Wolfe Wanting (4 page)

He frowned.

“You've forgotten?”

“What?” Royce shot a scowling look at her.

“What branch of law enforcement your brothers are in?” she said, scowling back at him.

“Oh.” Royce offered a sheepish smile; she returned it with a dry look. “Well, Eric—he's the third son—followed our father into the Philadelphia police force. He's currently undercover with the narcotics division. And big brother Cameron is a special agent for the FBI.”

Megan frowned in concentration. “That means that Cameron's the oldest, right?”

“Right. The Lone Wolfe.”

“That's his code name?”

“Nah.” Royce laughed. “That's the moniker his friends and fellow agents hung on him a couple or so years ago.”

“Self-contained, is he?” she asked. “All of an individual piece?”

“Yeah.” Royce rewarded her with an admiring glance. “That's very good...apt.”

“Here's the driveway,” Megan said, taking evident pleasure from his compliment. She indicated the drive with a fluttery hand motion. “It's a sharp turn.”

“No kidding, Dick Tracy,” he muttered, flicking a glance into the rearview mirror before hanging a hard right.

She gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

“Nothing.” Royce shrugged, and flashed another grin at her. “Mumbling to myself.”

“Uh-huh,” she responded, again as dry as dust.

Located a little way beyond the limits of Conifer, the split-level house of natural stone and wood was set like a gem into the tree-dotted landscape, secluded yet not isolated from several surrounding properties.

“Pretty,” he observed, bringing the car to a stop in front of the house.

“Yes,” Megan softly agreed. “When my parents had it constructed twenty-five years ago, it was the only house in the area. They've picked up a few neighbors since then.”

“So I see.” Royce set the hand brake. “Close, but not too close. How big is the lot?”

“Two and a half acres.” Megan smiled, and reached for the door release. “Which equates to a whole lot of mowing for my father.” She shoved the door open and slid her legs out, then hesitated on the edge of the bucket seat. “Er...would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Sure,” Royce said at once, picking up on the sudden note of uncertainty in her voice. The story was written plain as day on her face. She was trying hard to conceal it, but the tension was back, riddling her taut form, terrorizing her mind, making her fear entering the house alone.

“I'd offer you lunch...” she said, stepping from the car and waiting for him to join her before heading for the front door. “But I can't recall what I have in the house to eat.” She gave a shaky-sounding laugh. “Strange, I've only been away two nights, and yet it seems so much longer.”

“Stuff happens,” Royce murmured.

“Yeah.” Megan sighed; her fingers trembled as she fumbled the key into the lock. “Mind-bending stuff.”

“It'll fade.” His voice held just the right note of authority...Royce hoped.

“When?” For all the demand in her tone, a tremor of fear and uncertainty filtered through, delivering a blow to his emotions. Flinging the door open, she strode inside, then whirled to confront him as he followed her into the small flagstone foyer. “A month? A year? Ten years?”

“Stay calm, Megan,” he said, soothingly, softly, hurting for her, and for himself, for not having met her before a brainless, violence-prone jerk messed up her mind.

“Calm. Yes.” She took a deep breath. Tried a smile. Missed it. Sank her teeth into her lower lip. Shook her head. “Oh, hell!” Blinking furiously against the sudden brightness in her eyes, she spun around and dashed away, down a short hallway, heading toward the rear of the house. “I'll...I'll make the coffee.”

Wanting to go to her, to comfort her, yet knowing he should not, Royce stood in the middle of the foyer, controlling himself, while giving her time to gather her own control.

Silently counting off the seconds, he glanced around, taking inventory of his surroundings.

To his right, along the hallway, were two closed doors. Bedrooms? Royce wondered, shrugging. To his left, the hallway was open, railed with intricate wrought iron. Three half-moon-shaped flagstone steps descended into a spacious living room, brightly illuminated by the sunlight pouring through two oversize picture windows, one facing the front of the house, one facing the side.

The living room was open-ended, flowing into the dining room. The decor was country, in primary colors—forest, bark brown and Williamsburg blue. The furniture was high-backed, with plump cushions, a mute invitation to rest and relaxation.

