Wolfe Wanting

by Joan Hohl

  Royce stood for a moment, staring longingly at the single bed. Then, heaving a sigh, he returned to the living room.

  Suppressing another sigh, Royce settled once more into the recliner, deciding that, if nothing else, the exercise had been a diversion, an escape from his wayward thoughts about Megan, and his physical response to her allure.

  All of which, of course, brought the thoughts and feelings rushing right back.

  Damn, Royce groaned in silent misery. It was going to be a really long night.

  * * *

  Diffused sunlight filtered between the horizontal mini-blinds brightening the room, waking Megan.

  For a moment, she lay still, frowning with the effort of bringing recall to her sleep-fuzzy mind. Then memory kicked in, surging back with a flood of the incidents of the night: the phone call, her near-panic, Royce.

  Royce!

  Tossing back the comforter, Megan leapt out of bed and, not bothering to take the time to look for her robe, ran to the door, flung it wide, and dashed into the drapery-shrouded living room. At the bottom of the three steps, she came to an abrupt halt, her eyes widening in fascination and admiration.

  Royce stood in the center of the room, arms raised over his head, belly sucked in, his long muscles rippling as he stretched the cramps and kinks from his body.

  Throwing his head back, he opened his mouth wide in a huge, noisy yawn. That, combined with his pose, and his shock of tawny hair, reminded Megan so much of a big, morning-hungry lion, she couldn't stifle the giggle that burst from her throat.

  Lowering and turning his head to face her, Royce gave her a quizzical look. “Something funny?”

  “No.” Megan clapped a hand over her mouth to smother another giggle, then spread her fingers to continue through them, “I, uh... You just struck me as looking like a big, disgruntled cat, stretching and growling.”

  “I wasn't growling, I was yawning.” Royce silently padded across the room to her. A slow, feral, devastatingly effective smile curved his attractive mouth. “If I growl, honey, you'll know it.”

  There it was again, the careless endearment, so casually tossed out, so potent in impact.

  Megan's breath caught, and she fought against revealing the confusion and mixed emotions she was experiencing. She smiled. It quivered, then stuck to her dry lips.

  “Uh, do you growl often?” she asked, for want of something, anything, to say.

  His smile grew into a Wolfe-ish grin. “Now and again,” he drawled. “At my men, when I'm seriously pi—ah, ticked off.” His voice lowered to a near-purr. “And occasionally, but altogether differently, when I'm caught up in the throes of passion.”

  A bolt of sensation, crackling like heat lightning, shot through Megan. Suddenly, her lips were not only dry, they felt hot. Her breasts felt heavy. Her body felt...empty.

  Royce said something; she shook her head.

  “What?”

  His lips twitched. “I asked if you ever growled while in the throes of passion?”

  How had she gotten into this discussion? Megan wondered wildly, raking her mind for a coherent reply.

  “Uh, no....” Well, she had raked for coherent, not brilliant, or even intelligent.

  “Pity,” Royce murmured.

  “Pity?” Megan frowned. “Why?”

  “Oh, just an off-the-wall opinion of mine.” His blue eyes were bright, teasing.

  She was almost afraid to ask, but of course she had to. “Which is?”

  “That unless you've reached the point of growling, you haven't truly plumbed the depths, or tested the fire, of the throes of passion.”

  Megan couldn't believe she was having this conversation with any man, let alone a man she hardly knew. And she was still in her nightshirt, to boot! She couldn't decide whether she wanted to laugh or run back into her bedroom.

  Not the bedroom!

  Resisting an impulse to tug at the hem of her nightshirt, she opted to laugh.

  Royce laughed with her. “I warned you that my opinion was off-the-wall.”

  “I'm beginning to think that you're off-the-wall,” Megan said, only half teasingly. “Or that you think I might be.”

  “No, I don't think that, honey.” Royce's tone was now deadly serious. “I'm beginning to think you're rather special.”

  Honey. Rather special. Megan felt a distinct melting sensation inside. Fighting the feeling, and the attraction of the man who had caused it, Megan withdrew behind a cool front of composure.

  “I think I'd better get dressed,” she said, backing away from him.

