“Somebody’s got to post your bail,” Owen reminded him.

“I’m not going to pound on anybody. Probably. I’ve got a better idea. I’ve gotta go. The two of you will just have to pick up the slack for the rest of the day. And keep my dog.”

“What are you going to do?” Beckett demanded.

“I’m not going to hit him in the face. I’m going to hit him in the wallet and the pride. I figure that’s something he’ll understand.”

“Call if you need backup,” Owen said as Ryder stripped off his tool belt.

“I won’t.”

THE DRIVE TO D.C. gave him time to think. He really couldn’t afford the time, but saw no choice. Somewhere during the rise of temper and the fall of it, he’d figured where all this could, and likely would, go. The blonde, all pissed off and worked up, goes after Wickham about Hope. Dragging her into it again. She’d probably have plenty to say, too, at the hair salon, the nail place, the freaking country club.

Tossing her personal brand of shit all over Hope’s name and rep.

That damn well wasn’t going to happen.

The whole load of bull could make Wickham decide Hope might be more willing to take his offer, since she was being accused of it anyway. He might get it into his head to make another trip to Boonsboro, or call her, freaking email her, and get her twisted up again.

That wasn’t going to happen either.

He could warn Wickham off, but that would give the fucker too much attention, too much punch. He and his crazy wife humiliated Hope, and did it on her home turf.

Let them feel a little of the same.

As he got into the city, he followed his GPS directions, and cursed the traffic, the stupid one-way streets, the circles, the incompetence of other drivers.

He hated coming down here, avoided it like the plague. Just buildings and roads and people and construction detours, all of them crowded together in a way that made no sense to him.

He couldn’t wait to drive out of it again.

But a job was a job, he told himself when he finally managed to park. Heat and humidity bounced off the sidewalk, slathered him as he walked toward the pristine entrance of the Wickham. Colonial elegance with rivers of summer flowers, windows that tossed sunlight, and a doorman liveried in dignified gray with red trim.

Dignified enough he didn’t blink at opening the door for some guy in work clothes.

The lobby spread, white marble floors veined with black, huge-ass urns of flowers—forests of them. Dark oak paneling, crystal chandeliers, velvet sofas all worked together to say, clearly: high-class. And a gleaming front desk manned by a woman in black who could’ve made a living on any catwalk.