"G.o.dd.a.m.n it." Beckett leaned back against a wall. There was done, in his mind, and there was done. "It sounds like we need to take a little road trip, have a discussion with Wickham."

"And after I bail the two of you out of jail, what then?" Owen demanded. "Beating the living s.h.i.t out of Wickham doesn't help Hope. It won't make her feel better."

"We'll feel better," Beckett said, and Owen was forced to nod.

"Yeah, we would. h.e.l.l. I'll drive."

"I'll handle it," Ryder told him. But knowing his brothers had his back defused the time bomb of temper.

"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 p.i.s.sed 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 s.h.i.t all over Hope's name and rep.

That d.a.m.n 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 f.u.c.ker 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-a.s.s urns of flowers-forests of them. Dark oak paneling, crystal chandeliers, velvet sofas all worked together to say, clearly: high-cla.s.s. And a gleaming front desk manned by a woman in black who could've made a living on any catwalk.

"Welcome to the Wickham. How can I help you today?"

"I need to see the owner. Wickham. Senior."

"I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Wickham is unavailable. If you'd like to speak with our manager?"

"Wickham. Tell him Ryder Montgomery needs to speak with him. Don't bother to call the manager," he said, antic.i.p.ating her. "Or security. Just tell Wickham I'm here to discuss the charges against his daughter-in-law for a.s.sault."

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me. If he's okay with that, I'll go on home and make that happen. If he's not, he'll talk to me." Ryder just shrugged as she lost her composure enough to goggle at him. "I'll wait."

He stepped back, glanced around. Looked like a h.e.l.l of a nice bar off the lobby, he noted. He'd have liked to go in-not for a beer, he was driving in this G.o.dd.a.m.n traffic again shortly-but to see how it was put together.

He could see Hope here, easily. In her excellent suit and her fancy stilts. She'd fit right in with the marble and crystal, with the shine and elegance and flowers so d.a.m.n big he suspected steroids.

"Mr. Montgomery."

He turned, studied the man in the dark suit. "Security? No need to toss me out. I'll just see Mr. Wickham in court."

"I'll escort you to Mr. Wickham's office. And remain."

"Works for me."

They walked up a curving staircase, along a mezzanine, then through a set of oak doors into a small secondary lobby.

Security knocked on another set of doors.

"Come!"

"Mr. Montgomery, sir." The security guard stepped back, stood at parade rest.

Wickham remained seated at a heavily carved desk that might have suited a president or the king of some small country. He had a shock of white hair, hard blue eyes, and a smooth golden tan.

"I don't allow people to threaten my family."

"No?" Ryder hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. "Me either. Let me lay this out for you, and when I have you can say what you want to say, and we'll be done. My family owns Inn BoonsBoro. Hope Beaumont is our innkeeper."

"I'm aware."

"Good, saves time with the setup. I'm not going to get into what went on with Hope and your son, your part in it or anyone else's. I wasn't around, and that was then anyway. This is now."

"My family has nothing to do with yours, Mr. Montgomery. And I take threats against my son's wife very seriously."

"Good, you should, because they're d.a.m.n serious. As to your family having nothing to do with mine? You're going to need to reevaluate that when I'm done. A couple of months ago your son showed up at our inn. He told Hope you had an offer for her, a big fat one to lure her back. That's your business, and I can't blame you for trying. She's d.a.m.n good at what she does. Then he made her a side offer. She comes back to him, too, and he'll take care of her. He'll set her up, make it worth her while."

A red flush-temper or embarra.s.sment-rose onto Wickham's cheeks. "If you think you can come in here-"