Wolfe Wedding (7 page)

Would she allow herself the license of mindlessness for the sake of one more night with him?

She hesitated. then closed her eyes against the pain of facing the bottom-line answer.

No.

She could not betray herself, any more than she could ever betray him.

She loved him. But a one-sided love was never, could never, be enough.

Sex was one thing. Love was another. And Sandra knew that for her, to hang on to one while denying the other would be self-destructive.

Her decision reached, she gathered her strength, steeled herself for the evening ahead.

But dreams, old and new alike, die very hard, and her mettle was tested with the first step Cameron took into the kitchen.

The look of him, showered, shaved, his damp hair appearing dark, like antique gold, stole her breath, and nearly shattered her resolve.

He was dressed in faded jeans that hugged his narrow hips and waist and delineated the musculature of his long legs. A stark white loose-knit sweater defined the width and breadth of his chest.

Swallowing a sigh of regret, while repressing a surge of desire for myriad things, physical and emotional, Sandra schooled her lips into a coolly remote smile.

“Dinner’s ready,” she said, in a hard-fought tone devoid of inflection.

He frowned, but said only, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You can pour the wine,” she said, turning to open the oven door. “I’ll bring the food.”

Blaming the heat radiating from the oven for the sting in her eyes, Sandra mentally shored up her defenses, and grabbing pot holders, bent to the chore.

He had lost her.

Cameron had known it from the moment he walked into the kitchen endless hours ago.

It was late. He was tired. And he felt literally sick to his stomach. The feeling owed nothing to the delicious meal Sandra had prepared, or to the several glasses of wine he had consumed with the meal.

She hadn’t even finished the first glass he had poured for her.

She bad closed him out.

During the twenty or so minutes required for him to shower, shave and dress, Sandra had erected a barrier between them, an invisible yet impenetrable wall of resistance he had been unable to breach.

And Cameron had tried with every fiber of his being to tear down that barrier.

During dinner, and afterward, right up until she bade him a cool good-night, he had tried everything he could think of: conversation, humor, charm—what little he possessed—everything short of begging, to draw the warm woman from her cold shell of assumed indifference.

And Cameron believed Sandra’s indifference was assumed; he had to believe it, because he couldn’t bear to contemplate anything else.

Why?

What had he done wrong?

What terrible sin had he committed?

Why had she raised a shield against him?

Those tormenting questions were the direct cause of the roiling sensation sickening Cameron.

Twice. He had been rejected twice, and both times just as he was falling in love.

No.

Cameron shook his head. No. The first time hadn’t felt anywhere near this painful. That had been nothing,
nothing,
compared to the sick sense of loss he was now suffering through.

And, try as he would, he could not convince himself that Sandra’s sudden about-face had surfaced as a direct result of his accusing her of childishness and militant feminism.

No. It was more than that, deeper than that.

But. what?

Something in him.

The thought was unpalatable. Cameron didn’t want to examine it, let alone accept it.

But there it was, entrenched in his consciousness, stabbing into his mind.

Something in him? Some essence, objectionable to the opposite sex, that he displayed?

Hell. Cameron raked stiff fingers through already wildly disheveled hair. He had had affairs with women other than the two he had unfortunately fallen for. And those other females hadn’t shown signs of eventual objection to some offending essence within him.

In point of fact, it had been quite the contrary. More than one of those females had given unmistakable signals of desiring a deeper involvement with him.

So go figure.

Cameron moved his shoulders against his bed of sofa cushions in a half shrug. His advice to himself was excellent; too bad he couldn’t follow it.

How in hell did a mere man proceed in figuring out the mind of a woman?

Talk to his mother?

Cameron was swept by an impulse to do just that. He immediately quashed the impulse with a self-taunting,
Get real, Wolfe.

He was pushing forty, for Pete’s sake, long past the age to solicit maternal advice on the proper course to steer on the rocky road to love. Besides, although he felt certain the indomitable Maddy would proffer the advice, his mother would likely laugh herself silly first. So scratch that idea.

His brothers? Hmm. That idea had merit. If he was reading the signs correctly, they appeared to be having little difficulty with the opposite sex.

But, appearances were often deceptive, he mused. Of course, there was a way of ascertaining the answer. He could call, perhaps even seek advice from one, or all three, of his brothers.

Then again, perhaps not. Cameron grimaced. Not only would he tarnish his image as the older and wiser, if somewhat aloof, mentor to the younger trio, but knowing them they’d probably laugh even harder than their mother.

