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