Wolfe Wanting. Joan Hohl
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she wasn't violated,” she answered, before he had finished asking. “She managed to get away from the man. That's why her seat belt wasn't fastened.” A grim smile curved her usually soft mouth. “She was thinking, rather wildly, about flight, not driver safety.”
“And that's why she went wild with me.”
“Yes. She opened her eyes, saw a large man looming over her, and...”
“Thought she was right back in the situation,” Royce said, completing the explanation for her.
“Precisely.”
“Bastard,” he muttered.
“My sentiments exactly.” Virginia Hawk expelled a deep sigh. “She is still in shock, traumatized.”
Royce gave her a shrewd look. “Are you trying to tell me I can't question her?”
“You got it, Sarge,” she said. “She is in no condition to be questioned. From my examination, I feel quite positive that her injuries are all external, but I'm having X rays done to confirm my opinion.”
“So, if your diagnosis is confirmed, I'll talk to her afterward,” he said. “I'll wait.”
“No.” She shook her head. “If my diagnosis is confirmed, I'm going to sedate her.”
“My report, Virginia,” he reminded her gently. “You know the rules.”
She smiled. “I also know who is in charge here,” she reminded him, just as gently. “Royce, that young woman has been through enough for one night. She needs rest, escape. Your report can wait until morning.” Her tone was coaxing now. “Can't it?”
Royce was always a sucker for a soft, feminine entreaty. He gave in gracefully. “Yeah, okay.”
“You've got a kind heart, Sergeant Wolfe,” she said. “I told my husband so from the first day I met you.” Her eyes teased him. “You're almost as nice as he is.”
“Almost as tough, too,” Royce drawled, recalling the tall Westerner she was married to.
Virginia Hawk laughed. “I'd say it's a toss-up.” She ran a professional glance over him. “Right now, you appear ready to cave. Go home to bed, Royce. Come back in the morning. I'll prepare her for you.”
“Okay.” Royce looked at the woman's purse. “But first, I'd better check for next of kin, see if there's anybody—a husband, relatives—I should contact.”
“I asked. She said no.”
“She has no one?”
“Oh, she has family. Her parents retired, five, six months ago. They're on a cruise they planned and saved years for.” Virginia sighed. “She doesn't want them notified.”
“No husband, boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend?” She arched her fine blond brows.
“Okay, man friend, significant other.” He shrugged. “Whatever happens to be current.”
“Apparently not.” Her lips curved into a taunting smile. “But it wouldn't matter if there were. She said she didn't want anyone notified. End of story, Royce.”
His lips twitched. “You know what, Doc?”
“What?”
“You're even tougher than either your husband or I—and maybe even my superior officer.”
Dr. Hawk laughed delightedly. “Bank on it.”
“Good night, Doctor.” Laughing with her, Royce turned and started for the automatic doors. Then memory stirred, and he stopped, keeping the doors open. “By the way, I think she's wearing contact lenses.”
“She was.” Virginia grinned. “I found them.”
“Good, I'm outta here.” He took a step, then paused again. “But I'll be back bright and early,” he called over his shoulder. “And if anybody tries to prevent me from seeing her, you're going to see real tough. And you can take that to the bank.”
Two
She was waiting for him.
Megan was sitting straight up in bed, her legs folded beneath her, her fingers picking at the lightweight white hospital blanket draped over her knees.
Dr. Hawk had said the Pennsylvania State Police sergeant would very likely be paying her a visit early this morning. That had been when the doctor was making her regular rounds, about seven-thirty or so. It was now nearing nine. Breakfast was over—the nurse's aide had been in to remove the tray from the room thirty minutes ago.
So, where was he? Megan asked herself, unconsciously gnawing on her lower lip. Where was this law officer Dr. Hawk had told her about, the one who bore the mark of Megan Delaney on his cheek?
A shudder ripped through Megan's slender body. Lord! Had she really struck...scratched the face of a policeman?
She must have, for not for a second could she convince herself that the doctor would have said she had, if in fact she had not.
Tears blurred Megan's vision. Absently raising a hand, she brushed the warm, salty moisture from her eyes with impatient fingers. She never cried... well, hardly ever.
But then, she never struck, hit or scratched people, either, Megan reminded herself. At least not until now.
But there were extenuating circumstances, Megan thought defensively. She hadn't been in her right and normal mind at the time, and she had had excellent reason for striking out at the man...or at least at the man she believed him to be at that particular moment.
But where was he?
Megan was not stupid. She realized that she would very likely not be too stable—emotionally, psychologically—for an extended period. Scars would remain, perhaps indefinitely.
It was not a pleasant prospect to contemplate.
On the other hand, unless she kept her mind occupied, it could slip into a reflective mode, recalling—
No! Megan slammed a mental door on that train of thought. She would need to explain the circumstances to the state cop, relive that choking terror.
Where was he?
Megan just wanted it all over with, the horror, humiliation and degradation of the memory. And she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and hide.
She was trembling—no, shaking—with nerves and trepidation when he walked into the room fifteen minutes later.
Megan knew him immediately. She did not, of course, recognize him, as one would a friend or acquaintance. He was not in uniform. His attire was casual—jeans, a striped cotton shirt, a tweed sports coat. Fairly new, and rather expensive-looking, leather slip-ons encased his feet. Actually, he looked somewhat like a construction worker on his day off.
But Megan knew exactly who he was at first sight.
He did not stride into the room, fueled by self-importance. In truth, though, he did radiate an aura of importance and intimidation.
He was tall. Lord, was he tall! He was blond, not yellow blond, but golden blond, a shade that would likely be called sun-kissed brown, she supposed. His shoulders and chest were broad, flatly muscular; his waist and hips were narrow, his legs straight, long-boned. And he was good-looking... too good-looking. The comparison of a classic Greek statue sprang to mind; Megan dismissed it at once. No statue she had ever gazed upon in awe, up close or on film, looked that good, that attractive, nearly perfect.
All of which should not have mattered to Megan in the least at that particular point in time, but somehow did.
“Miss Delaney?”
Even his voice was golden, smooth and rich as warm amber velvet.