Wolfe Wanting (6 page)

“Be careful,” Megan called, hovering behind the protection afforded by the door. “And drive carefully.”

“I will,” Royce promised. “Go inside and shut the door,” he ordered. “I want to hear that lock click into place.”

“But...”

“Go, Megan, I'm freezing!”

“All right,” she snapped, stepping around the door to glare at him. “But call me when you get home,” she tacked on.

“Me-gan,” Royce groaned. “I'll be all right.”

“I want to know you aren't wrapped around a tree somewhere,” she insisted. “Will you call?”

“Okay, okay, I'll call.” He heaved a sigh. “Now, will you get the hell inside?”

“I'm going,” she grumbled, moving back behind the door. “Good night, Sergeant.”

“Good night, Megan,” Royce responded in a tone of rapidly dwindling patience. “Lock the door.”

“Sorehead!” Megan shut the door with a bang, then bullied the lock into place.

Royce's bark of laughter reached her, even filtered through the wood-encased steel door.

As had happened before—was it once, twice?—Megan could not deny the chuckle that escaped through her smiling lips. And it was the tug on her lips, the very sound of her soft laughter, that brought home to her the realization of how beneficial his unexpected visit had been to her.

By his very presence, his easy manner, his everything-under-control attitude, Royce had effectively chased the fears, real and imagined, from her rattled mind.

Decent? Megan mused, absently drifting from room to room, extinguishing lights as she went. Royce Wolfe was a lot more than a decent individual; he was the genuine article, a
man,
in every true sense of the word.

Returning to her bedroom, Megan began undressing. Distracted by her thoughts, she was unconscious of the wide, uncovered windows flanking her desk and worktable, the late-winter darkness beyond the panes.

Stripped to the buff, she gathered up her discarded clothing, grabbed a clean oversize navy-blue nightshirt emblazoned with white lettering spelling out Penn State Nitney Lions, and made for the bathroom and a quick, hot shower.

Still contemplating the man who had so recently departed for his own place, and whose call she was expecting momentarily, Megan reentered the bedroom, clad in the nightshirt and a liberal application of face and body lotion.

What facets did he possess that, to her way of thinking, made Royce the living, breathing embodiment of her personal ideal of what a man should be?

Megan mulled over the question as she plied a brush to her shower dampened, tangled mass of long auburn hair.

Appealing surface attractions aside—great bone structure, riveting crystal-blue eyes, a mouth both firm and sensuous, set in a well-shaped head crowned by a vibrant shock of sun-tipped golden brown hair and sitting atop a tall, muscularly trim, fantastic body—Royce Wolfe possessed inner qualities that, in her opinion, surpassed mere appearance, however handsome and sexy-looking he was.

In the short time Megan had known him—had it really only been two days?—Royce had displayed to her a wide and deep range of personality traits.

While Royce was blatantly male, strong, self-confident, determined, even a tad arrogant, he was also understanding, concerned, caring and sensitive...to the point that he had opted for a desk job when the growing routine slaughter of the highway scene, the investigations into cases involving robbery, rape, murder and mayhem had gotten to him.

The very fact that Royce had not only identified and faced his occupational dilemma, but acted to remove himself from the crux of the problem, while maintaining a position within the profession he so obviously loved, told Megan a lot about the man, as a man.

A sobering thought struck. Megan's hand stilled, the brush midway along a silky strand of red hair. The very fact that she was mentally evaluating the man told Megan a lot about her own feelings.

She was interested in the man.

Interested? a taunting inner voice chided.

Try intrigued.

Try excited.

Try...

All right! Megan thought, silencing the inner voice with the acknowledgment.

Royce interests, intrigues and excites me, but—

The phone rang.

Royce!

Dropping the brush to the dressertop, Megan ran for the console on the corner of the desk. She snatched up the receiver in the middle of the second ring.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Megan frowned. Definitely not Royce. But then who? A chill crawled along her spine.

“Hello, who's calling?” she demanded, despairing at the note of incipient panic she heard in her voice.

Nothing.

A large, hulking image filled her mind, terrorizing her senses, stealing her common sense. Reacting to instinct, Megan slammed down the receiver, then stood frozen, staring at the instrument, as if afraid it would leap from the cradle and lunge for her constricted throat.

It rang again.

Oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god! A low, keening wail broke from Megan's throat. No. No. Please, no.

A second ring, and then a third.

Not breathing, afraid to think, Megan extended a shaking hand and grabbed the receiver.

“Who is this?” she cried. “Why are you doing this to—”

“What the hell?” Royce exclaimed into her ear. “Megan! What's going on?”

