by Joan Hohl
“You'll have it, Sergeant,” Megan promised. “Whatever turns you on.”
Laughing, Royce gave her a quick wave, slid behind the wheel, fired the engine and backed out of the driveway. His laughter ceased abruptly as soon as he was out of her sight.
You'll have it, Sergeant. Megan's promise replayed in his mind. Whatever turns you on.
Not hardly, Royce thought, reflexively tightening his grip on the wheel. He liked ham-and-cheese sandwiches, but they did not turn him on.
Megan turned him on.
His libido was at full throttle and humming along at way above the legal speed limit.
Royce wanted Megan so bad, so very much, it shocked him. The very intensity of his desire for her was startling, for he had never before in his life felt anything quite like it, not even during his supposedly most potent, late-teen years.
Royce made it home safely to his bachelor apartment, driving by rote, with automatic expertise. He had had no doubts about making it home safely.
But being able to get to sleep while his imagination created explicit fantasies around Megan—that he did have serious doubts about.
His doubts proved well-founded.
Royce tossed and turned, grunted and groaned, and didn't sleep worth a damn.
But he did enjoy the fantasies.
* * *
Megan had a wonderful time grocery shopping. In no hurry, she wandered up and down the aisles, perusing the items on the shelves, making both careful and impulsive selections.
Which just went to highlight how long it had been since she had shopped for food for anybody other than herself, she mused, frowning indecisively at the price on a packaged thick-cut Delmonico steak.
Deciding Royce deserved the expense, she tossed the package into her already piled-high basket and pushed it farther along the meat section.
Four tiny lamb chops followed the steak into the cart; they were for her. Remembering that Royce liked ham, she added a breakfast ham steak to the growing mound.
Megan didn't so much as blink at the cost of feeding Royce, but merely smiled benignly at the pleasant clerk as she handed over the stack of bills.
Considering all he had done, and planned to continue doing, in addition to his caring, gentle concern for her, Megan figured the least she could do was provide not just adequate but delicious sustenance for him.
Besides, she had discovered that morning that she enjoyed cooking for a man. Well, not simply a man, or any man, Megan qualified, grunting as she bullied the stuffed shopping bags out of the cart and into the trunk of her father's car.
She enjoyed cooking for Royce.
What did that tell her?
The question caught Megan unawares as she settled into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut after her. Her expression pensive, she examined the question. The exercise did not overtax her capabilities, even though the answer that presented itself did surprise her somewhat, in light of the fact that she had known him only a few days.
Megan admitted that she enjoyed cooking for Royce because she liked him.
Liked?
Okay, she conceded to the inner prod. She more than liked him; she felt a strong attraction to him...an emotional, as well as physical, attraction.
But how could that be? After what she had been through a few nights ago, how could she even contemplate the attractions of any man, regardless of how nice he might be?
Biting her lower lip in consternation, Megan switched on the engine and drove off the parking lot. The jarring sound of a blast from the horn of an oncoming car shattered her mental distraction.
Geez! Megan thought, shuddering in reaction. She had missed plowing into that other car by mere inches! The very idea of wrecking her father's car, so soon after totaling her own—not to mention the possible damage she could have inflicted on her own, more vulnerable person—was enough to jerk her into giving her full, undivided attention to her driving.
But a genuine concern about damaging her father's car, a rather expensive top-of-the-line that her father took great pride in, simmered at the edges of Megan's mind as she carefully tooled toward home.
And it was that concern that impelled Megan to impulsively pull onto the lot of a new-and-used-car dealership located along the highway just outside of Conifer.
The car behind her, a beat-up piece of junk with a bad muffler, sped past as she made the turn onto the lot. Megan automatically glanced at the driver, and for an instant, an eerie, uneasy sensation flickered in her mind. There was something about the look of the dark-haired man hunched over the steering wheel.
But the sensation was fleeting, overshadowed by the image of a racy red sports car in the forefront of her mind. Shrugging off the feeling, Megan brought the car to a stop near the entrance to the showroom.
Although the day was mild, Megan knew it certainly wasn't warm enough to affect the meats and frozen foods she had stashed in the trunk—at least not for the short amount of time needed for her to inquire if the dealer had in stock a car the exact style and color of the one she had totaled.
The dealer didn't, to his expressed dismay. But, while he offered to order one from the factory for her, he also was quick to point out the attractions of the wide range of sports styles and colors available and on display, there in the showroom and outside on the lot.
Feeling vaguely as if by merely driving onto the lot she had committed herself to at least looking, Megan allowed the man to escort her around. And, to her surprise, she did find herself admiring another model, in a sleek silver-gray.
Still, undecided, she gave the salesman a bright smile, and a tentative promise.
“I'll, ah, think about it,” she said, heading back to her father's car. “I'll come back later in the week,” she went on, deciding to ask Royce to accompany her and give her his opinion of the vehicle.
Luckily, the salesman refrained from pressuring her, and simply offered her his card, along with a request that she see him when she returned.
Fair enough, Megan figured as she drove off the lot and into the sparse midday traffic. Telling herself that she had better finish her current project, since she would definitely need the money to put toward whatever car she eventually bought, she sedately drove home.
