Wolfe Wanting. Joan Hohl

      The first thing that caught his eye was her picture. It was not great, yet even with the inferior quality of the photograph, she was clearly not unattractive. Then his eyes shifted to her name.

      Megan Delaney. Nice name, Royce thought absently, his eyes moving up the laminated card, past the issue date, to the medical restrictions. Must wear corrective lenses. Hmm... There had been no sign of glasses when he brushed her hair away from her face. Had they flown off on impact, or was she wearing contact lenses? Check it out.

      His eyes moved again, skimming over the expiration date, classes, endorsements and driver ID number, and came to rest on birth date.

      The woman was twenty-seven years and three months old—eight years his junior.

      Old enough to know better than to drink and drive, Royce thought, especially on a rain-slick road.

      His eyes skipped over the top line of information, and settled on one tiny section. Blue eyes. Big surprise, for a redhead he reflected, closing the wallet.

      Royce glanced up at the sound of the automatic entrance doors swishing open. With the nurse leading the way, the orderlies were pushing the gurney into the building. Gripping the purse, he stepped out of the car, gave a casual wave to the paramedics and followed the group inside.

      “Hey, Sarge!” a fresh-faced young nurse called out cheekily from behind the desk just inside the doors. “Don't tell me you've given up the desk job to go back on road duty again!”

      “Okay, I won't tell you that,” Royce drawled, flashing a teasing grin at her. “You want to hit the release?” he said, inclining his head toward the second set of automatic doors, which for safety reasons were activated by buttons accessible only to hospital personnel.

      “Sure.”

      The doors parted, and with a murmured thank-you, Royce stepped through the opening.

      “Are you back on highway duty?” the nurse called after him.

      Royce paused in the opening, keeping the doors apart. “No,” he answered. “I was on my way home when this woman crashed into the guardrail. And, since I was coming into town anyway...” He shrugged.

      “Gotcha.” The nurse turned her attention to a man who came limping up to the desk, but slyly observed, “By the way, Sarge, I must tell you that your red handbag definitely clashes with your uniform.”

      Responding to her teasing comment with a dry look, Royce continued past the doors, which closed behind him, and to the doorway of a long room containing a row of curtained cubicles. The orderlies were pushing the now-empty gurney from the last cubicle.

      “Hi, Sarge,” one of the men said as Royce passed by on his way to the cubicle. “Haven't seen you in here for a while. Where have you been hiding out?”

      “Behind a desk,” Royce answered. “Where it's dry and warm. No mangled bodies. No blood. No gore.”

      “Nice work if you can get it,” the other man said, grinning. As he pushed the gurney through the doorway, he called over his shoulder, “I just love your purse.”

      “Yeah.” Royce didn't return the grin or respond to the good-natured gibe as he normally would have. This little jaunt to the hospital stirred too many unpleasant memories, strongly reminding him of his reasons for having accepted the desk job when it was offered to him six months ago.

      Royce was a good cop. If pressed, he would have had to admit, without exaggeration or conceit, that he was a damn good cop. But, with over ten years with the state police, investigating robberies, working on drug busts and patrolling the highways, he had had his fill of trips to the hospital with torn, bleeding and sometimes dead bodies.

      The day would come when, restless and tired of pushing papers, Royce would request a transfer back to highway patrol. But until that day arrived, he'd just as soon avoid the distinctive scents of disinfectant and medicine.

      Royce wrinkled his nose at the assault on his senses by the familiar smell, and shoved the curtain aside.

      “Doc Louis not here, Jill?” he asked the nurse, a middle-aged woman who had been on duty in Emergency for as long as he had been on duty in the Conifer district. She was standing by the gurney where the woman lay, taking her pulse.

      The nurse frowned, concentrating on the pulse count. “Busy down the line,” she said, gently laying the woman's arm by her side. “He's stitching a head wound.”

      “Accident?”

      “No.” Jill gave him a tired smile, and a shrug of resignation. “Knife fight in a barroom. As you can see, we're pretty busy, and stretched mighty thin. Dr. Hawk's splinting a finger—a slightly inebriated teenager slammed a car door on it.” She sighed. “Just the usual Friday-night fun and games.”

      “Yeah.” Royce grimaced.

      The nurse frowned. “What are you doing here? I thought you were riding a desk now.”

      “I am.” Royce suppressed his growing impatience; he was getting pretty tired of answering the same question. “I just happened to be close by when the lady decided to test the strength of the guardrail.” He shifted his eyes to the ashen-faced woman. “She all right?”

      “Looks like all surface injuries. A few cuts, abrasions, bruises—a lot of bruises—but...” She lifted her shoulders in another shrug. “I'm sure the doctor will want X rays after a more thorough examination.”

      Royce nodded.

      The woman on the gurney moaned.

      Jill gave her a sharp-eyed look. “She's coming around. If you'll stay here with her, make sure she doesn't roll off the gurney—” she moved past him “—I'll go see if I can take over for one of the doctors.”

      “Will do,” Royce agreed. “Don't stop for a coffee break along the way...okay?”

      She grinned at him. “Not even if I bring you a cup on the house?”

      “No, thanks.” He grimaced. “I've tasted what that machine passes off as coffee.”

      “It grows on you,” she said, laughing, as she pushed aside the curtain.

      “That's what I'm afraid of,” he drawled, smiling at her retreating back.

      A low moan sounded next to Royce, wiping the smile from his face. Turning, he placed her purse at the bottom end of the gurney, then moved closer to the other end to gaze down at the fragile-looking woman.

      She moaned again. Then her eyelashes fluttered and lifted, and he found himself staring into incredibly lovely, if presently clouded, sapphire blue eyes.

      The license photo did her a terrible disservice, Royce realized absently. Even with the nasty bruises marring the right side of her face, Megan Delaney was not merely attractive, she was flat-out, traffic-stopping gorgeous.

      Facial bruises? Royce frowned, and took a closer look. Why hadn't the air bag protected her from—

      She moaned again, louder this time, scattering his thoughts, demanding his full attention.

      The clouds of confusion in her eyes were dissipating, and she moved, restlessly, in obvious pain.

      Following the nurse's request, Royce stepped closer, until his thigh pressed against the gurney. Bending over her, he placed his right arm on the other side of the gurney to prevent her rolling off, onto the floor.

      “It's all—” he began, but that was as far as he got in his attempt to reassure her, because she screamed, drowning the sound of his voice.

      “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