“Oh, Royce! Oh, Royce!” Megan's voice was little more than a sobbing gasp. “I...I just had a phone call...but nobody spoke. It was him. I know it was
him!
”

“Megan, listen to me,” Royce commanded her in a calm, stern tone of voice. “Don't fly apart. I'm on my way. I'll be there in a few minutes. Keep it together, honey. I'm coming.”

He disconnected. The dial tone buzzed in Megan's ear. Gripping the receiver, she stood, repeating his promise over and over to herself.

I'm on my way. I'll be there in a few minutes. Keep it together, honey. I'm coming.

Honey?

A chill of a different nature scurried down Megan's spine. Surely it had been nothing more than a spur-of-the-moment expression. Royce certainly hadn't meant it as an endearment—had he?

Megan swallowed, and felt a spark of something in her stomach.

Honey?

The beeping noise from the phone penetrated the speculative thoughts distracting her mind.

“If you want to make a call—” the tinny voice of the recording grated against her ears, and patience “—hang up and dial again.”

“Take a flying leap,” Megan muttered, sighing in relief when the instrument went silent.

Clutching the now-dead receiver to her chest, Megan kept it together as best she could until, at last, after what seemed like hours, but in actuality couldn't have been more than ten minutes, she heard the blessed sound of crunching tires and squealing brakes from Royce's car in the driveway.

The telephone receiver landed on the carpeted floor with a dull thud. Megan didn't hear it—she was already dashing from the room to the foyer and the front door.

“Megan!” Royce yelled, rapping his knuckles hard against the door. “Are you all right?”

Unaware that she was sobbing, Megan fumbled with the lock with trembling fingers. Cursing, she finally released the lock, pulled the door open, and literally flung her shaking body against the reassuringly solid wall of Royce's chest.

R
oyce's arms automatically closed around Megan's shivering body. Holding her tightly to him, he stepped into the foyer and nudged the door shut with a backward tap of his heel.

She was even taller than he had first decided; her nuzzling face fit neatly into the curve of his neck.

The broken sound of her uneven, hiccuping breaths impelled him to tighten his arms protectively, drawing her pliant form more closely to his alert-tautened body.

Royce immediately knew he had made a mistake. The feel of Megan's soft curves pressed against him caused an instantaneous reactive response.

He was at once hard and hurting.

Fortunately, Megan appeared to be too upset to notice the pressure against her abdomen.

Silently cursing the inconvenient and inappropriate, if normal and natural, reaction of his flesh and senses, Royce exerted iron-willed control over his gathering response and murmured words of comfort and reassurance.

“It's all right, Megan. I'm here,” he said, loosening his arms to clasp her shoulders and move her back a step, away from physical contact with him. “I'm not going to let anything or anybody hurt you.”

“But...but suppose it was
him?
” Megan cried, raising a hand to swipe at her wet cheeks. “That...that hulking, horrible man?” she went on, voice rising.

“Calm down, calm down,” Royce said in a soothing voice, flexing his fingers gently in her soft flesh, attempting to instill his strength in her. “You told me you had never seen the man before, and that he hadn't called you by your name. Didn't you?”

Megan gulped and nodded. “Yes.”

“Well then, I'd say that chances are it was a wrong number, probably dialed by a person with an unsteady finger, or someone who raised one glass too many.”

“Do you honestly think so?” she asked, in a small voice so filled with hope it tore at his heart.

“Yes, I do.” Royce infused adamant conviction into his voice. “It happens.” He shrugged. “It's happened to me. Sometimes you hear a slurred voice, demanding to speak to someone you've never heard of, but more often the offender just hangs up, like the inconsiderate drunk he probably is.”

“Yes.” Megan gave a quick nod. “I've had a few calls like that at my place in New York.”

Royce could see her fighting to suppress the panic that had threatened to overtake her. He could also see the enticing peaks of her breasts, and the sweet curves of her hips and tush, barely concealed by the soft cotton nightshirt. Beneath the midthigh hem of the shirt, her long, shapely legs were exposed for his joyful examination.

Royce dragged his gaze away from her body, back to her pale cheeks and fright-widened eyes. Megan looked exhausted, in need of a lot of hours of solid sleep. Dark shadows pooled in the hollows under her eyes. Weariness tugged her tempting lips into a drooping curve.

He smothered a sigh, and managed a smile.

“Why don't you go to bed?”

“Bed?” Megan's eyes grew wider still, and she shook her head rapidly back and forth. “No. I can't... No!”

“Megan, honey, c'mon,” Royce said, smoothing his palms down her arms. “I'll give the area a good once-over, make sure there are no intruders lurking about, before I leave.”

