At least there was an ice bucket—which she supposed said something about Dave’s priorities, or perhaps those of his clients. She tipped out the receipts which had collected in the bucket onto the kitchen counter, rinsed it out and froze her fingers dipping cubes from the ice maker.
“Isn’t it a little early for cocktails?” she asked as she backed into the office.
Then she saw why Dave had wanted ice, and she almost dropped the pizza pan.
The mysterious woman in the picture hat was mysterious no longer. At least, she wasn’t hiding her identity anymore, though Darcy would bet there was quite a story behind the blackened eye, the bruised jaw, and the angry-looking cut on her upper lip. No wonder the woman had said she couldn’t drink her coffee hot.
Darcy set the pizza pan atop Dave’s desk, pushed the cream and sugar off the dish towel she’d used to cover up the discolored surface of the pan, dumped the ice into the towel, and held it out to the blonde. “Car accident?” she said. “Or—something else?”
“Something else,” the blonde said. “Thanks.” She cradled the towel against her cheek.
Mr. Elegance held out a hand. “I’m Trey Kent,” he said gruffly. “This is my sister Caroline. Dave assures me you’re able to keep a secret—and now you know why I was concerned about that.”
“Yes,” Darcy said. “If I can help in any way—”
“That’s what we’re here to discuss with Dave,” Trey said.
Dismissed. Darcy felt like saluting.
They were still behind closed doors when she came back downstairs a few minutes later, dressed in heather tweed slacks and a short-sleeved sweater. She was leaning over Mrs. Cusack’s desk, reviewing the day’s calendar, when she heard the doorknob of Dave’s office give its characteristic groan, and she pushed the calendar aside and hurried toward the kitchen to make another pot of coffee.
Not, she told herself, to avoid coming face to face with Mr. Elegance again. She couldn’t possibly care less what he thought about her.
The telltale loose board in the hallway creaked, and a moment later Trey Kent was standing in the kitchen doorway, the sopping-wet towel in his hand. He was holding it gingerly, as if afraid it would drip on his perfectly creased trousers. “I think we’re finished with this, Ms. Malone.”
Darcy took the towel, wrung it out, and hung it over the faucet. “I hope it helped.”
“You were very kind.”
She waited for him to go back to Dave’s office, but instead he leaned against the front of the cabinets and folded his arms across his chest. “My sister’s wedding is scheduled for the middle of December.”
And why are you telling me about it? “Really? Now that just goes to show why Dave’s the lawyer and I’m the part-time secretary, because I’d have guessed she was here for a restraining order, not a prenuptial contract. Unless of course it wasn’t the fiancé who did this to her.”
“It was. And she won’t be marrying him.”
“Well, that’s good news. Most battered women are so off balance about the whole thing that they blame themselves for getting beaten—and they don’t even consider filing charges.”
“Can you blame them? Taking the whole thing to court is complicated, inconvenient, unpleasant and time-consuming.”
Darcy looked at him thoughtfully. “Don’t forget embarrassing,” she said coolly. “Especially for the family.”
“Not to mention risky for the victim who stands up against an abuser.”
“So is that why she’s talking to Dave instead of the district attorney—because you’d rather handle it all quietly?”
“Not quite. We have an appointment with the district attorney later this morning, but I brought Caroline to see Dave first so he could tell her why it’s absolutely necessary she not back down and let Corbin go free to do it again to someone else. But I’m sure you don’t need the legal process explained to you.”
Darcy bit her lip. “Oh. I thought—”
“It was quite clear what you thought, Ms. Malone. In the meantime, however, this whole thing has left us with a problem.”
“Us?” Darcy asked. “I assume you’re speaking generically, because I don’t feel that this is exactly a personal difficulty for me.”
“A problem for Caroline and for me. And for the Kentwells chain.”
Darcy snapped her fingers. “Of course. Kentwells—the department store group. No wonder your name sounded familiar. Trey Kent…let me think. You’re not actually named Trey, are you? You’re Something, Something Kent the Third—that’s where they got the Trey.”
“It’s better than being called Junior as my father sometimes was.”
“No contest there. So what is your name, really?”
“Andrew Patrick Kent.” He added, sounding reluctant, “The Third.”
“All those nice first names and you don’t use a single one of them. Such a shame.”
“Has your brother ever told you you’re impertinent?”
“Frequently. But since I’m not officially working for him, he can’t fire me, you see.”
“He said you’re not working at all right now.”
“On the contrary.” Darcy reached for a mug. “I’m working very hard to get a full-time job. In fact, one of the applications in the stack on the desk, waiting for the mailman to pick it up, is addressed to the head of marketing at the Kentwells stores. I put my best samples in it. Of course, I put my best samples in all the packages I send out.”
“Marketing,” he said thoughtfully. “Dave said you’re trained as a graphic artist.”
“You know, it sounds to me as if Dave was doing more talking about me than about his client. That’s not like Dave.”
His gaze flickered. “I asked him about you.”
“Really? I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why you wanted to know?”
“I might be able to pull some strings for you.”
“Why would you want to?” Darcy asked bluntly. “Why would it even occur to you? The impression I made this morning can’t have been anything to make you want to help me out. Or do you mean Dave asked you to give me a hand?”
He didn’t answer. “You have a certain potential.”
“Oh, I get it. You’ll find me a job with your competitors so I can create chaos for them. Or are you just interested in getting me out of here so I can’t gossip about Caroline’s problems? Of course it’s a little late to prevent me from talking about what happened this morning, if I wanted to. Not that I would, because I can keep a secret.”
“Dave assures me you’re the soul of discretion.” His voice was dry.
“But you don’t believe him, so you want to cut a private deal to keep me from blowing my mouth off.”
He didn’t answer. “I’d like to tell you about my problem, Ms. Malone. Or may I call you Darcy?”
“I guess I can’t stop you from calling me whatever you want. But before you tell me all the gory details about Caroline, you should know I don’t counsel battered women or the guys who beat them up.”
“I have no intention of telling you the details, gory or otherwise, about Caroline.”
“Then what on earth can I do for you, Trey?”
He seemed to flinch