Wolfe Wanting (8 page)

Megan admitted that she enjoyed cooking for Royce because she liked him.

Liked?

Okay, she conceded to the inner prod. She more than liked him; she felt a strong attraction to him...an emotional, as well as physical, attraction.

But how could that be? After what she had been through a few nights ago, how could she even contemplate the attractions of any man, regardless of how nice he might be?

Biting her lower lip in consternation, Megan switched on the engine and drove off the parking lot. The jarring sound of a blast from the horn of an oncoming car shattered her mental distraction.

Geez! Megan thought, shuddering in reaction. She had missed plowing into that other car by mere inches! The very idea of wrecking her father's car, so soon after totaling her own—not to mention the possible damage she could have inflicted on her own, more vulnerable person—was enough to jerk her into giving her full, undivided attention to her driving.

But a genuine concern about damaging her father's car, a rather expensive top-of-the-line that her father took great pride in, simmered at the edges of Megan's mind as she carefully tooled toward home.

And it was that concern that impelled Megan to impulsively pull onto the lot of a new-and-used-car dealership located along the highway just outside of Conifer.

The car behind her, a beat-up piece of junk with a bad muffler, sped past as she made the turn onto the lot. Megan automatically glanced at the driver, and for an instant, an eerie, uneasy sensation flickered in her mind. There was something about the look of the dark-haired man hunched over the steering wheel.

But the sensation was fleeting, overshadowed by the image of a racy red sports car in the forefront of her mind. Shrugging off the feeling, Megan brought the car to a stop near the entrance to the showroom.

Although the day was mild, Megan knew it certainly wasn't warm enough to affect the meats and frozen foods she had stashed in the trunk—at least not for the short amount of time needed for her to inquire if the dealer had in stock a car the exact style and color of the one she had totaled.

The dealer didn't, to his expressed dismay. But, while he offered to order one from the factory for her, he also was quick to point out the attractions of the wide range of sports styles and colors available and on display, there in the showroom and outside on the lot.

Feeling vaguely as if by merely driving onto the lot she had committed herself to at least looking, Megan allowed the man to escort her around. And, to her surprise, she did find herself admiring another model, in a sleek silver-gray.

Still, undecided, she gave the salesman a bright smile, and a tentative promise.

“I'll, ah, think about it,” she said, heading back to her father's car. “I'll come back later in the week,” she went on, deciding to ask Royce to accompany her and give her his opinion of the vehicle.

Luckily, the salesman refrained from pressuring her, and simply offered her his card, along with a request that she see him when she returned.

Fair enough, Megan figured as she drove off the lot and into the sparse midday traffic. Telling herself that she had better finish her current project, since she would definitely need the money to put toward whatever car she eventually bought, she sedately drove home.

Megan really didn't breathe easy until after she had unloaded the groceries and shut the garage door, closing her father's car safely inside. Then, after stowing away the foodstuffs, she went to her worktable.

Lost in the advertising layout, Megan was unaware of the passage of time. It was only when long rays of sunlight slanted through the wide windows that she became aware of the waning day, and the emptiness of her stomach.

Standing, she stretched the cramps from her shoulder and back muscles, experiencing a feeling of deep satisfaction as she studied the work in progress.

It was almost finished. And it was good. Megan allowed herself a self-satisfied smile. It was more than good, she thought, congratulating herself.

So there.

Laughing to and at herself, she left the room and went to the kitchen to rustle up supper for one. The prospect held little appeal, but she had to eat.

Meeting Royce, sharing a couple of meals with him, had changed her perspective on dining alone. For some reason, food seemed to look and taste better when Royce was seated opposite her at the table.

Thinking about Royce brought him near; it was almost as if Megan could sense him close by. A thrill tingled along her spine, igniting sparks of warmth throughout her body.

She liked him.

No, Megan told herself, absently eating the ravioli she didn't even remember heating and dishing out for herself. What she was feeling toward Royce had progressed way beyond liking. It was scary, but it was even more exciting.