“Leave!” Megan yelped, bringing her hands up to grasp his shirt and inadvertently digging her nails into his chest. “You're going to leave? You can't leave! What if the phone rings again?” Though she had asked, she didn't wait for an answer, but rattled on, “I couldn't sleep, not now, not if you leave. I just know I'd sit staring at the phone until morning.”

Feeling the stab of her nails in his skin, all the way down to the burgeoning heat of his desire, Royce heaved another, deeper sigh.

“Okay, okay....” He surrendered, purely in self-defense. “I'll stay, but—”

“Oh, Royce, thank you.” Megan eased her nails from his skin to smooth her palms over the front of his shirt—unconsciously, he felt sure. “I know it's a dreadful imposition, but I'll sit up with you. Uh, are you hungry, thirsty? I can...”

“No, we just ate, remember?” he said, interrupting her. “And you will not sit up with me.
You're
going to bed.” Letting his hands fall away from the allure of her soft arms, he motioned toward the darkened living room. “I'll stretch out on the recliner in there.”

A frown tugged at Megan's brow as she shifted her gaze from him to the recliner, then back to him, sweeping a glance down the length of his body.

“You can't rest in that chair,” she protested. “It's not nearly big enough for you.”

Since she wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know, Royce merely shrugged. “What would you suggest?” he asked, rather dryly. “The sofa?”

“Uh, no....” Megan shook her head. “If anything, the sofa's even smaller than the chair.”

“Right.” Royce nodded. “So?”

“There's the guest room.” Megan indicated the second door along the hallway with a flick of her hand.

“I don't think so.” Royce shook his head. “I don't want to get too comfortable.”

She bit her lip, and gave him a helpless look.

“Uh-huh.” Royce returned her look with one of his own—not helpless, but knowing. “I'll stretch out on the chair.”

“Oh, Royce...” she began, in a low tone of contrition. “I'm sorry, but—”

He cut her off, gently. “Not to worry. I've managed to catch some zees in worse positions.” He laughed easily. “Believe it or not, I actually dozed off standing up on a train some years back.” His smile grew into a grin at the skeptical look she gave him. “No kidding. Fortunately, I jerked awake when the train pulled in at my station, or, who knows, like that guy in the song, I mighta been the man who never returned.”

Megan laughed, and though the sound was weak, Royce considered it a good indicator of her easing tension. Acting on it, he again clasped her arms and turned her around to face her bedroom doorway. Then he gave her a light nudge to get her moving.

“Go, Megan,” he ordered. “Get some rest.”

“But—” she again began in protest, tossing a concerned look over her shoulder at him.

“No buts. Cut me a break, please. I'm tired, too.” He yawned elaborately, if indelicately, to prove his assertion. “Get going.”

She sighed, but gave in. “Okay.” She took two hesitant steps, then, spinning to face him, insisted, “But I know I won't be able to sleep.”

Royce simply smiled at her.

“I mean it.”

“All right, just go rest your eyes for a while.”

The fight went out of her, yet it was still only with evident reluctance that Megan went into her room. Moments later, she opened the door a crack and thrust her arm out, extending the extra comforter she'd obviously just thought to give him.

“You'll need this,” she said, calling him back up the three steps to the hallway. “The house is chilly now.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, relieving her of the lightweight down cover. “Now go to bed.”

“Good night,” she whispered, peering around the door at him. “But I still say I won't sleep.”

“Well then, you rest, and I'll sleep.” Royce offered her a wry smile. “Wake me if you need me, okay?”

“Yes.”

Her shadowed eyes brought a tightness to his throat and a pang to his chest. Royce heaved a breath and swallowed in a futile attempt to relieve both. Giving up, he smiled again and turned toward the steps into the living room.

“Good night, honey.”

* * *

Honey.

Megan lay curled up in the center of her bed, beneath the down comforter, repeating his casually voiced endearment over and over inside her tired mind.

And deep inside her weary body a flicker of warmth ignited in response to the mental echo.

Honey.

It meant nothing, of course, Megan told herself sleepily, uncertain whether the thought was in connection to the endearment, or the unfurling sensation of warm arousal she felt.

She shifted position to dislodge the feeling; the warmth merely intensified.

Ridiculous, Megan told herself. She was suffering mild trauma and shock. She could not be responding sensually to such an offhand, probably unconscious, endearment.

Could she?

The inner warmth spread, causing a tingling along the inside of her thighs, and at their apex.

Megan shifted position again, only this time her movements were sinuous, languorous. She frowned and moved her head against the pillow in a fruitless bid to deny the proof of her body's sensual response to the physical attraction presented to her by Royce Wolfe.

