Her Bodyguard

Her Bodyguard

Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Copyright

For the members of Magnolia State Romance Writers. Thanks for all your support.

Chapter One

Lucas Delancey eyed the shelf of DVDs next to the flat-screen TV in the French Quarter apartment’s living room. The fake movie looked remarkably like all the others. As long as she didn’t decide to watch Charade, she’d never know she was being watched.

He’d had to get creative in the tiny kitchen. He couldn’t embed the state-of-the-art spy cam in the spine of a cookbook because they were stored in a cabinet. So he’d finally stuck it inside the smoke detector. Of course, that meant he’d had to deactivate it.

“Don’t burn down the house, Ange,” he muttered as he retrieved his screwdriver, wire stripper and pliers from the end table.

He glanced across the small living room toward the bedroom and bathroom, wondering if he was going to regret not setting up cameras in those two rooms, but it didn’t matter. He would not spy on Angela Grayson in her bedroom, much less her bathroom.

No way. He was violating her privacy in too many ways already.

He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes to spare before she was due to be home, according to her class schedule. He took a last look around. No sign he’d been there.

He was almost to the door when his cell phone rang. It was Dawson.

Damn it. The only reason Dawson would call was if he’d spotted Angela.

“Yeah?” he snapped. “Don’t tell me—”

“Yep. You’re lucky I took a stretch break and looked up the street. She just came out of the market. You’ve got two minutes.”

“Great.” He’d have been home free in four. Crap.

He ran out, slamming the door behind him, and bounded down the stairs four at a time. At street level, the back door of the building opened onto a quaintly decorated alley, with iron benches and Boston ferns. Rain sprinkled down on his head and shoulders as he glanced toward the Chartres Street entrance, then he turned the other way and loped down the alley to Decatur Street. He circled the block and emerged back onto Chartres below Angela’s apartment building, prepared to sprint across the street.

Instead, he ran into her—literally. Something clattered to the pavement. He caught her arm to keep her from falling head over heels.

“Whoa! Sorry.”

Son of a bitch! Why had she bypassed her building? For a split second, he considered bolting. But he’d never get away before she recognized him. He might as well face the music. “Are you okay?” he asked, grimacing inside.

Angela Grayson stiffened as a jolt of recognition hit her. That voice.

Her first thought couldn’t be right. Lucas Delancey was a police detective in Dallas. He wouldn’t be walking in the French Quarter in early June.

When she looked up, she caught the full impact of those familiar intense green eyes.

“Lucas?”

“Hi, Ange,” he said, giving her a sheepish grin.

She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “What are you doing here?” Heat crawled up her neck to her cheeks. She couldn’t believe it. Lucas Delancey. Literally the last person she’d ever expected to see. It had been twelve years since she’d last looked into those devilish eyes.

“Uh—” he looked down and then picked up the DVD she’d dropped. He met her gaze as he handed it to her. “How … how’ve you been?”

“Why aren’t you in Dallas, detecting something?” Now that she’d come down from the initial shock of seeing him, she noticed how uncomfortable he seemed. She’d never seen him this ill at ease, except around his dad.

He was out of breath, as if he’d been running, and his hair was tousled, too. It really was Lucas. Hot and tanned and as handsome as she remembered, to her chagrin.

Still looking sheepish, he shrugged. “I’m taking some time off. A buddy lent me his apartment for a few days.”

Angela frowned. He was lying. She’d always been able to tell when he was dishing out bull. Okay, truth to tell, she once could, back when they were kids. Nowadays, who knew?

“Your buddy’s apartment. Please tell me it’s not around here—” She gestured vaguely.

“No. No. I was just walking.” He stepped backward. “What about you? Are you still living in Chef Voleur?”

“No way! I didn’t want to stay in our hometown any more than you did.”

“You and Brad gave up your mother’s home?”

She shook her head. “We’re renting it out.” She took a half step backward. “I’ve got to go.”

“You live around here?”

“That building back there, with the red shutters.” She saw the faint puzzled look that arose in his eyes. “I was going down to the newsstand to get a magazine.”

“Ange?”

Something inside her twisted at his use of her nickname. “It’s Angela,” she said coldly. “I’m all grown up now.”

He nodded, watching her intently. “I see that. You look good.”

“Do I? And the punch line is—?”

His brow wrinkled slightly. “No punch line. Still can’t take a compliment, I see.”

She met his gaze and was surprised. The twinkle she remembered hadn’t appeared in his eyes.

“Like you’d know,” she shot back, suppressing a smile. They’d always been good at the banter.

“Things going okay with you?”

And there it was. Just what she’d wanted to avoid. She didn’t want to try and make small talk with Lucas Delancey. Even twelve years later, she was too embarrassed.

