Wolfe Wanting (10 page)

Did Megan care for him in any meaningful way?

The question kept him standing in the doorway, wanting to go to her, yet hesitant, afraid the answer might turn out to be the one he didn't want to hear.

Big tough cop. Royce derided himself. If your brothers could see you now, he mused, they'd laugh themselves sick.

That didn't matter, either. Hell, it was easy to be tough professionally. On the job, his emotions weren't involved. Well, as a rule his emotions weren't involved.

Megan just happened to be a special case, with the potential to turn
him
into a basket case.

Royce had been close to being in love before, and had been rejected. It had hurt like hell. Now, after nearly a year, he knew the blow had been mainly to his pride, his ego. He also knew that his feelings for Megan were different, deeper, permanent.

If he declared himself to Megan, and she rejected him, he would be devastated. Royce knew that, as well.

She murmured his name again in her sleep.

Royce backed away from the doorway, calling himself a coward with each retreating step.

Later, he justified his action—or lack of same. Megan had endured a traumatizing ordeal. She needed time to heal, not more emotional baggage to weigh her down—and most especially not
his
emotional baggage.

But, damn, not knowing how she felt, whether or not she cared, was tearing him apart.

* * *

Megan woke feeling vaguely disoriented, dissatisfied and definitely disgruntled.

A quick glance around her clarified her disorientation. She was ensconced in Royce's bed. Determining her sense of place clarified her dissatisfaction. What she and Royce had shared had been wonderful—and she wanted more of it. The acknowledgment of need clarified the disgruntlement. She was building up a head of angry steam.

Damn that hulking man, Megan fumed, tossing back the rumpled covers. Damn that attacker of women, for casting her in the role of victim, a supplicant for protection from the one man she could give herself to completely and unconditionally.

Railing against the unfairness of it all, she scooped her nightshirt from the floor and stormed into the bathroom.

Megan's mind spun its wheels the entire time required to shower and shampoo.

Making love with Royce had been more than wonderful; it had been everything she had ever dared fantasize being intimate with a man could be. In point of fact, it had been even more than that, for, with absolute honesty, Megan knew that she had been more than making love with Royce; she was deeply in love with him. And the more she thought about it, the angrier she became.

Her ire at full arousal, Megan stormed back into the bedroom, collecting her carry-on bag from the living room as she whirled through.

Her blood heating to a roiling boil as she hastily dressed in slacks and a loose-knit midthigh-length sweater, Megan continued to mentally lash out at the fate that had placed her in her present predicament.

After years—and men—that had been totally discouraging, she had finally found the man who embodied every one of her secret dreams of the ideal partner—kind, caring, compassionate, intelligent, humorous, and sexy as the very devil.

And Megan loved Royce. Of course she loved him. She was destined to love him.

Dammit, she protested, against her situation and against the tug of the brush she yanked through her tangled hair.

She loved, but... Megan gritted her teeth. But because of that...that thing who dared to impersonate a man, she was very much afraid that the driving force behind Royce's response to her owed more to the kind of man he was, the embodiment of all his fine qualities, than to his loving her in return.

But Megan couldn't know Royce's thoughts or feelings. She did know that he had not once so much as hinted at, never mind mentioned, love.

And therein lay the cause of the anger eating away at her, anger directed not at Royce, but at that despicable hulking man whose presence overshadowed every facet of her life.

Well, enough was enough, Megan decided, stamping into ankle boots. She was done with cowering and hiding.

She wanted her life back.

She wanted Royce.

First things first.

Where was Royce, anyway?

The phone rang as Megan left the bedroom.

Following the muted sound of his voice, Megan crossed through the living room and came to a halt in the kitchen doorway. Royce stood with his back to her, his shoulder resting against the wall, talking on the phone.

Lord, he looked gorgeous.

“You're kidding.”

Megan noted the surprise in his voice, but really didn't pay too much attention to what he was saying. She was too distracted by the effect of the sight of him, his powerful effect on her senses.

Merely looking at him made her feel all hot and melty inside, and all shivery outside.

Love? Megan was hard-pressed to keep from laughing out loud, and not in genuine amusement. She was suffering every one of the classic symptoms.

Love?

In spades.

“A June wedding, huh?”

That snagged her attention. Megan's ears perked up. A June wedding sounded perfect.

“Are you serious? Of course I'll be able to make it. I'll put in a request for vacation for the first week in June, when I go back to work tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Megan frowned.

