Free Wolfe Wanting by Joan Hohl Page A

know,” she admitted, carefully spooning coffee grounds into the lined basket. “But I never fuss with meals to begin with, and tonight...well...”
    “You were more than usually alone?”
    “Yes,” she said in a grateful murmur, no longer surprised by the depths of his understanding and insight.
    “Well, you're no longer alone,” Royce said, plucking the water-filled glass pot from her trembling fingers and tipping it over the grate on top of the coffeemaker. “And I'm always hungry.” He angled his head to grin at her. “What do you say—should we raid the refrigerator?”
    “I'm afraid there's not much to raid. I was planning on doing my grocery shopping on...” Megan's voice faded. She swallowed, then went on gamely, “Saturday morning.”
    “How about in here?” Royce asked, going to the end wall cabinet. “Any canned goodies, soup and such?”
    “Sure,” Megan answered, giving him permission to look with a wave of her hand. “Help yourself.”
    In the end, what Royce helped himself to was a can of luncheon meat, which he sliced and fried in one pan, six eggs, which he beat and scrambled up in another pan, and four pieces of slightly stale bread, which he put Megan in charge of toasting and buttering.
    Megan surprised herself by polishing off two pieces of the meat, a quarter portion of the egg mixture, and a slice of toast, liberally buttered and slathered with strawberry preserves. But she passed on the coffee, sipping a small glass of orange juice instead.
    The bits of conversation they exchanged during their meal were general and innocuous, light-years removed from the root cause of their association. After they finished eating and clearing the table, and as if they had known each other for years, Royce jotted down items on a scrap of notepaper, Megan calling out to him as she took stock of the end cabinet and the refrigerator, deciding what she needed to pick up at the supermarket.
    It was nearing two-thirty in the morning by the time Royce made his way to the front door. Reluctant to see him go, Megan retrieved his jacket from the hall closet and watched, sad-eyed, as he shrugged into it.
    “You're okay now?” Royce asked, settling his hat low on his forehead before reaching for the doorknob.
    “Yes.” Megan dredged up a smile for him. “I feel much better, thank you.”
    “No thanks necessary, unless it's from me.”
    Megan frowned. “For what?”
    “For our late-night indulgence, or whatever you might call it—a late supper, an early breakfast....” He grinned.
    Megan experienced an unfamiliar, unwanted, but definite spark of response of a sensual nature. Dismissing it as absurd, under the circumstances, she returned his grin with a faint, remote and cool smile.
    Royce looked baffled for an instant. Then, with a barely discernible shrug, he turned the doorknob and swung open the door. A blast of frigid air swept into the foyer.
    “Whoa!” he muttered, stepping outside. “It's cold as a witch's...” He caught himself up short, shrugged again, then went on. “It's damn cold out here.” He took another step, wobbled, then straightened. “Like a sheet of glass, too.”
    “Be careful,” Megan called, hovering behind the protection afforded by the door. “And drive carefully.”
    “I will,” Royce promised. “Go inside and shut the door,” he ordered. “I want to hear that lock click into place.”
    “But...”
    “Go, Megan, I'm freezing!”
    “All right,” she snapped, stepping around the door to glare at him. “But call me when you get home,” she tacked on.
    “Me-gan,” Royce groaned. “I'll be all right.”
    “I want to know you aren't wrapped around a tree somewhere,” she insisted. “Will you call?”
    “Okay, okay, I'll call.” He heaved a sigh. “Now, will you get the hell inside?”
    “I'm going,” she grumbled, moving back behind the door. “Good night, Sergeant.”
    “Good night, Megan,” Royce responded in a tone of rapidly dwindling patience.