Carol Ericson - The Hill

“And I appreciate that.”

The elevator dinged to a stop and the doors slid open onto a quiet hallway. The shiny marble from the lobby had been replaced by carpet so thick his boot would probably leave a crater in the pile.

“How many places up here?” He glanced down the hallway. Technically she had the penthouse, since her place occupied the top floor of the building, but it looked as if she shared the space with at least one other unit.

“Two.” She had her keys in her hand.

“Who’s your neighbor?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Is the other place for sale?”

“No.” She spun around at her door. “I own the other place. I bought it when the previous owner gave it up.”

He held up his hands at her defensive tone. “Hey, I’d do the same.”

She shoved her key into the dead bolt and froze. “Judd.”

“What?”

“I always lock my dead bolt, and it’s not locked.”

Adrenaline shot through his system and he reached for the weapon in his gun bag. “Step back, London. Let me go through first.”

She unlocked the door handle and he twisted it. He raised his gun, easing the door open.

He took in the scene before him. Either London Breck was one messy heiress or her place had been tossed.

She gasped behind him and let loose with a string of profanities.

Her place had been tossed.

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