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"Someone was brave enough today," Mac said shortly.
Why couldn't they see how shook up she was? Why was he the only one seeing it?
Another uncomfortable pause. "Well," the other man said, sizing up the situation with an even look. "Hank Ramm. We were talking about who was going to take Officer Siemanski home."
"I'll take care of her," Mac said.
Hank, older than Rick, old enough to be Violet's father, looked toward her for confirmation. Mac wanted to be insulted, but he wasn't. He was irritated with the delay, but glad that Violet had men who watched out for her, though he wondered where the hell they'd been earlier today. It was an unfair question, since he knew troopers patrolled alone, but what was rational didn't mean a good goddamn to him at the moment.
He waited a heart-thudding ten seconds.
"He'll take care of me," she said softly.
The men nodded, and a few minutes later made their goodbyes. Hank pressed her opposite shoulder as he moved past her. "You call if you need anything, Violet. You did real good today. You remember that. You'll be back on the job in no time. Consider it a well-deserved vacation."
Mac waited until they left, then turned to her. "They're putting you on desk duty until they close the file?"
She nodded. "I know it's standard procedure, but I can't help thinking it's also because I'm young, less experienced, and I could have..."
"Don't. You're alive. No matter what happens, that's never something to regret, because if he'd do a cop, he'd do anyone."
She nodded, held up a warding hand as he took another step forward. "Mac..." Her voice broke and she sucked it in, shuddered. "I can't--"
"Just let me hold you," he said. His arms went around her and she held rigid for a second, fighting it, and then she had her face pressed against his chest to muffle her sobs, her hands clutched in his shirt, clinging hard to the skin and muscle beneath, digging in painf
ully as she shook.
Mac looked over her head and saw Hank at the curtain. The man nodded, gave him a thumbs up. He turned, and really left them this time, apparently satisfied Mac would do as he said. Take care of her.
"It's okay, baby." He held her as close as he could, bending his head down over hers, brushing his lips over the bandage. Just a graze, a glancing shot that could so easily have hit its mark. "You're all right. You're alive."
"I was so scared, Mac," she said, mumbling against his shirt. "I've never been so scared. I've never had to pull my gun, then he was there, reaching beneath the seat, faster than I thought anyone could move, and training kicked in. I was telling him to stop, but he wasn't, and he jerked it up at the same moment I got mine out and there was this single moment when he shot, everything in slow motion."
He'd gotten off the first shot while she was still shouting at him to stop. Mac's jaw tightened. Jesus Christ. It was as much prayer as expletive.
"And then, it was all so slow, I knew he was going to fire again. There we were, a foot away from each other, his finger tightening, and I fired. Right in his face. He's gone. I killed him. I took everything away."
"He took everything away." Mac caught her chin, made her look up at him, caught her tears on his thumb. "He made his choice the moment he made the decision to draw that gun. I'm taking you home. Let's get you dressed."
"I know what a lot of guys think, that women have no business on the force. And it's because of things like this. Look at me, I'm falling apart."
"No," he said firmly. "No, you're not." He lowered his voice, brought his face even closer to hers, so their foreheads were pressed together and she closed her eyes. "You said that I was a male chauvinist, that I didn't want my Mistress to be a cop. That's true, but it's not because I think you can't do the job. It's because I know you can, because you're brave enough to do what you did today, to keep your wits about you and do the job, and I don't want to lose my Mistress. You're a hell of a cop, Violet, and to the man who loves you, that's a terrifying thing."
*
She wanted to ride his bike rather than take a squad car home. She got on behind him and he gave her his helmet. When she slid her arms around his waist, and her body up against his, she was holding him a little tighter than necessary. He didn't mind. She could squeeze him like a python if she needed to do so. Before the painkiller wore off, he wanted to hurry and get her home. It was a flesh wound, but he knew she'd be sore all over tomorrow anyway. The first time you were in a gunfight, you tightened up every muscle, and your body stayed that way unconsciously for hours. He needed to get her into a hot bath, give her a massage.
"I want to go to your place," she murmured. "Please."
He put his hand over her clasped ones on his chest. "We can be there in fifteen minutes."
He lived in a small bungalow on the marsh, one of Florida's prime pieces of real estate with the run down look of a fishing shack on the outside, a rambling, cozy interior and a breathless view of the marsh from the large back screen porch.
He parked the bike in a crofter on the side and took her hand to help her off. It wasn't a highly athletic maneuver, but he could tell she was still shaky, and the muscles were starting to stiffen, as he predicted. On a surge of emotion, he simply bent and scooped her up to carry her up the small path to his back porch door.
"Mac, I can walk," she protested. "It was just a graze, after all."
"I know. Humor me. I need to take care of you."
