by Joan Hohl
Encouraged by the easing of the tautness in her body and her stark expression, Royce said the first thing to come into his mind, in hopes of keeping her distracted.
“You could be describing my youngest brother,” he said, chuckling. “When he was a kid, Jake had a positive talent for goofing off, and driving our parents nuts.”
“Jake.” Megan repeated the name, testing the sound of it. “I like the name. It sounds solid, somehow, not at all the name of a first-class goof-off.”
“Oh, he's not anymore.” Royce inserted the key and fired the engine. Then, since his distracting ploy appeared to be working, he quickly continued, “Jake goofed off for more than his share of years, but he's finally settled down, and settled in.” He checked for oncoming traffic before pulling smoothly away from the curb.
“In what way?” Megan had turned sideways in her seat to look at him, and she sounded genuinely interested in hearing about the trials and tribulations the Wolfe clan had endured through the maturing period of the youngest of the brood.
Royce was only too happy to oblige. Anything to keep her mind occupied, away from the memory of her ordeal. “After kicking around the country for a lot of years, Jake came home, attended the police academy, then took a job with the hometown police force.” Drawing the car to a halt at a stop sign, he turned to smile at her. “Mom tells me that Jake has turned out to be a damn good cop. As good as all the others in the family.”
Megan arched delicate auburn eyebrows. “There's more than you and Jake? Cops, I mean.”
Royce laughed as he set the car in motion again. “A bunch...or at least there were. Following the law is a family tradition, dating back over a hundred years. Even as we speak, there are four—count 'em, four—Wolfe men working in law enforcement.”
“All of you?” She blinked in astonishment.
“Yeah. A real hoot, huh?”
“And a holler,” she drawled. “Turn right at the next intersection.”
“I know.” Royce slanted a wry glance at her. “I'm a cop, remember? I know the district.”
“I'm impressed.”
“I seriously doubt it.”
Megan laughed, a free-floating sound that lifted Royce's spirits. The fact that she looked both relaxed and comfortable in the plush seat was an added bonus.
“What branch of law enforcement are the other two Wolfe men in?” She flashed Royce a quick grin. “Wolfe men...conjures up images of hairy faces and hands, and sudden claws, and long, ululating cries to the full moon.”
Royce nearly lost it. Gripping the wheel, he choked back a roar of laughter, and shook his head in helpless amusement. Megan Delaney was proving to be a real trip. Her display of humor after the ordeal she had been through spoke volumes about her inner strength.
Royce liked what he heard; and he liked her. The liking enhanced the attraction he felt for her. That, he didn't particularly appreciate; Royce wasn't heavily into frustration, emotional or otherwise.
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 wisdo
m, 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?”
Four
Laughter 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.