like what he said next, and he didn’t care, which explained why he did it in front of witnesses.
“I’m out right after. Have personal business.”
“Is that so?” The look she gave him was a warning—a warning he ignored.
“Yes, Dorothea,” he snarled, using her formal name. “I’ve got business in California.”
They shared a few seconds of eyeball combat. He refused to back down.
“You do know that Lee gets a say, right?”
“If you’re referring to the boss, that guy can suck my dick. If you mean my friend, King,” he said pointedly, “he’ll understand.”
Dottie refused to call Kingsley Maddison by his shortened name and insisted he be called Lee. There was a reason, but it came with a story, and right now, he couldn’t care less.
Leave it to Dottie to blow past the barrier he tried to throw up. She didn’t have time for his bullshit. “What’s in California, Darnell?”
He smirked. Whenever they called each other by their formal names, it meant upper-level head-butting was underway.
“None of your business, Mrs. Anders.”
“The name is Quick. Which is what you better be if gallivanting around the West Coast is on your agenda. Four days. That’s it. You get four days.”
She studied him for half a second. “Does this have anything to do with your reluctance to cut short your visit in January?”
He didn’t react in any way, so good ole Dottie kept digging.
“Out of character for you, don’t you think? I mean, aren’t you endlessly whining and bitching about how nuts your family is?”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Izzy snicker and quickly cover her mouth. Everyone and their cousin’s, neighbor’s, dog walker knew about his antipathy for the Wanamaker clan. Loathing the family was a part of his arrogant charm.
Knowing she scored a direct hit, Dottie grinned with annoying smugness.
If he let her inside his head now, she’d complicate the fuck out of something already too convoluted for words, so he chose a line he was certain she wouldn’t cross.
“If you must know,” he told her in a calm, controlled voice, “my grandfather cultivated a new hybrid rose that he’s named after my mother. He’d just unveiled the results of his labors when duty called.” He wrapped up the plausible explanation by saying, “Unfinished business.”
Dottie’s silence proved how neatly he’d boxed her in. There were just two things he never talked about. One involved a specific incident from his time at the DOJ, and the other was his mother.
Her deep affection for him came through in her words when she offered a small smile, and said, “That’s lovely, Arnie.”
They locked eyes. Dottie was one of the privileged few who understood the significance of his nickname, and why he was such a dick about who used it. To most of the world, he was Darnell T. Wanamaker III. Only his NIGHTWIND colleagues and people who knew his mother and were loved by her were allowed to address him as Arnie. He let his younger brother call him by the nickname, but not the evil bitch who called herself Stan’s mother.
Nope. Giselle was singled out when it came to the name game, and he had his father to thank. Getting bamboozled into sleeping with the nanny and marrying her when she got knocked up showed his dad’s failings at a moment of extreme weakness. But he quickly found his balls and in deference to the wife he adored and lost, Ned made it clear he never wanted to hear Giselle utter the pet name Arnie’s mother had used during her three short days as a mom.
There was a faint twinkle in his old friend’s eyes. Dottie didn’t completely believe him, but she was experienced at choosing her battles and let the whole thing drop.
Izzy styled his hair while he impatiently waited for Dottie to bring him his phone. When she did, it was dead. He scowled and snarled, making a big deal out of the fact that she had two full days to charge the damn thing after his assignment ended, and she knew he was on his way home.
In a car on the way to Manhattan, he slid his watch on and continued to complain about everything. The temperature, an overcast sky, tight shoes, the horrendous timing of New York City’s traffic lights. His surly attitude wasn’t likely to abate once his interrogation by the men in suits began. Chances were good it’d be ten times worse when they finished.
“Don’t fuck this up, Arnie. Just tell them what they need to know