She glanced at the clock and felt her pulse rate increase; only five or so hours, and Royce would be there. In a futile attempt to bring a measure of order to her errant pulse, and bring herself down to earth, Megan collected her thoughts and made a mental note to ask him about going with her sometime to look at that silver-gray sports car.

With her hunger appeased, and feeling a pleasant afterglow instilled by the satisfaction of a good day's work accomplished, Megan hummed while she washed her few dishes and straightened the kitchen.

The phone rang just as she was centering a bowl of fruit on the table.

Going stiff with reawakened fear, Megan stared at the instrument mounted on the kitchen wall. Barely breathing, she listened as it rang, twice, three times, four times. Then, impatience flaring at her own trepidation, she stormed across the room and snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?” she snapped in a sharp-edged, somewhat threatening tone of voice.

“Megan?”

Relief washed through her at the puzzled sound of Jefferson Clarke's voice. “Oh, Jeff, it's you!” Megan replied, giving a light burst of relieved laughter.

“Yes,” he said, still sounding puzzled. “Were you expecting a call from someone else?”

“No!” she said, too quickly.

“Megan, you sound strange. Is something wrong?”

For one brief moment, Megan was tempted to pour out her tale of woe to Jeff, but then the moment passed, and she shook her head, denying herself the self-indulgence. What purpose would be served by her dumping her troubles on Jeff, when he was in New York and she was in Pennsylvania?

Besides, Royce's shoulders were broader than Jeff's.

Rolling her eyes at the unfairness of the comparison, even though it was valid, Megan hastened to reassure him.

“Not a thing,” she prevaricated. “I was, uh, preoccupied, and the ringing phone startled me.”

“I see,” he murmured. “I think.”

“Are you calling to harass me about being late with the layout?” she asked, changing the subject.

“You are over deadline,” Jeff reminded her gently. “But that isn't the only reason I called. I was concerned when you didn't return my call. That isn't like you.”

“Uh, well, I'm sorry, but...” A low buzz sounded, indicating that there was another call waiting. “I've been busy,” Megan went on, ignoring the buzz. “But I have good news. I'm almost finished with the—” The buzz sounded again.

“Perhaps you had better answer that,” Jeff suggested, obviously annoyed by the interruption.

“Okay, hang on,” Megan said, sighing, as she depressed the disconnect button.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Hello?” Megan repeated, thinking only that Jeff was waiting, very likely with mounting impatience.

Again there was silence.

Sighing once more, Megan punched the disconnect button. “Jeff, are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm here,” he answered, testily. “Was it someone important?”

“No. As a matter of fact, whoever it was got impatient and hung up,” she told him, silently praying that it hadn't been Royce trying to reach her. “Now, where were we?”

“You were telling me you were almost finished with the layout.”

“Yes!” she said happily. “I expect to finish tomorrow and put it in the mail to you the day after.”

“I have a better idea,” he said softly.

“Really?” Megan frowned. “What's that?”

“Why don't you bring it over?” he asked. “We could see a show, have a late dinner, talk over drinks.”

And go round and round again about deepening their relationship, having an affair, Megan thought, filling in the blanks he'd left unspoken.

“Oh, I don't know, Jeff,” she began, even though she did. But there was no way she'd consider anything other than platonic friendship with him now, after meeting Royce.

“Will you at least think about it?”

There was a note of abject pleading in his tone that was so totally out of character for the usually ultraurbane Jeff that Megan didn't have the heart to respond with a flat no.

“Yes, I'll think about it.” Though she'd reluctantly agreed, Megan felt it was only fair to add a qualifying warning. “But please don't build up any expectations, Jeff.”

“We'll see,” he murmured. “It's enough for me to know that you'll think about it.”

“I will.”

And Megan did think about it, for all of ten seconds after they said their goodbyes.

After that, she only had thoughts for Royce, thoughts of concern that the call waiting had been from him trying to reach her to tell her that he wouldn't be stopping by after all.

For Megan, the following hours seemed like days, which indicated a great deal more than she was ready to face about her growing feelings for Royce Wolfe.

But she did derive one benefit from the long wait. In a bid to fill the dragging hours, Megan went back to work.

The project was finished!

