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.
She was trembling—no, shaking—with nerves and trepidation when he walked into the room fifteen minutes later.
Megan knew him immediately. She did not, of course, recognize him, as one would a friend or acquaintance. He was not in uniform. His attire was casual—jeans, a striped cotton shirt, a tweed sports coat. Fairly new, and rather expensive-looking, leather slip-ons encased his feet. Actually, he looked somewhat like a construction worker on his day off.
But Megan knew exactly who he was at first sight.
He did not stride into the room, fueled by self-importance. In truth, though, he did radiate an aura of importance and intimidation.
He was tall. Lord, was he tall! He was blond, not yellow blond, but golden blond, a shade that would likely be called sun-kissed brown, she supposed. His shoulders and chest were broad, flatly muscular; his waist and hips were narrow, his legs straight, long-boned. And he was good-looking... too good-looking. The comparison of a classic Greek statue sprang to mind; Megan dismissed it at once. No statue she had ever gazed upon in awe, up close or on film, looked that good, that attractive, nearly perfect.
All of which should not have mattered to Megan in the least at that particular point in time, but somehow did.
“Miss Delaney?”
Even his voice was golden, smooth and rich as warm amber velvet. The sound of it set Megan's teeth on edge. She swallowed, quickly, swallowed again, failed to work up enough moisture even to allow speech, then replied with a curt nod.
He was prepared, which told her a lot about him.
“Sergeant Wolfe, Pennsylvania State Police.” He raised his hand, palm out, displaying his identification as he moved nearer to the bed for her to examine it up close.
Megan wanted to feel pressured, put-upon, persecuted, but she couldn't. She wanted to scream a demand to be left alone. But she couldn't do that, either. She looked at his face, at the long red scratch from his eye to his jaw, and felt sick inside—even sicker than she already felt.
“I...I, er...I'm sorry.” Megan felt a hot sting behind her eyelids, and lowered her gaze. Damn! She would not cry. She would not let this man, any man, bear witness to her weakness.
“Sorry?” He frowned. “For what?”
The hot sting vanished from her eyes. Her head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed. Was this a trick? What could possibly be his purpose for playing this “For what” game? He knew full well what she was sorry for.
“Your face,” she said, unaware that her voice had lost a small corner of its frailty. “I've marked you, however unintentionally, and I'm sorry.”
“Oh, that?” He moved the hand he still held aloft near to his face, and drew his index finger the length of the scratch. “It's surface. I'm not branded for life.” Then he smiled, and damned if his smile wasn't golden brown, as well.
How could she think of startlingly white teeth as golden brown? Megan chided herself, staring in near-mesmerized fascination at him. And yet it was. His smile lit up not only his face, but the entire room, like a burst of pure golden sunlight through a dark and angry cloud.
Megan didn't like it. She didn't trust it. But there wasn't a thing she could do about it. She had run her car, her beautiful new car, into a guardrail. And this...this golden-haired, golden-smiled one-up-on-a-Greek-god was the law. He was in charge here. Although he hadn't yet given so much as a hint of flaunting his authority, he was in a position to do so.
Just get it over with.
The cry rang inside Megan's head, its echo creating an ache to fill the void of its passing. Suddenly, she needed to weep, she needed to sleep, she needed to be left alone. Distracted, agitated, she lifted a hand to rub her temple.
“Pain?”
Megan wasn't quite sure which startled her more, the sharp concern in his voice, or the sudden sound of his ID folder snapping shut. Before she could gather her senses enough to answer, he was moving to the door.
“I'll get a nurse.”
“No!” She flung out her hand—as if she could reach him, all the way near the door, from her bed. “I'm all right. It's just a dull headache.”
He turned back to run an encompassing look over her pale face, his startling blue eyes probing the depths of her equally blue, though now lackluster, eyes.
“You sure?” One toasty eyebrow climbed up and under the silky lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead.
“Positive.” Megan sighed, and nodded. “Please, have a seat.” She indicated the chair placed to one side of the bed. “I'd like to get this over with.”
“Well...” He brushed at the errant lock of hair as he slowly returned to her bedside. “If you're sure you don't need anything for pain?” The brow inched upward again.
“I'm sure,” she answered, suppressing yet another sigh. “It'll pass.”
“All
