Nora Roberts - High Noon

"Sure I can. Are you sure you can walk?"

"Yeah." When she started to rise, he slid an arm around her waist, drew her up with the care of a man lifting a fragile work of art. "Lean on me."

"I already did, calling you out here." And God, it was a relief to put a little weight on someone else. "I didn't even think you might be busy with something."

"Me? Idle rich." He dug out his sunglasses as she winced and turned her face away from the glare. "Put these on. That's a hell of a shiner you got coming up. What's the other guy look like?"

This time she couldn't manage the smile. "I wish I knew."

It could wait, he told himself. The questions could wait until he got her inside, got her settled. Got her tea or something. He helped her into the car, hooked her seat belt himself. "Lets put you back a little." He eased the seat back. "How's that?"

"It's good. It's fine."

"Did they give you anything for the pain?" he asked when he got behind the wheel, and she tapped the purse Liz had brought to the hospital with her.

"Good drugs. Got some in me right now. I'm just going to close my eyes if you don't mind."

"Go ahead. Try to relax, rest."

She didn't sleep. He could see her hand fist. It might relax for a moment or two, but then it would fist again as if she was determined to hold something tight inside it.

Bandages bound her wrists, and baffled him. If she'd been in an accident, why hadn't she contacted her family? And what sort of accident injured both wrists, bruised up the face and caused enough injury otherwise to have a woman walk as though her bones were brittle glass?

So it hadn't been an accident.

As other options began to circle in his mind, he shut them down. No point in speculating, not when speculation-where were her clothes?sent him into a minefield of possibilities.

He gave her silence. He'd hauled enough passengers in his time to know what people wanted. Chat, debate, information, quiet. Phoebe wanted silence.

She barely moved but for that restless hand-into-fist over that span of bridge from mainland to island, as he passed the marshes and creeks and drove through the green tunnels of arching trees.

Only when he slowed for the last turn, eased to a stop, did she stir and open her eyes.

He'd gone for grand with the house, leaning on traditional elegance and adding bits of quirk with the widow's walk that topped it like a crown. Oaks draped with moss fanned around it, strong accents for the soft blue with its delicate white trim. Gardens-azaleas just ready to pop and burst-flowed out and about in a casual way that turned the grand into charming.

Pots and baskets of mixed flowers decked veranda and terrace along with gliders and generous chairs that invited visitors to sit awhile, relax, have a cool drink.

"It's beautiful."

"Yeah, it's growing on me." He got out, came around to her. "Let me give you a hand."

"Thanks." She leaned into him. "Really. Thank you, Duncan."

"No problem." He led her to the steps, up to the veranda to the door with its Celtic knot in stained glass.

"How long have you lived here?"

"I guess about five years now. Mostly. I figured I'd sell it, b u't… long story." He gave her a quick smile as he unlocked and opened the door.

Golden light basked over rich colors, a wealth of space sweetened by curves from the elegant staircase, the wide archways. She moved beside him, stiffly, across the foyer into the parlor. There the atrium doors opened to a terrace, and beyond that more gardens danced, centered by an arbor where wisteria climbed and twined in a riot of beauty.

A piano angled to face the front windows, while chairs and divans in soft grays to offset the strong burgundy of the walls sat in groups. There was art on the walls, and she had an impression of marsh and river, Georgia dreamscapes along with a mix of antiques and the odd touch of a fat ceramic pig.

When he would have led her to a seat, she stepped away, crossed to the glass doors.

"I like your gardens."

"Me, too. I got into that kind of thing when I moved out here."

"I imagine so. It seems a lot of house for one man."

"Yeah. That's why I figured to sell it. But I actually use most of the place."

"Did you…" She rested her forehead against the glass, closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. We're coming to the falling-apart portion of the program."

"It's all right." He laid a hand on her back and, feeling her shake, knew they'd hit the eye of the storm. "You go right ahead."

He gathered her in when she turned to him, gathered her up when she began to sob. He carried her to the divan, then sat with her cradled in his arms. And he held her there while the storm raged through.

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?"