Page 91 of Diego

“No?”

“No. In fact, Randall didn’t seem to have any idea what I wanted. We're going to have to consider removing him from his position.”

Something flickers in Lorenzo’s face.

It’s almost too quick, but I catch it.

“So,” he says, far too casually, “who did you see houses with?”

I point at him. “You’re using that tone.”

“What tone is that?” he asks innocently.

“The tone where you ask me something but you already know the answer and you’re waiting to see if I lie to you or not.”

“I am not aware of such a tone.” He reaches for his coffee very calmly.

“Yes, you are. You are aware of everything.”

He takes a drink.

“So you're really going to pretend you don't know? That's just embarrassing, Lorenzo.”

Lorenzo lowers the coffee cup and studies me for another moment, clearly deciding how much he wants to enjoy this before answering. I know better than to rush him. The more impatient I get, the more satisfaction he will take from whatever is going on behind that expression, so I settle back into the chair and wait him out.

“I know she’s new,” he says finally. “I know you asked for her specifically instead of letting Shaw handle you, and now you’re sitting in my office less than twenty-four hours later telling me you found a property you intend to buy.”

“That does not explain the look on your face.”

“No, the look on my face is because you walked in here practically glowing.”

I stare at him. “I do not glow.”

“You’re in an exceptionally good mood for a man who was threatening bodily harm over his housing situation a couple of days ago.”

“I found somewhere to live.”

“So you keep saying.”

“I had a productive day.”

Lorenzo’s eyebrows rise slightly. “It would seem so.”

I point at him. “There. That.”

“What?”

“That was the tone.”

He makes no effort to hide his amusement now. “You have become remarkably sensitive to my tone.”

“Because I know you. You don’t ask questions unless you already have a reason for asking them.”

Lorenzo leans back, one hand resting on the arm of his chair. “Fine. Then you tell me about Blair Owens.”

I should have known better than to walk into this office in a good mood. I should have emailed him the address, told him what I wanted investigated, and gone directly to my own office without giving him enough time to notice anything about me.

Instead, I am sitting here while my brother watches me with the patient expression of a man who knows that, eventually, I will give him something useful.