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 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