R
oyce slowed the car to make the turn into Megan's driveway, and cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror at the vehicle that had been following behind him ever since he turned off the interstate some miles back.

At any other time, the presence of the car probably wouldn't even have caught his attention, but at 12:05 in the morning it was unusual.

Though Royce occasionally passed a car, or, more often, a truck, on the interstate on his way home from work, as a rule he seldom did once he had entered the limits of the town, which for all intents and purposes rolled up its sidewalks along about 10:00 p.m. or so.

The car following Royce—a beat-up junker, from what he could see of it—also slowed down, then, with a rumble from the muffler, speeded up again.

Someone lost on the side road? Royce mused, toying with the idea of backing out of the drive and trailing the vehicle. Or someone interested in a particular driveway leading to the home of a certain woman?

The question bothered Royce, for three reasons. The first was the information he had received earlier that evening from the municipal patrolman, concerning a couple of calls to the station from residents in this area, reporting complaints about an unfamiliar car with a noisy muffler, cruising the area with apparent aimlessness.

The second reason it bothered Royce was the very fact that Megan was alone in a house set in the very center of the area from which those complaints had come.

The third, but by no means the least, of those reasons was the persistent memory of the phone call Megan had received late last night. For all his downplaying of the importance of that call to her, Royce had a nagging, uneasy suspicion that the call had not been the result of some drunk's inability to punch in the correct numbers. Instinct, or intuition, or
something,
made him feel certain the call had been placed deliberately by Megan's attacker.

Or was he simply getting slightly paranoid due to his increasing personal interest in Megan?

But the car did have a noisy muffler.

That thought settled the issue for Royce. His personal interest aside, he was first and foremost a law officer. Throwing the car into reverse, he backed out of the driveway and shot down the road after the vehicle.

Fifteen frustrating minutes later, Royce pulled into the driveway again. His pursuit had proved fruitless; he hadn't been able to find sight or sound of the car.

Knowing the driver of the car could have sought cover in any number of places in that secluded, heavily wooded area exacerbated the tension and sense of unease mounting in Royce with regard to Megan's safety.

If anything happened to her...

Clamping a lid on his thoughts, Royce exited the car and strode to the house.

Nothing was going to happen to Megan, he assured himself. Because he was going to make damn sure nothing happened to her, even if he had to cuff her to his wrist to do so.

That thought, and the image that came with it, brought a wry smile to Royce's lips.

Wolfe, old son, you really have got it bad, he told himself, raising his hand to rap his knuckles against the door. Too bad you can't put the woman in your pocket.

The door opened. Megan stood there, a flowing silk caftan caressing her body, her red mane framing her lovely face, a smile of welcome on her inviting lips.

Better yet, too bad you can't pick her up and put her in your bed, Royce thought, feeling every molecule in his body respond to the sight of her.

“Hello.”

Her soft voice shivered through Royce, causing a chill in his spine, and a fire in his loins. Suppressing a groan, he worked his lips into a smile.

“Hello. Everything all right?”

“Yes, everything's fine.” Megan stepped back, swinging the door wide. “Come in. It feels like the night air stole the promise of spring from the day.”

“Yeah,” Royce agreed, following her inside. “But it sure felt good for a change.”

“Yes, it felt wonderful.” She lowered her gaze to his chest, frowning when all she saw was his shirt. “Where's your jacket?” she asked, then answered for him. “In the car.”

“Right.” Royce grinned.

Shaking her head in despair, all the while grinning along with him, Megan turned and started down the hallway. “Hungry?” she asked, continuing on, as if certain of his answer.

“Starved,” Royce admitted, conceding to her certainty. “I made do with a doughnut for dinner.”

“A doughnut!” Megan stopped dead to shoot an appalled look at him. “I thought you were the guy who needed a lot of food to fill up his big body.”

Royce laughed. “I am.” His lips curled into a blatantly wicked smile. “The doughnut had a rich cream filling.”

“Oh, wonderful.” Megan rolled her eyes. “Empty calories, fats, all that good stuff.”

“I only ate it to stave off the hunger,” he explained, losing the fight against another grin. “I wanted to save it for the snack you promised me tonight.”

