Thirsty Bodyguard Summer (Sunbreak Harbor Security #3)

Chapter One

BY ELEVEN ON THE LAST Thursday in June, Sunbreak Harbor was already hot enough to fry a tourist on the boardwalk, and my new client was shirtless in a surveillance photo.

It wasn’t the introduction I usually preferred.

I sat in the glass-walled operations loft of the Beacon, Sunbreak Security’s headquarters inside the town’s old candy-striped lighthouse, while Atlantic glare flashed across the monitors.

Below us, water knocked against the boathouse pilings.

Above us, the air-conditioning fought a losing battle with Florida humidity.

On the main screen, Shane Hart stood outside his temporary rental at Dune Garden Inn in navy board shorts, with a white towel hanging from one shoulder and sunglasses in his hand.

The former Sunday Drive frontman was in Sunbreak Harbor to launch his solo comeback at Saturday night’s Summer Nights concert.

Someone wanted him to cancel.

Someone had also gotten close enough to photograph him outside his temporary home.

“The latest threat arrived with it this morning,” Rafi Haddad said. Sunbreak Security’s chief operating officer stood beside the screen in pressed linen trousers and a rolled-sleeve shirt, looking far too polished for a man who spent half his day solving other people’s emergencies.

At the head of the briefing table, Sloane Archer, our founder and my boss, slid a folder toward me. “You’re leading his protection detail through the show.”

Across from me, Shane’s longtime manager, Tracy Nolan, folded her arms. “He thinks the threats are fan noise.”

“Are they?” I asked.

“No. Getting that close changes the threat,” Sloane said.

I pulled the image closer and studied the beachside pedestrian route curving behind Shane’s patio. Low sea-grape bushes left an open sightline and easy access.

The shot also offered an unnecessarily detailed view of Shane’s golden tan and sharply defined torso.

A serious security problem had apparently arrived with excellent lighting.

I looked up. “When does Mr. Hart meet me?”

Tracy gave a small huff of amusement. “After lunch. He doesn’t know his protection has already started.”

“That should make the introduction fun.”

“It’ll make it something.” Her polished chestnut bob brushed her jaw as she leaned forward. “He knows Sunbreak Security is involved. He thinks that means venue coverage and someone checking his lodging at night.”

Rafi touched the screen, replacing Shane’s photo with three messages.

UNKNOWN:

Cancel Saturday.

UNKNOWN:

Stay off the stage.

UNKNOWN:

Jesse Ward deserved the comeback. You took enough from him.

Sunday Drive had broken apart four years earlier after Vince Pike, the band’s bassist, nearly overdosed at a private party.

Shane had been impaired too, but he’d recognized that Vince was in danger, pushed for emergency help, and later told police who’d brought and shared the drugs.

Shane hadn’t supplied anything, and nobody had blamed him for causing the overdose.

The truth hadn’t saved the band.

Their label had dropped Sunday Drive, and plenty of fans had decided Shane’s cooperation made him a traitor anyway.

“Has the sender demanded anything besides cancellation?” I asked. “Money, access, or a public statement?”

“There’s been no attempt to sell information, and no one has claimed the public record is false,” Rafi said. “Whoever’s doing this wants Shane off that stage.”

“Jesse doesn’t know about the messages,” Tracy added. “He has his own career, and there’s no reason to drag him into a threat he didn’t make.”

“What has Shane done since the first message arrived?”

“He said, ‘Ignore it.’ Then he walked out alone this morning to swim.”

Sloane rested one hand beside the folder. She didn’t raise her voice or change her expression.

“That’s why Cassidy is taking the detail now,” she said.

Tracy glanced at my fitted navy polo, sand-colored tactical shorts, and tan athletic shoes.

I was five foot four, curvy, and built more like the competitive swimmer I’d once been than the human wall celebrity clients tended to expect.

Bright strawberry-blond hair didn’t help anyone picture me boarding hostile vessels in the Coast Guard.

“Cassidy spent eight years in maritime enforcement and boarding-team service before I recruited her,” Sloane said. “She’s one of our strongest close-protection specialists.”

“I read her file,” Tracy said. “I’m not the one who’ll need convincing.”

“Shane won’t insult her. He may try to charm his way around her.”

“That’s his answer to most locked doors.”

I closed the threat folder. “Then he can flirt from inside the perimeter.”

Rafi almost smiled. “I’ll add that to the contract.”

The main screen changed to a map of Dune Garden Inn. Shane’s rental sat near the edge of the property, where a pedestrian route ran between the gardens and the beach. The patio faced the Atlantic, but low landscaping left it exposed from three directions.

