detail, and for completing his work duties ahead of schedule. His fellow officers loved ribbing him about being a workaholic cop.
Royce didn't mind the flak, because he knew it was just that, good-natured flak. Besides, in all honesty, he knew there was more than a little truth to their claim. He was something of a workaholic. He was also a good cop.
But, at that precise moment, Royce felt anything but either. He felt helpless and ineffectual.
Yet, like it or not, there wasn't a whole lot Royce could do about the situation. He had already talked to the officer investigating the attack on Megan. And Stew Javorsky had sounded as frustrated as Royce felt.
“Sorry, Sarge, but there's not much to report,” Stew had said, his expression woeful. “Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. There have been no other reports or complaints of similar occurrences.” He'd heaved a sigh. “And there isn't even a heck of a lot to go on. I mean, the description—'large, hulking and rough-voiced'—isn't exactly...exact.”
“I know.” Royce had moved his wide shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I'm hoping Miss Delaney will recall more details of the man's appearance when the initial shock and trauma wear off.”
“Wouldn't hurt,” Stew had agreed dryly. “Meanwhile, I'll keep you informed if anything should turn up.”
Royce had thanked Stew, then tried to bury his frustration and impatience in his work.
That had been hours ago, and his diversionary ploy had produced only minor results.
Should he just go ahead and call her?
Royce scowled as he mulled over the question, unwilling to admit, even to himself, that there was an aching need expanding inside him just to hear the sound of her voice. Yet, whether or not he was willing to admit to it, the attraction to Megan that he had initially experienced had been gaining strength and momentum ever since she grasped his hand and hung on as if for dear life, yesterday morning in the hospital.
But the really telling incident had happened several hours ago, when Megan had once again placed her hand in his.
Royce had been hard-pressed to keep from jolting in reaction to the feel of her soft palm gliding onto his. A confusing and unfamiliar tingling sensation of applied heat had flashed from his palm to the outer reaches of his body.
Concealing his reaction from Megan had taxed every ounce of control Royce possessed.
Both shocked and baffled by the intensity of the excitement dancing along his nerve endings from their connecting palms, Royce had been forced to grit his teeth to squash an urgent impulse to caress the back of her hand, test the texture of her soft skin with his long fingers.
Against all reason, against all decency, Royce wanted Megan.
It was stupid.
It was reprehensible.
It was there, the wanting, burning in the core of his body, the depths of his mind.
Damn his soul, his maleness, his physical responses.
Although Royce had continued to damn anything and everything he could think of about himself, as a man, as a person, his feelings had not changed one iota.
He wanted Megan.
There was only one thing Royce wanted more than to be with Megan: He wanted her safe.
Without conscious direction, his hand again moved toward the phone. Stopping himself short, Royce drew his hand back and laid it flat on the desktop.
She was all right. Of course she was all right. He'd have heard if she wasn't. Hadn't he made a point of having her promise to call the barracks, call him, if there were any incidents, or anything at all, regardless how seemingly unimportant, out of the ordinary?
He had. Before leaving her, Royce had insisted Megan make that promise to him.
And since Megan hadn't called, he had to assume she was perfectly fine, secure in the safety of her parents' home.
Employing an old phrase his mother had chided her sons with whenever they appeared to be getting overanxious about anything, Royce called himself a worrywart, opened the folder in front of him and told
Royce didn't mind the flak, because he knew it was just that, good-natured flak. Besides, in all honesty, he knew there was more than a little truth to their claim. He was something of a workaholic. He was also a good cop.
But, at that precise moment, Royce felt anything but either. He felt helpless and ineffectual.
Yet, like it or not, there wasn't a whole lot Royce could do about the situation. He had already talked to the officer investigating the attack on Megan. And Stew Javorsky had sounded as frustrated as Royce felt.
“Sorry, Sarge, but there's not much to report,” Stew had said, his expression woeful. “Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. There have been no other reports or complaints of similar occurrences.” He'd heaved a sigh. “And there isn't even a heck of a lot to go on. I mean, the description—'large, hulking and rough-voiced'—isn't exactly...exact.”
“I know.” Royce had moved his wide shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I'm hoping Miss Delaney will recall more details of the man's appearance when the initial shock and trauma wear off.”
“Wouldn't hurt,” Stew had agreed dryly. “Meanwhile, I'll keep you informed if anything should turn up.”
Royce had thanked Stew, then tried to bury his frustration and impatience in his work.
That had been hours ago, and his diversionary ploy had produced only minor results.
Should he just go ahead and call her?
Royce scowled as he mulled over the question, unwilling to admit, even to himself, that there was an aching need expanding inside him just to hear the sound of her voice. Yet, whether or not he was willing to admit to it, the attraction to Megan that he had initially experienced had been gaining strength and momentum ever since she grasped his hand and hung on as if for dear life, yesterday morning in the hospital.
But the really telling incident had happened several hours ago, when Megan had once again placed her hand in his.
Royce had been hard-pressed to keep from jolting in reaction to the feel of her soft palm gliding onto his. A confusing and unfamiliar tingling sensation of applied heat had flashed from his palm to the outer reaches of his body.
Concealing his reaction from Megan had taxed every ounce of control Royce possessed.
Both shocked and baffled by the intensity of the excitement dancing along his nerve endings from their connecting palms, Royce had been forced to grit his teeth to squash an urgent impulse to caress the back of her hand, test the texture of her soft skin with his long fingers.
Against all reason, against all decency, Royce wanted Megan.
It was stupid.
It was reprehensible.
It was there, the wanting, burning in the core of his body, the depths of his mind.
Damn his soul, his maleness, his physical responses.
Although Royce had continued to damn anything and everything he could think of about himself, as a man, as a person, his feelings had not changed one iota.
He wanted Megan.
There was only one thing Royce wanted more than to be with Megan: He wanted her safe.
Without conscious direction, his hand again moved toward the phone. Stopping himself short, Royce drew his hand back and laid it flat on the desktop.
She was all right. Of course she was all right. He'd have heard if she wasn't. Hadn't he made a point of having her promise to call the barracks, call him, if there were any incidents, or anything at all, regardless how seemingly unimportant, out of the ordinary?
He had. Before leaving her, Royce had insisted Megan make that promise to him.
And since Megan hadn't called, he had to assume she was perfectly fine, secure in the safety of her parents' home.
Employing an old phrase his mother had chided her sons with whenever they appeared to be getting overanxious about anything, Royce called himself a worrywart, opened the folder in front of him and told
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