The stinking geezer picked up, with no salutation. He just waited for a report, line open. Telegraphing his disgust with silence.

“She’s back at the restaurant,” John said. “Burke brought her in his own car. Looks like he’s fucking her.”

“And upon what do you base this deduction?”

John’s lip curled at the old fart’s choice of words. “The way he stuck his tongue down her throat was my first clue.”

“Tell me about Burke,” the old guy challenged him.

John rifled through the documents he’d spent a long night collecting. “Bad news,” he admitted. “Ex–undercover field agent from the NSA, turned successful businessman. Designs software for the NSA, the CIA, Homeland Security, and various others. Close connections with various law enforcement agencies. I had difficulty getting info on him. Most of it’s top secret.”

“Ah. You must be happy, John. Now you have a plausible justification for your incompetence, eh?”

John tapped the console of the SUV with his fingernails and considered various tasty options in killing this old shitbird. After he’d gotten paid, of course. In fact, he was starting to consider fucking the old goat out of the entire prize. It was the only thing that could make this constant, grinding humiliation worthwhile.

“It does make things more complicated,” he said carefully.

“Yes, and the idiot carpenter with his violin complicated things for you too, eh? And he was no secret agent. Did Turturro have any luck with the younger sister?”

“No,” he said, after a painful pause. “He combed that crafts fair for hours. Apparently she never showed up.”

“Of course she did not. She is not an idiot, unlike others I could name. Stay on Antonella, John. Do not delegate. Do not lose her again. Your hired muscle so far has not failed to disappoint. Did she take anything with a listening device with her when she went to Burke’s apartment?”

“Just the laptop. It has a short range, however.”

“I’m no longer interested in excuses. Find a place to receive the frequency, no matter where she is. Failure is no longer an option.”

Haupt hung up on him. John’s teeth ground until his jaw ached.

He was going to need to kill something soon. And he had a feeling it was going to be that prick who was fucking Antonella. Yes, that would be good. John was still smarting from the man’s brazen challenge.

You’re not getting her. Fuck off and die, shithead. Yeah? His ass.

Burke would die for that. And Antonella would pay, and pay.

It was the strangest sensation. Duncan observed it curiously as he drove to the office, parked, and tipped the astonished garage attendant. Like a helium balloon in his midriff. The buoyancy floated him along. People were giving him strange looks.

He realized that he was grinning like a fucking idiot.

Jesus, it wasn’t totally abnormal to be in a good mood, was it? Then the middle-aged lady behind the coffee counter in the building lobby gave him a strange look when he told her he liked her as a redhead. It was the truth. She’d looked like hell as a blonde.

Strange. Like nobody’d ever seen a guy in a good mood before.

He headed up to the office, whistling. The grizzled divorce attorney in the elevator gave him a dark look. Duncan grinned back. The man harrumphed. Maybe dealing with divorce all day gave a guy gastritis.

He strode into the lobby. Derek was there, briskly collating something, dressed for Saturday in jeans and a T-shirt.

“Good morning, Derek,” he said.

Derek looked at him as if he’d sprouted wings. “Uh, hi, boss.”

“I appreciate you working Saturdays,” Duncan told him.

Derek’s eyes bulged even more than usual. “Uh, it’s no problem.”

Duncan clapped him on the shoulder as he passed Derek’s desk. “You get paid extra for Saturdays, right?”

“I get time and a half for overtime.” Derek’s face was fearful.

“Good. I’ll tack on a bonus. You deserve it. Keep it up, Derek.”

Odd, Duncan mused as he nodded and smiled at the die-hard Saturday-morning types. Derek didn’t blink an eye when Duncan snapped and barked, but a simple compliment scared him to death.

Come to think of it, all his employees were giving him that nervous look. Duncan glanced down to see if his shoes were mismatched, his fly unzipped. Nope. Everything was in order.

He shrugged, inwardly. Fuck it. He was having too much fun floating on his own private helium balloon to worry about it.

The phone began to ring the second he walked into his office. His private line. Nell, maybe, calling to tell him she was in as good a mood as he was. This daydream was quickly deflated by the recollection that she did not possess his private office number. Only his cell.

Answering the phone became suddenly a lot less appealing.

He sighed and grabbed the phone. “Burke here.”

“So, you finally came into the office!” his mother said. “What on earth is going on?” She paused expectantly.

“Nothing,” he said. “Business as usual.”

“Whatever you say. If you don’t tell me, I’ll just have to find out some other way. Have you talked to Elinor?”

Duncan’s good mood began to sink. “I haven’t had time yet.”

“Duncan, it’s so important that she change her mind! She’s determined to rebel. Please, you have to back me up on this—”

“I’ll call her,” he promised. “As soon as you get off the phone.”

He extricated himself from the conversation and punched in Elinor’s number. Her roommate, Mimi, picked up the phone. Loud, incoherent music pulsed in the background. “Who is it?” Mimi shrieked.

“Elinor’s brother. May I speak to her?”

“Elinor’s brother? Like, which one? The bodaciously cute one, or the uptight, stuffed-shirt one?”

“The stuffed-shirt one,” he specified, with weary patience.

“Yo, Ellie!” Mimi screeched. Duncan winced and held the phone away from his ear. “It’s your bro. The stuffed-shirt one.” Mimi listened, and said, “She’s coming. Hang on.” There was a clunk. Duncan leaned back in his chair, started to shrug off his coat, and stopped. The SIG.

Shit. He had to keep it on, sweat and all. He stuck his hand in his pocket and gasped at the soft, silky texture that assaulted his hand.

Petals. He jerked his hand out, startled. Rose petals scattered all over the desk, his chair, his lap, the floor.

He laughed out loud, causing a graphic designer and a junior accountant to peer through his open door, eyes big. They probably thought he was losing it. Maybe he was, he thought, with delirious glee.

“Hello? Hello?”

He yanked his attention back to the telephone. “It’s Duncan.”

“Hi.” Elinor sounded guarded. “Did Mother tell you to call?”

Duncan paused for a second. “Well—”

“Your job is to convince me to change my major back to econ. Consider my retirement plan, split-level suburban home, SUV, and cemetery plot, right? Not! Forget it. I’m going to follow my dreams!”

“I think that’s great,” Duncan said.

There was an uncertain pause. Elinor pressed on. “You can’t make me change my mind. I’ve got what it takes to—”

“Of course you do,” he agreed.

There was a confused silence from Elinor. “What?”

“You’ll be great. Go for it. Give it your best shot.”

Elinor was stupefied. “You’re not being sarcastic, are you?”

Duncan sifted petals through his fingers. “Am I such an ogre?”

“I was just wondering if, you know, an alien took over your body.”

“Hah.” He buried his nose in the petals. Like Nell’s skin.

“Mother’s gonna kill you,” Elinor predicted cheerfully.

“No doubt,” he agreed. He said good-bye and hung up, staring at the crimson mass of rose petals. His helium balloon reinflated, floating him up off his chair. He was done being the official wet blanket of the family. He entered the number of the cell he’d given Nell, and fingered a petal while it rang, savoring the agony of anticipation.