Chapter Two
Dominic
The couch was a punishment.
I'd slept in worse places—sand trenches, cargo holds, the back of surveillance vans—but Charlie's couch had its own special brand of misery. Too short for my frame, springs finding new pressure points every time I shifted, positioned directly under a vent that blasted cold air every twenty minutes.
She'd tossed me that blanket last night with a smile that said she knew exactly what she was sentencing me to.
I checked my watch. 0547. Close enough.
The apartment was quiet except for the sounds of the city waking up outside—distant traffic, a garbage truck grinding down the street, someone's alarm clock bleeding through the thin walls.
Charlie had finally stopped tossing around 0200, after hours of restless shifting.
I'd heard every movement, each frustrated sigh.
Then around 0530, she'd given up on sleep entirely—announced it with a cabinet slam that rattled every dish she owned. Subtle as a grenade.
Now the bathroom door was closed, shower running.
I sat up, rolled my shoulders to work out the kinks, and pulled my laptop from my go-bag. Might as well use the time.
From the couch, I had a clear line of sight to the window where the new glass had been installed two days ago—after the bullet.
The glazier had done clean work, but the frame still showed stress marks if you knew where to look.
Above the bed, a tapestry hung slightly off-center, and I'd bet money it was covering something she didn't want to see when she closed her eyes.
Graffiti, damage—a reminder of the threats.
Charlie's case file was dense for someone who'd only been on Heartline's radar for twelve hours.
Her editor had pulled together a list of every story she'd broken in the past five years, and it read like a hit parade of Cupid City's worst-kept secrets—political corruption, financial fraud, a socialite's underground gambling ring, a CEO with alleged mob ties.
Any one of them could be behind the threats.
I flagged the names and started cross-referencing.
My phone buzzed. Cass Rhodes, my boss at Heartline.
"Knight."
"How's our nightmare client?"
"Alive. Stubborn. Possibly plotting my murder via furniture."
"The couch?"
"The couch."
A dry laugh. "She'll warm up to you. We're running backgrounds on everyone connected to her recent stories—should have preliminary intel by end of day. In the meantime, standard close-protection protocols. Keep her close."
"Copy that."
High-risk, high-maintenance. I'd handled worse. At least, that's what I kept telling myself.
The bathroom door opened. Steam rolled out, the air turning warm and citrus-bright. Charlie emerged in ripped jeans and an oversized black sweatshirt, her dark hair wet and pulled into a messy bun.
She looked softer than the woman who'd told me where to shove my protection detail eight hours ago. Younger. Less ready for a fight she hadn't started yet.
"Morning." She didn't meet my eyes, heading straight for the coffee maker. "Hope you slept well on your luxury accommodations."
"Like a baby."
"Babies wake up crying every two hours."
"Exactly."
Her lips pressed together—fighting it. She lost. The smallest crack of a smile broke through before she killed it.
"I'll check in later," I told the phone, and ended the call.
Charlie poured herself coffee and jerked her chin toward the pot. "Cups are above the sink. Don't expect me to play hostess."
I helped myself. Black, no sugar. She watched me skip the cream with mild interest but didn't comment.
"So what's the plan, Marine? You going to handcuff me to the radiator to keep me safe?"
"Tempting." I took a sip. Strong, bitter, perfect. "But I have a feeling you'd pick the lock."
"Damn right I would." She leaned against the counter, studying me over the rim of her mug. "I've got work today. Real work. The kind that requires me to be places you definitely can't follow."
"Try me."
She grinned, sharp and challenging. "Tech CEO's wife is meeting her personal trainer at The Gilded Hart Hotel. Room 412. Story drops tomorrow. I need photos."
"So you're planning to commit breaking and entering."
"I'm planning to do my job."
"Your job is illegal."
"Your job is following me around. We all make sacrifices." She set down her mug and headed for the closet that doubled as her disguise headquarters. "You can wait in the car if your conscience is bothering you."
I watched her pull out a hotel housekeeping uniform—black dress, white apron, sensible shoes. A blonde wig. Fake credentials clipped to a lanyard.
"I'm not letting you out of my sight."
"Then I hope you look good pushing a linen cart."
She wasn't joking.