“Yeah, Mom, I'll take care.” Royce shifted away from the wall. “You too. And pass along my congratulations to Jake. Tell him I can't wait to meet Sarah.” He chuckled. “She's got to be some kind of woman, if she's willing to take on the job of housebreaking that maverick.”

Megan's frown melted into a smile at the underlying note of true affection in Royce's tone. The evidence of his love for his family was unvarnished, and unashamedly voiced.

She liked that in a man.

Royce turned as he hung up the receiver, and caught sight of Megan's misty smile.

“Hi.” His voice was now low, intimate.

Megan felt a responsive thrill; it affected her own voice, making it throaty. “Hi.”

“Sleep well?” While his voice remained low and even, his eyes bored into hers with intent.

“Yes.” Megan's frown crept back to steal her smile. “Did you?”

“Oh, yeah, terrific.” His reply came too quickly, and was much too glib. But he turned away before she could question him on it. “There's fresh coffee,” he said, going to the tiny counter next to the sink. “Are you hungry?”

“No.” Megan shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. “I'll just have coffee, thank you.” She hesitated, bit down on her lip, then blurted out, “Royce, what's wrong? Are you sorry about last night?”

“S
orry?” Royce whipped around to stare at her. “No, I'm not sorry, but...” He shrugged.

But. Megan felt a sick sensation in her stomach. It was the
buts
in life that did you in.

“I see.” Somehow, she managed to keep the pain from spilling over into her voice.

“No, I don't think you do.” Royce gave a sharp shake of his head. “Megan, honey, it's this damnable situation. You're so fragile right now, so vulnerable, and...” He paused, as if groping for just the right words.

She didn't give him time to find them. Mentally backing away from the abyss of unthinkable pain, she put on her brightest morning face.

“I know, I know.” She flicked her hand, dismissing the subject. “I couldn't help overhearing part of your telephone conversation,” she went on, rapid-fire. “Your brother is getting married?”

“Huh?” He frowned, then, shifting mental gears, caught up with her. “Oh. Yes. That was my mother on the phone. Jake and his lady have set the date to take the fatal step on the first Saturday in June.”

The fatal step. Megan's spirits took a nosedive. His phrasing said just about all there was to say concerning his opinion of the marital state. Or was he simply trying to tell her something, something direct and personal? Well, so much for hopes and dreams and fantasies.

Keeping her bright morning face in place was growing more difficult by the second. “That's nice. I, er, hope they'll be very happy.” She smothered a sigh and worked up a faint smile of thanks for the cup of steaming coffee he poured for her. “Did I also hear you say something about not having to work today?” She raised the cup to her lips, and her eyebrows in what she hoped was an expression of casual interest.

Royce nodded. “Today and tomorrow are my scheduled days off.” He paused an instant, then went on. “But I have to go out for a while. I have some things to do.”

Recognizing opportunity when it stared her in the face, Megan grabbed for it.

“Do you? Well, I'm going to call the car dealer to ask if my car's ready for me,” she said offhandedly. “If it is, would you please drop me off there, so I can pick it up? And if it isn't,” she rushed on, “would you drop me at home?”

“No.” Flat. Unequivocal. Final.

“No?” Megan had never taken well to flat, unequivocal and final. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don't want you going back to the house.” Royce's features were locked into an expression of stern determination.

“But I must go home,” she argued. “I brought only one change of clothes with me. Besides, I have to package my illustrations for mailing and get them to the post office.”

“No, Megan.” He slowly shook his head. “It's not safe for you to go back there. If you'll tell me what clothing you'll need, and how you want the illustrations packaged, I'll take care of everything for you.”

Indeed? Though Megan kept the biting response inside her head, it burned like fiery anger on her tongue. But the bitter anger was directed more at herself than at him—even if he was getting a tad too heavy-handed.

Royce had been wonderful from the beginning—taking care of everything since that dreadful night. From standing by in the hospital to driving her home, then stopping by every night to check up on her, he had been there for her. He had gone way beyond the call of duty.

And Megan had greedily availed herself of his offer to use his body to lose herself. She had used him shamelessly, she admitted to herself in all honesty. She had used him eagerly, joyously, wantonly. She had used him for all he was worth—and in the process, she had returned his generous offer by giving freely of herself, for all she was worth, body, mind and soul.