Royce liked it; it reminded him of home.

Three minutes had elapsed, by his silent figuring. Drawing a breath, he struck out, trailing in Megan's wake.

She was standing at the kitchen counter, staring fixedly at the water trickling through the grounds basket into the glass pot of an automatic coffeemaker.

“Okay now?” Royce kept his voice low, unobtrusive.

Megan exhaled a ragged-sounding sigh. “Yes... but...” She turned to ricochet a glance off him. “I...” She gulped in a breath. “I suppose it's silly, but I must have a shower,” she said, rushing on, “and I'm afraid of being here, in the house, alone.” She lifted fear-darkened eyes to his. “Would you mind very much having your coffee alone? Staying until I'm finished?”

Royce felt her imploring look to the depths of his heart and mind. “Not at all,” he said, in a soft, yet reassuring voice. “I don't start work till three.”

“Thank you.” Megan lowered her gaze, swallowed, then glanced up at him once more. “The coffee's almost done. Help yourself. There're cups in the cabinet.” She walked toward him, a silent plea in her eyes for him to step aside so that she wouldn't have to brush against him as she passed.

“I'll find them.” Royce stepped aside, giving her space. “I promise not to drink it all.”

“Thank you.” A fleeting smile touched her lips. “I, uh, may be awhile. If you get hungry, feel free to rummage in the cabinets and fridge for sustenance.”

“Okay, thanks. Can I get something for you?”

Megan hesitated, hovering in the doorway, obviously anxious to escape, yet also obviously appreciative of his offer of help. “I'm not really hungry right now. Maybe later. But thanks, anyway,” she said. Then she scurried through the doorway and back along the hall to the first door inside the entrance.

Royce watched her until the door closed behind her. There came the faint but definite sound of the lock clicking into place. Heaving a sigh, he turned to glance around the room.

He liked the kitchen even more than the living room, but then, that wasn't too surprising—Royce was a kitchen person. And this particular kitchen held definite appeal.

Done in earth tones of terra-cotta and sage, with bright splashes of pumpkin and honey-brown, the room was warm and homey. A large, solid-looking round table was placed in front of a wide window overlooking the side yard. Four armed captain's chairs circled the table.

Finding a cup in the cabinet above the coffeemaker, Royce filled it with the steaming brew and carried it to the table. He found milk in the double-door refrigerator, sniffed it, then tipped a quick dollop into his coffee.

Then, sliding a chair away from the table, he settled into the curved, padded seat, stretched out his legs and sipped at the hot liquid, prepared to wait as long as it took for Megan to decide she was once again clean.

Royce's stomach grumbled a demand for sustenance on his third trip from the table to the coffeepot. He sent a brooding look through the doorway and along the hall. The bedroom door Megan had disappeared behind remained shut. He switched his gaze to the refrigerator, and his expression grew contemplative.

Should he or shouldn't he?

Why not? He
had
been invited to browse.

Pulling the double doors apart, Royce took stock of the freezer section. Vegetables, microwave dinners, individually wrapped and labeled packages of meat.

He shook his head. Too heavy for lunch.

Closing the door, he turned his attention to the contents of the other, bigger side. The wire shelves contained much more promising fare. There were cartons of milk, both whole and low-fat. Other cartons of juices—tomato, orange and grapefruit. Bottles of springwater bearing a French label. On the shelf below were packets of luncheon meats and sliced white American cheese, jars of pickles, olives, mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup and horseradish.

Things were looking up.

Royce bent to peer at the lower shelf. Not quite as interesting. The covered containers bore the definite appearance of leftovers.

Forget that.

There were two drawers beneath the bottom shelf. Royce slid out the first one. Now we're getting somewhere, he thought, identifying lettuce, tomatoes, celery, and a dark green bunch of parsley. He removed all but the last, leaving the dark green bunch all on its lonesome.

Depositing the veggies on the table, he returned to the fridge to investigate the bottom drawer. Oranges, grapefruit, kiwi fruit, seedless green grapes, and a small basket of fresh California strawberries. Yum, yum....

