Wolfe Wanting by Joan Hohl Page B

skeptical look she gave him. “No kidding. Fortunately, I jerked awake when the train pulled in at my station, or, who knows, like that guy in the song, I mighta been the man who never returned.”
    Megan laughed, and though the sound was weak, Royce considered it a good indicator of her easing tension. Acting on it, he again clasped her arms and turned her around to face her bedroom doorway. Then he gave her a light nudge to get her moving.
    “Go, Megan,” he ordered. “Get some rest.”
    “But—” she again began in protest, tossing a concerned look over her shoulder at him.
    “No buts. Cut me a break, please. I'm tired, too.” He yawned elaborately, if indelicately, to prove his assertion. “Get going.”
    She sighed, but gave in. “Okay.” She took two hesitant steps, then, spinning to face him, insisted, “But I know I won't be able to sleep.”
    Royce simply smiled at her.
    “I mean it.”
    “All right, just go rest your eyes for a while.”
    The fight went out of her, yet it was still only with evident reluctance that Megan went into her room. Moments later, she opened the door a crack and thrust her arm out, extending the extra comforter she'd obviously just thought to give him.
    “You'll need this,” she said, calling him back up the three steps to the hallway. “The house is chilly now.”
    “Thank you,” he murmured, relieving her of the lightweight down cover. “Now go to bed.”
    “Good night,” she whispered, peering around the door at him. “But I still say I won't sleep.”
    “Well then, you rest, and I'll sleep.” Royce offered her a wry smile. “Wake me if you need me, okay?”
    “Yes.”
    Her shadowed eyes brought a tightness to his throat and a pang to his chest. Royce heaved a breath and swallowed in a futile attempt to relieve both. Giving up, he smiled again and turned toward the steps into the living room.
    “Good night, honey.”
    * * *
    Honey.
    Megan lay curled up in the center of her bed, beneath the down comforter, repeating his casually voiced endearment over and over inside her tired mind.
    And deep inside her weary body a flicker of warmth ignited in response to the mental echo.
    Honey.
    It meant nothing, of course, Megan told herself sleepily, uncertain whether the thought was in connection to the endearment, or the unfurling sensation of warm arousal she felt.
    She shifted position to dislodge the feeling; the warmth merely intensified.
    Ridiculous, Megan told herself. She was suffering mild trauma and shock. She could not be responding sensually to such an offhand, probably unconscious, endearment.
    Could she?
    The inner warmth spread, causing a tingling along the inside of her thighs, and at their apex.
    Megan shifted position again, only this time her movements were sinuous, languorous. She frowned and moved her head against the pillow in a fruitless bid to deny the proof of her body's sensual response to the physical attraction presented to her by Royce Wolfe.
    Royce. The thought of his name created his image; the image drew the tingling sensation from the lower regions of her body to her breasts, her shoulders, her arms, and then to her fingertips. Megan could feel again the solid strength of his flatly muscled chest beneath her fingers, her palms. Her breath grew shallow, her nipples grew taut, the tingling in her thighs grew into a stinging heat of need.
    Startled by the sheer intensity of her physical response, Megan coiled her arms around her waist and held on to herself, afraid to move, afraid to think, afraid to face the truth of her own feminine desires.
    It simply could not be, Megan told herself. Especially not after what she had so recently endured at the hands of a crude and violent man!
    But Royce Wolfe was not a crude and violent man, her exhausted brain reminded her. By his actions, his caring, Royce had revealed himself, his character. She herself had labeled Royce a thoroughly decent man.
    Decent.
    Nice.
    Attractive.
    The warm flow inside