He was fresh out of ideas, overtired, half-asleep, and vulnerable.

Cameron groaned in protest as an image formed to tease and torment his weary mind.

Sandra. She of the sable hair and laughing dark eyes. She of the keen intellect and riposte. She of the cool demeanor and hot mouth. She of the sleek body and long, libido-enticing legs.

“Stop.” His hoarse, whispered plea froze in the cold night air and echoed inside his head.

Please, stop, he repeated in silent supplication to his own consciousness.

He was getting punchy from lack of rest, he mused muzzily, encroaching sleep sending his thoughts drifting along another track.

He yawned, giving in to the heavy weight dragging down his eyelids.

How were his siblings faring in their relationships with their respective ladyloves?

A
violent late-spring thunderstorm from the west pushed over the mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania.

Sergeant Royce Wolfe barely heard the rapid swish of the sweeping windshield wipers. Hands steady on the steering wheel, he scanned the road with alert, experienced eyes. He had gone off duty a short time ago, but he was a law-enforcement officer, on or off duty.

Lightning streaked the midnight sky, bathing the surrounding mountainous terrain in an eerie glow for a flashing second. Thunder roared overhead, shaking the earth below.

Memory stirred inside Royce’s mind. It had been just such a night as this, over a month ago, the first time he saw Megan.

There were differences. Important differences. A smile relieved the taut watchfulness of his ruggedly attractive features, eased the tension bunching his square jawline.

Oh, yeah. The differences were important. While maintaining his keen observation of the undulating road ahead, Royce gave memory free rein.

It had been storming that night, too, an early-spring storm, cold and sleety, the last gasp of an unrelenting winter.

He had first seen Megan Delaney slumped over the steering wheel of the sports car she had totalled running head-on into a highway guardrail.

Being off duty, but wanting to assist the patrolman who arrived on the scene minutes later, Royce had offered to follow the ambulance into town to secure a statement for the record from the accident victim after she regained consciousness.

That act of accommodation to a fellow Pennsylvania State Police officer had been Royce’s undoing—and, eventually, the making of him.

Megan. His beautiful Megan, of the fiery hair, and the temperament to match.

She had hit that guardrail not entirely because she was driving too fast in inclement weather, as he
had at first assumed. No, although she had been driving too fast, she had been in a state of rage and hysteria, tearing away from the scene of a near-rape in the parking lot of a restaurant located in the foothills, along a desolate country road.

Megan had understandably been left emotionally scarred and wary of men, much to Royce’s distress, since he had experienced an immediate attraction to her.

A soft chuckle shimmered on the humid air in the closed vehicle, as Royce recalled the inner battle he had fought against his desire for the injured woman.

But all had ended well, as Megan had cast off fear to rush in, literally—again totaling a brandnew car—to assist him in the apprehension of her attacker.

And now he was driving through another storm after working the late shift. Only this time he was not headed home to his apartment, but to Megan, the home of his heart and soul.

Every light in the house appeared to be lit, Royce noted as he pulled into the driveway. A tender smile curved his lips. Megan’s need to keep the house fully lit after dark when she was alone was one of the few lingering aftermaths of her ordeal.

He left the car and strode to the door, and as he jabbed his finger into the doorbell his stomach
rumbled in anticipation of the snack-meal he knew she had ready and waiting for him.

Megan answered the door wearing a big smile and a skimpy, figure-revealing silk nightie.

“How did you know it was me?” he scolded in a soft growl, stepping inside and hauling her into his arms.

“I peeked out the window, Officer,” Megan confessed, curling her arms around his neck. “Now, are you going to pick a fight or kiss me?”

“Dumb question.” Royce flashed a grin and lowered his head to capture her mouth with his.

The snack she had waiting for him was destined to wait a little longer.

Scooping her up in his strong arms, Royce carried her unerringly into her bedroom, without so much as a minute slip of his lips against hers.

Megan was more than ready for him—she was way ahead of him. With a flick of each ankle, her satin mules went clattering across the room, and with a tug and a flip of her arms, her nightie sailed into the air. Then she went to work undressing him.

His blood running hot and eager, Royce trembled in response to her deft fingers, which found other, even more exciting employment after his clothes littered the floor near her slippers.

Their loving started slow and sweet, with teasing, suggestive murmurs and enticing all-over kisses and caresses. But by the time they could no longer
bear the exquisite torture and merged into one, their loving was hot and fast and thoroughly satisfying.

