Читать книгу Wolfe Wanting - Joan Hohl - Страница 5

She was waiting for him.

Megan was sitting straight up in bed, her legs folded beneath her, her fingers picking at the lightweight white hospital blanket draped over her knees.

Dr. Hawk had said the Pennsylvania State Police sergeant would very likely be paying her a visit early this morning. That had been when the doctor was making her regular rounds, about seven-thirty or so. It was now nearing nine. Breakfast was over—the nurse's aide had been in to remove the tray from the room thirty minutes ago.

So, where was he? Megan asked herself, unconsciously gnawing on her lower lip. Where was this law officer Dr. Hawk had told her about, the one who bore the mark of Megan Delaney on his cheek?

A shudder ripped through Megan's slender body. Lord! Had she really struck...scratched the face of a policeman?

She must have, for not for a second could she convince herself that the doctor would have said she had, if in fact she had not.

Tears blurred Megan's vision. Absently raising a hand, she brushed the warm, salty moisture from her eyes with impatient fingers. She never cried... well, hardly ever.

But then, she never struck, hit or scratched people, either, Megan reminded herself. At least not until now.

But there were extenuating circumstances, Megan thought defensively. She hadn't been in her right and normal mind at the time, and she had had excellent reason for striking out at the man...or at least at the man she believed him to be at that particular moment.

But where was he?

Megan was not stupid. She realized that she would very likely not be too stable—emotionally, psychologically—for an extended period. Scars would remain, perhaps indefinitely.

It was not a pleasant prospect to contemplate.

On the other hand, unless she kept her mind occupied, it could slip into a reflective mode, recalling—

No! Megan slammed a mental door on that train of thought. She would need to explain the circumstances to the state cop, relive that choking terror.

Where was he?

Megan just wanted it all over with, the horror, humiliation and degradation of the memory. And she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and hide.

She was trembling—no, shaking—with nerves and trepidation when he walked into the room fifteen minutes later.

Megan knew him immediately. She did not, of course, recognize him, as one would a friend or acquaintance. He was not in uniform. His attire was casual—jeans, a striped cotton shirt, a tweed sports coat. Fairly new, and rather expensive-looking, leather slip-ons encased his feet. Actually, he looked somewhat like a construction worker on his day off.

But Megan knew exactly who he was at first sight.

He did not stride into the room, fueled by self-importance. In truth, though, he did radiate an aura of importance and intimidation.

He was tall. Lord, was he tall! He was blond, not yellow blond, but golden blond, a shade that would likely be called sun-kissed brown, she supposed. His shoulders and chest were broad, flatly muscular; his waist and hips were narrow, his legs straight, long-boned. And he was good-looking... too good-looking. The comparison of a classic Greek statue sprang to mind; Megan dismissed it at once. No statue she had ever gazed upon in awe, up close or on film, looked that good, that attractive, nearly perfect.

All of which should not have mattered to Megan in the least at that particular point in time, but somehow did.

“Miss Delaney?”

Even his voice was golden, smooth and rich as warm amber velvet. The sound of it set Megan's teeth on edge. She swallowed, quickly, swallowed again, failed to work up enough moisture even to allow speech, then replied with a curt nod.

He was prepared, which told her a lot about him.

“Sergeant Wolfe, Pennsylvania State Police.” He raised his hand, palm out, displaying his identification as he moved nearer to the bed for her to examine it up close.

Megan wanted to feel pressured, put-upon, persecuted, but she couldn't. She wanted to scream a demand to be left alone. But she couldn't do that, either. She looked at his face, at the long red scratch from his eye to his jaw, and felt sick inside—even sicker than she already felt.

“I...I, er...I'm sorry.” Megan felt a hot sting behind her eyelids, and lowered her gaze. Damn! She would not cry. She would not let this man, any man, bear witness to her weakness.

“Sorry?” He frowned. “For what?”

The hot sting vanished from her eyes. Her head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed. Was this a trick? What could possibly be his purpose for playing this “For what” game? He knew full well what she was sorry for.

“Your face,” she said, unaware that her voice had lost a small corner of its frailty. “I've marked you, however unintentionally, and I'm sorry.”

“Oh, that?” He moved the hand he still held aloft near to his face, and drew his index finger the length of the scratch. “It's surface. I'm not branded for life.” Then he smiled, and damned if his smile wasn't golden brown, as well.

How could she think of startlingly white teeth as golden brown? Megan chided herself, staring in near-mesmerized fascination at him. And yet it was. His smile lit up not only his face, but the entire room, like a burst of pure golden sunlight through a dark and angry cloud.

