by Joan Hohl
But this man was different, she mused, absently helping herself to a good-size portion of salad.
Her eyes flickered upward to his face, then quickly away again as another equally startling thought popped into her head. Royce was not only different from that hulking, grunting beast who had attacked her, Royce was different from any other man she had ever met.
The difference was unrelated to looks; even though Royce was one very good-looking man. Megan knew many good-looking, even downright handsome, men. And it had little to do with his size, which was considerable, imposing.
No, Megan mused, raising her salad fork to her mouth. The difference lay in the man himself, his personality, the innate decent character traits slowly being revealed to her. Royce Wolfe was a good man, a good person who genuinely cared about people. Megan would unhesitatingly have wagered her last dollar on it.
Having someone care about the ordeal she had been through, the resulting trauma she now had to deal with, consoled Megan more than she would have believed possible. The knotted feeling in her stomach relaxed, simply because he was there, caring, lending a sense of security.
He was staring at her. Though she kept her gaze lowered to the luncheon plate, and the salad she had begun eating without conscious intent, Megan could sense, feel, Royce's pensive and probing stare upon her.
What was he watching for, waiting for?
Was Royce expecting her to crumple into a heap and wail like a lost or injured child?
Megan swallowed down a small piece of lettuce that had caught, then stuck, in her throat.
She very easily could let loose and cry like an abandoned child, simply because that was precisely what she longed to do. More than wail, though, she wanted to scream at the top of her voice, rant and rave, rail against the vagaries of a fate that had placed her in that particular parking lot at that particular time.
Megan took another bite of salad and chewed determinedly. She didn't taste the delicate flavor of the tuna, the crispness of the vegetables, or the creaminess of the ranch dressing.
What good would screaming and ranting do her, anyway? Would it change her situation? Would it wipe from her memory the choking fear she had felt, the fear that still curled around the edges of her mind? Would it return her to the confident, carefree frame of mind she had enjoyed, taken for granted before the attack?
No. No. No.
Nothing would ever be the same. She would never be the same. Megan knew it, and she resented the knowledge.
She had done nothing, nothing, to encourage an attack. How dare that hulking bastard, how dare any person take it into his maggoty mind to make a victim of her or any other human being?
“Megan?”
Megan shuddered at the softly intrusive sound of Royce's voice. A great deal of effort was required on her part to keep from snarling in response.
“What?”
“Hey, c'mon, calm down,” Royce said, raising his hands in a sign of surrender. “I'm friendly, remember?”
“Sorry.” Megan sighed, and gave him a faint smile. “I was all caught up in my thoughts.”
“Bad, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he echoed, exhaling harshly. “I want to tell you to put it out of your mind, but I know that's one whole hell of a lot easier said than done.”
“Yes, it is.” Her smile took on a self-deprecating slant. “It's at times like this that we realize how very trite we tend to be when offering our unsolicited advice to others.” Megan sighed again. “I'm afraid that I'm as guilty of doing so as everyone else. Sad, isn't it?”
“Don't go down.”
Megan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You're in a downward spiral,” Royce explained, his glittering eyes piercing hers. “I can hear it in your voice, see it in your face. I've witnessed it before, that mental lure into depression. Fight it, Megan.”
Megan glanced away from him, his intensity. She blinked again, this time not in confusion, but against a hot rush of moisture to her eyes. “As I believe you mentioned,” she murmured, “it's easier said than done.”
“But it can be done.” His voice was hard, adamant. “Get help if necessary, from Dr. Hawk, or your pastor, if you have one, or maybe a close friend, but fight, fight with every atom of resistance you possess. Don't let him win.”
The very strength of his voice, of his command, drew her gaze back to his sternly set features, and then to the hand he had extended across the table to her, palm up, in exactly the same way he had in the hospital.
Get help. Fight. His command spun through her head, sparking corollary, comforting thoughts.
With the simple act of offering her his hand, Royce was silently offering his help, offering his strength, offering to fight with her, beside her.
Megan's throat closed around an emotional lump.
Had she judged Royce Wolfe decent? she thought, reaching for his proffered hand. Decent seemed much too mild a term to apply in defining the man.
Megan's palm slid onto his; it was warm, not smooth, as she might have expected of the hand of a desk jockey, but rough, callused, the hand of a man familiar with hard physical work. It was oddly reassuring, the rough feel of that hand.
Megan swallowed to relieve the tightness, and when that didn't work, she cleared her throat of the tear-congealed emotional lump.
“I...” She cast a quick glance at him, and was nearly undone by the look of tenderness that had eased the stern set of his features. “Thank you.”
“Hey, you're welcome.” Royce's voice was low, soothing, and held a hint of entreaty. “How 'bout some fruit?”
Fruit? Megan frowned and looked at her plate. It was empty. When had she eaten the last of her salad? She shook her head to clear the cobwebs of confusion, cast another look at him, and once again had to smile.
“Okay, Sergeant Perceptive,” she agreed on a sigh, “let's have some fruit.”
Royce grinned, and the room appeared to brighten considerably. “Awright...” he said, releasing her hand, then shoving his chair back and springing to his feet. “You dish up the fruit, and I'll pour the coffee.”
