Tears didn't shame her, not tears that needed to be shed. She was grateful as they poured out, as they washed the worst of the fear and sickness away, that he wasn't the kind of man who offered awkward pats and told a woman not to cry.

He only offered shelter and let her weep.

When the shaking eased and the tears slowed, he brushed a light kiss over her bruised temple. "Any better?"

"Yes." She drew a long breath, and when she let it out, felt her system steady. "God, yes."

"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."

"You think because you have money-"

"No, Phoebe, I know because I have money." Gently, he lifted her hands, in turn, touched his lips to her bandaged wrists, comforting even as he laid down the law. "It oils the wheels, and that's just another fact. You're smart, and you've got that purpose that just sets me off. I'm betting you'll have this bastard frying inside that week. If not, well, my turn."

"Your turn? This is a police matter, and it has nothing to do with turns. That's grade school."

He smiled at her, just enough to have the dimple flickering. "You know, you look like hell right now."

"Excuse me?"

"What I'm saying is, you look pretty damn awful, your face all banged up that way. Even with the Grey's Anatomy thing going with the scrubs, you look like hell. So, why it should be I can look at you right now and still be attracted right down to the soles of my feet is a goddamn puzzle. But I am."

Torn in a dozen directions, she dumped the frozen peas on the tea tray. "What the hell does that have to do with this?"

"Nothing. It just popped into my head. Want some more tea? And yeah," he added when she just stared at him, "that's a change of subject. Your mind's made up; mine is, too. So what's the point of arguing about it when neither of us is going to budge on the issue? And you can't be feeling your best, so I don't feel right fighting with you."

"No, I don't want any more tea, thanks. And you're right, I'm not feeling my best, but it's important that you understand there's a wide difference between retribution and the law."

"We'll have to debate that some other time, when you're back at full power. You want to take a whirlpool? Hot water, jets? It might help with some of the aches."

Another thing she'd let slip by, she thought, was the man had a head like a rock. "That's a nice offer, but no. I'm going to need to get home." And the thought of that had her looking down at herself. "God."

"Do you want to call them first? Prepare them?"

"No. No, then they'd just worry until I got there. I'm putting you out again, Duncan, having you drive me all the way back."

"So, you'll owe me."

He helped her out to the car. Even the short walk wore her out, so she just sat, out of breath, while he strapped her in.

Carly would be coming in from school any minute, she thought as he drove toward home. Mama would be finishing up taking her Internet orders for the day, or boxing up completed pieces to go out in the mail in the morning. Ava, likely home from errands, would be fussing around in the kitchen.

Just an easy Monday afternoon. And she was about to shatter it. "Who plays the piano?"

"Nobody. I sort of do. Just by ear. I always thought a piano added class to a room."

"Cousin Bess insisted Carter and I take lessons. I got the mechanics of it; Carter got the heart." She let her head fall back. "I wish this part was over. The shocking them, the explaining it all again part. I wish it was over."

"I can explain what happened for you, if you want."

"I have to do it. Where's your family, Duncan?" It occurred to her that nowhere in the rooms she'd been in in the grand house had she seen any photos of family.

"Here and there."

"Long story?"

"Epic. We'll save it for another time."

Her cell phone rang, and with some effort she reached for her purse and pulled it out. "This is Phoebe. Yes, Dave, I'm all right, I'm better. No, I'm on my way home now. I've been with a friend. Could be worse." She listened awhile. "I understand. I'll be in tomorrow to- Sir. Captain. Dave." She let out a frustrated breath. "Two days then. Three. Yes, sir, thank you. And I'd like the sit-down rescheduled for Thursday, if possible. I appreciate that. I will. Yes, I will. Bye."

"Okay?" Duncan asked.

"Not entirely, but better than it could've been. He was going to order me to take medical leave for two weeks."

"The bastard."

She let out a laugh, then sucked air as it pinged her ribs. "I'd go crazy sitting home having Mama and Ava fuss over me for two weeks. He knows that. I'll heal better if I'm working, and it makes a statement where a statement needs to be made. He knows that, too. He was probably after the three or four days all along. He's a sneaky son of a bitch."

"Sounds like somebody I'd like."

"Probably. He got away with my weapon."

"What? Captain Dave?"

"No. No, not the captain. Sorry, this whole thing's scrambled my brain so I can't seem to think in a straight line."