Royce found an assortment of bottled salad dressings on a narrow shelf on the door and a small can of white tuna in one of the cabinets above the countertop.

He was in business.

Twenty-odd minutes later, Royce stepped back from the counter to admire the results of his industrious labor. A smug smile of satisfaction played over his lips as he shifted his gaze from the large wooden bowl piled high with crisp salad sprinkled with pieces of white tuna to a smaller glass bowl, colorful with its tossed assortment of fresh fruits.

Okay. What now? Frowning, Royce shot another look the length of the hallway; the bedroom door remained shut.

Beginning to wonder if he should go rap on the door, if only to make sure Megan hadn't drowned herself, he sighed and began opening cabinet doors again, searching out dishes and glassware to set the table for two—just in case Megan's appetite was awakened by his offering.

When the table was ready, Royce hunted up the ground coffee and started a fresh pot of coffee. He was staring at the liquid trickling from the basket into the pot in the exact same manner Megan had been earlier, when her quiet voice broke through his concerned reverie.

“You have been busy, haven't you?”

Relief shuddered through Royce. Controlling his expression, he slowly turned around.

The sight of her ripped the breath from his throat.

Megan was standing in the doorway, looking beautiful enough to stop rush-hour traffic. And yet her choice of attire could only be called casual in the extreme.

Soft-looking faded jeans embraced her slender hips and long legs. Crumpled pink satin ballerina slippers encased her narrow feet. An oversize baggy sweatshirt emblazoned with the words Kutztown State concealed her breasts.

Her face looked fresh-scrubbed, pale, devoid of artifice; not so much as a hint of blush, lip gloss or eye shadow had been applied to enhance her colorless skin.

In sharp and blazing contrast, her long mane of fiery hair gave the appearance of a living flame, framing her face and tumbling in springy spiral curls around her shoulders and halfway down her back.

Stunned, Royce could barely breathe, never mind speak. Still, he gave it a shot.

“Uh, I, uh, yeah...” He moved his hand in an absent way, indicating the table. “I made lunch.”

“I see.” Megan's somber gaze followed his hand. “Everything looks good, appetizing.”

Inordinately pleased by her mild approval, Royce moved his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “It's only tossed salad and mixed fruit.”

“But you took the time and trouble to do it...for me.” She swallowed with visible difficulty. “I...I...” She broke off to swallow again. “Thank you, Royce. You're a nice man.” A tiny, faintly bitter smile feathered her lips. “And right now I'm inclined to believe there aren't an awful lot of nice men littering the ground.”

What could he say? Royce asked himself. How could he refute her new, hard-earned belief? She had suffered the debasement of a man attempting to force himself on her. In his opinion, she was justified in her need to withdraw, to wrap herself within the folds of a cloak of detachment from all things male.

“Ah, Megan...” he murmured, heaving a defeated sounding sigh. “Trite as I know it is, there is, nevertheless, truth to the saying that it will pass in time.”

“Oh, God! I hope so!” she said in a soft, fervent cry. “Because I hate the fragile, helpless, frightened way I'm feeling now!”

Resisting an urgent impulse to go to her, pull her into the safe, protective haven of his arms, Royce moved in stiff-legged strides to the table.

“Come, eat something,” he implored her, sliding a chair away from the table invitingly. “Things always look better on a full stomach than on an empty one.”

Megan arched one auburn eyebrow. “You're just full of homespun wisdom, aren't you?” she chided.

“That's me, your friendly old philosopher.” He made a low, sweeping bow, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Won't you join me for lunch?”

“I'm really not hungry,” Megan said, taking a cautious step toward him.

“Then how about joining me while I have lunch?” Royce pleaded, plaintively, pathetically. “Like most bachelors, I eat alone most of the time. It gets...lonely.”

His tone, combined with the sorrowful expression he pulled, drew a small but real smile from her. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, she crossed the room to accept the chair he still held in readiness for her.

“You're a fraud, Sergeant,” she said accusingly, slipping onto the chair, being careful not to touch him. “A sham,” she continued, with less strain, when he moved to the chair opposite her. “You're not a big bad Wolfe at all.”

