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Her Bodyguard
Mallory Kane
Her Bodyguard
Mallory Kane
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u45f4d924-07e2-5914-afb0-f9fe820a78d6)
Title Page (#u8fa55af8-3bb5-582b-b908-83628950c403)
About the Author (#ub154b2aa-1088-5677-b0b2-67b2a26b4a40)
Dedication (#ud69b7071-91fd-5fd6-9f0f-5362c346d322)
Chapter One (#u3a0f7dde-9dc2-58aa-a088-5582d08aec1d)
Chapter Two (#u6f509251-372d-5ace-b88c-a5c1406b4955)
Chapter Three (#u46291035-dec2-5601-9fdd-7c90ef2872f8)
Chapter Four (#uc9c1fc07-48fc-5918-8936-dd999ac68401)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
MALLORY KANE has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. And her father is an amazing storyteller who can hold an audience spellbound for hours. She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and loves to incorporate her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, eight computers. She loves to hear from readers.You can write her at mallory@ mallorykane.com or via Harlequin Books.
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.
