Wolfe Wanting

“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.

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