Later, his senses sated, Royce sat alone at the kitchen table, wolfing down the sandwich snack she had prepared, appeasing a more mundane appetite.

“Royce…” Megan said, entering the room after having a shower, and now decorously covered by an ankle-length robe in a rich dark green velour.

“Hmm?” he murmured around a bite from the thick roast beef and cheese sandwich.

“Have you been discussing me with your mother?” she asked, taking the chair opposite him at the table, and snitching one of his potato chips to nibble on.

“Yes, just the other day,” he said after swallowing. “I told her about you, and how I love you until it hurts.” He raised tawny gold eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because I received this in the mail today.” Megan drew a large square white envelope from the sideboard and laid it next to his plate.

Royce didn’t need to open it. He knew what it was. He flashed a grin. “Mom sent you an invitation to Jake and Sarah’s wedding?”

“Yes, obviously.” She gave him an amused look. “Did you ask her to send it?”

“No.” He shook his head.

Her expression sobered. “You don’t want me to accompany you?”

“Get real, beautiful,” he said, laughing. “You didn’t need an invitation. I was planning on taking you with me, anyway.”

“Oh, I see.” Though her voice was cool, her relief was visible. “And when were you planning to tell me?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow.” He shrugged. “Plenty of time. It’s still over two weeks until the wedding.”

Shaking her head in despair of men in general, and him in particular, Megan placed the halfnibbled chip on her plate.

Royce noticed. But then, he noticed just about everything concerning Megan. And she had always joined him in the late snack.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“I thought I was.” She frowned and placed a hand over her stomach. “But I’ve been feeling a little queasy every time I eat the last few days. I think I might have a touch of a stomach virus.”

“Have you been to see Virginia Hawk?” he asked with quick concern, referring to the doctor who had treated Megan after the attack and the subsequent accident.

“No, of course not,” Megan replied, dismissing the very idea with a flick of one hand. “I’m not sick. I’m not running so much as a low-grade fever. I feel certain that it’s simply a spring virus.”

“But suppose it isn’t?” he persisted. “Suppose it’s an aftereffect of the trauma you suffered, evolving into a stomach disorder?”

“Royce, I’m sure it is nothing of—”

“But you can’t be sure.” He rose to circle the table to her and draw her up into the warm protection of his embrace. “What if you’re wrong, and it’s something more than a virus? If you’re ill, and can’t travel to Sprucewood with me for the wedding, I won’t go, either. I won’t go anywhere without you, ever again.”

“Oh, Royce.” Megan’s eyes were suspiciously misty; her voice was roughened by emotion. “I don’t ever again want to go anywhere without you, either, but I’m sure you’re worrying without reason.” She sniffed and offered him a tremulous smile. “I’ll be fine, you’ll see, and as you pointed out a moment ago, it’s still over two weeks until the wedding. Please don’t worry.”

“I can’t help but worry about you,” he murmured, stroking one long finger down her cheek, to the corner of her mouth. “I love you so much.”

“I know, and I love you.” Megan kissed the tip of the finger he drew along her lower lip. “That’s why I didn’t want you to know about this dratted virus.”

“Will you promise me something?” he whispered, replacing his arousing finger with his even more arousing mouth. “Will you promise to see
Doc Hawk if the symptoms haven’t gone away within the next couple of days?”

“Yes, if you’ll promise me something,” she murmured against his teasing mouth.

“Anything. Name it.” His tongue caressed her soft, parted lips.

“Promise you’ll take me to bed within the next couple of minutes.”

Laughing, Royce swept Megan up into his arms.

The second in the cluster of thunderstorms moving from west to east broke with a series of lightning cracks and resounding booms over Philadelphia shortly before six o’clock Monday morning.

The noise didn’t wake Eric Wolfe; he had awakened some minutes before the storm hit. Propped up in the king-size bed in his apartment overlooking the Philadelphia Art Museum and the Schuylkill River, he had a panoramic view through the wide, west-facing plate-glass bedroom window of nature’s violent display of breathtaking power.

But it wasn’t violent or powerful enough to command Eric’s exclusive attention. Every few seconds, his alert, expectant gaze sliced to the closed bathroom door.

It had been mere minutes, and yet the waiting was beginning to get to him.

Was she…or wasn’t she?

When at last the door opened, he was caught unprepared, staring in wonder at a particularly long, seemingly horizontal streak of lightning.

