Her Bodyguard

by Mallory Kane

It wouldn’t take five minutes to walk down to the pier and soak up a few happy childhood memories. Five minutes to calm down a bit.

  Lucas had brought her to the cabin because he knew it was safe. Nothing was going to happen to her here.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lucas stared at the two rib-eye steaks. Damn it, he’d forgotten to pick up a bottle of his favorite steak marinade. He shook his head. He’d just have to make do. He’d bought butter and a head of garlic. In a pinch that would be enough, along with salt and pepper.

  He opened the pantry door and smiled. The first thing that caught his eye was four bottles of Louisiana Hot Sauce. A staple in any pantry in this neck of the woods. But not for steak.

  He grabbed a few bottles and set them out on the counter. He quickly concocted a marinade of olive oil, soy sauce, crushed peppercorns, oregano, basil, a pinch of tarragon, plus a few garlic cloves and some sea salt. He laid the steaks out in a flat pan, poured the mixture over them and set them in the refrigerator. In about an hour, they’d be ready to go on the grill.

  He’d bought greens for a Caesar salad and a loaf of genuine French bread.

  His mouth watered. They wouldn’t go hungry.

  He figured they’d eat around seven, which meant putting the steaks on about twenty minutes before. If he started the coals now, they’d be white and ashy by six-thirty.

  He opened the bottle of wine he’d bought, so it would have time to breathe.

  He grabbed two plates and two bowls, then reached in the drawer below for the silverware.

  Just as he finished setting the table, he heard the unmistakable boom of a shotgun.

  Close.

  He froze. Then his rational mind reminded him that everybody around here carried weapons. For the locals, it was the best way to dispatch a water moccasin or a vulture. For those used to living in the city, the land around Lake Pontchartrain was wild and fraught with danger. Anyone could run into an alligator or a wild boar or snakes.

  Another shot. Despite his knowledge of the area, fear squeezed his chest. He quickly checked his weapon and seated it in the paddle holster at the small of his back. Then he headed for the master bedroom. If the shots had woken Angela, she’d be terrified.

  If they hadn’t, and she was asleep and totally oblivious to whatever was going on outside, he’d probably scare her half to death when he burst in. But he’d rather be safe than sorry.

  He eased open the bedroom door and saw the pile of covers on the big king-sized bed. Stepping quietly into the room, he circled the bed until he could see the other side.

  It was empty.

  He turned toward the bathroom, but its door was open and the lights were off.

  “Ange?” he called, just as another shot rang out—followed immediately by a startled cry. A feminine cry.

  He vaulted toward the doors. They weren’t locked. He slammed them open and launched himself across the deck and down the cypress stairs.

  “Angela!” he shouted, stopping dead still at the bottom of the stairs to listen.

  He heard her yell his name.

  And then a colorful string of curse words in the unusual dialect peculiar to native New Orleanians. Accompanying the curse words was a chorus of barks and yelps and a couple of howls.

  He knew that voice and those sounds. It was Felton Scruggs, the bootlegger, and his pack of dogs.

  “Felton!” he yelled. “Yo, Felton!”

  “Who’s there?” came the guttural reply, barely heard over the chorus of howls and barks.

  A round little man stepped out from behind a stand of trees, holding a wad of leashes wrapped around his left arm and a big blue over-under shotgun cradled in his right.

  Lucas stared. Felton looked just like he had twenty years ago. He had to be in his eighties by now. He’d been bootlegging all his life, just like his papa before him.

  It didn’t matter a bit that liquor was legal in Louisiana these days. Felton still produced his pure grain alcohol, and just like when Lucas was in high school, people still came from all around the state—indeed the entire Southeast—to buy it.

  “Felton, it’s me, Lucas Delancey. Stop shooting!”

  Felton jerked on the leashes and seven dogs ranging from a tiny terrier to what looked like a cross between a Great Dane and a shepherd, with a couple of Doberman mixes and some hounds in between, immediately quieted.

  “Angela!” Lucas called. “Answer me. Are you okay?”

  “Over here.” Her voice, small and scared, came from the other side of the road.

  He turned in time to see her rise from behind an old, rusted car with no wheels. She ran straight to him and crashed into his side. He wrapped his left arm around her shoulders.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “He was just trying to scare you.”

  Angela’s whole body was trembling. “He did,” she muttered.

  “Lucas Delancey, as I live and breathe.” Felton Scruggs slung his shotgun over his shoulder, yelled at his dogs and then shuffled up to Lucas.

  He thumbed his faded, dirty hat up off his forehead. “I heard you went out West. Are you a cowboy now? I see you got the boots anyhow.” He talked out of one corner of his mouth, because he had a cheek full of tobacco in the other corner.