“Things are fine.” Defensiveness edged her tone. She cleared her throat softly and continued. “You?”

He nodded and smiled—with his lips. His eyes remained serious. Something wasn’t right with Lucas—not that she cared. Or at least, not that she’d admit it.

“Okay, good. So—” She glanced around.

“We should get together sometime,” he ventured. “Catch up.”

“Sure. That would be—” Nice? No, it wouldn’t.

“Let me give you my phone number.”

“Listen Lucas, I don’t—” She stopped. Suddenly, irritatingly, having Lucas Delancey’s number at her fingertips sounded like the best idea ever. Probably because of the paranoia that had been growing inside her over the past few days.

“Okay,” she finished lamely. “That sounds great.” She dug her cell phone out of her purse and entered the numbers as he recited them. She didn’t offer him hers.

“Okay then,” he said. His gaze flickered downward, toward his feet, for an instant. Then he looked at her from under his brows.

“Take care, Ange. I’ll see you around.” He turned and headed back toward downtown.

For a couple of seconds, she watched him. In some ways he hadn’t changed since high school. That eyebrow still rose as if he knew a secret nobody else knew. And he still had that same cocky attitude.

No one would consider him skinny these days—cut was a better term. And his walk held more confidence than swagger. All things considered, he was still the best-looking guy she’d ever seen.

“Lucas,” she called out, not sure why.

He stopped and turned.

“It was—you know—good to see you.”

He nodded and smiled, as if he’d known she was going to say that, then kept walking.

Annoyed, she abandoned the notion of getting a magazine and turned on her heel, back toward her building. At the door, she glanced up the street, but he’d disappeared.

She frowned. What had he said? He was in town for a few days staying at a buddy’s apartment.

That was a lie. She had no idea what he was doing in New Orleans, but it wasn’t just a vacation. Her earlier thought had been right on the money.

Something was wrong. And whatever it was, Lucas was in the middle of it.

LUCAS ENTERED HIS BUILDING through the rear door, still cursing himself. All he’d have had to do was pause for five seconds to make sure Angela had gone into her building, before heading across the street.

Now she knew he was here. It wouldn’t take her long to figure out why. He’d seen how her eyes narrowed when he’d spun the vacation story. Those chocolate-colored eyes should be declared a lethal weapon.

Chocolate. The word conjured the scent he’d picked up when they’d collided. She’d been eating chocolate.

Chocolate and old movies. Her favorite guilty pleasures.

A thrill of lust slid through him as his mind flashed back twelve years to the night she’d kissed him. She’d been eating chocolate then, too. And ever since, he’d avoided it—tasting it was like tasting her lips.

He growled and forcibly shut down that part of his brain as he pushed open the door to the barren second-floor loft.

In front of the window across the room, his cousin Dawson was plugging a computer monitor into a black box. Four other screens were lined up on a long folding table.

“So, how’s Angela?” Dawson said. “Leave it to you to go all the way around the block and still manage to run into her.”

Lucas ignored the barb. “Are the cameras in her apartment working?”

“Of course. But you’ve got a problem.”

“What now?”

Dawson nodded toward one of the monitors. “Look at her door.”

Lucas looked at the monitor just as Angela came into view. The camera he’d set up over the transom opposite her apartment showed a perfect view of her entry door.

It was ajar.

“Ah, hell. I know I closed it. The lock should have caught.”

He watched as Angela stopped and stared at it.

“Maybe it doesn’t always catch,” Dawson offered. “Maybe she’s found it open before.”

Lucas shook his head. “Nope. She hasn’t. Look how rattled she is. And she’d never forget to lock it. Angela doesn’t make mistakes like that.”

He watched her glance around and knew exactly what she was thinking.

Do I go inside or find the building super and call the police?

“Damn it. Don’t go inside. You know better than that.” He tapped his fist against the table top. “She knows somebody’s been in there, because she knows she locked the door this morning. But I hope to hell she doesn’t call the police. If she does, we’re sunk. They’ll find the cameras.”

She finally made her decision and pushed the door open.

“That’s my Ange. Diving right into the middle of danger.” He glanced toward the other monitors. “Which one’s the living room?”

Dawson plugged the last monitor in and turned it on. “Right here.”

“What’s that?” He pointed at the box that all the cables ran to.

“A UPS. Uninterruptible power supply. Finest kind. It’ll run the computer for four hours if the power goes out. Take a look.”

The last monitor lit up. Lucas took in the array. The five monitors gave him a clear view of the street in front of her building, the front lobby, the hallway leading to her apartment, a wide-angle shot of her kitchen and her living room, where she was turning the lock on her door.

He watched as she scrutinized every inch of the room. She was looking for signs that someone had been in there.

