Wolfe Wanting

by Joan Hohl

  The sports car was beautiful, but inanimate.

  Royce Wolfe was real.

  Now that was something to think about.

  And Megan did think about it, long after Royce had driven her back to the house after lunch, through the even longer afternoon, and into the silence of the night.

  She thought about nothing else except Royce until the silence of the night was broken by the innocent-sounding ring of the telephone.

  Certain it was Royce, Megan snatched up the receiver and blurted out a breathless “Hello?”

  “I'm coming for you, bitch.”

  Megan's breath ceased at the familiar sound of the harsh voice—the haunting sound of her attacker. Panic clutched at her throat; fear froze her in place.

  “And when I get there, I'm going to...”

  Megan's stomach roiled, threatening to reject her light supper, at the obscene description the man spewed out of what he was planning to do to her.

  The sour taste of bile filled her mouth, and with a whimpered protest Megan slammed down the receiver. Terrified, sobbing, she grabbed it up again and punched in the number Royce had given to her so that she could reach him at work.

  “Sergeant Wolfe,” he answered on the second ring.

  “Royce!” Megan cried, her voice high with rising hysteria. “He's coming for me. That man, that hulking man, he's coming for me. He said...he said...”

  “I'm on my way.”

  The line went dead.

  Caught in the gripping claws of fear, Megan stood, the telephone receiver pressed to her breast, afraid to move, her body shaking, waiting for deliverance.

  Royce.

  Nine

  “Megan!”

  The razor-edged sound of Royce's voice, overlapping a sharply delivered rapping against the front door, pierced the fear-induced trance holding Megan's mind captive.

  A shudder of awareness quaked through her. The phone falling away from her nerveless fingers, she whirled and ran from the bedroom to the foyer. His call rang out again as she dashed across the chill flagstone inlay to the door.

  “Me-gan.”

  There was now a new note in his voice, a note she had not previously heard before, a note rife with abject, unadulterated fright.

  “I'm here,” she called in immediate response. “I'm all right,” she hastened to assure him.

  Fumbling with the lock, Megan shoved to the back of her mind the intriguing speculation on the possible meaning for the sound of sheer panic coloring his tone.

  “Open the damn door,” he ordered.

  “I'm...I'm trying!” Megan heaved a sigh of relief as the lock gave way. Cranking the knob, she stepped back and pulled the door open.

  This time, she did not fling herself against him. She could not, for with the first opening crack in the doorway Royce strode inside and swept her into his arms, crushing her to his tension-taut body.

  Safe. Safe.

  The words repeated inside Megan's mind as she clung to the solid strength of the man she now trusted without question or doubt.

  But even Royce's solid strength revealed the ravages of emotional fear. Locked within that uncompromising embrace, Megan could not help but notice the fine tremor shivering through his long frame. In truth, she could barely tell which of them was trembling more, she herself or Royce.

  “I want you to tell me exactly what happened.” Even his voice betrayed his inner unsteadiness.

  “At first...when I answered the phone, there was nothing, just silence,” Megan said shakily, tilting her head back to look up, into his sternly set face. “But then...then,” she went on, her voice gathering speed and panic as she continued, “he called me 'bitch' and said he was going to...” She broke off, eyes widening, then cried, “Royce, he knows who I am! He knows where I am! He's coming here to...to... He intends to finish what he started last Friday night!”

  “Like hell he will.” Royce released her with confusing abruptness. “You're getting out of here.”

  “But...oh!” Megan exclaimed, starting when he grasped her hand and literally yanked her along with him as he strode into her bedroom.

  “Where's your bag?”

  “Bag?” Megan blinked. “Wha—”

  “Suitcase, carryon, garment bag.” Keeping a tight hold on her hand, he moved to the double closet set into the bathroom wall. “Anything to throw a few things into.”

  “But...but...”

  “Dammit, Megan,” Royce exploded, whipping around to pin her with blue eyes blazing with impatience and flat-out fury. “Don't stand there sputtering at me like a motorboat running out of fuel. I'm getting you out of here. Now. You can think of it as protective custody. Where do you keep your bags?”

  “On the shelf in that closet,” she said, flicking her free hand at the double doors. “But where are you taking me?” she demanded. “To the lockup?”

  “The lockup?” Royce gave her a sour look, then turned toward the closet doors. “Get real, Megan,” he said, releasing her hand to pull the doors open. “Get some things together and get dressed.” He pulled her nylon carryon from the shelf and thrust it into her hands. “I'm taking you to my place.”

  * * *

  His place.

  Megan stood in the center of the small living room, feeling nervous, uncertain, and rather ridiculous.