“Then consider yourself lucky that I did go grocery shopping today,” she retorted, striding into the kitchen. “I have everything ready,” she said as he stepped up to her side. She motioned with her hand, indicating the food laid out on the countertop. “As you can see, there's ham and cheese, lettuce and tomatoes, pickles and olives, chips and pretzels, mayo and mustard and bread and rolls.” She moved her hand slightly to indicate the refrigerator. “I also bought small containers of potato and macaroni salad, as well.”

“You
were
shopping,” Royce said over a low, appreciative grumble from his empty stomach.

Evidently hearing the noise, Megan laughed and moved closer to the counter, and the cutting board she had placed there in readiness. “If you'll tell me what you want on your sandwich, I'll make it for you.”

“Ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato and mayo on a roll,” Royce recited. “Pickles, olives, chips and potato salad on the side.” He raised one eyebrow. “What's to drink?”

“Decaffeinated coffee, tea, soda, beer, fruit juice, milk or water,” Megan said, spreading butter on a kaiser roll. “The coffee's fresh, in the pot, and the other drinks are in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“Are you going to join me in this repast?” he drawled, ambling to the refrigerator.

“Yes.” Megan shot a quick grin at him. “I didn't eat much for dinner, either. I, er, wanted to get back to work.”

“You have been busy,” he murmured, returning her grin as he pulled the salad containers and the pickle and olive jars from the appliance. “Make any headway?”

“Yes.” Megan's voice held a deep vein of satisfaction. “As a matter of fact, I finished the project, so this midnight snack is something of a celebration for me.”

“Hey, that's great. Congratulations,” Royce said, verbally applauding her. “So, what's on the agenda?” he asked, while continuing to gather together food, plates and glasses, then carry them to the table. “Another project?”

“Nope, nothing,” Megan answered, turning away from the counter to frown at the table. “Do you want to bring those plates over here? The sandwiches are ready.”

“Oh...sure,” Royce said agreeably, ambling back to her side with the plates. “Looks good,” he told her, his mouth watering at the sight of the food. “You build a mean-looking sandwich, lady.”

“Thank you kindly, sir,” Megan said solemnly. Then she went on, impishly. “So, let's not stand here admiring them, let's demolish them.”

And that was exactly what they did. And while they did, the conversation was reduced to a minimum.

“Actually, I do have one thing on my agenda,” Megan said casually as they worked together clearing away afterward.

Alerted by the almost too casual note in her tone, Royce slanted a probing look at her. “Yeah, what's that?”

“I stopped by the dealership on Commerce Avenue on my way home from the supermarket,” she said, slowly.

“And?” He arched his brows.

Megan fidgeted with the dishcloth. “I, er, saw one model that I kinda liked.”

“But?” he nudged.

Her fingers twisted the cloth. “But, um, I'd really appreciate another opinion. A man's opinion.”

Royce grinned. “Mine?”

“If you wouldn't mind?” she asked, hopefully.

“Honey, I wouldn't mind at all,” he assured her, feeling inordinately please by her request. “When would you like to go, tomorrow morning?”

“It already is tomorrow morning,” she pointed out, appearing both relieved and as pleased as he felt.

“So it is,” Royce conceded, glancing at the clock. “And time for me to get out of here and let you get to bed.” Tamping down an impulse to take her into his arms and suggest they get to bed together, he moved to the kitchen doorway.

“I am sleepy,” Megan admitted, trailing along the hallway behind him. “I didn't get much sleep last night.”

Tell me about it, Royce thought, recalling his own discomfort the night before, both in the recliner and in his mind and body. Come to that, he reflected, turning to her when he reached the front door, the way she looked in that silky caftan was making him pretty damned uncomfortable right now.

“Ah, let's see,” he said, shooting a look at his watch. “It's going on two. Suppose I pick you up around eleven-thirty? We can take a look at the car, then have lunch.”

“Is your mind always on food?” she asked teasingly, her eyes bright with inner amusement.

