"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.
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."