Megan didn't like it. She didn't trust it. But there wasn't a thing she could do about it. She had run her car, her beautiful new car, into a guardrail. And this...this golden-haired, golden-smiled one-up-on-a-Greek-god was the law. He was in charge here. Although he hadn't yet given so much as a hint of flaunting his authority, he was in a position to do so.

Just get it over with.

The cry rang inside Megan's head, its echo creating an ache to fill the void of its passing. Suddenly, she needed to weep, she needed to sleep, she needed to be left alone. Distracted, agitated, she lifted a hand to rub her temple.

“Pain?”

Megan wasn't quite sure which startled her more, the sharp concern in his voice, or the sudden sound of his ID folder snapping shut. Before she could gather her senses enough to answer, he was moving to the door.

“I'll get a nurse.”

“No!” She flung out her hand—as if she could reach him, all the way near the door, from her bed. “I'm all right. It's just a dull headache.”

He turned back to run an encompassing look over her pale face, his startling blue eyes probing the depths of her equally blue, though now lackluster, eyes.

“You sure?” One toasty eyebrow climbed up and under the silky lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead.

“Positive.” Megan sighed, and nodded. “Please, have a seat.” She indicated the chair placed to one side of the bed. “I'd like to get this over with.”

“Well...” He brushed at the errant lock of hair as he slowly returned to her bedside. “If you're sure you don't need anything for pain?” The brow inched upward again.

“I'm sure,” she answered, suppressing yet another sigh. “It'll pass.”

“All things do.”

Strangely convinced that his murmured reply was not merely the voicing of conventional comfort, but a genuine and heartfelt belief, Megan watched him lower his considerable length into the average-size chair.

He should have appeared funny, folded into the small seat, and yet he didn't. He looked... comfortable.

“In your own words, Miss Delaney,” he said, offering her a gentle smile. “And in your own time.” He glanced at his watch. “I'm in no hurry.”

Megan felt inordinately grateful for his compassion and understanding. She dreaded the coming purge, the dredging up of details, the accompanying resurgence of fear.

“I...I...”

“Start at the very beginning,” he inserted, his voice soft with encouragement.

“Thank you, Sergeant, I—” She broke off when he raised a hand in the familiar “halt” gesture.

“Let's make this as easy as possible. Considering the circumstances, I think we can dispense with the sergeant and sir stuff. Okay?” Both toasty brows peaked.

“Yes, but what should I call you?”

“My name's Royce,” he said. “Royce Wolfe.”

Royce Wolfe. Megan tested the name silently, deciding at once that she liked it. “Okay, Royce,” she agreed, “but on one condition. And that is that you call me Megan.”

“Deal.” His teeth flashed in a disarming smile. Withdrawing a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket, he settled into the chair. “Whenever you're ready...Megan.”

“I have one question.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, you said I should start at the beginning,” she said, frowning. “Where? Of the evening, of the atta—” The very word stuck in her throat.

Megan drew a breath before trying another attempt; Royce was faster.

“You can start from the day of your birth,” he suggested, quite seriously. “If that's easier for you.”

“My birth?” Megan frowned again. “Why, I was born right here, in Conifer. I grew up here, lived here until I went away to college.” The frown line smoothed at the realization that starting from the very beginning was easier.

“That was probably before I was assigned to duty here,” Royce reasoned aloud. “What college did you attend?”

“Kutztown State, now University.” She smiled. “It offered a great fine-arts program.”

“You're an artist?” He sounded impressed.

“No.” Oddly, Megan hated having to disillusion him. “It didn't take long to discover that I wasn't good enough for that. I'm an illustrator.”

Royce was quick to correct her. “Illustrators are artists. Norman Rockwell was an illustrator, and so was the first of the painting Wyeths....”

“Well, yes, of course, but...” Megan broke off to frown at him. How had they strayed from the point, and what difference did it make, anyway? “Does it matter?”

“Not really.” Royce grinned at her. “But you are a lot less nervous than when I came in.”

Megan smiled. She couldn't help smiling. “Yes, I am. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” His voice was low, honeyed, encouraging. “Ready to continue?”

“Yes. Where was I?”

“You didn't return to Conifer after college,” he said, prompting her.

“Oh, right.” Megan shrugged. “I had decided that to succeed, I would have to go where the action was—that being New York City, naturally.”

“Naturally,” he concurred in a drawl.

“I was right, you know.”

“I don't doubt it.” Royce appeared extremely relaxed in the small chair. “I personally wouldn't like to live there,” he added. “But I don't doubt that you were right.”

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

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

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

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

“A whole year!”

“Yes. Wild, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Continue,” he said gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm here. You're safe.”

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

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

“Go on.”

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

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

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

“I don't re— I don't re—”

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

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

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

Megan fell asleep with her hand still gripping his.