  “I've offended you.” Royce's voice revealed both concern and regret. “I'm sorry.”

  “Offended?” Megan shook her head, and came to an abrupt halt when her bare right heel banged into the bottom step leading down into the living room. “I don't understand. Why would I feel offended?”

  “The teasing. I mean, after what you've been through, for one thing.” He shrugged. “Then, for another, my calling you honey.” He gave a quirky smile. “I know a lot of women object to that these days.”

  “Uh, no...I, uh, no, I'm not offended,” she said, slightly amazed that she was not. In truth, Megan had sometimes taken exception to the occasional male usage of off-hand endearments like honey and sweetie and—shudder—babe. And yet, when the endearment came from Royce, she felt...flattered.

  Strange. But, stranger still, in light of her recent terrifying experience, was the somewhat shocking realization that she wasn't put off by his teasing, but was in fact actually enjoying it!

  “I'm glad,” Royce said, his expression revealing his evident relief. “Because I meant no offense.”

  “I know.” The really funny part was, Megan did know. It was all much too strange, and so made her feel awkward, uncertain, and as giddy as a teenager in the first flush of her first real crush.

  Definitely time to get dressed, she scolded herself, again absently tugging on the hem of her nightshirt.

  “Ah, if you'll give me a few moments,” she babbled, sliding her heel up the riser to the bottom step, “I'll dash into my room and throw on some clothes, then make you breakfast.”

  “That's not necessary,” Royce said, unconvincingly, turning away to lift the comforter from the chair and begin folding it. “I can grab something to eat on my way home.”

  “You certainly will not,” Megan said indignantly. “Making you breakfast is the least I can do to repay you for your trouble.” An impish grin played over her lips. “Most especially the discomfort you endured in that chair.” Not giving him a chance to respond, she whirled around, took the top two steps in one long stride, and went running to her room.

  His soft laughter ran after her.

  Seven

  Breakfast was an unqualified success. The French toast was a perfect golden brown, the small sausage links were tangy, not too spicy, the coffee was rich and delicious.

  Cradling his refilled mug in his hands, Royce sat back in his chair, stretched his legs out and smiled his utter satisfaction at his hostess.

  “That was great,” he told her. “You're really a very good cook. I feel almost human now.”

  “Thank you.” A becoming flush of pleasure tinged Megan's cheeks. “Almost human?”

  “Hmm...” Royce nodded and took a tentative sip of the still-steaming brew. Washed by last night's misty rainfall, the morning had dawned sparkling. The sunlight streaming through the windows shot gleaming red highlights through the long, loose strands of Megan's hair and enhanced the color pinkening her cheeks. Quashing an impulse to reach across the table and stroke the spiral curls, and her soft skin, Royce explained, “I'll feel a lot more human after I've caught a few hours' sleep.”

  “Oh, Royce, I'm sorry.” Megan looked both downcast and embarrassed. “I'm such a wuss.”

  “Bag that, honey,” he ordered, gently. “Your reaction to that phone call was perfectly normal,” he assured her. “Whatever the hell normal is.”

  The shadows lifted from her eyes. A tiny smil
e kissed her full, luscious lips. Royce envied the smile.

  “You don't know what normal is?” she asked, raising one naturally arched auburn eyebrow chidingly.

  “No,” he admitted easily. “I used to think I knew, but—” he shrugged “—the longer I live, the more I realize how little I do know.” His expression grew wry. “Hell, I used to think I knew most of the answers. Now the only thing I really know is that I don't even know half the questions.”

  Megan laughed—which, of course, was the response he had worked for. She was so damned appealing when she laughed. Come to that, she was damned appealing when she didn't laugh. Like earlier this morning, he reflected, sensation stirring at the memory of Megan, her enticing form barely covered by that oversize nightshirt.

  Not that she wasn't alluring in the soft jeans and baggy sweatshirt she had “thrown on” after beating her hasty retreat into the bedroom, Royce allowed, surreptitiously caressing the outline of the breasts concealed beneath the shirt. But, oh, her long, long legs... Megan's legs were the stuff of his wildest erotic fantasies.