The cop who'd hurt her, Duncan realized. And since she was busy brooding over it, he gave her room.

Just as he gave her room to be agitated as they approached Jones Street. "Want a bourbon and a cigarette first?"

"Don't think I wouldn't. I'm about to take on multiple hysterical females." She prepared herself with deep breaths as he drove down the brick-paved street. "Oh God. That just caps it."

"What?" Duncan shot her a glance, saw her fit on a stoic smile. Then saw the man who'd been strolling along in the dappled sunlight break into a run.

"Phoebe! Phoebe, what happened?" The man wrenched the door open, reached down. "My God, what happened to you? Who are you?" He threw the words at Duncan like stones. "What the hell did you do to my sister?"

"Carter, stop! Stop. He didn't do a thing but help me."

"Who hurt you? Where is he?"

People strolled along Jones-residents and tourists-and now, Phoebe noted, any number of those strollers had stopped to stare at the beat-up woman and the two men on either side of a flashy white Porsche.

"You can stop shouting on a public street like a lunatic. Let's go inside."

"They're good questions." Duncan came around to the passenger seat. "I'd like the answers, too. I'm Duncan. She's got a lot of tender spots. We'll need to be careful-"

"I can take care of her."

"Carter, stop it. Do you want to add to the extremely crappy day I've had by being rude to a friend? I apologize for my ill-mannered brother, Duncan."

"No problem."

"Oh God, there's Miz Tiffany and that ridiculous dog heading over from the park. I can't deal with that. Carter, for the love of God, don't make me deal with that. Help me get inside."

"Easy does it," Duncan advised, and caught a glimpse of a woman, well past a certain age, with a blond bubble of hair, being led by a tiny, apparently hairless dog wearing a polka-dot tie. "She hasn't seen you yet. I'd be ill mannered, too, by the way, in your place," he told Carter as they got Phoebe to the sidewalk. "Still, under any circumstances, when I bring a woman home, I take her to the door."

Resigned to it, Phoebe allowed herself to be flanked, then all but carried up the steps. And with the overture complete, she thought, Here comes the show.

When the door opened, Essie was already on her way down the hall. "I thought I heard you shouting, Carter. I... Phoebe! Oh my God." She went white as paste, swayed.

"Let me go," Phoebe murmured, then hurried forward. "Mama. I'm all right, Mama. Breathe for me. I'm all right, I'm home. Carter, go get her some water."

"No, no." Still ghostly pale, Essie lifted a hand to Phoebe's cheek. "Baby girl."

"I'm all right."

"Your face. Reuben-"

"Is dead, Mama. You know that."

"Yes. Yes. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh, Phoebe. What happened? Your face, your arm. Ava!"

She'd snapped back, Phoebe noted. Still white as a sheet, but she'd snapped back.

Ava rushed out from the back of the house. And there was, for the next several minutes, a mass of confusion, voices, movement, tears. Duncan closed the front door, stood back. He'd always figured if you can't help, stay out of the way.

"All right, stop now."

He could hear Phoebe's voice, very calm, very firm, through the melee. She repeated the same order, once, then twice. And on the third, the words snapped out-a kind of verbal slap to the face-and shocked her family into silence.

"I'll explain everything, but right now I want everybody to just stop talking at once. I've been banged up, which is obvious, and all this badgering isn't helping. Now-"

"Mama."

As the verbal slap had shut down the hysteria, so did the single, quivering word stop what Duncan assumed might have been an irritated rant. Phoebe turned toward the little girl who stood holding a bright red ball.

"I'm all right, Carly. I know I don't look it, but I am. I will be. I got hurt, but I'm okay."

"Mama." The ball went bouncing away as Carly ran forward to grab Phoebe, to press her face against her mother's waist. From his vantage point, Duncan saw the ripple of pain, and the way it leached all color out of Phoebe's cheeks.

"Hey, sorry. I know this is a bad time, but, you know, I think

Phoebe needs to lie down." He moved forward as he spoke and simply lifted Phoebe off her feet. "Carly, maybe you could show me where your mama's bedroom is."

"It's upstairs."

"I can walk. Duncan, I can walk."

"Sure, but hey, I already got you. Miz MacNamara? They gave Phoebe some medication. I think it might be time for her to take it, if she had some water."

