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“Get away from me!”
Royce started, shocked by the sheer terror evidenced by Megan Delaney's shrill voice and fear-widened eyes. Her hands flew up defensively, and she began striking at his face. One of her fingernails, broken and jagged-edged, caught his skin, scratching his cheek from the corner of his right eye to his jaw.
“What the hell?” he exclaimed, jerking backward and grabbing her wrists to keep her hands still.
She continued to scream, struggling wildly against his hold. “Get away! Don't touch me!”
“What in the world is going on in here, Sergeant Wolfe?” The voice was sharp, authoritative, and definitely female. Recognizing it, Royce sighed with relief.
“Damned if I know, Dr. Hawk,” he answered, shooting a baffled look at her as she came to a stop beside him. “She took one look at me and started screeching like a banshee.” He winced as Megan Delaney let out another piercing cry. “Maybe you can do something with her.” Releasing Megan's wrists, he moved aside to give the doctor access to the patient.
“Get him away!” Megan sobbed, clutching at the doctor's white lab coat. “Please, get him away!”
Dr. Hawk gave him a quick glance of appeal. “If you'd wait in the corridor?”
“Sure,” Royce said, relieved to comply. Turning smartly, he strode from the cubicle, then from the room.
Shaken by the experience, by the injured woman's strange reaction to his attempt to help her, Royce stood in the corridor, unmindful of the usual Friday-night bustle and activity going on around him.
“What happened to your face?”
The startled-sounding question jerked Royce into awareness. He glanced around to meet Jill's surprise-widened eyes. “That woman in there attacked me,” he said, his voice revealing his sense of amazement.
“Why?” Jill looked as baffled as he felt.
“Damned if I know.” Royce shook his head, trying to collect his thoughts. “She opened her eyes, took one look at me, and began carrying on like a demented person, screaming and hitting me. Her nails scraped my face.”
“I'll say,” Jill observed, leaning toward him for a closer look at his face. “It's open. Come with me and—”
Royce cut her off, dismissing the scratch with a flicking hand movement. “It's nothing.”
“It's open,” Jill repeated in a no-nonsense tone. “It needs cleaning and an antiseptic.” She drew a breath and leveled a hard stare at him. “Now come with me.” It was not a request; it was a direct order.
Pivoting, Jill marched down the corridor with the erect bearing of a field marshal, obviously confident that Royce would meekly follow.
And he did. A smile quirked his lips as he trailed in the nurse's wake. Here he was, a sergeant in the Pennsylvania State Police, six feet five inches of trained law-enforcement officer, docilely obeying the dictates of a nurse who stood no more than five feet four inches in her rubber-soled shoes.
But she was a head nurse, Royce recalled, suppressing an impulse to chuckle. Besides, Jill had always reminded him of his mother. Not in appearance, for there was no physical resemblance between the two women, but in manner—kinda bossy, but gentle and caring.
Jill led the way into a small room at the end of the corridor, and indicated the examining table in the center of the floor.
“Have a seat,” she said, turning to a cabinet placed close by, along one wall.
Sitting down on the very edge of the table, Royce watched with amusement as she collected cotton swabs, sterile packets of gauze, a plastic bottle of antiseptic and a small tube of antibiotic ointment.
“All that paraphernalia for a little scratch?” he asked in a teasing drawl.
Jill threw him a dry look. “Do I tell you how to conduct the business of law enforcement?”
“Point taken,” he conceded, turning his head to allow her better access to his cheek.
Royce winced at the sting of whatever it was Jill swabbed on the cut to clean it.
“Big tough guy,” she murmured, laughter woven inside her chiding tone.
“Don't push your luck, Jill.” The warning was empty, and she knew it.
Jill laughed aloud. “What are you going to do if I push my luck?” she asked, smearing the ointment along the length of the scratch. “Throw me in the slammer?”
Royce grunted, but didn't answer; his bluff had been called. In truth, Jill's remark was straight on target. Royce had something of a reputation for being tough, simply because he was tough. But never, ever, did he assume the role of tough cop with women, even felons. It was not in his nature. Royce treated women, all women, with respect...even the ones who didn't deserve it.
“The ointment should do it,” Jill said, breaking into his thoughts. “I think we can dispense with the bandage.” She turned away to return the ointment to the cabinet.
“Thanks.” Royce raised a hand to his cheek.
“Don't touch it!” Jill ordered, heaving an impatient sigh. “I just cleaned it, for goodness' sake. And now you want to put your dirty hands all over it.”
Royce grinned at her. He couldn't help it. Jill was the only female he knew who said “for goodness' sake” in that particular tone of exasperation. However, he did hastily pull his hand away from his face.
“Men.” Jill shook her head as she returned to stand in front of him, preventing him from rising from the table. “So, Sergeant Wolfe,” she said, with a heavy emphasis on the title, “what did you do in there to earn yourself that scratch?” She jerked her head to indicate the other room. “Did you start grilling that poor woman before she was fully conscious or something?”
“Of course not.” Royce's sharp reply let her know he resented the charge. “I tried to reassure her that everything would be fine, but the minute I started to speak, she went nuclear on me.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I mean, she went off like a bomb, screaming and striking out at my face. Hell, I didn't know what to do with her, so I caught hold of her wrists. Fortunately, that's when Doc Hawk came into the room and rescued me.”
Jill frowned. “Strange.”
“Strange?” Royce mirrored her reflection. “Try weird. This has never happened to me before.” He shrugged. “After ten years on the force, I've seen enough accident victims to understand shock and trauma. But damned if I've ever seen anyone fight against someone trying to help them.”
“Neither have I,” Jill said sympathetically. “But she seems to have quieted down now.” She smiled. “Dr. Hawk is very good at calming agitated patients.”
“Yeah, I know. She's great.” Royce moved restlessly.
Understanding his silent message, Jill stepped away from in front of him and headed for the door. “I think I'll go check out the situation.”
“I'll go with you.” Royce smiled and held up his hands placatingly when she shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Only as far as the corridor, I swear.”
“Okay, let's go.” She marched from the room.
Laughing to himself, Royce again trailed in her wake.
He cooled his heels for twenty-odd minutes, passing the time with the hospital personnel as they wandered by. At regular intervals, Royce sent sharp glances toward the door of the cubicled room, his impatience growing as he waited for some word from either the doctor or Jill. He was tired, and it was now past one-thirty in the morning.
Royce wanted to go home to bed. Leaning against the corridor wall, out of the way of the back-and-forth traffic, he yawned, stole another look at his watch, and contemplated storming into the room and the cubicle where the victim was confined. He was pushing away from the wall, determined to at least call Jill from the room, when the doctor came through the doorway, carrying the patient's chart and purse.
“I'm sorry to keep you waiting so long.” Dr. Hawk offered him a tired smile. “But, when I explain, I'm certain you will understand the reason, Royce.” Her use of his first name said much about the working friendship they had established.
“Problems, Virginia?” Royce arched his gold-tipped brows. “You sound troubled.”
“She was attacked,” she said, getting right to the point. “Before the crash.”
“What?” Royce went rigid. “Was she—”
“No, 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.