Megan loved Royce, was now deeply in love with him, but acknowledged that Royce could in no way be faulted if he did not love her in return.

If.

Megan clung to the word. To her way of thinking, so long as there was an if, there was a hope, a hope to build a friendship, a relationship, and possibly even a mutual and deeply committed love, upon.

But—the dreaded but—first she had to reclaim her independence, her life, the way it had been before that beast posing as a man robbed her of it.

And to begin with, Megan was done with running—literally, as well as figuratively. Lifting her chin to a defiant angle, she stared Royce directly in the eyes.

“I
am
going,” she said distinctly.

Royce was noticeably unimpressed by her show of bravado. His blue eyes placid, he stared right back at her.

“For
get
it,” he told her, mimicking her tone. “I will not allow you to place yourself in harm's way.”

“Really?” Megan arched one auburn eyebrow. “How are you planning to stop me?”

That gave him pause, but only for a few moments of visible frustration. Then he smiled. It sent an apprehensive shiver up her spine.

“I could take you into protective custody, citing fear for your life. Or I could take a different but equally effective route, and simply handcuff you to something solid, out of reach of a phone.” His smile tilted, much too engagingly. “But I'd much prefer to have your word to me that you won't leave the apartment.”

Mulling over whether or not he actually could legally confine her, Megan made a performance of considering the options he'd presented to her. Then she heaved a loud, defeated-sounding sigh of surrender.

“Okay, Wolfe, you win.”

“You'll stay put?”

Loath to commit herself verbally with an outright lie, she nodded her head once in agreement.

“Say it, Megan.” His voice was pure steel.

She glared at him in sheer disgruntlement at his persistence. He stared back. Seconds ticked by, and then she again gave way, while crossing the first two fingers of her free hand in childish self-exoneration.

“Okay, okay, I'll stay put.”

Royce maintained his steely regard for a few seconds longer. Then he smiled, stirring a sickening sensation of guilt inside Megan. “Okay,” he said, extending his hand, palm up. “If you'll give me your door key, I'll get to it.”

Chagrin washed over her; she hadn't thought about the necessity of relinquishing her key. Fortunately, she then recollected the spare key her father kept hidden in the garage for just such contingencies. Her sense of chagrin evaporated in the warmth of her smile.

“I'll get it,” she said, placing her cup on the table before turning to the doorway. “It's in my handbag.”

“Can I get you something to eat before I leave?” Royce called after her.

“No, thank you,” she called back. “I'm still not hungry. I'll have something later.”

“Okay. Feel free to rummage through the fridge and cabinets.” There was a pause, and then he called out again. “Megan, make a list of the clothes you want me to gather for you.”

Even though she felt certain she wouldn't need them, at least not here, Megan dutifully pulled a notebook from her purse and jotted down an assortment of casual garments. Then, after unfastening the door key from the case, which also held the garage key, she left the bedroom.

Royce was waiting for her at the front door. “The sooner I get moving, the sooner I'll get back,” he said, once again extending his hand, palm up.

Crossing to him, Megan placed the key and the scrap of paper in his palm, then launched into instructions on exactly how she wanted her illustrations packaged.

“Will do.” He hesitated, as if unsure. Then, bending quickly to her, he brushed his lips over hers, murmuring, “Be good.”

Megan felt bereft when he raised his head, and lonely the second the door closed behind him. Her lips tingling, hungry for more of his kisses, she stood staring bleakly at the solid panel, agonizing over the possibility that what she was about to do could cause an irreparable rift between them.

But she had to do it, Megan assured herself, bolstering her courage. She had to assert herself, make her own decisions, take back control of her existence.

Swinging away from the door, she went directly to the phone and punched in the number of the car dealership. If her car was ready, she would have to walk there to take possession, but needs must be met. Besides, it was a small town, after all, and the dealership was located only a little more than a mile from Royce's apartment.

The car was ready. Megan hung up the receiver. A satisfied smile curving her lips, she headed for the bathroom to apply some color to her face. It was to be the old shoe-leather express, but that was okay, she told herself. She could do with the exercise.

The day was mild, the air faintly scented with the elusive fragrance of early spring. Megan strode forward, looking for all the world as if she didn't have a care. In reality, she raked her eyes over each and every male she passed on the street, searching for, and yet fearful of spotting a large, hulking form looming up before her.

There were no hulking forms...or dark-browed males.

