Her Bodyguard

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.

Lucas knew a man with that much power would have no trouble tracking down an innocent young woman who had no reason to hide. He couldn’t let down his guard for even one instant.

If he did, Angela could end up dead.

Chapter Two

At least the Business Ethics exam was over. Who knew if she’d passed or not? When she’d turned it in a half hour ago she’d felt pretty confident, but now her brain was racing, questioning every single answer.

Angela hurried along the sidewalk, hoping to beat the rain. Usually she enjoyed the two-block walk from the streetcar stop to her apartment on Chartres Street. She liked to stop at the market for vegetables or fruit, French bread, a DVD from Sal’s private collection of classic movies and maybe a chocolate truffle.

But today was different. The air was heavy with humidity, she hadn’t slept the night before and there was a man behind her following way too closely.

She’d felt funny on the streetcar, like someone was watching her, but she’d chalked it up to nervousness about the exam and the paranoia that had been growing inside her over the past several days.

She should have stopped in at Sal’s, where she’d be surrounded by people in case the man really was following her. She wasn’t really sure why she hadn’t. For some reason, at the last second, she’d decided she’d rather be home, inside her apartment with the doors locked.

Stupid.

A few drops of rain penetrated her thin shirt, so she sped up. To her alarm, the footsteps behind her sped up, too. And was it her imagination, or could she hear the man’s harsh breaths in her ear, sawing in and out—in and out?

She wanted to turn her head and look back, but if he was following her, she didn’t want to look into his eyes.

When had she become such a wimp?