Page 204 of Ricardo

I have seen that expression on him before.

In courtrooms. At charity boards. Across dining tables when he believed I had made a choice he could not correct in public.

He is waiting.

For a mistake. For evidence.

For something to hold against me.

I turn slightly, letting Ricardo’s shoulder block the line of sight.

“Your father?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to speak to him?”

“Absolutely not.”

He looks almost disappointed.

“Ricardo.”

“I said nothing.”

“You look like you want to commit a felony.”

“Only a small one.”

“There are no small felonies where my father is concerned.”

“He hates me already. What could it hurt?”

“All the more reason.”

I glance up to see his smirk. “Do you ever stop?”

“For you? No.”

The answer makes something inside me melt.

His eyes warm, and for one second I remember the suite upstairs. And his mouth against my ear earlier, telling me competence arouses him.

Then Tomasso appears near Ricardo’s left shoulder.

“What?” he asks.

Tomasso keeps his voice casual, like he could be discussing dessert. “Entry chain confirms the substitution. Bradshaw’s office sent the email at 4:17. Owen approved it at 4:26. Badge printed at 5:06. Rusk entered at 7:12.”

Ricardo’s jaw tightens. “Calls?”

“Two to Owen from a number tied to Great Lakes Civic Growth Fund. One yesterday, one this afternoon.”

My stomach sinks.

Owen, you idiot.

“Do we know if Owen answered?” I ask.