Her Bodyguard. Mallory Kane

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