Megan really didn't breathe easy until after she had unloaded the groceries and shut the garage door, closing her father's car safely inside. Then, after stowing away the foodstuffs, she went to her worktable.
Lost in the advertising layout, Megan was unaware of the passage of time. It was only when long rays of sunlight slanted through the wide windows that she became aware of the waning day, and the emptiness of her stomach.
Standing, she stretched the cramps from her shoulder and back muscles, experiencing a feeling of deep satisfaction as she studied the work in progress.
It was almost finished. And it was good. Megan allowed herself a self-satisfied smile. It was more than good, she thought, congratulating herself.
So there.
Laughing to and at herself, she left the room and went to the kitchen to rustle up supper for one. The prospect held little appeal, but she had to eat.
Meeting Royce, sharing a couple of meals with him, had changed her perspective on dining alone. For some reason, food seemed to look and taste better when Royce was seated opposite her at the table.
Thinking about Royce brought him near; it was almost as if Megan could sense him close by. A thrill tingled along her spine, igniting sparks of warmth throughout her body.
She liked him.
No, Megan told herself, absently eating the ravioli she didn't even remember heating and dishing out for herself. What she was feeling toward Royce had progressed way beyond liking. It was scary, but it was even more exciting.
She glanced at the clock and felt her pulse rate increase; only five or so hours, and Royce would be there. In a futile attempt to bring a measure of order to her errant pulse, and bring herself down to earth, Megan collected her thoughts and made a mental note to ask h
im about going with her sometime to look at that silver-gray sports car.
With her hunger appeased, and feeling a pleasant afterglow instilled by the satisfaction of a good day's work accomplished, Megan hummed while she washed her few dishes and straightened the kitchen.
The phone rang just as she was centering a bowl of fruit on the table.
Going stiff with reawakened fear, Megan stared at the instrument mounted on the kitchen wall. Barely breathing, she listened as it rang, twice, three times, four times. Then, impatience flaring at her own trepidation, she stormed across the room and snatched up the receiver.
“Hello?” she snapped in a sharp-edged, somewhat threatening tone of voice.
“Megan?”
Relief washed through her at the puzzled sound of Jefferson Clarke's voice. “Oh, Jeff, it's you!” Megan replied, giving a light burst of relieved laughter.
“Yes,” he said, still sounding puzzled. “Were you expecting a call from someone else?”
“No!” she said, too quickly.
“Megan, you sound strange. Is something wrong?”
For one brief moment, Megan was tempted to pour out her tale of woe to Jeff, but then the moment passed, and she shook her head, denying herself the self-indulgence. What purpose would be served by her dumping her troubles on Jeff, when he was in New York and she was in Pennsylvania?
Besides, Royce's shoulders were broader than Jeff's.
Rolling her eyes at the unfairness of the comparison, even though it was valid, Megan hastened to reassure him.
“Not a thing,” she prevaricated. “I was, uh, preoccupied, and the ringing phone startled me.”
“I see,” he murmured. “I think.”
“Are you calling to harass me about being late with the layout?” she asked, changing the subject.
“You are over deadline,” Jeff reminded her gently. “But that isn't the only reason I called. I was concerned when you didn't return my call. That isn't like you.”
“Uh, well, I'm sorry, but...” A low buzz sounded, indicating that there was another call waiting. “I've been busy,” Megan went on, ignoring the buzz. “But I have good news. I'm almost finished with the—” The buzz sounded again.
“Perhaps you had better answer that,” Jeff suggested, obviously annoyed by the interruption.
“Okay, hang on,” Megan said, sighing, as she depressed the disconnect button.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Hello?” Megan repeated, thinking only that Jeff was waiting, very likely with mounting impatience.
Again there was silence.
Sighing once more, Megan punched the disconnect button. “Jeff, are you still there?”
“Yes, I'm here,” he answered, testily. “Was it someone important?”
“No. As a matter of fact, whoever it was got impatient and hung up,” she told him, silently praying that it hadn't been Royce trying to reach her. “Now, where were we?”
“You were telling me you were almost finished with the layout.”
“Yes!” she said happily. “I expect to finish tomorrow and put it in the mail to you the day after.”
“I have a better idea,” he said softly.
“Really?” Megan frowned. “What's that?”
“Why don't you bring it over?” he asked. “We could see a show, have a late dinner, talk over drinks.”
And go round and round again about deepening their relationship, having an affair, Megan thought, filling in the blanks he'd left unspoken.
“Oh, I don't know, Jeff,” she began, even though she did. But there was no way she'd consider anything other than platonic friendship with him now, after meeting Royce.
“Will you at least think about it?”
There was a note of abject pleading in his tone that was so totally out of character for the usually ultraurbane Jeff that Megan didn't have the heart to respond with a flat no.
“Yes, I'll think about it.” Though she'd reluctantly agreed, Megan felt it was only fair to add a qualifying warning. “But please don't build up any expectations, Jeff.”
“We'll see,” he murmured. “It's enough for me to know that you'll think about it.”