Not hardly, Royce answered in silent longing, while aloud he replied, “No, not always.” Unable to resist a sudden urge, he raised his hand to slowly brush his fingertips across her cheek to the corner of her mouth, his touch a light caress against the faint bruises marring the perfection of her creamy skin. Anger, hot and biting, for the man who had inflicted those bruises twisted inside Royce.

He kept the rage from coloring his voice by exerting all the control he possessed. “My mind is often on other things, Megan,” he murmured.

“Wh-what kinds of things?”

The anger merged with desire. Royce felt a pang in his chest, a constriction in his throat. Megan's eyes were wide, luminous...vulnerable. He wanted, so very badly, to take her in his arms, cradle her, protect her, make love to her.

But he couldn't allow himself the pleasure that holding her, loving her, would give him. Because the pure light of trust also shone out of her eyes.

Megan trusted him; Royce would rather die than betray that trust.

“Maybe I'll tell you, someday,” he replied, smothering a sigh as he drew his index finger over the sweet curve of her lower lip. “But not today.”

“I...I don't understand,” she said in a soft, plaintive little murmur.

“I know.” Royce smiled, and let his hand fall away from her tempting mouth. “Hell, I'm not certain that I do.” Shrugging, he turned to open the door. “I'll see you at eleven-thirty,” he said, stepping into the cold night air. “Good night, Megan. Lock up tight. Sleep well.”

* * *

Sleep well.

Fat chance.

Megan shifted position, again. Over an hour had passed since Royce had left her with those parting words, an hour in which she had continued to thrill to his tantalizing touch, while puzzling over his enigmatic remark.

My mind is often on other things...

What had he meant? What other things? Personal? Professional? Megan wondered. More important, did those unmentioned other things involve her in any way?

Excitement, uncertainty, confusion, were a mixed bag inside Megan's stomach.

She hoped, and feared to hope. She yearned, and was afraid of the yearning. She needed, and...

And what?

Megan shifted position yet again, made uncomfortable and restless by her own thoughts.

But there were thoughts, emotions, desires and, yes, fears that had to be confronted and examined. Otherwise, Megan knew, there was a danger of closing herself off from any normal contact and association with members of the opposite sex.

Sex.

The word loomed in Megan's mind.

Intuition told her that the other things on Royce's mind were all directly related to that one word—intuition, and physical and emotional reactions.

Her lips burned with the imprint of Royce's caress.

Royce had touched her, in a sensuous, intimate manner, and she had not cringed, had not felt revulsion, had not been filled with stifling panic, as she had feared she would be upon ever again being touched by any man.

Quite the contrary. To Megan's utter surprise, she had responded to his caress, going all soft and quivery inside, breathless from the wonder of it all.

Physical attraction?

Sex?

In spades, she acknowledged. But it was more than mere sexual attraction—much, much more.

Megan wasn't as yet quite ready to delve into the depths of just what that much, much more entailed, but the shadow of it was there, hovering at the edges of her consciousness, haunting her as effectively as some persistent ghost.

The analogy brought a frown to Megan's brow. The day of reckoning would come, the day when she would have to face the truth of her feelings, emotions, fears and hopes.

But this wasn't that day. It was too soon, Megan told herself, absently raising her hand to smother a yawn. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, she mused, curling onto her side as her eyelids drifted shut.

Maybe.

* * *

The ringing phone woke Royce at 8:14.

Groaning, he stretched out his arm, groping for the instrument set on the nightstand by the bed.

“'lo,” he mumbled into the receiver around a wide, noisy yawn.

“Did I wake you?” The deep voice held a definite note of amusement.

“Naw,” Royce replied, his lips twitching into a rueful smile. “I always sound like I have a mouth full of cotton in the morning.” Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he shimmied up the bed to prop his shoulders against the headboard. “What's up, big bro?”

“Let's not go into that,” Cameron drawled, eliciting a chuckle from his younger brother. “I was wondering if you had talked to Mother.”

“Not in nearly a week,” Royce said, a spark of alarm stealing the chuckle, and much of the moisture, from his throat. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, no. Don't go into a tailspin, Royce,” Cameron hastened to assure him. “Mother's fine.”