Her Bodyguard. Mallory Kane
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?
Before yesterday, she’d have stopped and whirled, eyeing him with a pugnacious stare until he walked on past her or crossed the street. She might be afraid, but she’d never let him know it.
Today, however, everything was different.
Today terror clawed its way up her throat, like it had when she was a child and a nightmare would wake her. She swallowed hard and gripped her umbrella like a weapon.
“Angela, hi!”
She almost tripped.
It was her downstairs neighbor, Billy Laverne, walking his Afghan hound toward her, or, more accurately, being walked by the gigantic dog.
“Hi, Billy.” The wash of relief that coursed through her ticked her off. Since when did Billy, whose head barely reached her eyebrows, who weighed less than she did and who definitely had a better manicure, represent safety to her?
“So,” he drawled. “Tell me. How’re the exams going? I’m sure you’re doing fabulously.”
She reached out a hand to pet Alfie. The friendly dog licked her knuckles. “I hope you’re right. Can I ask you something?”
She half turned, but when she did, the only person close to her was turning to head across the street. All she saw was the back of a loud Hawaiian print bowling shirt and a blue baseball cap. She couldn’t tell anything about the man except that he was not much taller than her five feet seven inches.
“Honey, you can ask me anything.”
She kept her hand on Alfie’s head. “Do you know that guy?” She gestured toward the retreating back of the man in the Hawaiian shirt.
Billy shook his head. “Heavens no. That is a nasty excuse for a shirt. Why?”
She laughed weakly. “It’s nothing. For a few minutes I thought he was following me. So, did Bouvier send someone to work