The Hill. Carol Ericson

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      “Like I told you, Ms. Breck. I found the folded piece of paper on my tray with your name written on the outside. I—I don’t know who put it there...and I didn’t read it.”

      She crumpled the note in her fist and dropped it into her evening clutch, trading it for a ten-dollar bill. “That’s okay. Thanks for delivering it to me.”

      The waiter pocketed the money and scurried away without looking back.

      Someone had decided to play a joke with that note, or it signaled the opening gambit of some sort of scam. London tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. If this con man believed he could pull a fast one on her or Breck Global Enterprises, he hadn’t met their legal team.

      She straightened her spine and turned to face the room, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. It was an occupational hazard—if one could call glad-handing and raising money an occupation. But it was the only one she’d ever had, the only one she’d ever trained for.

      She swept a champagne flute from a passing tray with practiced ease and turned her attention to the crowd jamming the Fairmont Hotel’s ballroom. Which well-heeled donor or wannabe had left that note? Scanning the room, her gaze tripped over the hottie in the corner.

      Even though his crisp tux conformed to the dress code for the evening, he had outsider scribbled all over his amazing body. The tux couldn’t mask the sheer power of the man, and it had very little to do with the way the material puckered and stretched across his massive shoulders, crying out for a good tailor.

      His stance, his demeanor—okay, the dark sunglasses—marked him as a member of the bevy of body-and security guards that littered the room, jealously watching their clients or their clients’ jewels or both. Probably not the author of the note, but definitely worth a closer inspection.

      The note almost forgotten, London squinted at the pretty people bedecked in diamonds and designer duds and wondered which one had invited that powerful panther into the midst of the pampered trust-fund babies and oily politicians.

      “Don’t you know squinting like that will bring on the wrinkles, my dear?”

      London rolled a sip of champagne on her tongue as she eyed her cousin. Speaking of trust-fund babies...

      “Have you seen Roger tonight?”

      “Your square-jawed, preppy suitor?” Niles shook his head. “For someone practically running the company, he sure misses a lot of soirees, doesn’t he?”

      She drew her fingertip around the rim of her glass. She didn’t want to talk about the company. “Did you bid on something fabulous, Niles?”

      “Of course I did. It’s all rather too late, though, isn’t it?” He plucked a cracker brimming with caviar from the tray on the table and studied it before popping it into his mouth.

      “Too late?” She steadied herself for one of her cousin’s acidic barbs.

      He brushed his fingers together. “Here we are raising all this money for heart disease, but your father, Spencer Breck, already bit the dust, leaving you gazillions of dollars and handing you the reins of Breck Global. Should’ve had this fund-raiser before he kicked the bucket.”

      “I can always count on you to say the right thing at the right moment, bringing light and comfort.”

      Niles clicked his tongue, a decidedly feminine gesture she was sure Mr. Dark Sunglasses over in the corner had never made in his life.

      Then Niles leaned in, his booze-soaked breath tickling her ear. “This is your cousin Niles. You don’t have to pretend with me, my dear. I know you despised the man as much as I did.”

      He threw his silk scarf over his shoulder and waltzed away, throwing a kiss at a dowager across the room.

      Maybe Niles had written that note to stir up trouble. She wouldn’t put it past him. His own father had left Niles gazillions of dollars, but it was never enough for Niles.

      Besides, Niles and his father, her late uncle Jay, might have despised Spencer, but her relationship with him had contained many more nuances than simple dislike.

      She placed her champagne glass down next to the plate of caviar. The abrupt action caused the sparkling liquid to slosh over the rim. A waiter appeared as if by magic, whisking away the glass, replacing it with a fresh one and blotting the drops of champagne from the white tablecloth with a thick napkin. He even swapped out the plate of caviar, although none of the liquid had touched it.

      The dull throbbing in her head from earlier in the evening made a repeat performance. She had to get away from the chatter.

      She turned and collided with a brick wall—a brick wall in a fine wool suit. The man with the sunglasses caught her arm with a surprisingly gentle grip.

      “I’m sorry.” His voice was a deep baritone that sent shocks of awareness up her spine.

      He wasn’t wearing sunglasses anymore and she stared into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. “M-my fault.”

      He released her arm and strode past her.

      She watched his broad back as he cut a swath through the partygoers. He landed in front of Bunny Harris and ducked as the older woman whispered something in his ear.

      Watching the exchange, London sucked in her lower lip. Was he one of Bunny’s escorts? If so, the old dame’s taste in men had gone up several notches.

      London slipped out of the room and headed for the ladies’ restroom. On the way, Captain Williams from the San Francisco police department stopped her.

      “This is a wonderful benefit, London. I’m sure your father would’ve been proud.”

      “Thank you, Captain.”

      He shook a finger in her face. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Les? I’ve known you since you were a little girl, but you’re a grown woman now. Les will do.”

      “I’ll try to remember that...Les. If you’ll excuse me.” She’d been inching away from him during their conversation and was able to turn and make a break for it. If Captain Les Williams thought she had any pull to get him the chief’s job, he’d better start kissing someone else’s backside. Her father, with his connections to the SFPD, hadn’t been able to do it, so she sure as hell couldn’t.

      She pushed through the ladies’ room door. A couple of women were primping at the vanity and stopped their gossip long enough to smile at London in the mirror.

      She nodded and swept past them to the restroom. Leaning against the tile counter, she dug into her clutch for an ibuprofen. She cupped some water in her hand from the faucet and swallowed the gelcap.

      The voices of the women in the outer room rose and then a man burst through the bathroom door, holding his hand in front of him. “Don’t be alarmed, Ms. Breck. I’d just like to ask you a few questions. Ray Lopez from KFGG. You might’ve seen my show.”

      She’d need to pop another ibuprofen at this rate. Instead she wedged a hand on her hip. “Really? You’re following me into the ladies’ room to get an interview?”

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