  She wasn't even properly dressed, for pity's sake, she thought, clutching her full-length wool coat to her shivering body as she glanced around her.

  Beneath the coat, all Megan had on was the nightshirt she'd been wearing when that terrible person called, a pair of sweatpants she had pulled on under the shirt, and low-heeled, soft leather slip-ons she had barely had time to slip on before Royce hustled her out of the house and into his car.

  Megan was cold, a condition attributable more to her emotional state than to the outside air temperature of forty degrees or so. This chill was inside, not outside.

  Still, she huddled beneath the coat, seeking comfort from the warming wool.

  “You can relax now,” Royce murmured, shucking out of his jacket. “You're safe.” Tossing the jacket aside, he slowly walked to her, coming to a stop mere inches from her.

  “Yes.” Megan managed a smile, faint but real, for him. “Thank you, Royce.”

  “You're welcome.” His answering smile was tender, compassionate, understanding. “You can take your coat off now.”

  “I...” Megan shivered and wet her lips. “I'm cold.”

  “I know, but the coat won't contain the chill.” He held out his hand. “And you know it.”

  Megan drew a quick breath, hesitated, then raised her trembling fingers to the coat buttons. It seemed to take forever to unfasten the four plain black buttons. Royce didn't try to help her or hurry her. He stood there, quiet and patient, until the coat's panels gaped apart. After she removed the garment and handed it to him, he turned away to carefully drape it over the back of an oversize—Royce-size—club chair.

  The minute the coat was off, Megan wished she had it back. Her shiver intensified into a teeth-rattling tremble.

  “R-R-Royce,” she began, her muscles clenching against the reactionary shakes. “I—need...”

  Suddenly Royce was there, drawing her into his arms, taking the place of the coat, enfolding her within the warmer cocoon of his presence.

  “I know, I know,” he whispered, his breath ruffling wisps of hair at her temple. “But it's all right now.” He stroked one hand down the length of her spine. “You're all right now.” His lips brushed from the corner of her eyebrow to her quivering cheek. “I won't let him, or anyone else, hurt you, Megan. Depend on it.”

  Clutching him every bit as tightly as she had clutched her coat, Megan burrowed against him, into him, seeking the strength of his body, as well as his conviction.

  The chill permeating her body slowly lessened. And still she trembled, but now the tremors were activated by a shiver of unvarnished sensual awareness of him.

  His soft voice dissolved her fears; his
stroking hands unlocked her clenched muscles; his caressing lips ignited a fire that consumed her.

  Slowly, but inevitably, like a tightly closed early-spring bud, Megan responded to Royce's caring ministrations, unfolding like the flower in the warmth of the sun.

  “You will stay here, with me, safe from harm, for as long as it takes,” he murmured, the light movement of his mouth on her cheek causing ripples of sensation from her face to the outer edges of her tingling toes.

  Megan didn't need to ask what he meant; though he hadn't said so, she knew he meant she was to stay with him until her attacker was apprehended and confined.

  “I...I can't. I don't expect you to...” She broke off on a softly gasped “Oh!”

  His lips had drifted to the corner of her mouth. “I know,” he said, tantalizing her lips with the feather-light touch of his mouth. “I want to do this, keep you safe, protected, for myself, my sanity, as well as for your peace of mind.”

  Peace of mind! Megan quivered. At that moment, her mind was anything but at peace—not to mention her senses! Her mind was a chaotic whirl, her senses running riot.

  His nearness, his unmistakable arousal, the allure of his mouth, were playing havoc with every feminine impulse Megan possessed.

  Royce continued to murmur words of comfort and reassurance that she no longer heard. All her powers of concentration were centered on his lips, teasing the edges of her own.

  Suddenly, the world of harsh reality retreated, banished by the forward charge of the realm of sensuality. Her overriding priority was the compulsion to taste his mouth.

  A whimper shuddering from the depths of her throat, Megan turned her head, bringing her lips into contact with the mouth she craved.

  “Megan?” Royce's voice could only have been described as raw. “You're understandably upset.” He drew another soft whimper from her as he raised his head to stare into her eyes. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

  A firm affirmation sprang to her lips, just as a startling thought sprang into her mind. The thought spilled from her mind to her tongue.

  “Are you afraid I just want to use you to forget?” she asked, biting her lower lip in consternation.

  The glow that deepened the blue of his eyes, and the smile that drifted across his lips presaged his answer.

  “Honey, feel free to use me for anything. A hand to hang on to, a buffer against fear, an opinion on the choice of a car—” his voice went low, intimate, sexy “—a body to warm you, soothe you, fulfill you.”

  “Royce.” Megan's voice was barely there, so she let her eyes speak of her needs.