The response that sprang into his mind was triggered by a remark Megan had made earlier, while they were still in the car, discussing his family. Without thinking, he allowed it to flow softly from his lips.

“Don't bet on it, Megan. Wanna hear my ululating full-moon howl?”

L
aughter erupted from Megan's throat. She couldn't help it. Even feeling shaky, vulnerable to the point of fragility, she just could not contain a burst of appreciative laughter.

Royce slanted a sly, assessing look at her.

He had done it on purpose, Megan suddenly realized. Royce had deliberately tossed the wry remark at her. The look of him, the light dancing in the depths of his incredibly blue eyes, told her all she needed to know for now about the man seated, lounging in a deceptive pose of laziness, opposite her. He had wanted to alleviate her feelings of anxiety and strain, ease the tension tearing at her, by making her laugh.

What a thoroughly decent man.

The evaluation of him startled Megan, considering her rather low opinion of the male species in general at this particular time.

But this man was different, she mused, absently helping herself to a good-size portion of salad.

Her eyes flickered upward to his face, then quickly away again as another equally startling thought popped into her head. Royce was not only different from that hulking, grunting beast who had attacked her, Royce was different from any other man she had ever met.

The difference was unrelated to looks; even though Royce was one very good-looking man. Megan knew many good-looking, even downright handsome, men. And it had little to do with his size, which was considerable, imposing.

No, Megan mused, raising her salad fork to her mouth. The difference lay in the man himself, his personality, the innate decent character traits slowly being revealed to her. Royce Wolfe was a good man, a good person who genuinely cared about people. Megan would unhesitatingly have wagered her last dollar on it.

Having someone care about the ordeal she had been through, the resulting trauma she now had to deal with, consoled Megan more than she would have believed possible. The knotted feeling in her stomach relaxed, simply because he was there, caring, lending a sense of security.

He was staring at her. Though she kept her gaze lowered to the luncheon plate, and the salad she had begun eating without conscious intent, Megan could sense, feel, Royce's pensive and probing stare upon her.

What was he watching for, waiting for?

Was Royce expecting her to crumple into a heap and wail like a lost or injured child?

Megan swallowed down a small piece of lettuce that had caught, then stuck, in her throat.

She very easily could let loose and cry like an abandoned child, simply because that was precisely what she longed to do. More than wail, though, she wanted to scream at the top of her voice, rant and rave, rail against the vagaries of a fate that had placed her in that particular parking lot at that particular time.

Megan took another bite of salad and chewed determinedly. She didn't taste the delicate flavor of the tuna, the crispness of the vegetables, or the creaminess of the ranch dressing.

What good would screaming and ranting do her, anyway? Would it change her situation? Would it wipe from her memory the choking fear she had felt, the fear that still curled around the edges of her mind? Would it return her to the confident, carefree frame of mind she had enjoyed, taken for granted before the attack?

No. No. No.

Nothing would ever be the same.
She
would never be the same. Megan knew it, and she resented the knowledge.

She had done nothing, nothing, to encourage an attack. How dare that hulking bastard, how dare any person take it into his maggoty mind to make a victim of her or any other human being?

“Megan?”

Megan shuddered at the softly intrusive sound of Royce's voice. A great deal of effort was required on her part to keep from snarling in response.

“What?”

“Hey, c'mon, calm down,” Royce said, raising his hands in a sign of surrender. “I'm friendly, remember?”

“Sorry.” Megan sighed, and gave him a faint smile. “I was all caught up in my thoughts.”

“Bad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he echoed, exhaling harshly. “I want to tell you to put it out of your mind, but I know that's one whole hell of a lot easier said than done.”

“Yes, it is.” Her smile took on a self-deprecating slant. “It's at times like this that we realize how very trite we tend to be when offering our unsolicited advice to others.” Megan sighed again. “I'm afraid that I'm as guilty of doing so as everyone else. Sad, isn't it?”

“Don't go down.”

Megan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You're in a downward spiral,” Royce explained, his glittering eyes piercing hers. “I can hear it in your voice, see it in your face. I've witnessed it before, that mental lure into depression. Fight it, Megan.”