I traced the likely camera angle. “The sender could’ve stood on the public route. Nobody needed to cross a fence or enter the property.”

“That matches our assessment,” Rafi said.

“I want the route between his door and our vehicle checked before I arrive. I also need the current staff-access list and confirmation that no one has posted his cottage number or a live location.”

“I’ll have everything ready.”

“Can you move him?” Tracy asked.

“I won’t relocate him based on one exterior shot if we can reduce the exposure where he is. I’ll inspect the property, talk to Carlos, and decide whether moving Shane creates more attention than it solves.”

Sloane slid an SUV key across the table. “You have authority over movement decisions while the threat is active. Explain the reason when you have time. When you don’t, move him.”

“I always explain the reason.”

“You do,” Rafi said. “Sometimes after everyone is safely inside the vehicle.”

I picked up the key. “How much resistance should I expect?”

Tracy released a slow breath. “After the party, Shane spent two years being told where to sit, what to say, when to apologize, and when to disappear. His comeback contract came with a schedule, a fitness plan, media limits, and another dozen people who think they own his time. He hears protection and assumes more confinement.”

“That explains why he dislikes restrictions. It doesn’t make an open beach route safe.”

“I know, and so does he when he stops reacting long enough to think.” Tracy uncrossed her arms. “I’m asking you to protect him and get him to the stage. I’m not asking you to manage his image.”

“That’s good, because I don’t do image management.”

“Then you may be the first person he’s met this year who doesn’t.”

A sharp electronic chime sounded from the comms bank.

Two operators checked an afternoon-lightning alert east of the island, then returned to their screens.

Outside the curved glass, the sun blazed over Sunbreak Harbor’s marina, boardwalk, and rows of rental cottages crowded with families in bright swimsuits.

Saturday night, those summer visitors would pack High Tide Pavilion to see whether Shane Hart could still command an audience.

First, I had to keep him from turning that route into an unscheduled fan event.

DUNE GARDEN INN LOOKED like someone had built a beach vacation out of white clapboard, blue shutters, flowering vines, and very optimistic privacy expectations.

White-clapboard buildings lined sandy paths beneath palms and sea grapes. Guests moved between them carrying beach bags, melting ice cream, inflatable animals, and no idea that a threatened rockstar was staying twenty yards away.

I parked the SBS SUV beside the service lane and stepped into air that wrapped around me like a warm, damp towel. My sunglasses cut the glare, but they couldn’t stop the heat rising through my shoes from the pale pavers.

Carlos Ibarra, the inn manager, met me outside reception. His neat short-sleeved shirt was still pressed despite the humidity, and his expression stayed calm as guests streamed past us.

“Ms. O’Shea, I’ve restricted Mr. Hart’s lodging information to myself and two supervisors,” he said. “No staff member has accessed it since housekeeping left at nine thirty.”

“Has Mr. Hart stayed inside?”

Carlos turned toward the garden route.

A blond man crossed the opening between two buildings with a towel slung over one shoulder.

He wore navy board shorts and nothing else.

“Apparently, he had other plans,” Carlos said.

Shane’s bare feet were already on the sun-heated pavers.

He moved with the easy balance of someone accustomed to controlling every inch of a stage, broad shoulders relaxed and deep golden skin bright beneath the late-morning sun.

His hair was short at the sides and longer on top, textured enough that the ocean breeze kept pushing it across his forehead.

The photo hadn’t captured the shallow V of muscle disappearing beneath his waistband or the dancer’s control in every step.

A pulse of need gathered low inside me. I ignored it and stepped into his path.

Shane slowed.

Shane took in my sunglasses, the Sunbreak Security logo on my polo, and the rest of me. He paused at my curves, then met my eyes.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“You can help by turning around.”

Shane raised his eyebrows. “That’s an ambitious opening.”

“You’re heading toward an unsecured route to the beach without shoes, a shirt, or protection coverage.”

“I’ve got sunscreen.”

“That wasn’t one of the missing items.”

In person, Shane Hart had the kind of smile that had probably sold millions of records, tour shirts, and regrettable teenage bedroom posters.

“I was told the inn’s event staff would meet me after lunch,” he said.

“I’m not event staff.”

“Do you work for the inn?”

“I work for Sunbreak Security. I’m Cassidy O’Shea, your close-protection lead.”

He studied my waterproof watch, earpiece, and the outline of compact gear beneath my polo. He glanced once more at my curves, then faced me again.

“You’re my bodyguard.”

“That’s right.”

“I was expecting someone named Frank with no visible neck.”

“Frank’s busy. You got me.”