She gave her head a terse shake. She could not remember the last time she had had that feeling, and it unsettled her. Her sex life had taken a nose dive since she married Ben. He never asked her to stop seeing people; quite the opposite, he positively encouraged her to have sex. Ben said she was nicest after a good meal and a good fuck. But fear of exposing Ben had prevented her from having sex for the last few years. She thought back. No, the last time she had sex was the night before her wedding. An old boyfriend had been passing through New York, and she had met him for drinks. No. Had it really been five years?
She could not think about that now. She had to deal with Dixon. “I need to call the police and then I think we should get you to the hospital.”
“I’m fine. Head wounds bleed a lot. Nothing to worry about.” He spoke with authority and it made her wonder about other times he had taken a blow to the head, or perhaps delivered one. Normally she would recoil at the thought of violence, but strangely she was not bothered. She felt…safe.
“It would help my case if an ambulance took you to the hospital. And stitches would really help,” she pressed. She wanted Dixon to go away for a good long time.
“Woman, it is a scratch,” he said in exasperation, but he was already dialling 911.
“Tell them you’re with me. The boys in blue like me,” she smiled. She had a good working relationship with the police department. She knew as a prosecutor to always keep law enforcement onside. And on a personal level, she would always be grateful to the police. Growing up, they had saved her more times than she wanted to remember.
“Really? I don’t really see you as the friends type.” His tone was noncommittal, hard to tell if he was insulting her or just giving on honest assessment of the situation. He was both right and wrong on that count. She had many friends on the most superficial level, but no one really knew her, other than Ben.
Before she could respond, his call went through.
“Hi, this is James Emerson. I’m with Megan McCoy. I need to report an incident.” He took a breath and rolled his eyes before he added. “Also I’ll need an ambulance.” His tone indicated that it pained him to make the request.
She could not help but smile; there was nothing sexier than a man making a sacrifice. As a whole, they did it so rarely.
Within minutes three police cars, a fire truck and an ambulance arrived, filling the parking lot of the steakhouse. Patrons and staff alike flooded from the restaurant to see the commotion. Nothing people liked better than a free show.
An officer she knew ran toward her. “Megan, you OK?”
“Fine now. Thanks, Mac. Be better once Dixon is locked up again.” She gestured to the police car, where he was being handcuffed.
“You sure you’re OK?” he asked again, concern evident in his tone.
She shrugged her shoulder. “All in a day’s work, right?”
Mac Duncan took a preliminary statement from her before he turned to James. “I’ll follow you to the hospital and get your statement there.”
James opened his mouth but quickly shut it again. She could tell he wanted to object to the ride in the ambulance but remained silent. The muscles in his jaw bunched together, his annoyance clear, but he acquiesced. Her estimation of him went up again.
“I can drive your car to the hospital and meet you there,” she offered.
“Fine,” he said, tossing his keys at her. When everyone was out of earshot he whispered, “You owe me one.” His words were casual but his tone sent a jolt through her. It was simultaneously menacing and sexual, not a combination she usually enjoyed, but from his mouth it held just the right amount of danger to make her tingle.
When Megan arrived at the hospital James was already being seen by a doctor; impressive, since it was a busy DC hospital and the ER waiting room was lined with people waiting to be seen.
Megan took a seat and picked up a copy of People Magazine. The edges were frayed and the main story was about the heroes of Hurricane Katrina. So not a recent issue she thought, as she tossed it back on the table.
“Mrs. McCoy,” the nurse at reception called.
Megan looked up. “Yes?”
“You can go back into examination room five if you want to wait with your friend.”
James Emerson was hardly a friend. She barely knew the man. She looked around the waiting room. At least twenty people were waiting, some bleeding, most just coughing like they had been nursing a ninety-a-day habit since infancy. God only knew the pathogens making their home here. An examination room with James suddenly seemed quite appealing.
A nurse showed her the way.
“Hi,” she said lamely when she saw James.
He nodded at her. “I’m getting stitched up. And a cast apparently.” James indicated his left hand.
She glanced down at his hand. It was swollen and an angry bruise had appeared across his knuckles. Shouldn’t he be moaning or wincing or something? Shed a stray tear at least. His face was mangled and he had a broken bone. When she stubbed her toe, the neighbours across the street knew about it. But James was sitting chatting quite happily like having his head split open was an everyday occurrence. “You broke your hand?” she asked.
“Looks like it. Your case better be airtight.”
“As long as my complaining witness doesn’t go all sentimental and change his mind because deep down you know he really does love you. And he only did it because he is such a passionate and misunderstood person.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
She nodded. “All the time. Domestic violence cases are a nightmare. Every second woman recants. There are always kids and dogs and grannies involved. It’s just ugly. Sorry you got caught up in it.”
He shook his head. “Not a problem. But why do you do it?”
“My job? Why do I do my job?” Her throat was suddenly dry. The question was possibly her least favourite. There was no answer that could possibly sum up her feelings adequately, or at least not one she would share with someone.
“Yeah. I reckon you could make a lot of money in private practice. My lawyer just bought a Ferrari. Come to think about it, I think he’s overcharging me.”
“Probably. Never trust lawyers. They’re a slimy lot.” She smiled.
“And apparently they’re good at avoiding questions. You didn’t give me an answer.” His face rose again in a half smile.
She shifted from one foot to the other but forced herself to look him directly in the eye. “I told you. I like putting bad guys away.”
“But why those bad guys?” he asked.
There was something about his tone that made her consider letting down her guard. Or maybe it was the gold flecks in his eyes, or the adrenaline, or the fact he had allowed himself to be physically assaulted for her, but she would never really let her public mask slip, especially not with a reporter. She never stopped being a DA, and she knew sure as shit nothing would ever be off the record with James if she told him things beyond her official bio. She and Ben had worked too long and too hard to let anything jeopardise them now. “Because I am good at it. I don’t have the highest conviction rate in the District by accident.”
She turned the question on him. “Why are you still in journalism? When your father was indicted, why didn’t you cash in and move to the Caribbean and sit on the beach and drink cocktails until you meet your maker?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not really a sitting on the