“Only the kitchen and living room cameras pick up sound,” Dawson commented. “Keep it turned low. They’re powerful and sensitive.”

The high-definition monitor clearly showed the tense line of her jaw and her white knuckles. She looked toward her bedroom, then toward the French doors that led out onto the balcony, her teeth scraping her lower lip.

“That’s not the fearless bratty kid I remember. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this shaken by anything.”

Except once, his brain was quick to remind him. Again, the memory of her soft lips and chocolate scent assaulted his senses. He immediately shut off those thoughts. He needed to concentrate on protecting her.

She tossed her purse, her leather tote and the DVD onto the couch and headed for the balcony.

Lucas turned his gaze from the monitor to the streaked, spotted window. Her balcony was almost directly across the street. She opened the balcony doors and peered out. Her face was pale, her mouth set.

After a quick look up and down the street, she closed the doors and flipped the latch.

When he looked back at the living room monitor, all he saw was her sexy backside disappearing into the bedroom.

“You should have put a camera in her bedroom,” Dawson commented.

“What the hell is she thinking, living in a place like that?”

“You mean a place where someone can install cameras in her home without her knowledge?”

Lucas growled. “You know what I mean.”

“Thousands of people live in New Orleans in perfect safety.”

“Thousands of people don’t have ruthless Chicago crime families out to kidnap and kill them.”

“You can’t blame her. She doesn’t know she could be a target, right?”

“Right. But look at that place. I could fly a 747 through the holes in security. Anybody could climb up the balcony. Those French doors are an open invitation to burglars. And there’s no security at all in the lobby. The doors are unlocked 24/7. I got in her front door with a credit card.”

“A credit card? I thought her brother gave you a key.”

“He did. But when I saw that lock—it’s ancient. I mean, how long has it been since you unlocked a door with a credit card?”

“Let’s see. Forever. Why would you even try to do that?”

“Because those locks are so old that—never mind. The point is, she needs deadbolts.”

“If she had deadbolts, you wouldn’t have been able to get in.”

“Fine. I’ll give you that. But at least I’ve got the surveillance system in place, thanks to you. And it looks good. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah. Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t. Particularly when you’re arrested for breaking and entering, not to mention stalking. I’ve taken all the Delancey Security logos off the equipment.”

“Thanks for the support.”

“Why didn’t your buddy Brad hire a private investigator to bodyguard his sister until he can put that crime boss behind bars? Or just make her move to Chicago, where he could keep an eye on her himself? Didn’t you tell me that the police there have his family under an order of protection?”

“Two reasons. First, since Angela’s last name is different from his, he figured she’d be safer if he didn’t do anything formal. He didn’t want to tip off Picone’s goons that he has a sister. And the second is the same reason he doesn’t want her to know she has a bodyguard. She’d have a tantrum and do her best to prove she doesn’t need protecting. And if she knew it was me—” Lucas shook his head “—hell, she’d probably paint a bull’s-eye on her back just to spite Brad and me.”

“Which brings up another question.” Dawson scrolled through several screens on the main monitor and nodded to himself. “Why is it you?”

“Brad asked me to find someone. I was available.” Lucas heard the irony in his voice.

Dawson nodded. “Lucky you, getting suspended for excessive force at just the right time.”

He grimaced. It rankled that his lieutenant hadn’t gone to bat for him against Dallas P.D. Internal Affairs. The domestic dispute had gotten violent long before Lucas and his partner had shown up. And if the husband hadn’t been the son of a Texas state senator, it would have been a routine call.

But Junior hadn’t appreciated Lucas conking him on the head to stop him from whaling on his wife. So he’d called his daddy, and suddenly, despite the wife’s black eye and strained shoulder, Junior was home free and Lucas was on suspension for three months.

“Gives me something to do. When Brad called, I’d already been on suspension for six weeks. Why wouldn’t I jump at the chance to do something other than stare at the walls?” Besides, how could he refuse? It was Angela—Brad’s little sister—who needed protecting.

He saw movement on the living room monitor. Angela was coming out of her bedroom. She’d changed into a sleeveless top and shorts and pushed her hair back from her face with some kind of headband.

“Okay. You’re all set up here. I’ve got other clients to see—paying clients.” Dawson stood. “Take care, Luke. If there really is a hit man after her, you could find yourself in the line of fire.”

Luke stood, too, and held out his hand. “That’s why I’m here. Thanks, cousin. I really do appreciate your help.” His gaze slid back to the monitor. “Look at her. She can’t settle down. She keeps looking at the door. There’s got to be something else going on.” He frowned. “Damn, you reckon she’s noticed someone watching her?”

“Maybe you should talk to her—tell her it was you in her apartment. It might make her feel better.”

“Are you kidding me? To her, that would be worse than finding out she’s being targeted for a hit. Angela Grayson hates me.”