"Of course, of course."

"I'll get it." Ava touched Essie's arm. "You go up with Phoebe. I'll get the water, and some ice. Carter, help me get some ice for Phoebe."

"I'm going up to fix the bed. I'm going right up to get it ready."

Essie dashed up the stairs.

"Did you fall?" Carry's voice still shook as she walked up beside Duncan, with her fingers closed over the hem of the scrubs.

"That was part of it. I had a bad fall, and I had to go to the hospital. They fixed me up and let me come home. You know they don't let you go home if you're not fixed enough. Right?"

"Is your arm broken?"

"No. It's just hurt, so it's in this sling for a while so I don't bump it around."

"How come you didn't catch her when she fell?" Carly demanded of Duncan.

"I wish I could have. I wasn't there when she fell."

He carried Phoebe into the bedroom where Essie had already turned down the spread, fluffed the pillows. "Just lay her right on down. Thank you so much, Duncan. Phoebe, I'm sorry, I just lost my head."

"It's all right, Mama. Everything's going to be all right."

"Of course it is." Though her lips quivered visibly, Essie sent Carly a big smile. "We're going to take good care of your mama, aren't we? She needs some medicine now."

"It's in my purse. I-"

"Right here." Duncan set it on the bed.

"You're good with details," Phoebe commented.

"Wouldn't you like to go down and sit in the parlor, Duncan?" Essie began. "Carter, he'll fix you a drink. And..." She rubbed her fingers on her temple. "And you'll stay for dinner. You'll stay for dinner, of course."

"That's nice of you, but I'll leave y'all to tend to Phoebe. I hope I can have a rain check."

"You're welcome anytime. Anytime at all. I'll walk you down."

"You stay right here." He gave Essie's shoulder a pat before he looked down at Phoebe. "That goes for you, too."

"I think I'm going to do just that. Duncan-"

"We'll talk later."

As he left, Carter bounded up the stairs. Carter stopped, gripping a pair of ice bags. "Sorry about jumping on you out there."

"Forget it. Natural."

"Do you know who punched my sister in the face? I took enough fists in the face to know what the results look like," he said when Duncan lifted his brows.

"I don't know who hurt her, but I'm going to find out."

"When you do-if it's before I do-I want to know."

"Sure."

"Carter MacNamara." Carter shifted ice bags, held out a hand.

"Duncan Swift. See you around."

Duncan let himself out, glanced up toward the bedroom window as he walked to his car. Gorgeous house, he thought, and just full of problems. He had enough experience with problems to know they came in all flavors and varieties.

Just as he knew, without question, that whatever the problems, Phoebe was the glue that held the family together.

Gift or burden? he wondered. And decided it was probably a good chunk of both.

A smart man would drive away from the gorgeous house with its va riety of problems. Drive away and keep on going. That's what a smart man would do.

Then again, Duncan thought, there were times it was more interesting, and certainly more rewarding, just to be dumb.

He ended up at a bar. The after-work crowd wouldn't flood into Slam Dune for nearly an hour, so despite the multiple flat screens rolling out ESPN, and the scatter of customers playing pool or air hockey, Duncan figured it was quiet enough for a meeting.

Anyway, he wanted a beer, and felt after the afternoon he'd put in, he'd earned it. He kept an eye out for Phin, and when he saw his friend come in, Duncan signaled the bar.

"Already ordered you a Corona, and some nachos." Phin slid into the booth. "Left me hanging today."

"I know, I'm sorry. Couldn't be helped. What do you figure?"

Phin puffed out his cheeks. "Jake, who you also left hanging as he got there two minutes after you split, did a walk-through. He's going to work up a detailed estimate of what it'll cost you to do what you want with the building. But his eyeball opinion? You're going to have to sink minimum of one-point-five into it, over and above the cost."

"Okay."

Phin leaned back as the nachos slid between them and the waiter set the Corona with its slice of lime on the table. "You ever look back, wonder how we got to be sitting here talking about a million and a half dollars like it was pocket change?"

"How much did that suit cost?"

Phin grinned, picked up his beer. "Fine-looking suit, isn't it?"

"Dude, you're my fashion god. Figure two for the overhaul; let's not be pikers. Add in what I'll pay that squirrel for the property."

"Does look like a squirrel," Phin commented.