* * *
The house was quiet, too quiet, after Royce left to go to work. At loose ends, Megan wandered from room to room, glancing at everything, each carefully selected piece of furniture, each accent piece her mother had purchased after days, sometimes weeks, of shopping for just the right colors, the perfect decorative items. Since her mother's taste was excellent, the decor was both aesthetically appealing and comfortable.
The beauty and ambience were lost on Megan in her present frame of mind. Although she looked, she did not see the warmth, the welcome. All she saw was the emptiness.
She was alone.
It scared her sick.
Fight.
The echoing sound of Royce's voice rang so clear in Megan's mind, she jumped and whirled around, expecting to see him standing in the doorway, his right hand extended in an unstated offer of help.
He wasn't there.
But the subconscious memory echo had served its purpose. Megan's vision cleared. She was home. She was safe. And she would be damned if she'd allow herself to tumble into that downward spiral into depression Royce had warned her against.
Squaring her shoulders, Megan strode from the living room to her bedroom, and straight to the work area, in a corner between two oversize windows. She trailed her hand along the edge of her drafting table set at an angle to the large desk beneath one window. Glancing aside, she stared into the black screen of her computer, on which she created graphic designs for certain assignments.
But Megan was not using the computer for her current assignment. She was working in the medium of her first love, illustrative painting, with real paints and real brushes and the very real odors that went with it.
Megan respected the computer, and its mind-boggling capabilities, and so she gave it a quick nod of recognition. It was then that she noticed the tiny red light on the answering machine nex
t to the telephone on the corner of the desk. She rewound the tape and pressed the play button. The first message was from the friend she had dined with Friday night.
“Hi, Meg, it's Julie, as if you didn't know.” Julie's tinkling laughter brought a sad smile to Megan's lips. “It's Saturday morning, 10:35,” she went on, “and I suppose you're off shopping or something.”
Or something, Megan thought, suppressing a shudder spawned by the memory of her emotional display while relating the events of her ordeal to Royce in the hospital Saturday morning.
“...wonderful seeing you again...” Julie was going on, recapturing Megan's attention. “Cliff and I have really missed your company and smiling face since you moved back here, but we do understand how you might feel safer here than living alone in New York.”
Safer! Megan groaned. The machine beeped and Julie's voice was cut off. Seconds later, the beep sounded again, and Julie was back, laughter in her voice.
“It's me again. Meg, I'm gonna have to run. Clifford is bugging me to get moving. We're off on a hike into the hills— How lucky can one woman get? If I don't get a chance to talk to you before we leave tomorrow, I'll give you a buzz one day next week. See ya.”
“See ya,” Megan murmured, envisioning her friend's dear pixie face, her smiling eyes. “And please be careful, both of you. There's danger in those hills,” she went on in a choked whisper, as a hulking form intruded on her vision.
Caught up once again in the memory of that violent man, that terrifying experience, Megan began to shiver. Tears welled up to sting her eyes and clog her throat. A moan of protest was torn from the depths of her chest, and she shook her head to dispel the vision, the memory.
“Royce.” Megan was unaware of whimpering his name aloud, of crying out for his stabilizing presence, the physical strength of his hand, the psychological strength of his being.
He was not there to rescue her. The answering machine responded in his stead. It beeped, then played another message, this one from her current employer—and onetime would-be lover—Jefferson Clarke, Jr. Though Megan had never been able to respond on an emotional level to Jeff, he had continued to utilize her professional talents, and they had developed an abiding friendship.
Jefferson held the title of associate publisher with Clarke and Clarke, Inc., father-and-son publishers of a quarterly magazine with a chic and savvy format, geared for the young—and not-so-young—up-and-coming executive.
“Megan, I'm waiting for the illustrations that were supposed to be on my desk last week,” he said, not unkindly. “Can I look for them anytime soon?”
The sound of Jeff's chiding voice broke through the haze of remembered fear gripping Megan. She smiled faintly and sniffed as the machine issued a double beep, indicating the end of her messages. Raising her hand, she swiped the film of tears from her eyes before erasing the tape and resetting the machine.
Should she give Jeff a call, explain the situation, and the subsequent psychological and emotional effects? Megan mused, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. Knowing Jeff, she felt certain that he would react to her ordeal with both compassion and understanding, and very likely offer her a deadline extension, possibly even the option of scrapping the project. In all likelihood, Jeff might go so far as offering to come to Conifer to be with her for a while, to give her moral support.
But she had moral support, right here in Conifer.
Of course, the thought conjured up an image of Royce, and the image sparked an attendant vision, demanding a comparison between the two men.
Megan frowned as she mentally examined the pictures filling her mind. In truth, there really was no comparison.
Jefferson Clarke was a bit taller than average, a tad taller than Megan herself. He had a dark olive complexion, dark eyes and hair. His build was slender, elegant, a living, breathing reflection of the conventional concept of the aristocrat. In other words, Jeff was the complete opposite of the very tall, muscular, sun-kissed, earthy Royce Wolfe.
