The Hill (4 page)

She closed her hand around it and held it above her face. She
drew her brows together. It was a beanie, a watch cap. No, a ski mask.

A ski mask with a white zigzag down the front.

 

Chapter Four

Judd tossed his cell phone onto the desk and leaned back in his secondhand chair, which squeaked in protest. He wanted to find out how Theodore was doing, but he couldn't get anything out of the hospital and he didn't have any pull with the SFPD with his brother Sean still on a leave of absence.

He watched the pedestrians in the street from his small second-story office in North Beach. He had only one room with an old desk, two chairs, a bookshelf and a dying plant, but it kept his clients away from his apartment.

Yawning, he scratched the stubble on his chin. He'd had a cancellation and should be using the downtime to do some paperwork, but he hated paperwork. He needed an admin assistant, but didn't like people poking around his business, and there wasn't enough room in this office for a second person.

He grabbed his phone again and traced the edges with his fingertip. It would be easy enough to leave a message for London at the BGE offices. She did still have his dinner jacket from last night. He could use that as an excuse.

Smacking the phone against his palm, he swore. Why did he need an excuse? She wasn't the queen. He could call her if he wanted to call her.

He dropped the cell on his desk again. He knew damned well her wealth and power weren't deterring him from contacting her. It was the way she made him feel—and those feelings had
danger
written all over them.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Let it go, Brody.”

“Let what go?”

He stared at the vision outlined by the open door of his office as if he'd conjured her from his mind. London had one hand on her hip and the other supporting her on the doorjamb. Faded denim encased her long legs and a pair of high-heeled boots hit just above her knee. A green sweater with a dipping neckline matched her eyes, and she'd pulled her silvery-blond hair into a ponytail that fell over one shoulder.

Danger.

“How'd you find me?”

“You're kidding, right?” She launched into the room, sweeping a bag from the floor on her way in. “I have BGE's formidable resources at the tips of my fingers.”

“How's Theodore doing?”

“He's out of danger. I called his daughters this morning, and one is coming out in a few days.”

“That's good.”

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.

“Here's my standard contract.” He flipped open the file and slid a stapled set of papers toward her. “If you want your attorney to review it...”

“I'm sure it's fine.” She plucked it from the desk and flipped through the pages. “Since it's a boilerplate, can we make adjustments as needed? I have several events coming up—there may be some travel.”

“Of course. There's a section of the contract that deals with that—page three. Once you review and sign it, I'll ask for a retainer and we can get started.”

“How much?” She dipped her hand into her purse and pulled out a checkbook. “I want you to get started right now. I don't need to review the contract. I trust you. You already saved my life once, and you were there for Theodore.”

He sat back in his squeaky chair and steepled his fingers. Finding that ski mask had really spooked her, or maybe the note had done the trick.

She didn't even blink an eye when he told her the amount for his retainer. She scribbled out the check and slid it in front of him. “Where do we start?”

“Before we get started, I have a question for you.” He picked up the corner of the check and tapped the edge on the blotter. “I'm assuming Breck Global Enterprises has a security force.”

“We do.”

“Why not enlist their help? You could probably pluck a bodyguard from the staff—someone already vetted and polished up to the BGE standards.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. “They're not my people. I haven't been at the company that long.”

“You don't trust them.” This introduced a new twist to the plot. “Who's been running BGE since your father's death? I'm assuming you're still...getting up to speed.”

She jumped from the chair and it spun out behind her and hit the wall. “I
am
still getting up to speed, but I'm a fast learner and I'll get there.”

“Wow.” He raised one eyebrow and settled his boots back on the desk. “You need to chill. If you act this defensive around all the muckety-mucks at BGE, they're going to seriously doubt your abilities even more than they apparently do now.”

“Damn.” She turned and hit the wall with her palm. “It's just that everywhere I turn, I have people questioning me. It's Dad's fault. He never groomed me to take over the company.”

“Did he groom someone else? Another relative?”

She puffed out a breath and swung the chair back in place. “Not really. He acted like he was going to live forever, even after the bypass. My cousin Niles has an interest in the company, and my half brother works there. He's a numbers guy. To answer your previous question before I went ballistic on you, Richard Taylor has been running the show since Dad's death. He and...his son have been my constant companions lately.”

He rubbed his knuckles against the stubble of his beard. This looked to be an easy job—expectant relatives or coworkers got their noses out of joint when the old man handed over the reins of his company to his inexperienced daughter, and they decided to use a few threats and scare tactics to get her to decline the responsibility and return to her partying ways.

Gripping the back of the chair, she leaned forward, her silky ponytail falling over her shoulder. She parted her luscious lips and the scent of her expensive perfume washed over him.

This
could
be an easy job, or it could be very, very hard.

“You think you can help me?”

“That's what you're paying me for.” He picked up the check and dropped it into his desk drawer. “First things first. I want to have a look at your place, check out the security there. When's a good time for you?”

“Right now, but you saw my building. It's like Fort Knox.”

He shoved out of his chair and hunched over his desk. “Are you going to let me do my job, Ms. Breck, or are you going to try to run the show?”

“London. Call me London. After all, we shared a beer and a dance and...other stuff.”

It's the other stuff that had him worried. “You didn't answer my question, London.”

“I have enough shows to run, Judd. You can have this one.”

“You didn't drive over here, did you?”

She snorted. “I didn't want to draw the attention of the paparazzi. So I snuck out and took a taxi.”

“Are you okay riding on the back of a bike?”

Her gaze dropped to his boots. “A motorcycle?”

“Yeah.”

“I've spent my share of time on the back of motorcycles.”

I'll bet you have.

“I'll take you back to your place and have a look around, check out your security and make some notes.”

“Sounds good to me.”

He locked up the office behind them and followed her downstairs to the street, her high heels clicking on the steps. When they got to his Harley, he unlocked the helmet from the side. “You can wear this. If I get pulled over for not wearing a helmet, I can always have my brother Sean fix the ticket for me.”

“Ah, nice to have connections.”

“Just kidding.” He placed the helmet over her head and buckled the strap beneath her chin. “My brother wouldn't fix a ticket for me or anyone else. Take this, too.” He swung his jacket over her shoulders. The wind would blow right through that low-cut sweater.

She shoved her arms through the sleeves and zipped up the jacket.