  Smothering a yearning sigh, and a leap of life in the lower section of his body, Royce took another sip of coffee...in reality, a big gulp.

  “It is rather ironic, isn't it?” she said, her tone as wry as his expression. She was apparently innocently oblivious of his lascivious mental meanderings. “The older we grow, the less we know. Kinda like that old Pennsylvania Dutch saying—The faster I go, the behinder I get.”

  “Yeah.” Royce chuckled, finished off his coffee in two long swallows, then, drawing back his legs, jackknifed to his feet. “I'm headed for home and bed.” He leveled a questioning look at her. “You'll be all right now, on your own?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Megan gave him a bright and brave smile. “At the risk of sounding trite, I suppose things always do look brighter in the light of day, don't they?” She returned his questioning look.

  “Trite, maybe, but true,” Royce agreed, bending over the table to collect his plate, cup and utensils.

  “No!” Megan ordered, reaching across the table to place a staying hand over his. “I'll do that.”

  “You cooked,” he reminded her unnecessarily, feeling his skin begin to prickle and grow warm beneath her palm. “I don't mind clearing up.”

  “I appreciate the thought,” Megan said, flexing her hand over his in a reassuring squeeze. “But you've done enough. Go home, Royce. Get some sleep. You have to work tonight.”

  “Yeah.” Royce nodded, and stifled a yawn, along with a responsive groan at her touch. “Okay, I'm outa here.” He straightened, dislodging her hand from atop his. His flesh immediately felt cooler, robbed of warmth. “Is my jacket in the foyer closet?”

  “Uh, yes!” Unfastening her gaze from her now-empty hand, Megan jerked around and made a beeline for the hallway. “I'll get it for you.”

  Sauntering after her, Royce pondered the significance of the fleeting, almost bereft, expression that had flickered over Megan's face as she stared at her empty hand. A curl of hopeful excitement unwound inside him. Could it be possible? he wondered, catching his breath as the excitement ribboned along his nervous system. Could Megan possibly be feeling as strong an attraction to him as he felt for her?

  Heady stuff, thoughts like that, Royce told himself, feeling suddenly revived, alert, not at all sleepy. His eyes sought hers as he came to a halt. Megan met his questioning stare for an instant, then lowered her eyes and thrust her hand forward, nearly tossing his jacket at him.

  Without taking his contemplative gaze off her, Royce caught the garment and shucked into it. Why couldn't she look at him? he mused, absently fastening the jacket. The curl of excitement inside him flared into full-blown desire when the only reasonable answer sprang to mind.

  Megan was attracted to him, maybe even strongly attracted to him. A thrill skittered down Royce's spine; hope sprouted in his mind like a spring blossom.

  Him and Megan. Together.

  An image rose in his imagination, complete in every sensuous, body-tormenting detail, of him and Megan, naked, entwined, together. Maybe. Someday.

  Royce's chest muscles contracted, cutting off his breath. His arms ached with the longing to hold her. His palms burned with the need to touch, caress, every inch of her. His mouth tingled with the yearning to kiss her. The rest of his hurting body didn't bear thinking about.

  Royce moved to go to her. Then he caught himself up short, pivoted and strode to the door.

  Dammit, Wolfe, Royce railed at himself. Stop reacting like a libido-driven idiot. The absolute last thing Megan needs right now is more emotional trauma.

  Get out. Go home. And grow up.

  “Thanks again for breakfast,” he said, hating the dry, strangled sound of his own voice.

  “Thanks again for staying,” Megan replied, sounding almost as strained and affected as he felt.

  His fingers fumbled with the dead bolt and the safety lock. Damn. He hadn't fumbled with anything, or anyone, since his fourteenth summer. “Glad to be of service,” he muttered, sighing in relief when, at last, the door swung open.

  “Will you...” Megan's voice faded on an uncertain note, forcing him to glance around at her.

  The shadows of confusion and doubt in her blue eyes tore a hole in his gut. Royce wanted nothing so much at that moment as to pull Megan into his arms, cradle her protectively against his hard body.

  Make love to her.

  Run for it, Wolfe, before you run to her.

  “What?” he asked, sidling through the doorway.