It wasn't until that instant that Megan realized that she preferred earthy to aristocratic.
Preferred? Megan's frown deepened. The connotations inherent in the word gave her pause. At the moment, under her present circumstances, her preference in regard to men should have been the absolute last thing to spring to her mind.
Yet, there it was, nudged to the forefront of her consciousness by the persistent image of Royce's visage confronting her, stirring a flicker of feminine interest to life inside her.
A shiver skipped down Megan's spine, a shiver born more from excitement than from fear.
Ridiculous. Megan moved her head in another hard shake, dislodging the visions of both men. Then a faint smile of gratitude curved her lips as the thought occurred that, in point of fact, the two images had superseded that of her frightening attacker—and all because of a phone message.
Sending a silent but heartfelt thanks to Jefferson Clarke for saving her from herself, from surrendering to fear, she turned away from the desk to stare lovingly at the work in progress attached to her table.
Megan had worked on numerous projects for Clarke and Clarke since going free-lance. She enjoyed working with the Clarkes, father and son, and the bright, energetic and imaginative employees of the company, and she hoped to continue working with them in the future.
But she wouldn't have a prayer of seeing her hopes realized if she cringed in a corner. She had an assignment to complete, and she was already over deadline, as Jeff had pointedly reminded her via her answering machine.
Ever since she first took a colored pencil to drawing paper at the age of five, Megan had been able to lose herself in her imagination, and the creations it conjured up. Her lips compressed into a thin line of determination to fight backsliding with her strongest weapon, Megan slid onto the stool in front of the table.
It was time for all good little illustrators to cut through the emotional crap and get down to business.
* * *
It was a long workday, and it was only a little more than half over.
Royce shot a glance at the office wall clock and suppressed a sigh. The hands stood at 8:37.
It had been dark outside for several hours now. How was Megan handling the nighttime hours?
The thought directed his gaze to the phone. Royce lifted his hand, then let it drop to the desktop again.
He wanted to call Megan, hear her voice assuring him that she was all right.
Of course she was all right, he chided himself, closing the folder on the desk in front of him. He slid the folder into the out basket and reached into the in basket for another one. He opened the folder and frowned at the top sheet of paper. The information contained on the page merged into wavy lines of seeming gibberish.
Frustrated, impatient, unsettled, Royce pushed the file aside and sat back in his chair, one foot tapping a rhythmic tattoo on the tile floor.
At the rate he was moving, he mused, he'd be lucky to get halfway through the stack in the in basket by quitting time.
And it was not his style. Royce had a reputation for dedication to detail, and for completing his work duties ahead of schedule. His fellow officers loved ribbing him about being a workaholic cop.
Royce didn't mind the flak, because he knew it was just that, good-natured flak. Besides, in all honesty, he knew there was more than a little truth to their claim. He was something of a workaholic. He was also a good cop.
But, at that precise moment, Royce felt anything but either. He felt helpless and ineffectual.
Yet, like it or not, there wasn't a whole lot Royce could do about the situation. He had already talked to the officer investigating the attack on Megan. And Stew Javorsky had sounded as frustrated as Royce felt.
“Sorry, Sarge, but there's not much to report,” Stew had said, his expression woeful. “Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. There have been no other reports or complaints of similar occurrences.” He'd heaved a sigh. “And there isn't even a heck of a lot to go on. I mean, the descri
ption—'large, hulking and rough-voiced'—isn't exactly...exact.”
“I know.” Royce had moved his wide shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I'm hoping Miss Delaney will recall more details of the man's appearance when the initial shock and trauma wear off.”
“Wouldn't hurt,” Stew had agreed dryly. “Meanwhile, I'll keep you informed if anything should turn up.”
Royce had thanked Stew, then tried to bury his frustration and impatience in his work.
That had been hours ago, and his diversionary ploy had produced only minor results.
Should he just go ahead and call her?
Royce scowled as he mulled over the question, unwilling to admit, even to himself, that there was an aching need expanding inside him just to hear the sound of her voice. Yet, whether or not he was willing to admit to it, the attraction to Megan that he had initially experienced had been gaining strength and momentum ever since she grasped his hand and hung on as if for dear life, yesterday morning in the hospital.
But the really telling incident had happened several hours ago, when Megan had once again placed her hand in his.
Royce had been hard-pressed to keep from jolting in reaction to the feel of her soft palm gliding onto his. A confusing and unfamiliar tingling sensation of applied heat had flashed from his palm to the outer reaches of his body.
Concealing his reaction from Megan had taxed every ounce of control Royce possessed.
Both shocked and baffled by the intensity of the excitement dancing along his nerve endings from their connecting palms, Royce had been forced to grit his teeth to squash an urgent impulse to caress the back of her hand, test the texture of her soft skin with his long fingers.
Against all reason, against all decency, Royce wanted Megan.
It was stupid.
It was reprehensible.
It was there, the wanting, burning in the core of his body, the depths of his mind.
Damn his soul, his maleness, his physical responses.
Although Royce had continued to damn anything and everything he could think of about himself, as a man, as a person, his feelings had not changed one iota.