“I will.”
And Megan did think about it, for all of ten seconds after they said their goodbyes.
After that, she only had thoughts for Royce, thoughts of concern that the call waiting had been from him trying to reach her to tell her that he wouldn't be stopping by after all.
For Megan, the following hours seemed like days, which indicated a great deal more than she was ready to face about her growing feelings for Royce Wolfe.
But she did derive one benefit from the long wait. In a bid to fill the dragging hours, Megan went back to work.
The project was finished!
Eight
Royce slowed the car to make the turn into Megan's driveway, and cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror at the vehicle that had been following behind him ever since he turned off the interstate some miles back.
At any other time, the presence of the car probably wouldn't even have caught his attention, but at 12:05 in the morning it was unusual.
Though Royce occasionally passed a car, or, more often, a truck, on the interstate on his way home from work, as a rule he seldom did once he had entered the limits of the town, which for all intents and purposes rolled up its sidewalks along about 10:00 p.m. or so.
The car following Royce—a beat-up junker, from what he could see of it—also slowed down, then, with a rumble from the muffler, speeded up again.
Someone lost on the side road? Royce mused, toying with the idea of backing out of the drive and trailing the vehicle. Or someone interested in a particular driveway leading to the home of a certain woman?
The question bothered Royce, for three reasons. The first was the information he had received earlier that evening from the municipal patrolman, concerning a couple of calls to the station from residents in this area, reporting complaints about an unfamiliar car with a noisy muffler, cruising the area with apparent aimlessness.
The second reason it bothered Royce was the very fact that Megan was alone in a house set in the very center of the area from which those complaints had come.
The third, but by no means the least, of those reasons was the persistent memory of the phone call Megan had received late last night. For all his downplaying of the importance of that call to her, Royce had a nagging, uneasy suspicion that the call had not been the result of some drunk's inability to punch in the correct numbers. Instinct, or intuition, or something, made him feel certain the call had been placed deliberately by Megan's attacker.
Or was he simply getting slightly paranoid due to his increasing personal interest in Megan?
But the car did have a noisy muffler.
That thought settled the issue for Royce. His personal interest aside, he was first and foremost a law officer. Throwing the car into reverse, he backed out of the driveway and shot down the road after the vehicle.
Fifteen frustrating minutes later, Royce pulled into the driveway again. His pursuit had proved fruitless; he hadn't been able to find sight or sound of the car.
Knowing the driver of the car could have sought cover in any number of places in that secluded, heavily wooded area exacerbated the tension and sense of unease mounting in Royce with regard to Megan's safety.
If anything happened to her...
Clamping a lid on his thoughts, Royce exited the car and strode to the house.
Nothing was going to happen to Megan, he assured himself. Because he was going to make damn sure nothing happened to her, even if he had to cuff her to his wrist to do so.
That thought, and the image that came with it, brought a wry smile to Royce's lips.
Wolfe, old son, you really have got it bad, he told himself, raising his hand to rap his knuckles against the door. Too bad you can't put the woman in your pocket.
The door opened. Megan stood there, a flowing silk cafta
n caressing her body, her red mane framing her lovely face, a smile of welcome on her inviting lips.
Better yet, too bad you can't pick her up and put her in your bed, Royce thought, feeling every molecule in his body respond to the sight of her.
“Hello.”
Her soft voice shivered through Royce, causing a chill in his spine, and a fire in his loins. Suppressing a groan, he worked his lips into a smile.
“Hello. Everything all right?”
“Yes, everything's fine.” Megan stepped back, swinging the door wide. “Come in. It feels like the night air stole the promise of spring from the day.”
“Yeah,” Royce agreed, following her inside. “But it sure felt good for a change.”
“Yes, it felt wonderful.” She lowered her gaze to his chest, frowning when all she saw was his shirt. “Where's your jacket?” she asked, then answered for him. “In the car.”
“Right.” Royce grinned.
Shaking her head in despair, all the while grinning along with him, Megan turned and started down the hallway. “Hungry?” she asked, continuing on, as if certain of his answer.
“Starved,” Royce admitted, conceding to her certainty. “I made do with a doughnut for dinner.”
“A doughnut!” Megan stopped dead to shoot an appalled look at him. “I thought you were the guy who needed a lot of food to fill up his big body.”
Royce laughed. “I am.” His lips curled into a blatantly wicked smile. “The doughnut had a rich cream filling.”
“Oh, wonderful.” Megan rolled her eyes. “Empty calories, fats, all that good stuff.”
“I only ate it to stave off the hunger,” he explained, losing the fight against another grin. “I wanted to save it for the snack you promised me tonight.”
“Then consider yourself lucky that I did go grocery shopping today,” she retorted, striding into the kitchen. “I have everything ready,” she said as he stepped up to her side. She motioned with her hand, indicating the food laid out on the countertop. “As you can see, there's ham and cheese, lettuce and tomatoes, pickles and olives, chips and pretzels, mayo and mustard and bread and rolls.” She moved her hand slightly to indicate the refrigerator. “I also bought small containers of potato and macaroni salad, as well.”
