Chapter Two #2
I wanted to shake her. I wanted to pin her wrists above her head and find out if she'd be this mouthy with nowhere to run.
Neither was appropriate. Both were tempting.
And she was still moving, still squirming for a better angle, completely unaware of what she was doing to me—or completely aware and not caring.
"Breathe quieter," she whispered. "You sound like a freight train."
"Stop. Moving."
"I'm working."
"You're going to get us caught."
"Then you should've stayed in the car."
She went still suddenly. Listening. Then her hand found my arm in the dark—not pushing away, just holding on. The voices from the bedroom had gone quiet. We could hear the shower start.
Charlie cracked the closet door an inch, peered out, then was across the room before I could stop her. She reached the connecting door in three silent steps, lifted her camera, and got her shots. Dozens of them, the shutter barely audible.
When she finally lowered the camera, she shot me a grin over her shoulder. Triumphant. Unrepentant.
"See? Simple."
"You're out of your mind."
"I'm good at my job."
She was. And that was going to make this assignment hell.
We got out of the suite while the shower still ran, ditched the cart in the service hallway, and made it to my SUV without incident.
Once inside, she pulled off the wig and shook out her real hair, already scrolling through the photos on her camera. "These are gold. Morty's going to love me."
"Morty's going to get you killed."
"Morty's going to pay me." She connected her camera to her phone, started uploading. "Relax, Marine. We got the shot. No one saw us. Mission accomplished."
"That's not how this works."
"That's exactly how this works." She glanced up from her phone, smirking. "What, you didn't enjoy yourself even a little?"
Enjoy. She thought I'd enjoyed that.
I'd been trapped in a closet with her body against mine while she committed felonies, and my brain had decided that was the perfect moment to stop thinking about exit strategies and start thinking about what sounds she'd make if I put my mouth on her neck.
Enjoyment wasn't the word I'd use.
"We need to talk about your suspect list," I said, steering back to safer ground.
"Fine. But I'm starving. Illegal activity works up an appetite."
THE DINER SHE CHOSE looked like it hadn't been updated since Reagan was in office. Red vinyl booths, checkerboard floors, a jukebox in the corner playing Patsy Cline. Charlie ordered pancakes and bacon. I ordered coffee and the largest omelet on the menu.
While we waited, I pulled out my notes. "Walk me through anyone who might escalate to violence."
She poured syrup over her pancakes when they arrived.
Took her time answering. "Walsh is the obvious choice.
Councilman I exposed six months ago—kickback scandal, backroom deals, the whole package.
He resigned, disappeared, and now he's trying to make a comeback.
He's got motive, resources, connections.
" She shrugged. "But honestly? He's too political.
Too calculated. This feels messier than his style. "
"Who else?"
"Gerry Kiser. CEO with alleged mob connections. My story cost him a major deal, brought federal attention. He's dangerous and has the resources."
"But?"
"But if he's as smart as everyone says, he's not adding 'murder a journalist' to his problems right now." She stabbed a piece of bacon. "Deborah Hoyle—socialite whose underground gambling ring I exposed. Lost everything. Publicly hates me. But she's a mess, not a mastermind."
"Desperate people surprise you."
"True." She chewed thoughtfully. "There's also an ex. Travis. IT guy. We hooked up a few times about six months ago. I ended it when he got clingy. He didn't take it well."
My attention sharpened. "Define 'didn't take it well.'"
"Showed up at my coffee shop 'coincidentally' multiple times. Sent sad texts. Posted a lot of heartbroken bullshit on social media." She waved her fork, dismissive. "Pathetic, not psycho."
She'd run through Walsh, Kiser, and Hoyle with detailed analysis. Travis got a shrug and a wave. That gap told me more than her words did.
"You'd be surprised how often those overlap."
She met my gaze across the table. "You think it's him?"
"I think anyone in your orbit is a potential suspect until we clear them." I made a note to send the full list to Heartline for deeper background pulls. "Family?"
"Estranged. They think I'm an embarrassment. I think they're judgmental. Nobody's picking up the phone." She said it flat, final—a door she'd nailed shut a long time ago.
There was a flicker behind her eyes when she said it—quick, buried. But I caught it.
She noticed me noticing. Changed the subject. "What about you, Marine? Any ex-girlfriends I should worry about showing up with a grudge?"
"I don't bring my personal life into work."
"How very disciplined of you." She leaned back in the booth, studying me. "Let me guess. Married to the job. Too focused for relationships. Just the work."
"Something like that."
"Lonely way to live."
"I prefer 'focused.'"
"Same thing, different packaging."
It wasn't. But I didn't argue.
CHARLIE'S APARTMENT was dim and cluttered when we got back—takeout containers on the counter, notes pinned to every surface, her camera equipment spread across the kitchen table like a war room.
She uploaded the Gilded Hart photos to Morty, changed clothes twice, rejected three wigs, and finally announced tonight's plan.
She had a source meeting at Velvet Arrow—an underground speakeasy where Cupid City's elite traded secrets over craft cocktails.
"You're posing as my date," she informed me while holding up earrings to her reflection.
"Excuse me?"
"My source won't talk if I show up alone. He's paranoid. Thinks I'm wired or being followed." She held my gaze in the mirror. "Ironically accurate, in this case."
