Chapter 17
Asher
The second Charlotte steps out of the truck she’s clutching that ominous sheet of paper like a talisman that might either protect her or burst into flame.
She’s silent during the elevator ride—too silent for a woman who normally fills awkward spaces with quick wit—and I use the time to catalog every new security gap in my head: where I parked (exposed), how long we lingered in town (too long), and how many resort staff members might have eyes on us now.
The elevator lights flicker over her face as we ascend, and I note the tell-tale signs of adrenaline crash: tremor in her hands, shallow breaths, pupils still blown wide.
Fourth floor, east wing—our suite. Inside, I lock the deadbolt, chain, and hotel‐issue latch, then do my standard sweep even though housekeeping just serviced the room an hour ago.
Bed skirt lifted (no one underneath), closets cleared, balcony doors tested and locked.
I dim every light except the floor lamp by the sofa, creating an even wash that leaves no deep shadows for a threat to hide in.
Charlotte hovers by the coffee station, arms wrapped tight around herself, hugging the note like it’s made of glass.
I pause, tempering my voice to something that won’t spike her nerves. “You need water. You rode the adrenaline wave, and now you’re dehydrating.”
She tries a shaky laugh. “Is that a medical diagnosis or a bodyguard one?”
“Both.” I hand her a chilled bottle from the minibar and wait until she’s taken two swallows. The color improves in her cheeks almost immediately. “Melanie’s expecting you?”
“She texted—wants to hit Vintner’s Lounge for girl talk.” Charlotte slides her phone across the counter so I can read the screen. No suspicious numbers, no coded language—just Melanie’s bubbly “Bring your cutest self, I’m buying the first round!”
“Stick to the main lobby route,” I say. “Bright, well-trafficked, CCTV everywhere. No side corridors.”
She salutes me—cheeky even when rattled—and disappears into the bedroom to freshen up.
I set the note on the glass coffee table, snap a photo for record-keeping, then slip it inside a fresh evidence envelope from my kit and seal it.
My brain runs concurrent subroutines: who planted it, why risk a public drop, what message exactly was intended?
Fairytales don’t end well for liars—that’s literary flair, not brute intimidation.
Someone clever. Someone who thinks theatrics matter.
Charlotte re-emerges in a teal wrap dress and wedge sandals, hair twisted up to reveal the graceful line of her neck.
She looks composed, but her knuckles are still white on the strap of her purse.
I force my attention away—client, Hawke, remember?
—and do a 360° evaluation: clear earrings (nothing dangly an assailant can grab), shoulders back, eyes alert. Good.
“I’ll walk you to the lobby,” I say.
She arches a brow. “You’re not coming to happy hour? Might do you some good. You can scowl in the corner and intimidate the sommelier.”
“Tempting,” I deadpan, “but I’ve got calls to make.”
She opens her mouth, probably to protest that she doesn’t need babysitting, then thinks better of it. “Fine. Two-minute escort. Then you get to go be mysterious in your lair.”
In the hallway I keep my body canted slightly ahead of hers, a subtle shield.
Charlotte keeps pace, her shoulders relaxing the farther we get from the suite.
By the time we enter the elevator, she’s cracking jokes about how I breathed so much “predatory vibe” at the boutique owner earlier that the poor woman tried to upsell me beard oil.
I play along, but my attention keeps snaring on reflective sconces, on the jogger who squeezes past in the corridor, on the too-long glance from a suited businessman checking in at the desk.
At the lobby’s marble threshold I stop. “Text when you sit down. Then every thirty minutes.”
“Yes, Dad.”
I lean in, lowering my voice. “If you feel eyes on you, or anything looks wrong, you call my cell. Speaker on, keep the line open. Understand?”
She nods, and something in her gaze shifts.
For all her sass she likes knowing someone’s on the wall.
Melanie appears, bright red lipstick and a sun-floral jumpsuit, and swoops Charlotte away.
I watch until they disappear beneath the glowing arch into Vintner’s Lounge.
Only then do I turn for the service elevator and punch the button for sublevel two—staff offices. Time to phone home.
I choose a maintenance alcove between the linen room and refrigeration. The scent of bleach masks conversation; the hum of air handlers provides natural white noise. I dial Dean’s secure line. He answers before the second ring.
“Talk to me, Hawke.”
“Got another escalation on the Sinclair front.” I drop the envelope on an upturned crate and angle my body so the corridor camera can’t catch my lips.
“Typed note, windshield placement. Message: Fairytales don’t end well for liars.
He can’t protect you forever. No fingerprints yet; I’ll run a dust later. Resort CCTV request submitted.”
Dean’s keyboard clacks in the background. “Fits the MO. Anything new on Sinclair’s location?”
“Keeping low profile. We crossed paths once yesterday—he was lurking near the stables, just ‘happened’ to watch Charlotte ride out.” I grind my molars remembering Prancer’s spook. “Guy’s plotting something. And he’s got resources here.”
Dean exhales a slow breath, no stranger to the scent of rot beneath boardroom polish.
“I yanked more threads. Sinclair Group is leveraged to the rafters— bridge loans, personal lines, IOUs to private lenders you don’t wanna meet in daylight.
One Cayman fund in particular traces back to Manzano cartel wash-throughs. ”
My blood pressure spikes—just as I feared. “Cartel money.”
“Yeah. And they’re not patient. Wade stands to lose controlling interest by quarter-end if he doesn’t inject capital. Marrying Charlotte gives him a multi-million infusion overnight—dowry via joint venture, plus a PR bump to boost share valuation.”
