Page 3 of Thirsty Bodyguard Summer

Saturday night, those summer visitors would pack High Tide Pavilion to see whether Shane Hart could still command an audience.

First, I had to keep him from turning that route into an unscheduled fan event.

DUNE GARDEN INN LOOKEDlike someone had built a beach vacation out of white clapboard, blue shutters, flowering vines, and very optimistic privacy expectations.

White-clapboard buildings lined sandy paths beneath palms and sea grapes. Guests moved between them carrying beach bags, melting ice cream, inflatable animals, and no idea that a threatened rockstar was staying twenty yards away.

I parked the SBS SUV beside the service lane and stepped into air that wrapped around me like a warm, damp towel. My sunglasses cut the glare, but they couldn’t stop the heat rising through my shoes from the pale pavers.

Carlos Ibarra, the inn manager, met me outside reception. His neat short-sleeved shirt was still pressed despite the humidity, and his expression stayed calm as guests streamed past us.

“Ms. O’Shea, I’ve restricted Mr. Hart’s lodging information to myself and two supervisors,” he said. “No staff member has accessed it since housekeeping left at nine thirty.”

“Has Mr. Hart stayed inside?”

Carlos turned toward the garden route.

A blond man crossed the opening between two buildings with a towel slung over one shoulder.

He wore navy board shorts and nothing else.

“Apparently, he had other plans,” Carlos said.

Shane’s bare feet were already on the sun-heated pavers. He moved with the easy balance of someone accustomed to controlling every inch of a stage, broad shoulders relaxed and deep golden skin bright beneath the late-morning sun. His hair was short at the sides and longer on top, textured enough that the ocean breeze kept pushing it across his forehead.

The photo hadn’t captured the shallow V of muscle disappearing beneath his waistband or the dancer’s control in every step.

A pulse of need gathered low inside me. I ignored it and stepped into his path.

Shane slowed.

Shane took in my sunglasses, the Sunbreak Security logo on my polo, and the rest of me. He paused at my curves, then met my eyes.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“You can help by turning around.”

Shane raised his eyebrows. “That’s an ambitious opening.”

“You’re heading toward an unsecured route to the beach without shoes, a shirt, or protection coverage.”

“I’ve got sunscreen.”

“That wasn’t one of the missing items.”

In person, Shane Hart had the kind of smile that had probably sold millions of records, tour shirts, and regrettable teenage bedroom posters.

“I was told the inn’s event staff would meet me after lunch,” he said.

“I’m not event staff.”

“Do you work for the inn?”

“I work for Sunbreak Security. I’m Cassidy O’Shea, your close-protection lead.”

He studied my waterproof watch, earpiece, and the outline of compact gear beneath my polo. He glanced once more at my curves, then faced me again.

“You’re my bodyguard.”