“And I told you that I have someone waiting on groceries and breakfast. He’s angry, and he’s on his way down.” Dash smiled and stood by the door, holding his bag.

He dramatically drew in a breath of the fragrant summer air. “Nice weather,” he observed as the elevator doors opened into the lobby.

Thorne stepped out in a crisp, dark suit that was likely worth more than Dash’s car.

The doorman scowled at Dash.

“Good thing it’s not terribly hot this morning. I have a feeling my friend gets even crankier when his food goes bad. He’s not good with disappointment.” Thorne glided toward them, moving soundlessly, like a cat stalking its prey.

Dash leaned in closer and spoke in a stage whisper. “He’s a little spoiled.”

“Am I now?”

The doorman jumped and turned. “Good morning, Mr. Shipton.” The man’s voice no longer held the arrogance it had when he’d spoken to Dash.

Thorne ignored him and gestured to Dash to step inside.

“This young man is here to see you?” The color drained from the doorman’s face.

“He is. I was in bed, waiting for my breakfast. Thanks to you, I’m now dressed and in the lobby, and I’ve not even had coffee yet. I’ve decided to call a meeting with the building manager, no point in being dressed for business if I’m not going to conduct some. Misconduct of building employees is at the top of the agenda.”

“Sir, I didn’t realize… I thought—”

“That he’d broken in, stolen my key, and come back to what, murder me with…” Thorne rose on tiptoe and peered into the grocery bag Dash held. “These?” He lifted out an egg carton. “Or these?” He pulled out a bundle of scallions.

“I’m not supposed to let anyone in who isn’t on the list of approved guests.” The man’s voice quavered.

Thorne glared at him. “He had my key, and you saw him exit, unless you weren’t paying such assiduous attention when he left.”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I saw him exit.”

“Then why didn’t you let him return?” Thorne’s tone had Dash on edge, and he wasn’t the focus of Thorne’s anger.

“He’s not on the list.”

Thorne turned when the elevator dinged. A lean man exited.

“Mr. Garnet, lovely morning, isn’t it?” Thorne asked.

Mr. Garnet was probably fifty-five. He was dressed in khakis and a rumpled button-down, and he did not look at all awake. “Yes, sir. It is.”

“Too bad we’re going to have to spend it on business.”

Mr. Garnet looked like he was bracing for a storm. Dash wondered how often Thorne demanded his presence. He hadn’t been kidding when he said the man was spoiled. “What’s wrong, Mr. Shipton?”