Mallory Kane - Her Bodyguard

He paused for a beat and then took a deep breath. “Somebody’s going into her apartment when she’s not there, Brad.”

“Oh, God. You’ve seen him? I knew it. It’s got to be Picone. He’s sent someone down there after her. A hit man.”

“Who? Who would he send?”

Brad grunted in frustration. “That’s the $64,000 question. Picone’s organization is a family business. He’s got four sons and two daughters. Word is Nikki Jr. is being groomed to take over someday. Milo and Paulo have been linked to several suspicious deaths. And the son-in-law, Harold, was convicted of manslaughter about six years ago. The younger daughter isn’t married. She’s in her twenties. I’ve heard she’s a technology whiz.”

Lucas filed the names away in his brain. “What about the fourth son?”

“Tony. The youngest boy. He’s totally clean, from all the information I’ve got. The police have a confidential informant who says he’s Mama’s baby, and not in the business.”

“So which one’s out of town?”

Brad laughed wryly. “I wish it were that easy. None of them have been seen for the last couple of days.”

“Have you got pictures?”

“I’ll have to get my secretary to check the newspaper archives. Why? Have you spotted someone hanging around?”

“Not really. There is this one forgettable type who seems to hang around the building a lot. He’s kind of dumpy and pale as a fish’s belly.”

“Doesn’t sound like any of the family I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe that’s the point. Forgettable is probably a job requirement for a hit man. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Think he’s the one getting into her apartment? Have you talked to the super?”

“Not yet. This guy’s never done anything that I’ve seen. He just hangs around like he’s waiting for somebody. But the next time the intruder goes into her apartment, I’ll be watching. And trust me, I’ll be all over him—”

“The next time?”

“Don’t worry, Brad. I’m going to get Ryker to talk to Chicago P.D. and maybe get a handle on who your big crime boss might have sent.”

“You can’t do that. I don’t want to broadcast that I’ve got a sister, much less where she is.”

“I said don’t worry. Look up the word discreet in the dictionary and you’ll find Ryker’s face.”

“Yeah, but Ryker’s so by-the-book. I’m afraid that’ll trump his discretion. He’ll be concerned with chain of command. And by the time he gets to someone who knows something, he’ll have spread the word about my sister all over the Chicago P.D. Besides, he’s in Chef Voleur, and that means even more links in the chain. Maybe Ethan could get one of the senior detectives in New Orleans to call up here, maybe talk to somebody he knows. Discreetly.”

“That’s not going to happen. My hot-headed younger brother isn’t happy with me right now. Ryker’ll handle it. He’s not such a stickler for chain of command these days.”

“Okay, if you’re sure. But do it today. That hit man’s on a deadline. I’m doing closing arguments on Monday. The case should go to the jury no later than Tuesday. I doubt it will take them a day to convict. Until then, Angela’s in danger.”

“Brad, you trust me, right? I’m on it. Nothing’s going to happen to Ange. Not on my watch.”

“Thanks, Luke. How are the accommodations?”

“Well, at least this place has a working toilet. I bought a portable refrigerator. Dawson found me a cot, and there’s a market three doors down.”

“Anything you need, just ask.”

“I could use an air conditioner, but other than that, I’m fine. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing right now than spying on Angela—okay wait. That didn’t come out right.”

Brad chuckled. “Don’t worry, Luke. I know what you meant, and I know I can trust you with my sister. I can trust you with my sister, can’t I?”

“Hey, she’s practically my sister, too.” Liar. That might have been true when he and Brad were eleven, but now—

As Angela had told him, she was all grown up now. And so was he. And there had been nothing brotherly about his reaction to her.

“Thanks, Luke. I knew I could count on you.”

Lucas hung up with a frustrated sigh and dialed Ryker’s number.

Yeah, Brad could trust him completely. He’d watch her every move and be on alert in case anything happened.

He’d keep her safe. Even if it meant taking a lot of cold showers.

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.