I left my holster and earpiece in the go-bag. Couldn't exactly push a housekeeping cart with a Glock printing under a staff uniform. It went against every protocol I had, but walking into the Gilded Hart armed was a faster way to blow her cover than anything she could cook up.
THE GILDED HART MADE you feel underdressed just walking through the lobby. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, staff who moved like they'd been trained in silent assassination. Old money and new scandal under one ornate roof.
Charlie had transformed in the car. Blonde wig, reading glasses, the posture of someone who cleaned up after rich people and didn't ask questions.
I'd watched the whole performance in the rearview mirror.
She'd timed the wig adjustment to avoid the parking garage camera's sweep without even pausing her conversation, even changed her walk—shorter steps, eyes down, invisible.
Either she'd memorized the rotation or she had instincts that would've made her dangerous in recon ops.
So this was what she looked like when she worked. The woman from last night—combative, stubborn, daring me to give her a reason—had disappeared into someone completely different. Same face, different person. It was unnerving how good she was at it.
"Remember," she said as we approached the service entrance, "you're the new guy. Don't talk. Don't make eye contact. Just push the cart and follow my lead."
"This is a bad idea."
"All my best work starts with bad ideas."
The service entrance was exactly where she'd said it would be. She swiped a key card—I didn't ask where she'd gotten it—and we moved inside. The hallway was long and fluorescent-bright, the hum of laundry machines vibrating through the walls. Somewhere nearby, a vacuum cleaner whined.
Charlie grabbed a housekeeping cart from an alcove, loaded it with supplies like she'd done this a thousand times, and started pushing it toward the elevators.
I followed, face blank, clocking cameras and exit points as we went. My training warred with the absurdity of the situation. I was supposed to protect her. Instead, I was helping her commit crimes.
This woman was going to get me fired.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor was silent. Charlie hummed under her breath—off-key, cheerful, completely at ease. I was running worst-case scenarios and coming up with too many.
Room 412 was at the end of the hallway. Charlie positioned the cart outside the door, knocked twice in the standard housekeeping pattern. No answer. She checked her watch, then pulled a slim tool from her apron pocket and had the door open in under ten seconds.
"Where the hell did you learn that?"
"YouTube." She stepped inside, holding the door for me. "Move it, big guy. We're on a schedule."
The suite was empty. King bed, champagne on ice, rose petals scattered across expensive sheets. Classy.
Charlie moved to the connecting door to the adjoining room—slightly ajar. She positioned her camera, adjusting the angle for the gap. The bedroom beyond had frosted glass doors leading to a bathroom.
"They'll be here in five minutes," she whispered. "I get the shot through here, we leave. Simple."
Nothing about this was simple.
Footsteps in the hallway. Multiple people. Voices. Coming this way.
Charlie's eyes went wide. "That's them. Early."
She grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the linen closet near the entrance. We barely made it inside before I heard the suite door begin to open.
The closet was tiny. Built for extra towels and robes, not two full-grown adults.
I had to brace one hand against the shelf behind her head to keep from crushing her against the wall, my other arm pinned at my side by a stack of bathrobes stiff with starch.
Charlie pressed against me, her back to my chest, camera still clutched in her hands.
I could feel her heartbeat through the thin fabric of her uniform—fast, excited, not afraid. Not even close to afraid.
Six-three and two hundred pounds of former Marine, hiding in a hotel linen closet while a five-foot-three paparazzo ran the operation. If Cass could see me now, I'd never hear the end of it.
The closet door had slatted vents. Through them, I watched two people enter. Woman in yoga pants and a designer hoodie—the CEO's wife. Man in athletic gear carrying a gym bag—clearly not her husband.
They didn't waste time. Moved straight to the bedroom, the frosted doors swinging shut behind them.
"I need to get to that connecting door," Charlie said against my jaw, barely a whisper.
"No."
"I can't get the shot from here."
"You're not moving."
She shifted anyway, trying to angle toward the closet door, and her body slid against mine in a way that blanked out every thought that wasn't her.
Her hair brushed my chin. The space was too small.
She was too close. Every inhale pressed her back more firmly against my chest, and I was suddenly, painfully conscious of how long it had been since I'd had a woman this close to me.