  “It's mild!”

  “Huh?” Royce blinked.

  “The day. The weather.” Megan gave him a helpless look. “It's mild outside.”

  “Oh.” Now who was confused? Royce thought, knowing the answer. Collecting himself, he stepped outside to test the air temperature. Damned if it wasn't mild, springlike. “Yeah,” he said. “Feels good.”

  “Too good to stay indoors.”

  Royce frowned. “You're planning on going somewhere?”

  “I need to do some grocery shopping,” Megan said, reminding him of her empty refrigerator. “Why?”

  “You have no wheels,” Royce answered, in turn reminding her of her wrecked car. “You're welcome to use my car,” he offered. “You could drop me—”

  Megan silenced him with a quick shake of her head. The sunlight caught and tangled in her hair again, seemingly turning it into a fiery mass framing her face.

  Royce curled his fingers into his palm to keep from reaching out to entangle them in the flamelike strands.

  “...in the garage,” she was saying.

  “I beg your pardon,” he admitted apologetically, “but I missed the first part of what you said.” Idiot!

  “I said—” Megan spoke distinctly “—thank you, but that's not necessary. My father's car is in the garage. He asked me to drive it every so often, anyway.”

  “Yeah, it's not good to let it sit.” Royce frowned. “What had you started to say before?”

  She mirrored his frown. “Before when?”

  “You said 'will you...' and then stopped.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Will I what?”

  Megan looked uncomfortable, embarrassed. She flicked a glance at him, then immediately glanced away again. She wet her lips, cleared her throat, then shook her head. “It was nothing. I, uh, never mind....”

  “C'mon, Meg,” Royce said on a long sigh. “It must have been something. And you should know by now that you can ask me anything. What is it?”

  Still she hesitated, her soft mouth twisting in a self-mocking grimace. “I, uh, can I?”

  “Can you what?” he asked, thoroughly confused.

  “Ask you anything.”

  “Didn't I just say you could?” Royce was experiencing a distinct sensation of going around in circles. “Ask.”

  Megan drew a breath, and began slowly, “I was just wondering...well...” She paused, the went on in a rush. “I was wondering if you were thinking of stopping by ton
ight, you know, when you're done working?”

  Royce felt hard-pressed to keep from laughing. “You had to work up your courage to ask that?” he said, losing the battle to hold back a teasing smile.

  “Well...” She shrugged. “I have no right to ask you to look out for me in your free time.”

  “But you didn't ask,” he pointed out. “Not initially. It was my idea to stop by last night, remember?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So,” he said, blithely interrupting her, “I'll stop by. I was planning to, anyway.” His teasing smile grew up, into a grin. “Were you thinking about offering me a reward for dedication to duty above and beyond the call?”

  “Reward?” Megan frowned. “What sort of reward?”

  On the spot, Royce decided that Megan was the only woman he knew who looked appealing when she frowned. But then, he decided, she looked appealing most of the time. Too appealing for his peace of mind. A response to her appeal stirred, in his emotions, in his body.

  That was when he decided he had better stick to the discussion at hand. “Well, since I usually have a snack when I get home from work,” he said, “a cup of decaf coffee or hot chocolate and a couple of sandwiches would be nice.”

  “A couple of sandwiches!” Megan exclaimed on a choking bout of the giggles. “At that time of night?”

  “Hey, honey, give me a break, will ya?” Royce groused, in patently false aggrievement, deciding her giggle was appealing, as well, and that he had really better get going...and soon. “Look at me.” He swept his arm down to indicate his tall form. “I'm a big man. How far do you think one small sandwich will go in filling me up?”

  “I see your point,” Megan conceded solemnly, her gleaming blue eyes belying her somber tone. “I will be happy to prepare a snack for you.”

  “You've got yourself a deal,” Royce said. “I'll—” He broke off, just then noticing the shivering tremor in her body. He cursed himself for not noticing sooner. “You're cold. It's not quite spring yet. Go inside. I'm going home to bed.” He started for his car, but called back to her over his shoulder, “By the way, I like most kinds of luncheon meats, but most especially baked ham with cheese.”