The Hill
Auteur
Carol Ericson
Lezers
17,0K
Hoofdstukken
16
Chapter One
“Your father was murdered. You could be next.”
London Breck jerked her head up from the slip of paper and caught the waiter’s arm as he turned away. “I’m sorry. Who gave this to you?”
The young man’s eyes widened and London released her death grip on his white jacket.
“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?”
“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.
She should’ve braved the paparazzi.