Megan glanced away from him, his intensity. She blinked again, this time not in confusion, but against a hot rush of moisture to her eyes. “As I believe you mentioned,” she murmured, “it's easier said than done.”

“But it can be done.” His voice was hard, adamant. “Get help if necessary, from Dr. Hawk, or your pastor, if you have one, or maybe a close friend, but fight, fight with every atom of resistance you possess.
Don't let him win.
”

The very strength of his voice, of his command, drew her gaze back to his sternly set features, and then to the hand he had extended across the table to her, palm up, in exactly the same way he had in the hospital.

Get help. Fight. His command spun through her head, sparking corollary, comforting thoughts.

With the simple act of offering her his hand, Royce was silently offering his help, offering his strength, offering to fight with her, beside her.

Megan's throat closed around an emotional lump.

Had she judged Royce Wolfe decent? she thought, reaching for his proffered hand.
Decent
seemed much too mild a term to apply in defining the man.

Megan's palm slid onto his; it was warm, not smooth, as she might have expected of the hand of a desk jockey, but rough, callused, the hand of a man familiar with hard physical work. It was oddly reassuring, the rough feel of that hand.

Megan swallowed to relieve the tightness, and when that didn't work, she cleared her throat of the tear-congealed emotional lump.

“I...” She cast a quick glance at him, and was nearly undone by the look of tenderness that had eased the stern set of his features. “Thank you.”

“Hey, you're welcome.” Royce's voice was low, soothing, and held a hint of entreaty. “How 'bout some fruit?”

Fruit? Megan frowned and looked at her plate. It was empty. When had she eaten the last of her salad? She shook her head to clear the cobwebs of confusion, cast another look at him, and once again had to smile.

“Okay, Sergeant Perceptive,” she agreed on a sigh, “let's have some fruit.”

Royce grinned, and the room appeared to brighten considerably. “Awright...” he said, releasing her hand, then shoving his chair back and springing to his feet. “You dish up the fruit, and I'll pour the coffee.”

* * *

The house was quiet, too quiet, after Royce left to go to work. At loose ends, Megan wandered from room to room, glancing at everything, each carefully selected piece of furniture, each accent piece her mother had purchased after days, sometimes weeks, of shopping for just the right colors, the perfect decorative items. Since her mother's taste was excellent, the decor was both aesthetically appealing and comfortable.

The beauty and ambience were lost on Megan in her present frame of mind. Although she looked, she did not see the warmth, the welcome. All she saw was the emptiness.

She was alone.

It scared her sick.

Fight.

The echoing sound of Royce's voice rang so clear in Megan's mind, she jumped and whirled around, expecting to see him standing in the doorway, his right hand extended in an unstated offer of help.

He wasn't there.

But the subconscious memory echo had served its purpose. Megan's vision cleared. She was home. She was safe. And she would be damned if she'd allow herself to tumble into that downward spiral into depression Royce had warned her against.

Squaring her shoulders, Megan strode from the living room to her bedroom, and straight to the work area, in a corner between two oversize windows. She trailed her hand along the edge of her drafting table set at an angle to the large desk beneath one window. Glancing aside, she stared into the black screen of her computer, on which she created graphic designs for certain assignments.

But Megan was not using the computer for her current assignment. She was working in the medium of her first love, illustrative painting, with real paints and real brushes and the very real odors that went with it.

Megan respected the computer, and its mind-boggling capabilities, and so she gave it a quick nod of recognition. It was then that she noticed the tiny red light on the answering machine next to the telephone on the corner of the desk. She rewound the tape and pressed the play button. The first message was from the friend she had dined with Friday night.

“Hi, Meg, it's Julie, as if you didn't know.” Julie's tinkling laughter brought a sad smile to Megan's lips. “It's Saturday morning, 10:35,” she went on, “and I suppose you're off shopping or something.”

Or something, Megan thought, suppressing a shudder spawned by the memory of her emotional display while relating the events of her ordeal to Royce in the hospital Saturday morning.