  “Use me, honey,” he murmured, slowly lowering his head, his mouth, to hers. “Please, please, use me.”

  His lips touched hers, tentatively, testingly, sweetly. Megan shuddered from the thistledown impact.

  Gentle. His kiss was the most gentle blending of two mouths imaginable. And seductive. Royce's very gentleness seduced not Megan's body, but her mind.

  Feeling utterly safe, secure within the warm haven of his embrace, she divorced herself from concern, and surrendered her being into his care.

  Royce moved; Megan moved with him.

  Lost inside the blue heaven of his eyes, she didn't notice the details of his bedroom, or even the kingly size of his bed. She didn't notice the coolness of the air against her bare skin when he carefully removed her nightshirt, her sweatpants and her panties.

  The mattress was firm, a solid support for a big man. Megan didn't notice that, either. She was too fascinated with watching Royce undress to take note.

  He was a beautiful sight in the natural state. She could not discern an ounce of excess weight on his long, muscular body. His shoulders and lightly haired chest were broad, his waist and hips were narrow, his belly was flat, and his long legs were straight and well shaped.

  His fully aroused manhood was of a size scaled to the rest of his body.

  The overall effect of him was formidable.

  Megan suffered a twinge of disquiet.

  “Easy, Megan, easy,” he murmured, stretching his length out next to her on the bed. “I'm not a boy, or an animal. I will not clutch, or grab.” Shifting to his side facing her, he stroked her shoulder, her arm, the back of her hand, her fingers.

  Megan felt his feather-light touch in the depths of her being—felt it and responded to it.

  “I'm...I'm not afraid,” she said, secretly willing away the tiny flare of trepidation.

  “Of course you are, and understandably so.” His eyes and smile were soft with compassion, and a hint of sadness. “I want to make love with you, Megan, probably more than I have ever wanted anything else before in my entire adult life.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “But I have nothing to prove here, no issues to resolve.” Acceptance now tinged his tone. “Say the word, anytime, and I'll back off. I can live with frustration. I could not bear living with the thought of having frightened or hurt you in any way.”

  “Oh, Royce.” Thoroughly reassured, and disarmed, Megan blinked away the sting of tears in her eyes, and raised her hands to cup his face to draw his mouth to hers. “Come to me,” she whispered against his lips. “Make love with me.”

  Royce was incredibly gentle. Even so, memory sparked and Megan tensed when he eased into position between her thighs.

  He went still. His hands braced at either side of her head, he stared into her eyes a moment, then began slowly to withdraw from her.

  “No.” Megan shook her head, and clasped his hips, holding him in place. “I'm all right. It's all right.”

  He frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I trust you, Royce. I'd trust you with my life.” She managed a smile. “I know I can trust you with my body.”

  “Yes. You can,” he said. “I swear it.”

  And he proceeded to prove his assertion.

  Slowly, and with infinite care, Royce brought himself to her, joining his body with hers in gentle possession. His mouth claimed hers, and then, in unison, his body and tongue stroked in ever-increasing thrusts, fanning the flames of desire into a blaze raging out of control.

  Megan experienced a different form of tension, a spiraling, crackling tension born of sensual excitement. Suddenly, she felt as though she were the flame, burning brightly for him, only for Royce.

  There was no past. There was no future. There was only the here, and the now, the instant, striving for the next instant, and then the next, toward the ultimate goal of perfect harmony, complete freedom. Oneness.

  The ultimate attained, Megan cried out in sheer wonder at the beauty of the moment. Royce's hoarse-voiced exclamation echoed her own.

  * * *

  He might have made a very costly mistake.

  Royce stood in the bedroom doorway, his expression pensive, his feelings in conflict, as he stared at the woman asleep in his bed.

  In the cold, clear light of midmorning, the smoky haze of last night's passion took on a different and unsettling hue. He had slept better, deeper, than he had in nearly a year. But what, he mused, was that sleep going to cost him?

  A sigh expanded his chest as he stared bleakly into the sleeping woman's face.

  Megan looked so vulnerable, so defenseless, so gut-wrenchingly appealing, in slumber. It took all his considerable control to keep from going to her, joining her on the bed, losing himself in the joy of loving her.

  Loving Megan.

  There it was, the root cause for the messed-up condition of his thought processes.

  When had the wanting turned into love?

  Royce released the pent-up sigh.

  What did when, or even why matter?

  He was in love with her.

  The acknowledgment scared the hell out of him.

  Megan sighed in her sleep. A soft smile curved her lips. Then a whisper hit him with the force of a scream.

  “Royce.”

  He winced at the beguiling sound of his name on her lips. He knew he had satisfied her, in a physical sense. But had he tou
ched her emotionally, engaged her affections?

  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.