The Hill

Dropping the bag at her feet, London scanned the room. “This sort of reminds me of Philip Marlowe’s office.”

“Um, I don’t have any palm trees swaying in the Santa Ana winds out my window.”

She spun around, arms flung out to her sides. “You know what I mean—cramped quarters, battered old desk, piles of paper all over.”

“You make it sound so...charming.” He pointed to the bag on the floor. “Are those the rest of my clothes?”

“Yes.” She folded her hands in front of her, an expectant look on her face.

She must’ve wanted to see him, or she would’ve sent one of her lackeys over here. Did she want him to ask her out? Continue their game of flirtation? Take her across his battered old desk?

He cleared his throat and wedged one motorcycle boot against the edge of the desk—just in case.

“I—I have a proposition for you.”

A pulse thudded in his throat. He liked propositions from beautiful women. He could sweep all this junk off his desk in two seconds. “Yeah?”

“I want to...hire you.”

He crashed to earth but kept his expression immobile. “To do what?”

“To do what you do.” She flicked her fingers in the air. “To be my bodyguard.”

He clenched his jaw. Bad idea. Instead of dating him, did she think she could keep him on a chain, yanking him this way and that, barking orders? He didn’t roll that way.

“No.” He let his foot drop heavily to the floor.

She blinked and then widened her eyes. “Why not? That’s your profession, isn’t it? If it’s the money—”

He held up a hand. “I know you’re good for it, but I don’t do that type of bodyguarding.”

“What type?” She tilted her head and her ponytail swung to the other shoulder.

“The general you-can-be-my-lapdog-and-carry-my-shopping-bags type.” He pushed to his feet and folded his arms across his chest, flexing just in case she didn’t get the message.

Her lips parted and a rosy flush spread across her cheeks. “I’m not—you’re not—it’s not like that.”

“Really.”

“I need a protector, not a lapdog.” She reached into the bag, pulled out his dinner jacket and tossed it onto the desk. She threw the cummerbund over her shoulder onto the floor. Then she straightened to her full height, plus five-inch heels, clutching a black watch cap to her chest.

“I need protection from this.” Pinching the cap between two fingers, she dangled it in front of him.

His eyes narrowed as he took in the ski mask with the white lightning bolt down the front of it. “Where’d you find that?”

“It was in the backseat of the limo.” She jiggled it so that it danced between them. “One of the carjackers, because Theodore confirmed there were two, must’ve lost it in the struggle. The same ski mask he wore when he attacked me outside the hotel last night.”

“Let me see it.” He held out his hand and she dropped it onto his palm. He stretched it out and traced the white pattern. “It’s definitely the same one.”

“Someone attacked me last night and then followed the limo and for whatever reason tried to steal it from Theodore.”

“Sure looks that way.” He poked his fingers into the eyeholes of the mask. “Maybe he got a good look at your diamonds and decided to go for them again.”

“Then there’s the note.”

“The note?” He jerked his head up as London plunged a hand into her purse.

She pulled out a white piece of paper and waved it at him. “I got it last night at the benefit. Someone dropped it onto a waiter’s tray and he delivered it to me.”

“Would you stop—” he snatched the note from her “—waving things in my face.”

He unfolded the notepaper and read aloud. “‘Your father was murdered. You could be next.’”

“Looks like they planned to make good on that threat last night.” She hunched her shoulders and hugged her waist.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“The note? I honestly never connected it with the events of last night. I thought the first was an attempted robbery and the second a carjacking. It occurred to me briefly when I saw Theodore in the hospital this morning and he said something about trying to protect me.”

He flicked the paper with his finger. “The wording is weird. ‘You could be next’? Why didn’t he write ‘you are next’? ‘You could be next’ implies a conditional situation. You could be next if you do this or that.”

She snapped her fingers. “That’s why I need you.”

“The two events are definitely connected, but we don’t know if they’re related to this warning.” He slid one corner of the note beneath the blotter on his desk. “Do you think your father was murdered?”

“I didn’t before last night. He had heart disease and he’d already had bypass surgery, but he didn’t take care of his health—drank too much, had too much stress and his exercise consisted of walking from his golf cart to the tee.”

“Was an autopsy done?”

“For a man as wealthy as my father? Of course. Atherosclerosis—blocked arteries.”

“The note could be some kind of scam.”

“I thought of that.”

“What would the motive be?”

“Money, always money.” She hooked a thumb in one pocket of her tight jeans. “So do you accept my proposition? I’ll make it worth your while.”

He kicked the leg of the single chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”

She perched on the edge of the wooden chair, clutching the arms. “Does this mean yes?”

“Uh-huh.” He yanked open a desk drawer, pulled out a file stuffed with blank contracts and dropped it on the blotter. He raised an eyebrow at her stiff posture. “Relax. I just want to review my terms with you. I’m not gonna require your firstborn or anything.”

A blush rushed up her throat, flooding her cheeks and turning her creamy complexion a mottled red.

He needed to tone down the teasing. She couldn’t seem to handle it in her agitated state. He also needed to keep this as professional as possible to cool the attraction between them. He’d be no good as a bodyguard if he spent his time lusting after the body he needed to guard.