"Maybe he'll take some of the buy money and spring for a decent toupee. Anyhow... Got a pen?"

Phin took a Mont Blanc out of his inside jacket pocket. "Why don't you ever have a damn pen?"

"Where am I going to put it? And you always have one." Duncan scribbled figures on a napkin.

And that said it all, Phin thought. The man might look like your average guy-the worn jeans, the untucked, rolled-up-at-the-sleeves shirt, the hair begging for a trim. He might come across to most as an extraordinarily lucky guy who happened to pick the right numbers at the right time. Appearances didn't mean dick when it came to Duncan Swift.

He'd use that borrowed pen and a napkin to figure out cost runs, overlay, buffer, outlay and potential income. He'd do it while eating nachos and drinking a beer, and by the time he was done, he'd have his projected cost and future returns figured as close to the mark as any fleet of accountants.

The man had a knack, Phin decided as he-with care-transferred some loaded nachos from platter to plate. "Where'd you take off to?"

"That's something I want to talk to you about. Or more specifically, with your lovely wife."

"Loo's in court."

Duncan glanced up, over, and smiled. "Not now, she's not."

She wore a conservative blue suit that managed to showcase her mile-long legs. Her sexy curls were tamed back into a clip so that her sharp cheekbones, deep brown eyes, wide mouth were subtly framed. Her skin was the color of rich caramel.

Duncan always wondered how any judge or jury could look at that face and not give her whatever she wanted.

Duncan slid out of the booth, wrapped his arms around her and spoke into her ear just loud enough for Phin to hear. "Dump him. I'll buy you Fiji."

She had a big, strong laugh, and let it rip. "Can I just keep him to play with when you're busy?"

"Give me back my wife."

"Not done with her." Taking his time with it, Duncan gave her a long, dramatic kiss. "That'll hold me. Thanks for coming, Loo."

"Thought you were in court."

"I was." She sat next to Phin, nuzzled her lips to his. "Prosecution asked for a recess. I've got them on the ropes. Now, which of you handsome men is going to buy me a martini?"

"Being shaken even as we speak. One minute. Here's what we'll offer the squirrel and here's where we top off." Duncan pushed the napkin over to Phin. "Okay?"

Phin glanced at the figures, shrugged. "It's your money."

"Yeah. Isn't that a kick in the ass?" Duncan picked up his beer. He knew Phin and Loo would be holding hands under the table. They had the thing, the it, whatever that it was that locked people together and kept them damn happy about it.

"Y'all want something more than nachos?" Duncan asked them.

"Just that martini. As our gorgeous and brilliant offspring is spending the night with her cousin, I'm going to have this fine-looking man take me out to dinner."

"Are you?"

"I am, but not until I've had that drink and am finished playing footsie with my lover here." Loo winked at Duncan. "So, baby doll, what can I do for you?"

Duncan said nothing for a moment, then grinned. "Sorry, my mind went in all sorts of interesting directions." He listened to that terrific laugh of hers again. "It's about something that happened to a friend of mine today, and my curiosity over what gets done to the guy who did it when he gets caught."

"Criminal or civil?"

"It's pretty fucking criminal."

Loo raised her eyebrows at the tone, then accepted the martini she was served. She took the first, slow sip. "Should this individual be charged and indicted, I take it you'd object if I or my firm represent him."

"I can't tell you what to do, but I figured you'd know the ins and outs of what he might try to pull, legally, when they get him."

"Not if, but when." She broke off a minute corner of a chip. "Okay, tell me what this man allegedly did."

"Before I tell you what he did, I'd better tell you, he's a cop."

"Oh. Well. Shit." Loo blew out a breath, drank again. "Tell me."

Interesting. From his seat at the bar, he nursed a beer, ate some cheese fries and pretended to be interested in the reports on March Madness that dominated the near screen.

He had a perfect view of the booth where Phoebe's screw-buddy sat with the duded-up black couple. Interesting, damn interesting-and fortunate that he himself had been watching the house on Jones when the fancy car pulled up.

Phoebe hadn't been looking so good.

He had to smother a laugh he knew might draw attention his way. No sir, the redheaded bitch hadn't been looking her best.

She was going to be looking worse before it was over. But for now, he'd take a little time, a little trouble, to find who Mr. Fancy Car and his friends were.

You never knew who might be useful.