"I'm your bodyguard, not your accessory."
"Tonight you're both." She pulled out a black dress that looked like it would cause problems. "Wear something nice. The Arrow has a dress code."
VELVET ARROW WAS HIDDEN beneath a vintage clothing shop in the old warehouse district. You had to know the password, which changed weekly. Charlie knew it.
Of course she did.
The interior was dark wood and deep velvet, candlelight flickering in crystal holders, jazz playing low enough to allow conversation. A place where secrets changed hands between sips of overpriced bourbon.
Charlie had changed into the black dress. It did exactly what I'd feared it would do—hugged every curve, left just enough to the imagination to make a man stupid. Heels that added three inches to her height. Her dark hair loose around her shoulders, lips painted red.
She looked like the kind of trouble men write bad poetry about.
"Try to look less like you're mapping exit routes and more like you're on a date," she murmured as we followed the hostess to a private booth.
"I'm always mapping exit routes."
"Then do it while looking at me like you want to take this dress off."
I cut my eyes to her. She smiled—slow, deliberate, fully aware of what she was doing.
The booth was designed for intimacy—curved seating that forced proximity, a single candle between us. Charlie slid in first. I followed, and her perfume—amber and vanilla with a bite of warmth underneath—wrapped around me.
"Source should be here in ten minutes," she said quietly. "Order us drinks. Make it look good."
I flagged down the server, ordered bourbon for me and champagne for her. When the drinks arrived, Charlie shifted closer, her thigh pressing against mine.
"What are you doing?"
"Selling the cover." Her hand landed on my arm, fingers trailing up toward my shoulder like she'd done this a hundred times and knew exactly the effect it had. "We're supposed to be together, remember?"
"This isn't necessary."
"It's called commitment to the role." She leaned in, lips near my ear. "Relax, Marine. I don't bite."
"That's not what worries me."
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. The teasing dropped for half a second—replaced by something sharper, hungrier. Then it was gone, and she was reaching for her champagne like nothing had happened.
I took a long pull of bourbon and reminded myself of every regulation Heartline had about client relationships. There were seven. I'd never had trouble remembering a single one before this week.
The source arrived before either of us could do something stupid. Small man in his forties, tie loosened like he'd been pulling at it all night, nails bitten to the quick. He slid into the booth across from us, eyes darting.
"You weren't followed?" he asked Charlie.
"Just by my date." She gave my shoulder a squeeze, playing the part. "He's harmless."
Debatable.
"Make it quick," the source said, leaning forward. "Kiser's people are everywhere. Feds have him under a microscope—surveillance, wiretaps, the works. He's not making any moves. Lying so low he's practically underground."
"So he's not behind the threats I've been getting?"
"Kiser?" The source almost laughed. "He's not stupid enough to add 'attempted murder of a journalist' to his problems while the FBI's crawling up his ass. If someone's coming after you, look somewhere else."
Charlie nodded slowly. "What about Walsh? Any word on his comeback?"
The source glanced around the room before answering.
"He's making nice with anyone who'll take his calls.
Trying to rehabilitate his image before the Valentine's Ball.
Word is he's spending money he shouldn't have to make friends he doesn't deserve.
" He stood, buttoning his jacket with shaking hands.
"That's all I've got. Lose my number for a while. "
He was gone before Charlie could respond.
"Well," she said, reaching for her champagne. "One suspect down."
"Still leaves plenty."
As we left, I clocked movement across the street. Someone in a hoodie, watching from the gap between two buildings. Male, average height, face hidden. He saw me looking and melted backward into the dark.
"What?" Charlie followed my gaze.
"Someone was watching."
"Welcome to my life." She didn't sound concerned. "Probably just paparazzi. Even we get photographed sometimes."
My gut said it wasn't our primary threat—the body language read curious, not predatory. Amateur. But worth tracking.
Back at her apartment, Charlie kicked off her heels and dropped onto the couch—my couch, my bed, my punishment. "So. Productive day. We eliminated one suspect, got a killer story, and you only threatened to arrest me twice. Progress."
"Three times."
"Who's counting?" She stretched, then seemed to remember she was occupying my sleeping quarters and stood, padding toward her bed barefoot. "I'm going to change. Try not to interrogate my furniture while I'm gone."
She disappeared into the bathroom. When she emerged in an oversized T-shirt and crawled into bed, I claimed the couch and the silence that came with it.
I ran through everything. Walsh—motive and resources, but she thought he was too calculated. The socialite with the gambling ring—unlikely but not cleared. The ex—sad, not dangerous, but someone I needed to look at harder. Kiser—deprioritized per the source.
The watcher outside Velvet Arrow nagged at me. The threat level had felt low, almost amateur—wrong body language for a professional tail. But who was it? And why tonight?
Hours later, I was still awake. The apartment settled around me—old pipes groaning, refrigerator humming, Charlie shifting once in her sleep and going still again.
This assignment was supposed to be straightforward. Keep her alive. Maintain distance. Do the job.
But nothing about Charlotte Collins was straightforward. And every hour I spent in her orbit made the distance harder to hold.
Six more days. I just had to keep my hands to myself for six more days.
I was already losing that fight.