Page 1 of Thirsty Bodyguard Summer

Chapter One

BY ELEVEN ON THE LASTThursday in June, Sunbreak Harbor was already hot enough to fry a tourist on the boardwalk, and my new client was shirtless in a surveillance photo.

It wasn’t the introduction I usually preferred.

I sat in the glass-walled operations loft of the Beacon, Sunbreak Security’s headquarters inside the town’s old candy-striped lighthouse, while Atlantic glare flashed across the monitors. Below us, water knocked against the boathouse pilings. Above us, the air-conditioning fought a losing battle with Florida humidity.

On the main screen, Shane Hart stood outside his temporary rental at Dune Garden Inn in navy board shorts, with a white towel hanging from one shoulder and sunglasses in his hand. The former Sunday Drive frontman was in Sunbreak Harbor to launch his solo comeback at Saturday night’s Summer Nights concert.

Someone wanted him to cancel.

Someone had also gotten close enough to photograph him outside his temporary home.

“The latest threat arrived with it this morning,” Rafi Haddad said. Sunbreak Security’s chief operating officer stood beside the screen in pressed linen trousers and a rolled-sleeve shirt,looking far too polished for a man who spent half his day solving other people’s emergencies.

At the head of the briefing table, Sloane Archer, our founder and my boss, slid a folder toward me. “You’re leading his protection detail through the show.”

Across from me, Shane’s longtime manager, Tracy Nolan, folded her arms. “He thinks the threats are fan noise.”

“Are they?” I asked.

“No. Getting that close changes the threat,” Sloane said.

I pulled the image closer and studied the beachside pedestrian route curving behind Shane’s patio. Low sea-grape bushes left an open sightline and easy access.

The shot also offered an unnecessarily detailed view of Shane’s golden tan and sharply defined torso.

A serious security problem had apparently arrived with excellent lighting.

I looked up. “When does Mr. Hart meet me?”

Tracy gave a small huff of amusement. “After lunch. He doesn’t know his protection has already started.”

“That should make the introduction fun.”

“It’ll make it something.” Her polished chestnut bob brushed her jaw as she leaned forward. “He knows Sunbreak Security is involved. He thinks that means venue coverage and someone checking his lodging at night.”

Rafi touched the screen, replacing Shane’s photo with three messages.

UNKNOWN:

Cancel Saturday.

UNKNOWN:

Stay off the stage.

UNKNOWN:

Jesse Ward deserved the comeback. You took enough from him.

Sunday Drive had broken apart four years earlier after Vince Pike, the band’s bassist, nearly overdosed at a private party. Shane had been impaired too, but he’d recognized that Vince was in danger, pushed for emergency help, and later told police who’d brought and shared the drugs. Shane hadn’t supplied anything, and nobody had blamed him for causing the overdose.

The truth hadn’t saved the band.

Their label had dropped Sunday Drive, and plenty of fans had decided Shane’s cooperation made him a traitor anyway.

“Has the sender demanded anything besides cancellation?” I asked. “Money, access, or a public statement?”