Chapter Three

      It was after ten when Lucas tossed half a sandwich into the trash. He made a mental note to take the bag out in the morning before it started to smell. He was going to get real tired of ham sandwiches before this bodyguard detail was over.

      And right now he’d sell his vintage Mustang Cobra for a café au lait. At least he had the refrigerator, so his bottled water wasn’t the temperature of his unairconditioned room.

      As he drained the last of the water, his eye caught a movement on Angela’s living room monitor. She’d finally gotten up from the table, where she’d been hunched over her books for the past three hours.

      He yawned. That was dedication. And determination. Those qualities were more appealing in grown-up Angela than they had been in bratty kid Angela.

      They weren’t the only qualities that had gotten better with time, either. She had on shorts and a T-shirt that read Laissez les bon temps roulez, with bon temps—good times—stretched across her breasts.

      Lucas swallowed. Those would be good times.

      Her long legs, which had made her as awkward as a newborn colt when she was a kid, now made his mouth water. That dark brown hair that was always getting in her eyes now fell in soft waves to curve inward at her neck. And her pugnacious chin and too-short nose were now part of a face that had turned out just about perfect.

      She walked into the kitchen, giving Lucas a unique stereo view of her front and back through the two monitors.

      That did it. She officially looked hot from every angle.

      As she poured herself a half glass of wine, Lucas grabbed another cold plastic bottle from the refrigerator, quelling the urge to splash some of it on his face—not to mention other parts of his body.

      Back in the living room, she stopped in front of her shelf of DVDs and perused them as she sipped her wine.

      Lucas’s pulse sped up. She was looking for a movie to watch. Just don’t pick Charade. He’d chosen the 1963 Audrey Hepburn/Cary Grant movie because it wouldn’t stand out on her shelf of old movies, but he hadn’t stopped to see if she had another copy of it. Still, out of her hundred or so titles, the chances were slim that she’d pick that very one.

       Watch the one you rented, Ange. It’s right there on the couch.

      But she didn’t pick up on his telepathic plea. Her fingers slid across the cases’ spines, until she was dangerously close to his mini-spy cam, so close that the shadow of her hand obscured the lens.

      Holding his breath, he reached for his cell phone. As a last resort, he’d call her. He could say he got her number from Brad—and it would be true. He wasn’t going to tell her when he’d gotten it. He started dialing.

      A sharp knock sounded on her door.

      She jumped—and so did he. Her head snapped around and her hand went to her throat. Then she set her wine glass down directly in front of the camera lens.

      Lucas pocketed his phone and reached for his Sig Sauer. He seated it in the paddle holster at the small of his back. He scrutinized the monitors and cursed as only a Delancey could. He’d been so intensely concentrated on her that he hadn’t noticed someone coming into the building.

      The hall spy cam picked up on a dark figure, barely visible in the wan light of the inadequate 40-watt bulbs that lined the corridors. The camera aimed at her door showed the back of a man’s bald head.

      Lucas shoved his arms into his long-sleeved shirt and fastened a couple of buttons. He couldn’t see a damn thing through the living room monitor. The stem of the wine glass was blocking it. He had to rely on sound and what little he could see through her French doors.

      ANGELA’S HEART BEAT a staccato rhythm as her fingers closed around the glass door knob.

      “Who is it?” she said sharply.

      “Electrician,” came the terse reply.

      She jerked her hand away as if the knob were hot. A repairman this time of night? That didn’t feel right.

      Billy must have told Bouvier what she’d said about her kitchen light. But why would Bouvier send the guy up here at night? He normally went around the world to avoid paying overtime.

      “I’m sorry, but it’s late. Please come back tomorrow,” she called through the door.

      “Look, lady, I get here when I get here. Now do you want your light fixed or not? “

      “It—it’s working now. It was probably just a burned-out bulb.”

      “Awright,” the electrician growled. “No skin off my nose. I’m billing Bouvier anyhow.”

      She listened as his heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Once she could no longer hear them, she slumped and hugged herself, her hands shaking.

      “What’s wrong with me?” she muttered. She was becoming too paranoid. She pressed her palms against her hot cheeks. Overreacting to every little thing.

      Was it the pressure of exams causing her to make mountains out of mole hills? Sure, a few odd things had happened in the past few days, but every single one of them had a reasonable explanation, didn’t they?

      Her gaze lit on the smudge on her sofa. No. Not all of them. In the eight months she’d lived here, Bouvier had never sent a repairman during the evening, and he’d never gone into her apartment when she wasn’t there.

      At least not to her knowledge.

      She sucked in a deep, shaky breath. First thing tomorrow, she was going to march down there and demand he change her locks and install deadbolts.

      But what about tonight?