by Joan Hohl
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.
Three
Damn, she was tall!
Megan Delaney was being released from the hospital this morning. Royce had offered to drive her home.
He felt a tingling thrill of pleasure as he stared at the woman standing next to the hospital bed—a thrill of pleasure that contained a hint of attraction. Being so tall himself, Royce did appreciate height in a woman, but there was more entailed here, something beyond mere appreciation, something Royce didn't want to examine or even acknowledge.
The very fact that he was taking pleasure from such a simple thing as a woman's height startled Royce. What did Megan's height have to do with anything? he asked himself, frowning in consternation. And the other underlying sensation...that didn't bear thinking about.
Dismissing his reaction and the unmentionable accompanying sensation as unimportant, Royce focused on Megan Delaney. Yes, she was tall, and she was unquestionably attractive, but at the moment every inch of her slender form was taut, visibly tense.
<
br /> Royce repressed the sigh that rose to tighten his throat. Megan had gone through an extremely nasty experience, and it showed.
Royce recalled that, during her stuttered and disjointed recitation, he had been shaken by a startling conflict in the emotions tearing at his senses and sensibilities. His intellect had been outraged by the disclosure of the details of the attack on Megan. Assailed by fury, he had had to impose restraint on an overriding urge to jump up and dash from the room to search out, find and personally destroy the bastard who had terrorized her.
At one and the same time, his emotions had responded in an unprecedented way to a sudden and strong sense of attraction at the touch of her hand clinging to his.
Though Royce had pushed aside the unusual sensation then, as he did now, the memory lingered, a wisp of flotsam tossed about by an overwhelming wave of compassion.
Royce felt a deep, almost compulsive need to help her, in some way to ease the frightening mental and emotional aftereffects he knew she was suffering.
Frustration ate away at Royce like acid; Megan looked so damn vulnerable.
But how to help? The question had nagged at Royce for more than twenty-four hours. What could he do? He was a trained law-enforcement officer, but that certainly did not qualify him to deal with in-depth mental or emotional problems.
The only options that presented themselves to Royce seemed puny weapons of combat in relation to the magnitude of the inner battle tormenting Megan.
He could extend his hand for grasping. He could volunteer as a shield of law between her and the world at large. He could offer his strength as protection.
Puny, indeed, but...wait, Royce thought with sudden inspiration. The old adage of laughter being the best medicine had recently gained new, stronger credence. He had heard of physicians using it to treat a multitude of ills.
Maybe it would help, Royce mused. Surely, if doctors were employing it, it couldn't hurt.
Unnoticed as yet by the two women in the room, Royce stood silent, his eyes inventorying the look of Megan, comparing her beauty to the different yet equal beauty of the other woman, Dr. Virginia Hawk.
In point of fact, there really was no comparison, except that they were both beautiful women.
Whereas Megan had a mass of long, unruly-looking, fiery red hair, Virginia was a cool-looking blonde. And where Virginia was average in size, and maturely, enticingly curvaceous, Megan was tall, willowy, long-legged...and, in Royce's instant assessment, she looked more the model than the artist. Funny, he had never before been attracted to the lean, angular type.
But the attraction was certainly felt now, banished to the fringes of his awareness, but there just the same.
Royce didn't like it, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
“Oh, Sergeant, I didn't hear you come in.”
Virginia Hawk's soft voice gently snared Royce's distracted attention.
“I just arrived a moment ago,” he said, strolling into the room with a self-imposed casual air.
“Oh, good morning.” Megan glanced around at the sound of his voice, revealing the bruised side of her face to his gaze. “I'm just about ready to go.”
“No hurry. Take your time.” Royce had difficulty keeping his voice steady, concealing the feelings bombarding him. The sight of the discolored bruises marring her lovely face reactivated conflicting feelings of burning anger and drenching tenderness. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No.” Megan began to shake her head, but halted the movement at once, wincing in pain. “I just have to slip into my shoes, and we can leave.”
“Okay.” Royce shifted his gaze to the doctor. “Paperwork all cleared up?”
“Yes.” Virginia smiled and nodded her head. “Megan is fine,” she said, letting him know she had seen and understood his reaction to the other woman's appearance. “She has agreed to come in to my office next week for a follow-up visit, but it will simply be a checkup. I expect no adverse effects.” Virginia hesitated, then added a qualification. “at least, no lasting physical effects.”
Royce gave a brief, sharp nod of understanding. He had seen enough rape and attempted-rape cases to know that the major ramifications were primarily psychological in nature—and devastating in effect.
“I'm fine...really.” Megan gave the doctor a bright, reassuring smile—too bright to be genuine, or reassuring. “But I promise I'll keep my appointment.”
“Good, then get out of here,” Virginia ordered, starting for the door. “I've got work to do.”
A near-palpable tension entered the room the moment the doctor exited, leaving Royce and Megan alone together. In that instant, the average-size room seemed to shrink, becoming too small to contain both occupants.
