak. “The hand that had grabbed my shoulder moved down to clutch at my breast! His...his other hand...” She was gasping now, barely able to articulate. “He shoved that hand between my legs!”

“I'm here. You're safe.”

Soft. Rock-steady. Royce's voice penetrated the ballooning fog of panic permeating Megan's mind. The fog retreated. Her entire body shaking from reactive tremors, she clung desperately to his hand and purged the poison from her system.

“Somehow I managed to work one of my legs up, between his. I...I...rammed my knee into his groin! He cried out, 'you bitch!' and hit me, in the face... Then he pulled back...just enough so that I could raise my leg farther. I worked my foot up to his belly. And then...and then, I pushed again, as hard as I could. He...he fell back, onto the macadam.”

“Go on.”

“I—I—” Megan choked, coughed, sniffed, swiped her free hand over cheeks wet from tears she was unaware of having shed. “I...don't remember, exactly. I turned the key as I struggled up, behind the wheel. I drove away from there...from him...with the door wide open. I don't know when or where I thought to pull it shut. All I knew, all I could think, was that I had to get away!”

Megan heard wrenching sobs, and didn't even know they came from her tight, aching throat.

“I don't remember hitting the guardrail!” She blinked, stared, and found sanctuary in the compassion-filled blue eyes staring back at her.

“I don't re— I don't re—”

“It's over,” he inserted in a low, calming voice. “It doesn't matter. Let it go.”

“Yes. Yes.” Megan's chin dropped onto her chest, and she began to cry, not harsh, wracking sobs, but a quiet weeping of utter exhaustion.

They let her cry, the state cop and the doctor, let her weep the catharsis of healing tears.

Megan fell asleep with her hand still gripping his.

Three

Damn, she was tall!

Megan Delaney was being released from the hospital this morning. Royce had offered to drive her home.

He felt a tingling thrill of pleasure as he stared at the woman standing next to the hospital bed—a thrill of pleasure that contained a hint of attraction. Being so tall himself, Royce did appreciate height in a woman, but there was more entailed here, something beyond mere appreciation, something Royce didn't want to examine or even acknowledge.

The very fact that he was taking pleasure from such a simple thing as a woman's height startled Royce. What did Megan's height have to do with anything? he asked himself, frowning in consternation. And the other underlying sensation...that didn't bear thinking about.

Dismissing his reaction and the unmentionable accompanying sensation as unimportant, Royce focused on Megan Delaney. Yes, she was tall, and she was unquestionably attractive, but at the moment every inch of her slender form was taut, visibly tense.

Royce repressed the sigh that rose to tighten his throat. Megan had gone through an extremely nasty experience, and it showed.

Royce recalled that, during her stuttered and disjointed recitation, he had been shaken by a startling conflict in the emotions tearing at his senses and sensibilities. His intellect had been outraged by the disclosure of the details of the attack on Megan. Assailed by fury, he had had to impose restraint on an overriding urge to jump up and dash from the room to search out, find and personally destroy the bastard who had terrorized her.

At one and the same time, his emotions had responded in an unprecedented way to a sudden and strong sense of attraction at the touch of her hand clinging to his.

Though Royce had pushed aside the unusual sensation then, as he did now, the memory lingered, a wisp of flotsam tossed about by an overwhelming wave of compassion.

Royce felt a deep, almost compulsive need to help her, in some way to ease the frightening mental and emotional aftereffects he knew she was suffering.

Frustration ate away at Royce like acid; Megan looked so damn vulnerable.

But how to help? The question had nagged at Royce for more than twenty-four hours. What could he do? He was a trained law-enforcement officer, but that certainly did not qualify him to deal with in-depth mental or emotional problems.

The only options that presented themselves to Royce seemed puny weapons of combat in relation to the magnitude of the inner battle tormenting Megan.

He could extend his hand for grasping. He could volunteer as a shield of law between her and the world at large. He could offer his strength as protection.

Puny, indeed, but...wait, Royce thought with sudden inspiration. The old adage of laughter being the best medicine had recently gained new, stronger credence. He had heard of physicians using it to treat a multitude of ills.

Maybe it would help, Royce mused. Surely, if doctors were employing it, it couldn't hurt.

Unnoticed as yet by the two women in the room, Royce stood silent, his eyes inventorying the look of Megan, comparing her beauty to the different yet equal beauty of the other woman, Dr. Virginia Hawk.

In point of fact, there really was no comparison, except that they were both beautiful women.

Whereas Megan had a mass of long, unruly-looking, fiery red hair, Virginia was a cool-looking blonde. And where Virginia was average in size, and maturely, enticingly curvaceous, Megan was tall, willowy, long-legged...and, in Royce's instant assessment, she looked more the model than the artist. Funny, he had never before been attracted to the lean, angular type.

But the attraction was certainly felt now, banished to the fringes of his awareness, but there just the same.

Royce didn't like it, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

“Oh, Sergeant, I didn't hear you come in.”

Virginia Hawk's soft voice gently snared Royce's distracted attention.

“I just arrived a moment ago,” he said, strolling into the room with a self-imposed casual air.

