"Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to go fix you something to drink, then you're going to tell me what happened." He lifted her face until their eyes met. "Then we'll figure out what comes next."
"Okay."
"I don't have a thing… a handkerchief."
"I've got tissues in my bag."
"Good, then…" He shifted her, sat her down beside him. "If you need, you know, the bathroom? There's one that way and to the right." no I
"Good idea."
When he left her, she sat for a moment, drawing back the reserves. She got achingly to her feet, picked up the purse he'd left on the coffee table, then made her way under graceful arches, over polished floors to the powder room.
The first glimpse of her face in the long oval mirror had her moaning as much in vanity as distress. Her eyes were puffy and red, with the right one sporting an ugly mottle of bruises, accented by the hard black smear of gathering blood under it.
Her jaw was another swollen cloudburst, her bottom lip about double in size and split. The butterfly bandages on her forehead closed the jagged gash, and stood out starkly against the raw, scraped skin. "This isn't a beauty contest, Phoebe, so get over yourself. But God, God, could you look any worse?"
And when she took this face home, she was going to scare everyone half stupid.
Nothing to be done about that, nothing, she reminded herself, and carefully dabbed cold water over her face.
In short order, she discovered that even the elemental task of peeing with a bruised hip and an arm in a sling was an exercise in discomfort and frustration. That tidying herself up brought everything to a dull throb under the layer of medication.
And vanity or no vanity, she was already sick and tired of looking as if she'd run headlong into a brick wall.
Plus, she hated hobbling. As she hobbled her way back into the parlor, Duncan set a tray on the coffee table.
"I don't know what they gave you in the ER, so I figured alcohol was off the menu. You got tea-and my personal remedy for a black eye, and so on, a bag of frozen peas."
She stopped. "You made tea."
"You don't like tea?"
"Of course I do. You made tea, and in a pretty teapot, on a tray. And brought me frozen peas." She held up her good hand. "My emotions are all over the board yet. I'm getting weepy because somebody made me tea in a pot, and thought to offer me frozen peas."
"Good thing I didn't bake cookies."
She picked up the bag of peas, held it to the side of her face that suffered the most damage. "Can you?"
"I have no idea. Anyway, I wasn't sure if you'd be able to chew anything yet. How's that jaw?"
She walked, slowly, to the divan, sat again. "You want me stoic, or you want the truth?"
"I'll take the truth."
"It fucking hurts, that's how it is. I think there might be one square inch of my body that doesn't fucking hurt. And that makes you smile?" He kept smiling. "That you're hurting, no. That you're pissed off about it, yes. Good to see your temper's in working order." He sat beside her, poured out the tea. "Tell me what happened, Phoebe."
"I got jumped in the stairwell at work."
"Jumped? Who?"
"I didn't see him, so I can't say for sure. He was waiting for me," she began, and told him.
He didn't interrupt, but when she spoke of her assailant tearing her clothes, Duncan pushed off the couch. As she had when she'd first entered the room, he walked to the doors, stared out.
And she stopped speaking.
"Go on," he said with his back to her. "I just can't sit right now."
He listened, and he stared through the glass. He didn't see the wild wisteria or the winding trails of the side garden. He saw a dim stairwell, he saw Phoebe hurt and helpless, struggling while some faceless bastard tore at her, pawed at her, terrorized her.
There had to be payment, Duncan thought. He believed strongly in payment.
"You know who it was," he said when she'd finished. "I didn't see him."
Duncan turned now. His face was cool and blank so that the blue of his eyes burned all the stronger against it. "You know who it was."
"I have a strong suspicion. Suspicion isn't proof."
"That's the cop talking. What about the person?"
"I know who did it, and I'm going to find a way to prove it. Do you think I would take this? Do you think that's who I am?" She held up a hand as if stopping herself.
"No, go on. A good pissing rage is as healing as a good cry."
"He hurt me. That fucking bastard. He hurt and humiliated me. He made me think he'd kill me and leave my baby an orphan and my mother, my family grieving. He left me to crawl away naked, to crawl with most of my clothes torn away where I work, where I have to go every day and face the people who saw what he could do to me. And do you know why?"
"No. Why?"
"Because he couldn't stand taking orders from me. He couldn't stand having authority, female authority especially, disciplining him and setting out the consequences for his actions."
"Are you telling me another cop did this to you?"
Shocked that so much had spewed out of her, she pulled herself back. "I have strong suspicions."
"What's his name?"
The woman inside, the one who had been hurt and humiliated, warmed just a little at the tone. The tone that said, very clearly, I'll handle this. But she shook her head. "Don't get out the white charger,
Duncan. This'll be dealt with. He'll be dealt with. It's now my mission in life to make sure of it. And having this time, this place to… well, to be, it's helped more than I can tell you."
"Well, that's fine and good for you, and glad to be of assistance. But that's not much help for me when I'm in the mood to pound somebody's face in like it was rotten wood, then twist his useless dick off and feed it to the dog I keep thinking about getting."
"No," Phoebe said after a long moment. "No, I don't guess it is. I'm going to confess that I find myself surprisingly comforted, and just a little aroused, by the sentiment."
"I don't know what this is yet, this you-and-me thing. I didn't figure
I had to think about it all that much as yet. So putting that asidewhatever this is or isn't here, you should know my natural inclination, and you go right ahead and consider it sexist or outdated or whatever the hell you like-my natural inclination when some cowardly son of a bitch beats on a woman is to get out that goddamn white charger and kick some ass."
He could, she realized. She'd let that one slip by her. But looking at him now, with that hot rage burning straight through the cold fury, she understood there was a great deal more to him than charm and luck. "Okay, I hear your natural inclination is to defend and to act, and you sound-"
"Don't pull that negotiator crap out on me."
"That would be my natural inclination," she returned. "My next is to say I don't need protection, but given the circumstances, that would be a stupid thing to say. Most of my life I've been the one protecting and defending, and that goes back long before I had a badge. I'm not quite sure how to react when someone wants to protect and defend me." He walked over to her, hesitated, then leaned down. "I'm going to be careful about this, but you let me know if it hurts." And he laid his lips, very gently, on hers.
"It doesn't."
He kissed her again before straightening. "You've got a week."
"Sorry?"
"You got a week to complete your current mission in life. Then I get a name, and I help myself."
"If that's some sort of ultimatum-"
"It's not, not at all. It's just fact." Sitting on the coffee table across from her, he took the peas she'd lowered, turned the bag over, and put the cooler side against her swollen jaw. "I already know it was a cop, and one you had to slap back for something. I expect I could have a name inside an hour. But you have a week to do it your way."