“Eric.”

The combined threads of trepidation and excitement woven through Tina’s soft voice brought his head whipping around, his dark blue eyes probing hers.

Lord! How he loved this woman, this woman who had single-handedly healed the bitterness he had lived with after the death in the line of duty of his policeman father, thus freeing him to be a better, more effective undercover narcotics cop himself, this woman he had once suspected of having dealings with some low-life characters who were dealing in illegal substances.

But Tina Kranas had proved herself, her innocence, to his satisfaction long before she came to his defense by flying at the real guilty party—who happened to be her former husband—with a castiron frying pan.

“Well?” he prompted, then held his breath.

“It shows positive,” she answered, holding aloft a home pregnancy strip. “It appears you are going to be a father.”

“Hot damn!” Eric whooped, bolting from the bed and striding to her to catch her up in his arms. His immediate response chased the trepidation
from Tina’s eyes, leaving them shining with pleasure.

“I’ve gotta call Mom,” he said, planting a quick kiss on her smiling mouth before releasing her to go to the phone on the bedside table.

“Now?” Tina laughed. “Eric, it’s not even seven yet. You’ll wake her.”

“I know.” He shot a grin at her, then continued to punch in the number. “I know, as well, that Mom would see me drawn and quartered if I didn’t tell her at once.”

The phone in his childhood home in the small town of Sprucewood, located some fifteen or so miles outside Philadelphia, was picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?” There was an underlying note in Maddy Wolfe’s voice that only her four sons would have recognized and identified as fear of bad news. It was a note familiar to the families of most dedicated law-enforcement officers.

“It’s me, Mom, and there’s nothing wrong,” Eric assured her at once, motioning Tina to his side and curling an arm around her waist. “In fact, it’s very good news, news you’ve been waiting to hear.”

“To use an over-used, trite phrase—” Maddy’s voice had resumed its normal, wry tenor “—I’m all ears, son.”

“Well, first I’d like your opinion on an idea I have.” His eyes gleamed with a teasing light that
was very familiar to Tina. and that would have been very familiar to the older woman, had she seen it.

“Get on with it, Eric.” Now her voice held a warning that drew an appreciative chuckle from him.

“Right. Ah, how do you think Jake and Sarah might take to the idea of a double wedding?”

There was a brief pause, a breathless silence, and then: “Are you serious?”

“Oh, yeah,” Eric said, tightening his arm possessively and protectively around Tina and gliding an adoring look over her glowing face. “Tina’s pregnant, Mom. She just did the home test.” Unable to contain the excitement bubbling inside him, he grinned again. “Metaphorically speaking, the rabbit died.”

“You don’t sound too despondent,” Maddy observed, probing gently, hopefully.

“I’m over the moon,” he said jubilantly. “We both are. It’s no accident, you know. We were trying.” His voice held laughter. “Trying hard.”

“Before marriage?” A tiny note of censure there.

“Aw, Mom,” he said, in the exact same tone he had used as a boy. “So what do you think—will Jake and Sarah go for it? We could kill two birds with one stone. so to speak.”

“Or two Wolfes with one shotgun. so to speak,” she retorted dryly.

It took a moment for the dawn to break in Eric’s mind; Maddy waited with maternal patience.

“Sarah’s pregnant!”

“Hmm.” she concurred in a murmur. “They told me just last night. I knew I had raised rambunctious sons. I just never realized quite how rambunctious.”

Eric roared. “Is Jake happy about it?” he asked when his laughter subsided.

“To quote your youngest brother exactly,” she drawled, “ ‘Is Elijah Blue?’ “

Eric laughed again, then said, “I’ll give Jake a call in a little while.”

“You do that,” Maddy replied. “And, Eric-”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Congratulations, son, and give my love to Tina.”

“Thanks, Mom, I will.”

Eric didn’t replace the receiver after saying goodbye, but merely depressed the disconnect button, then moved his index finger to punch in the Sprucewood number registered to his younger brother, Jake. His intent was thwarted by Tina sliding her palm over the buttons.

“That can wait awhile,” she said decisively. “At least until after breakfast.”

“You’re hungry?” Eric asked hopefully, somewhat surprised, since she’d been off her appetite the last week or so. At her nod, he dropped the receiver
onto the cradle. “Good. I’ll rustle up some eggs.”

“No,” she said, as he started to move, his encircling arm moving her along with him, toward the kitchen. “I’m not hungry for scrambled eggs.”