“...wonderful seeing you again...” Julie was going on, recapturing Megan's attention. “Cliff and I have really missed your company and smiling face since you moved back here, but we do understand how you might feel safer here than living alone in New York.”

Safer! Megan groaned. The machine beeped and Julie's voice was cut off. Seconds later, the beep sounded again, and Julie was back, laughter in her voice.

“It's me again. Meg, I'm gonna have to run. Clifford is bugging me to get moving. We're off on a hike into the hills— How lucky can one woman get? If I don't get a chance to talk to you before we leave tomorrow, I'll give you a buzz one day next week. See ya.”

“See ya,” Megan murmured, envisioning her friend's dear pixie face, her smiling eyes. “And please be careful, both of you. There's danger in those hills,” she went on in a choked whisper, as a hulking form intruded on her vision.

Caught up once again in the memory of that violent man, that terrifying experience, Megan began to shiver. Tears welled up to sting her eyes and clog her throat. A moan of protest was torn from the depths of her chest, and she shook her head to dispel the vision, the memory.

“Royce.” Megan was unaware of whimpering his name aloud, of crying out for his stabilizing presence, the physical strength of his hand, the psychological strength of his being.

He was not there to rescue her. The answering machine responded in his stead. It beeped, then played another message, this one from her current employer—and onetime would-be lover—Jefferson Clarke, Jr. Though Megan had never been able to respond on an emotional level to Jeff, he had continued to utilize her professional talents, and they had developed an abiding friendship.

Jefferson held the title of associate publisher with Clarke and Clarke, Inc., father-and-son publishers of a quarterly magazine with a chic and savvy format, geared for the young—and not-so-young—up-and-coming executive.

“Megan, I'm waiting for the illustrations that were supposed to be on my desk last week,” he said, not unkindly. “Can I look for them anytime soon?”

The sound of Jeff's chiding voice broke through the haze of remembered fear gripping Megan. She smiled faintly and sniffed as the machine issued a double beep, indicating the end of her messages. Raising her hand, she swiped the film of tears from her eyes before erasing the tape and resetting the machine.

Should she give Jeff a call, explain the situation, and the subsequent psychological and emotional effects? Megan mused, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. Knowing Jeff, she felt certain that he would react to her ordeal with both compassion and understanding, and very likely offer her a deadline extension, possibly even the option of scrapping the project. In all likelihood, Jeff might go so far as offering to come to Conifer to be with her for a while, to give her moral support.

But she
had
moral support, right here in Conifer.

Of course, the thought conjured up an image of Royce, and the image sparked an attendant vision, demanding a comparison between the two men.

Megan frowned as she mentally examined the pictures filling her mind. In truth, there really was no comparison.

Jefferson Clarke was a bit taller than average, a tad taller than Megan herself. He had a dark olive complexion, dark eyes and hair. His build was slender, elegant, a living, breathing reflection of the conventional concept of the aristocrat. In other words, Jeff was the complete opposite of the very tall, muscular, sun-kissed, earthy Royce Wolfe.

It wasn't until that instant that Megan realized that she preferred earthy to aristocratic.

Preferred? Megan's frown deepened. The connotations inherent in the word gave her pause. At the moment, under her present circumstances, her preference in regard to men should have been the absolute last thing to spring to her mind.

Yet, there it was, nudged to the forefront of her consciousness by the persistent image of Royce's visage confronting her, stirring a flicker of feminine interest to life inside her.

A shiver skipped down Megan's spine, a shiver born more from excitement than from fear.

Ridiculous. Megan moved her head in another hard shake, dislodging the visions of both men. Then a faint smile of gratitude curved her lips as the thought occurred that, in point of fact, the two images had superseded that of her frightening attacker—and all because of a phone message.

Sending a silent but heartfelt thanks to Jefferson Clarke for saving her from herself, from surrendering to fear, she turned away from the desk to stare lovingly at the work in progress attached to her table.

Megan had worked on numerous projects for Clarke and Clarke since going free-lance. She enjoyed working with the Clarkes, father and son, and the bright, energetic and imaginative employees of the company, and she hoped to continue working with them in the future.