Megan's step faltered as she strode onto the car lot. Dark-browed males? Now why had she thought...?

A vision flashed into her mind, and she could see her attacker, clearly defined as he arced over her in the car, his lips curled into a snarl, his eyes narrowed and mean beneath lowered dark brows.

And she felt positive she would recognize him if she saw him again!

Megan shivered, and felt grateful for the sight of the salesman, a broad smile creasing his rather homely face, raising his arm in greeting as he hurried to meet her.

Mere minutes were required to dispense with the paperwork, during which Megan's attention was diverted from thoughts of mean eyes and dark brows to the more pleasurable and exciting prospects of a sparkling new sports car.

The formalities over with, Megan slipped into the contoured seat behind the steering wheel, gave a final wave to the grinning salesman and fired the engine.

It purred like a well-fed tiger.

Megan's spirits purred along with it. Taking it slow and cautious, she eased the silver beauty to the lot's driveway, inching forward as she checked the roadway for oncoming traffic. There was a string of vehicles coming toward her.

Waiting patiently, she began to hum, but the sound dried on her lips as a niggling memory sprang to life at another, discordant sound—a rattling muffler on a car midway in the line of oncoming cars.

Frowning in concentration, Megan peered through the windshield at the badly dented car. The sight of the driver of the car, viewed in profile, caused a burst of memory that sent fingers of panic curling around her throat.

It was him! Megan knew it as surely as she knew her own name. Suddenly she recalled taking note of the noisy car the first time she had visited the dealer, feeling a vague uneasiness about the look of the driver.

Without thought or hesitation, Megan pulled the sports car into the end of the line, determined to follow the rattling junker to its destination.

One by one, the other cars in the string turned off, until only one car remained between Megan and her target, which was headed on a direct course for her parents' home.

Her nerves feeling as if they were literally jumping wildly beneath her skin, Megan clutched the steering wheel with sweaty hands and maintained a discreet distance from the battered and noisy vehicle.

She felt sick to her stomach, and wanted nothing so much as to whip the sports car into a U-turn and beat a hasty retreat to the safety of Royce's apartment.

Royce. Thinking of him brought his mission to mind. He had said he had some things to do, but he had also promised to stop by the house to pack her illustrations and collect clothing for her. Maybe Royce was at the house now.

Distracted by her thoughts, Megan wasn't aware of the truck cutting her off at an intersection until it was almost on top of her. Reacting automatically, she sheered away from the large vehicle, avoiding a collision by a hairbreadth.

Shaken and trembling, she pulled to the side of the road and sat, still gripping the wheel, gulping in deep, composure-restoring breaths, while the driver of the truck went merrily on his way, unaware that he had come within mere seconds of wiping her off the face of the earth.

It wasn't until a measure of her calm was restored that Megan was struck by the realization that she had lost sight of the rattling car she had been tailing.

How long, she wondered, had she been sitting there, collecting her composure? Five minutes? Ten? Longer? As long as twenty minutes? She had to get moving. If Royce was at the house, and that man was headed there...

“Damn.” Muttering the curse aloud, she set the car in motion again, and drove at a careful yet steady pace the rest of the distance to her parents' home.

Megan spotted the battered car again when she was less than a city block's distance from her destination. She couldn't miss it, for it was moving at speed, along the driveway, heading away from the house.

She took in the scene and comprehended its portent at once. The driver, the man she was now certain was her attacker, was on the run, fleeing from another man, who was at that moment diving into a distinctive dark green car parked to one side of the double garage.

“Royce!” Megan cried, knowing he couldn't hear her, knowing, as well, that, though officially off duty, he was in pursuit of a suspect—and the suspect had a head start.

The battered car was nearing the end of the driveway that Megan was approaching. And so she did the only thing she could think of to do. Without a qualm, she stamped down on the gas pedal. The silver sports car responded like an Indy race car. The purr accelerating into a growl, it shot forward, a silver streak aimed at intersecting the rattling junker.

With a cool she hadn't previously realized she possessed, Megan deliberately drove her brand-new car directly into the junker, crumpling the already battered front end.

The air bag deployed.

Though once again shaken, and slightly stunned, Megan was miraculously uninjured. She was performing the deep, composure-restoring routine when the door beside her was yanked open with a force nearly strong enough to tear it from its hinges and Royce thrust his head into the car.

“Dammit to hell, Megan, are you trying to kill yourself?” he shouted, directly into her face.