Her Bodyguard. Mallory Kane

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