“Oh, good morning.” Megan glanced around at the sound of his voice, revealing the bruised side of her face to his gaze. “I'm just about ready to go.”

“No hurry. Take your time.” Royce had difficulty keeping his voice steady, concealing the feelings bombarding him. The sight of the discolored bruises marring her lovely face reactivated conflicting feelings of burning anger and drenching tenderness. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No.” Megan began to shake her head, but halted the movement at once, wincing in pain. “I just have to slip into my shoes, and we can leave.”

“Okay.” Royce shifted his gaze to the doctor. “Paperwork all cleared up?”

“Yes.” Virginia smiled and nodded her head. “Megan is fine,” she said, letting him know she had seen and understood his reaction to the other woman's appearance. “She has agreed to come in to my office next week for a follow-up visit, but it will simply be a checkup. I expect no adverse effects.” Virginia hesitated, then added a qualification. “at least, no lasting physical effects.”

Royce gave a brief, sharp nod of understanding. He had seen enough rape and attempted-rape cases to know that the major ramifications were primarily psychological in nature—and devastating in effect.

“I'm fine...really.” Megan gave the doctor a bright, reassuring smile—too bright to be genuine, or reassuring. “But I promise I'll keep my appointment.”

“Good, then get out of here,” Virginia ordered, starting for the door. “I've got work to do.”

A near-palpable tension entered the room the moment the doctor exited, leaving Royce and Megan alone together. In that instant, the average-size room seemed to shrink, becoming too small to contain both occupants.

Megan fidgeted with her blazer, which matched the stylish calf-length skirt she had worn to dinner with her friends. The skirt was now wrinkled and creased from her struggle with her unknown attacker.

“I...I want to get out of here,” she said, in a harsh, wobbly voice. “I need a bath... desperately.”

Royce understood that, as well. He knew, from experience, from talking with others who had gone through the same degrading horror Megan had suffered, the resultant feelings of being dirty, unclean, tainted.

“Then let's get moving.” He didn't offer to help her as she shrugged into the blazer; he knew better. The last thing Megan wanted at this moment was to be touched, however impersonally, by a man, any man. Her grasping his hand yesterday had been an un-conscious, instinctive reaction to reliving the fear-inducing incident. But that was then. This morning, she was fully conscious, aware and wary.

Megan preceded him from the room, the lithe gracefulness of her movements evident even through the tension tightening her tall form.

Royce felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of the brave front Megan maintained. Admiration swelled inside him for her fierce display of independence, her attitude of calm and composure, despite the fine tremor quivering on her soft lips, in her slim fingers.

Wanting to help her, if only in a show of unstated support, Royce strode to her side, adjusting his long stride to hers, a silent buffer, there if she needed him.

Megan didn't say anything, but she slid a sidelong glance at him, a faint smile of comprehension and gratitude flickering briefly over her lips.

Dammit! Royce railed as her smile died a quick death, killed by the persistent tremor. And damn that bastard attacker to the deepest regions of hell.

“Which way?”

Royce blinked and glanced around, surprised to see that they were on the sidewalk outside the main entrance to the hospital, even more surprised by the realization that he had no actual recollection of traversing the corridors from point A to point B. All he could recall was moving beside her, ready, willing, to scoop her into his arms and run with her, should Megan give any sign of faltering, unable to continue on.

Pull it together, Wolfe, he advised himself, before you make an absolute jackass out of yourself. Megan gave every appearance of being the last woman in the world to lose control to the degree of needing to be bodily carried anywhere.

“Er...over there.” He gestured vaguely toward the opposite curb. “The Pontiac Bonneville across the street.”

“Nice car. I like that shimmery dark green color,” Megan said, crossing the sidewalk. “Is it new?” She glanced right, then left, along the empty street before starting across.

“I've had it a couple of months.” Royce shrugged. “It was new, but last year's model.”

“Mine was brand-new.” She heaved a sigh. “I had to wait for the exact shade of red I wanted. It was delivered to the dealer just three weeks ago.”

“Too bad,” he murmured in genuine sympathy.

Megan flicked a sidelong look at him. “The damage was extensive, wasn't it?”

“Yes,” Royce said, knowing it was pointless to be less than truthful. “I checked with the mechanic at the garage yesterday afternoon. It's totaled, a write-off. The entire front end crumpled. We couldn't lift any fingerprints, because the door had wrinkled. I'm sorry.”

“Why?” Though her shoulders slumped, Megan gave him a tired smile. “You didn't do it, I did.”

Since there really was no argument against her assertion, Royce didn't bother attempting one. “You're alive,” he said, offering her a compassionate smile as he unlocked and held open the passenger side door for her. Then, in silence, he circled around to the driver's side.

“Buckle up,” he said without thinking, as he slid behind the steering wheel.

“I usually do.” Megan's tone bordered on sarcasm. “I only ever forget when I'm in trauma.”

“Happens a lot, does it?” Royce tried a teasing note, in hopes of defusing with a touch of humor the sudden tension humming inside the confines of the car.

Megan carefully connected the belt before slanting a wry look at him. “Trauma? Or—?

“Trauma,” he quickly inserted, along with a grin.