Wolfe Wanting Read Free

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 to indicate the other room. “Did you start grilling that poor woman before she was fully conscious or something?”
    “Of course not.” Royce's sharp reply let her know he resented the charge. “I tried to reassure her that everything would be fine, but the minute I started to speak, she went nuclear on me.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I mean, she went off like a bomb, screaming and striking out at my face. Hell, I didn't know what to do with her, so I caught hold of her wrists. Fortunately, that's when Doc Hawk came into the room and rescued me.”
    Jill frowned. “Strange.”
    “Strange?” Royce mirrored her reflection. “Try weird. This has never happened to me before.” He shrugged. “After ten years on the force, I've seen enough accident victims to understand shock and trauma. But damned if I've ever seen anyone fight against someone trying to help them.”
    “Neither have I,” Jill said sympathetically. “But she seems to have quieted down now.” She smiled. “Dr. Hawk is