Royce. The thought of his name created his image; the image drew the tingling sensation from the lower regions of her body to her breasts, her shoulders, her arms, and then to her fingertips. Megan could feel again the solid strength of his flatly muscled chest beneath her fingers, her palms. Her breath grew shallow, her nipples grew taut, the tingling in her thighs grew into a stinging heat of need.

Startled by the sheer intensity of her physical response, Megan coiled her arms around her waist and held on to herself, afraid to move, afraid to think, afraid to face the truth of her own feminine desires.

It simply could not be, Megan told herself. Especially not after what she had so recently endured at the hands of a crude and violent man!

But Royce Wolfe was not a crude and violent man, her exhausted brain reminded her. By his actions, his caring, Royce had revealed himself, his character. She herself had labeled Royce a thoroughly decent man.

Decent.

Nice.

Attractive.

The warm flow inside brought another adjective from Megan's weakening consciousness.

Sexy.

Megan tightened her arms around her slender form, as if instinctively holding herself together.

Honey.

The echo of his voice whispered through her mind, as sweetly as the endearment itself.

But he didn't mean anything by it.

Did he?

Fortunately for Megan, the inner warmth wasn't the only response flowing throughout her body. The languor had crept through her system, to invade her mind, as well. Her eyelids grew heavy. She yawned. Her eyes closed.

Within moments, Megan was drifting, free of the disturbing questions. Lost to the world, she was blithely unaware that not once had she so much as given a thought to the fear of the ringing phone breaking the quiet of the night.

* * *

For Royce, ensconced in a chair, his legs and arms dangling from footrests and armrests, it was a very long night. But not only due to the inadequate length of the recliner. His mental discomfort added to his physical unease.

Damned inconvenient time for his libido to go into overdrive, Royce reflected, squirming for the umpteenth time within the close confines of the chair.

Inconvenient, but—considering the circumstances of his recent personal history—not by any means earth-shattering, or even unpredictable, for that matter.

It had been some long months since he had been with a woman...more like a year. Thanks to the crushing effects of being ignominiously dumped by a woman he'd been dangerously close to falling in love with, Royce had spent the previous eleven months cooling his heels, and his libido, so far as the opposite sex was concerned.

But the fact that his celibacy had been self-imposed had little bearing on the current issue. From all indications, his inclination toward abstinence had run its course. Now, thanks to another woman, a tall, willowy redhead, Royce was again back among the ranks of the randy.

Thinking of Megan sent a tongue of fiery desire licking through Royce. He smothered a groan and squirmed again, grunting when his hip made hard contact with the arm of the chair.

Chill out, Wolfe, Royce advised himself disgustedly. Stop acting like a teenager in the throes of a massive hormone explosion, for pity's sa— Royce's thoughts scattered at the sudden sound at the window.

It was the wind, wasn't it? At once wide awake, alert and tense, Royce focused his attention on every slight noise from outside, and slowly, carefully retracted the recliner's footrest and eased his long frame from the chair.

Moving silently on stockinged feet, Royce crossed to the wide window. Hesitating, he listened, straining to hear any sound not produced by nature.

There was only the low moan of the wind, brushing the windows, sighing through the branches of bare limbs and fir trees and small ornamental bushes.

Raising one hand, Royce nudged the edge of the drapery panel aside and peered through the pane. There was only the night, and the pale moonlight glittering on the thin layer of ice sheening the ground.

Damn, would spring never come?

Heaving a sigh, Royce let the drapery panel fall back against its counterpart, then padded into the dining room to inspect the windows there. Nothing. From the dining room, he drifted into the kitchen to repeat the drill, then into the kitchen and the laundry room, and on into the central bathroom. He then went into the remaining two bedrooms, one of which was obviously the master suite used by Megan's parents, the other the guest room Megan had mentioned.

Royce stood for a moment, staring longingly at the single bed. Then, heaving a sigh, he returned to the living room.

Suppressing another sigh, Royce settled once more into the recliner, deciding that, if nothing else, the exercise had been a diversion, an escape from his wayward thoughts about Megan, and his physical response to her allure.

All of which, of course, brought the thoughts and feelings rushing right back.

Damn, Royce groaned in silent misery. It was going to be a
really
long night.

* * *

Diffused sunlight filtered between the horizontal mini-blinds brightening the room, waking Megan.

For a moment, she lay still, frowning with the effort of bringing recall to her sleep-fuzzy mind. Then memory kicked in, surging back with a flood of the incidents of the night: the phone call, her near-panic, Royce.

Royce!

Tossing back the comforter, Megan leapt out of bed and, not bothering to take the time to look for her robe, ran to the door, flung it wide, and dashed into the drapery-shrouded living room. At the bottom of the three steps, she came to an abrupt halt, her eyes widening in fascination and admiration.