The bathroom door opened. Steam rolled out, the air turning warm and citrus-bright. Charlie emerged in ripped jeans and anoversized 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 MADEyou 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 completelydifferent. 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."