Megan fidgeted with her blazer, which matched the stylish calf-length skirt she had worn to dinner with her friends. The skirt was now wrinkled and creased from her struggle with her unknown attacker.
“I...I want to get out of here,” she said, in a harsh, wobbly voice. “I need a bath... desperately.”
Royce understood that, as well. He knew, from experience, from talking with others who had gone through the same degrading horror Megan had suffered, the resultant feelings of being dirty, unclean, tainted.
“Then let's get moving.” He didn't offer to help her as she shrugged into the blazer; he knew better. The last thing Megan wanted at this moment was to be touched, however impersonally, by a man, any man. Her grasping his hand yesterday had been an un-conscious, instinctive reaction to reliving the fear-inducing incident. But that was then. This morning, she was fully conscious, aware and wary.
Megan preceded him from the room, the lithe gracefulness of her movements evident even through the tension tightening her tall form.
Royce felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of the brave front Megan maintained. Admiration swelled inside him for her fierce display of independence, her attitude of calm and composure, despite the fine tremor quivering on her soft lips, in her slim fingers.
Wanting to help her, if only in a show of unstated support, Royce strode to her side, adjusting his long stride to hers, a silent buffer, there if she needed him.
Megan didn't say anything, but she slid a sidelong glance at him, a faint smile of comprehension and gratitude flickering briefly over her lips.
Dammit! Royce railed as her smile died a quick death, killed by the persistent tremor. And damn that bastard attacker to the deepest regions of hell.
“Which way?”
Royce blinked and glanced around, surprised to see that they were on the sidewalk outside the main entrance to the hospital, even more surprised by the realization that he had no actual recollection of traversing the corridors from point A to point B. All he could recall was moving beside her, ready, willing, to scoop her into his arms and run with her, should Megan give any sign of faltering, unable to continue on.
Pull it together, Wolfe, he advised himself, before you make an absolute jackass out of yourself. Megan gave every appearance of being the last woman in the world to lose control to the degree of needing to be bodily carried anywhere.
“Er...over there.” He gestured vaguely toward the opposite curb. “The Pontiac Bonneville across the street.”
“Nice car. I like that shimmery dark green color,” Megan said, crossing the sidewalk. “Is it new?” She glanced right, then left, along the empty street before starting across.
“I've had it a couple of months.” Royce shrugged. “It was new, but last year's model.”
“Mine was brand-new.” She heaved a sigh. “I had to wait for the exact shade of red I wanted. It was delivered to the dealer just three weeks ago.”
“Too bad,” he murmured in genuine sympathy.
Megan flicked a sidelong look at him. “The damage was extensive, wasn't it?”
“Yes,” Royce said, knowing it was pointless to be less than truthful. “I checked with the mechanic at the garage yesterday afternoon. It's totaled, a write-off. The
entire front end crumpled. We couldn't lift any fingerprints, because the door had wrinkled. I'm sorry.”
“Why?” Though her shoulders slumped, Megan gave him a tired smile. “You didn't do it, I did.”
Since there really was no argument against her assertion, Royce didn't bother attempting one. “You're alive,” he said, offering her a compassionate smile as he unlocked and held open the passenger side door for her. Then, in silence, he circled around to the driver's side.
“Buckle up,” he said without thinking, as he slid behind the steering wheel.
“I usually do.” Megan's tone bordered on sarcasm. “I only ever forget when I'm in trauma.”
“Happens a lot, does it?” Royce tried a teasing note, in hopes of defusing with a touch of humor the sudden tension humming inside the confines of the car.
Megan carefully connected the belt before slanting a wry look at him. “Trauma? Or—?
“Trauma,” he quickly inserted, along with a grin.
She was quiet a moment, her expression pensive as she studied his eyes, his grin. Then, just as Royce could feel his face falling as flat as his obviously ill-timed levity, his mind frantically groping for something, anything to say, she gave him a weak smile in return.
“Yes,” she said. “I suffer bouts of panic-inspired trauma with the approach of each and every assignment deadline.”
“Ah...” he murmured, relieved that his earlier idea of applied laughter hadn't completely bombed, although in truth Megan wasn't laughing, she was just putting forth an effort to respond. “You're one of those artistic types who work close to the edge.”
“Hardly artistic.” Megan actually did manage a parody of laughter. “Truth be told, I'm one of those lazy types who screw around until the last minute, then pressure themselves into blind panic.”
Royce found her candor refreshing, and amusing. He laughed with her. “A procrastinator, are you?”
“In spades.” Megan's shoulders rippled in a half shrug, conveying a slight lessening of tension. “Always was.” A smile of reminiscence tugged at her soft lips. “I always put off doing my homework, and every other chore, until I was threatened with dire consequences, like being grounded or having my allowance withheld. Drove my parents nuts, since they both are self-starters.”