ANGELA SLAMMED THE BOOK SHUT and drained her glass of sweet iced tea. Her watch read 11:15.

She groaned and rubbed her eyes. She’d been trying to study for two hours, most of which she’d spent staring at indecipherable words. So much for cramming for tomorrow’s Business Ethics exam.

Hopefully, she’d gleaned enough from the lectures to pass, because no way was her brain going to process anything tonight.

She could only think about one thing—okay, two if she counted Lucas Delancey, and both of them were making her crazy. But the one that scared her most was that someone had been inside her apartment.

And not for the first time, either.

A week ago, after going to dinner with friends, she’d come home to find the living room light on and a torn slip of paper on the hardwood floor.

She’d called Mr. Bouvier, the super. Sure enough, he’d had an electrician checking the wiring in 1A downstairs, but he didn’t think the guy had gone into any of the other apartments. So she’d written that one off with a request for Bouvier to put deadbolts on her doors. He’d promised her he’d get to it. But of course he hadn’t yet.

Now it had happened again. Damn Bouvier and his cut-rate handymen. She’d had it with them invading her space and interrupting her life.

She opened the book again, but it might as well have been written in Greek. She growled under her breath and managed not to throw it across the room.

As soon as exams were over, she’d buy the deadbolts herself. Maybe she’d even get an alarm system. Didn’t one of the Delancey boys own a security company?

Of course, if she didn’t pass the exams, she might not be able to keep the apartment. Not to mention she could kiss her career plan goodbye. Even with a PhD in hospitality management, she needed the specific postdoctoral courses she was taking during the June mini-semester to qualify for the kind of position she wanted with a premier hotel chain.

She carried her glass to the sink, doing her best to ignore the frisson of fear that slid down her spine when she passed her hall door.

It must have been Mr. Bouvier who’d been inside her apartment and left the door open. As her super, he had a key. But that rational explanation did nothing to make her feel better.

To avoid looking at the door she glanced in the other direction, toward her balcony. There she spotted her broken reflection in the multiple glass panes of the French doors. Her heart skipped a beat.

For the first time since she’d moved in, she was conscious of what someone looking in her window could see. She shivered, feeling exposed. How many times had she walked to the kitchen in skimpy pajamas? Or next to nothing?

With a huge effort, she managed to walk calmly across the room and turn out the lights. Now she could see out while she was hopefully hidden by darkness.

Directly across the street from her balcony was a dirty window. In the past eight months she’d never once seen lights in there, much less anyone moving around. But tonight, her imagination was running wild.

She squinted. Did she see a faint blue glow behind the streaked glass? Or was it just a reflection? Were the deep shapeless shadows hiding a dark figure whose eyes followed her every move?

She really needed to get curtains.

She took a deep breath and, ignoring the trickle of fear that slithered down her back, stalked deliberately over to the French doors and checked the locks.

On the way to her bedroom she packed up her Business Ethics book. She might as well take it with her. She was pretty sure she wasn’t going to sleep tonight.

She wasn’t fond of studying into the wee hours of the morning, but it would be better than lying awake in the dark. Then a second thought had her reaching for her purse. She grabbed her cell phone to carry with her into the bedroom.

“Whoever you are,” she said out loud to the faceless person who had violated her privacy. “Are you trying to make me afraid in my own home? Well, it won’t work.”

Whoever was sneaking around in her apartment while she wasn’t home was a coward. So why was she the one who felt terrified?

LUCAS HEARD HER brave words through Dawson’s state-of-the-art equipment. He also heard the quiver in her voice. Just like he remembered.

When they were kids, there was no dare Angela wouldn’t take. She’d stick that stubborn little chin out and flash those brown eyes. It didn’t matter if her chin trembled and vulnerable fear lurked behind her cutting glare. She’d never balked at anything.

She had a nasty scar above her right knee to prove it. He’d bet her that she couldn’t follow him across a deep drainage ditch. He’d barely made it to the other side. But before he could turn around and warn her not to try it with her shorter legs, she’d jumped—and fallen.

“Damn it, Angela,” he whispered. “Be careful.” Her attitude had earned her more scars than that one— both physical and emotional. A couple of each were his fault.

He’d been both reluctant and glad to take on this job when Brad asked him to. He’d thought Lucas was doing him a favor. But he wasn’t doing it for Brad. He was doing it because he owed Angela.

Brad Harcourt was the assistant district attorney in Chicago, and Angela’s half-brother. He’d asked Lucas to make sure she was safe until Nikolai Picone’s trial was over and the crime boss was behind bars. He’d outlined for Lucas the extent of Picone’s influence. Nikolai Picone headed one of the biggest crime organizations operating in the Midwest.