The Hill. Carol Ericson

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      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?”

      “Just a comment.”

      “You can’t call my office?”

      He spread his hands as he smiled. “You know and I know it’s not that easy to reach you at your...office. Just a quick question about your father’s death.”

      One of the women from the other room had followed the reporter into the bathroom and skewered him with an icy gaze. “Security is on the way.”

      He shrugged and stepped closer to London.

      “I’ve already done that interview, Mr. Lopez—just not with you.” She turned toward the mirror and ran the pad of her thumb over one eyebrow.

      “You didn’t answer this question. Did you find your father’s death suspicious?”

      “Not at all.” She backed away from the mirror and tucked her bag under her arm, brushing past Lopez. Had he written the threatening note to manufacture some story? Why would he ask that question? She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking him about his motives.

      As she took one step out of the lounge, a security guard barreled past her. “Sir, you’re not allowed in the ladies’ room. I’m going to have to escort you out of the hotel.”

      Lopez craned his head over his shoulder to give her one last look as the security guard hustled him toward the escalator.

      She blew out a long breath. She couldn’t even escape notice in the ladies’ bathroom. She’d had enough, enough of the pretense and the fake smiles and the eager reporters...and the vaguely threatening notes. Her father had passed away just last month—of natural causes. Surely she could be excused for having a headache and leaving the shindig early.

      She plucked her phone from her purse and called her driver. “Theodore, I’m ready to go. Meet me in the side alley. I don’t want to go through the front entrance.”

      “Paparazzi stalking you again, Ms. Breck?”

      “You have no idea.”

      “On my way.”

      When she entered the ballroom, she located her cousin, who was telling some risqué story and taking liberties with the truth. She crooked her finger at him and he broke away from his adoring audience.

      “I’m getting out of here. People already think I was terribly brave making an appearance so soon after Dad’s death.”

      “Especially since he did go off rather abruptly.”

      Was everyone drinking the same water? Lifting her shoulders, she said, “He did have heart disease.”

      “Although all his money allowed him to manage it quite well.”

      “Did you send me a note tonight, Niles?”

      “A note?” His tweezed eyebrows shot to his hairline. “What are you talking about?”

      “Nothing. Never mind.” Had she really expected him to confess? Of course, maybe she’d just put him on notice.

      She flicked her fingers at the room, still buzzing with activity. “Could you please do the honors for me? Announce the winners of the silent auction, thank everyone for coming and so on and son on.”

      He patted her arm with his long, thin hand. “I’d be happy to, my dear. You go home and get a good night’s sleep and dream of your billions.”

      She sighed. “You’re not exactly in the poorhouse, cousin.”

      “Ah, but your father was the lucky one—and the greedy one.”

      “I already have a headache. Let’s not get into family politics.” She kissed the air somewhere near his cheek and pivoted on her heel.

      She nearly bumped into Bunny Harris at the coat check, hanging on to a much younger man’s arm, but not the man with the sunglasses. “So sorry, Bunny. Are you off already?”

      “Don’t worry, London. I made a sizable donation to the cause. Your father was one of my oldest friends. I’ll miss him.”

      “Thank you.” London’s gaze strayed over Bunny’s shoulder to her model-handsome companion lounging against the coat-check window.

      Bunny slid her ticket across the counter with one manicured fingertip. “Oh, this is...”

      “Lance.” The man reached around Bunny, extending his hand. “Ms. Breck.”

      “Nice to meet you.” She shook his hand and then dropped it. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

      Lance draped Bunny’s fur around her shoulders and they descended the escalator to the lobby of the hotel.

      Shaking her head, London dipped her hand into her purse for the claim ticket and felt the note. She pulled it out with the ticket and examined the block letters written with a black felt-tip pen.

      She’d hold on to it for a day or two in case there was a follow-up and then turn it over to Breck Global’s security team. It could very well be that reporter trying some angle.

      The coat-check clerk plopped her leather bomber jacket on the counter. “Cool jacket.”

      London smiled, handed her a tip and headed for the escalator, hugging the jacket to her chest. When she hit the first step, she gathered the skirt of her long dress in one hand and lifted it.

      She glided into the lobby and a bellhop sprang to life. “Do you need a taxi, Ms. Breck?”

      “No, thanks. My driver’s waiting.” Technically, Theodore was her father’s driver, but she didn’t have the heart to let him go, even though she felt silly with a driver.

      She stuffed her arms into her jacket and pulled out her phone to check the time. If Theodore had taken the car back to her father’s Pacific Heights mansion, it shouldn’t take him more than ten or fifteen minutes to get here.

      She parked herself in front of a rack of flyers and studied the trips to Alcatraz and the wine country for a few minutes. Then she glanced over her shoulder at a few people crisscrossing the lobby. No photographers, no Ray Lopez, although they could be waiting for her out front. She pushed through the side door of the hotel. Lifting her skirts, she traipsed down the steps and shoved open the heavy metal door to the outside.

      It slammed behind her.

      The dark alley glistened with moisture. Theodore hadn’t made it yet. She squinted toward the street, partially blocked by a Dumpster.

      He must’ve taken the car somewhere else on his break. She turned toward the side door and grabbed the handle, pressing it down. The door didn’t budge.

      A footstep crunched behind her, but before she had time to turn around, an arm hooked around her throat.

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