“Desperation equals unpredictability.”
“Exactly. Our working theory: cartel silent-partners want a guarantee. They’re either pushing him to lock in the marriage or cut their losses and recoup via intimidation.” Dean pauses. “Any sign of direct surveillance teams?”
“Not yet, but the note’s tone suggests they’re close enough to watch. Could be testing our reaction time.” I glance down the corridor. It’s still empty. “What’s your next move?”
“Running shell-company directors. If any name pops with warrants, we’ll use it to pressure local law enforcement. But that takes time.”
Time we may not have. I rub the bridge of my nose. “I’ll shadow Charlotte tonight. She thinks it’s girls-night only; we’ll see.”
“Stick to her like epoxy,” Dean says, echoing his earlier order. “Wade’s leverage crumbles if Charlotte’s off the table. That makes her target #1.”
“Roger that.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Dean adds, softer, “You good?”
My laugh is a humorless puff of air. “Define good.”
“You sound… invested.”
“She’s my client.” Even to my own ears it’s mechanical. The image flashes: Charlotte on the trail, fingers white-knuckled on the reins, and then how her hand fit into mine afterward like it belonged there. I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
Dean doesn’t press, but his final words linger after the line goes dead: “Keep your head, Hawke. Feelings get you killed.”
I stow the evidence envelope in my pocket, then take the back stairwell two flights up, emerging in a staff lobby adjacent to Vintner’s.
A carved wooden screen hides me from the main dining area but gives partial sightlines through its lattice.
I lean against the wall, one ear on the corridor, eyes tracking the bar.
Charlotte sits at a high-top with Melanie, half-turned toward the room, posture open, legs neatly crossed.
Defensive line of sight—good girl. A rosé spritzer glints by her elbow.
She’s had maybe two sips. Melanie gestures animatedly, telling some hilarious story if the broad grin is any indication.
For a moment Charlotte’s laughter rings out—pure, clear, nothing forced.
It spears something in my chest I don’t name.
Threat assessment cycles anyway. Patrons count: twenty-seven visible.
Staff: four bartenders, six servers. Potential shooters’ lanes: front door to bar (forty feet, obstructed by wine rack); kitchen swing door (thirty-five feet, partial cover); mezzanine balcony above (seventy feet, downward angle).
I map angles, memorize faces, measure distances to nearest exits.
Mid-scan, Charlotte’s gaze skims the room and snags on me.
Surprise flickers, then relief, then something that looks dangerously like fondness.
She raises her glass an inch in silent salute.
I nod—a small, steadying motion. Her shoulders relax another notch.
Melanie twists in her chair, spots me, and flashes a grin that’s two parts mischief, one part I-see-you-watching-my-friend.
Ten minutes pass, maybe fifteen. I order club soda from a passing server— tip heavy to stay invisible— and keep vigil.
Everything stays mundane until a figure appears in the bar entrance: Wade Sinclair, slate-gray suit tailored within an inch of its life, hair slicked back with boardroom precision.
My muscles coil. He scans the lounge, locks onto Charlotte, and his lips curve. Shark scenting blood.
But before he can move three steps, Melanie slides off her stool, intercepting with saccharine enthusiasm— clearly stalling. Charlotte’s eyes widen. She covertly pulls out her phone, typing. A second later my screen vibrates:
C: He’s here.
I push off the wall, ready to intervene, when the bartender swings a new tray of drinks across Wade’s path, forcing him to sidestep. Small delays—a godsend.
Wade frowns, checks his watch, and then vanishes the way he came. I exhale slowly, tension leaking out by a few degrees. Charlotte catches my eye, and I give a short nod—crisis fucking averted. For now.
The women settle their tab. I drift to the corridor outside, so I can fall in with them naturally. When Charlotte rounds the corner, she arches a brow.
“Decided to join us after all?”
“Stakeout was riveting,” I deadpan, and she chuckles despite the long day weighed on her shoulders.
Melanie pats Charlotte’s arm. “Your broody shadow kept his distance, promise. Though next time I expect him at the table—there’s only so much bubbly I can drink alone.” She winks at me.
“Rain check,” I say. My gaze skims the hallway—clear—then back to Charlotte. “Ready?”
We escort Melanie to her suite first—sixth floor—then take the elevator down. Charlotte leans against the mirrored wall, fatigue softening the edges of her posture. Yet when she meets my reflection, her eyes are bright. She doesn’t speak until the doors slide open on four.
“Thank you,” she says quietly as we walk toward our room.
“For what?”
“For being there. For…doing this. Whatever this is.”
I unlock the suite, usher her inside. Only when the door’s bolted do I let my guard drop an inch. “This is me keeping you alive,” I say. “And maybe making sure you can laugh again without looking over your shoulder.”
She slips off her wedges, stands barefoot on the plush carpet, and studies me with a searching kind of gratefulness that twists my insides. “You know, that almost sounded like feelings.”
“It’s professionalism.” I start to turn away, but she steps closer, fingertips brushing my sleeve. Needle-shock of connection. Damn.
“I like your brand of professionalism,” she whispers. Then, mercifully, she heads to the bathroom to change.
I exhale, forehead against the wall. Dean’s warning echoes: Keep your head clear. But as Charlotte hums behind the door—some random jazz melody picked up in the lounge—I find clarity slipping, one note at a time.
Cartel leverage, desperate suitors, threatening notes—those I can handle.
Falling for the woman I’m hired to protect? That’s the enemy I never trained for.