Pressing a hand down her heavily beaded flapper dress, she searched the packed ballroom, her eyes bouncing from couple to couple. Sarasota’s elite danced in swaying circles, their smooth, practiced movements spoke of inherent elegance and generations of wealth. Payton had neither of those things, but her brain leveled the playing field quite a bit, which was the very reason she crashed this by-invitation-only fundraiser tonight. She had a plan. Finishing her third champagne, she placed the empty on a glass top ledge and teetered on impossible heels to the nearest exit, passing through French doors leading to an amazing nighttime view of the Gulf of Mexico. She inhaled the salt air, which was usually a calming balm to her jittery nerves, but it wasn’t working tonight. Nothing would soothe her until she could claim mission accomplished. Sweat was dripping down her temples, her back, and between her breasts. Not to mention that sensation of being watched had come back ten-fold in the past fifteen minutes, and her skin prickled off and on with an uncomfortable sense of awareness.
