Free Wolfe Wanting by Joan Hohl Page B

“Lock the door.”
    “Sorehead!” Megan shut the door with a bang, then bullied the lock into place.
    Royce's bark of laughter reached her, even filtered through the wood-encased steel door.
    As had happened before—was it once, twice?—Megan could not deny the chuckle that escaped through her smiling lips. And it was the tug on her lips, the very sound of her soft laughter, that brought home to her the realization of how beneficial his unexpected visit had been to her.
    By his very presence, his easy manner, his everything-under-control attitude, Royce had effectively chased the fears, real and imagined, from her rattled mind.
    Decent? Megan mused, absently drifting from room to room, extinguishing lights as she went. Royce Wolfe was a lot more than a decent individual; he was the genuine article, a man, in every true sense of the word.
    Returning to her bedroom, Megan began undressing. Distracted by her thoughts, she was unconscious of the wide, uncovered windows flanking her desk and worktable, the late-winter darkness beyond the panes.
    Stripped to the buff, she gathered up her discarded clothing, grabbed a clean oversize navy-blue nightshirt emblazoned with white lettering spelling out Penn State Nitney Lions, and made for the bathroom and a quick, hot shower.
    Still contemplating the man who had so recently departed for his own place, and whose call she was expecting momentarily, Megan reentered the bedroom, clad in the nightshirt and a liberal application of face and body lotion.
    What facets did he possess that, to her way of thinking, made Royce the living, breathing embodiment of her personal ideal of what a man should be?
    Megan mulled over the question as she plied a brush to her shower dampened, tangled mass of long auburn hair.
    Appealing surface attractions aside—great bone structure, riveting crystal-blue eyes, a mouth both firm and sensuous, set in a well-shaped head crowned by a vibrant shock of sun-tipped golden brown hair and sitting atop a tall, muscularly trim, fantastic body—Royce Wolfe possessed inner qualities that, in her opinion, surpassed mere appearance, however handsome and sexy-looking he was.
    In the short time Megan had known him—had it really only been two days?—Royce had displayed to her a wide and deep range of personality traits.
    While Royce was blatantly male, strong, self-confident, determined, even a tad arrogant, he was also understanding, concerned, caring and sensitive...to the point that he had opted for a desk job when the growing routine slaughter of the highway scene, the investigations into cases involving robbery, rape, murder and mayhem had gotten to him.
    The very fact that Royce had not only identified and faced his occupational dilemma, but acted to remove himself from the crux of the problem, while maintaining a position within the profession he so obviously loved, told Megan a lot about the man, as a man.
    A sobering thought struck. Megan's hand stilled, the brush midway along a silky strand of red hair. The very fact that she was mentally evaluating the man told Megan a lot about her own feelings.
    She was interested in the man.
    Interested? a taunting inner voice chided.
    Try intrigued.
    Try excited.
    Try...
    All right! Megan thought, silencing the inner voice with the acknowledgment.
    Royce interests, intrigues and excites me, but—
    The phone rang.
    Royce!
    Dropping the brush to the dressertop, Megan ran for the console on the corner of the desk. She snatched up the receiver in the middle of the second ring.
    “Hello?”
    Silence.
    Megan frowned. Definitely not Royce. But then who? A chill crawled along her spine.
    “Hello, who's calling?” she demanded, despairing at the note of incipient panic she heard in her voice.
    Nothing.
    A large, hulking image filled her mind, terrorizing her senses, stealing her common sense. Reacting to instinct, Megan slammed down the receiver, then stood frozen, staring at the instrument, as if afraid it would leap from