  Lucas shifted. “I went to Dallas, but I became a cop.”

  “A cowboy cop,” Felton muttered, then he leaned sideways and spit. “Well, I hope you didn’t come down here to run me in, ’cause I can’t go.” He lifted up on the leashes. “I got dependents—seven of ’em.”

  Lucas laughed. “No way. I’ve got my own problems. I don’t need anything more to do.”

  Felton’s pale blue eyes flickered toward Angela, who still cowered at Lucas’s side.

  “Ain’t she a pretty thing. Where’d you pick her up?”

  Lucas grinned and tightened his grip around her shoulders, hoping she wouldn’t take offense and say something. “Down the road a piece,” he joked. “She’s a friend of mine. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t shoot at her. She’s no danger to you or your business.”

  “Aw hell. I figured she was city folk, snooping around. Thought I’d scare ’em away. If I’d know she was with you… No problem.”

  “Listen, Felton. Like I said, we’ve got a problem. Maybe you can help.”

  Felton jerked on his leashes and growled loudly. All seven dogs sat. “You need some paint thinner? ’Cause I can keep you supplied with all the paint thinner you want. Just like back when you were in high school.”

  “No, I’m too old for that. It’d probably burn a hole in my gut these days.”

  Felton nodded and his mouth stretched into a one-sided grin that revealed tobacco-stained teeth. “All right then. What can I do you for?”

  “We’re hiding out here. There are some bad people looking for my girlfriend.”

  “Bad people? Like what kind of bad people?”

  “Real bad. They’re trying to stop her brother from putting their dad in prison.”

  Felton spat again and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. A couple of the dogs stirred restlessly. “Heeyah,” Felton growled, and they settled back down. “That bad, eh?” he said, staring thoughtfully at Angela. “Whaddaya need?”

  “Is it still true that you can’t see anybody on the road until they’re already up here behind our cabin?”

  “Yep. If I climb up into my attic I can see ’em when they turn onto the road and again when they top the ridge right before they get to your cabin. You can’t see ’em because your cabin’s down the hill from mine.”

  “That what I remembered. Can you be a lookout for us? If you see anybody headed this way, can you let me know?”

  Felton spat and then grinned. “Course I will,” he answered. “Gimme your cell number and I’ll call you.”

  Lucas was surprised. “You’ve got a cell phone?”

  The older man shrugged. “My customers get cell phones. I get a cell phone. Hell, with my GPS locator, I can keep up with my still—that is—my locations all
around here.”

  Lucas and Felton exchanged numbers.

  “Well, my girls have gotten their exercise,” the bootlegger said, “so I best get back to work.” He touched the ragged brim of his hat. “I apologize for scaring you, miss.”

  Then he gave the dogs an order and they all jumped up and headed back down the road with Felton hanging onto the leashes.

  Lucas held Angela at arms length and peered down at her. “Are you okay?”

  Her eyelashes were wet from tears and her hair fell in soft, dark, cloud-like waves onto the delicate curve of her neck. She nodded.

  He turned and, without a word, guided her back up the road to the cabin, up the steps to the deck and on through the doors into the bedroom. He closed the doors behind him and turned to her. “What the hell were you doing out there?”

  She cringed, making him regret yelling at her.

  “I tried to sleep, but when I closed my eyes, all I could see was Ella in that car, watching some man attack the policewoman who had promised her she’d be safe.” She pushed her fingers through her hair, then swiped them across her cheeks, as if she could erase all signs of tears.

  But she couldn’t. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks looked chapped, and the way she was standing with her arms wrapped around herself tore at his heart.

  “Hey, sugar. Ella will be fine. Kids are resilient.” He should know. He’d had to be. He and his brothers.

  “I couldn’t breathe in here. Lucas, I don’t know what to do. What to think. I’m living in a nightmare. People are trying to kill my family. They’re trying to kill me—” A sob cut off her words.

  Lucas stepped closer and pulled her into his arms, cupping the back of her head in his hands. “It’s okay. You’re here with me,” he murmured gently. “Didn’t I promise I wouldn’t let anything happen to you?”

  She shook her head against the thick cotton material of his T-shirt. “But look what’s happened to you. You’ve been hurt twice because of me. And how long is this all going to last? Can we—can Brad ever be sure the danger is over? Even if he convicts Picone—”

  “Listen to me, Ange,” he whispered in her ear. “I know you’re scared, but remember what I told you. Brad’s good at his job. You know he is. He’s going to get Picone put away so far in the back of the prison that the man will never have an unmonitored conversation with anybody, not even a prison guard, for the rest of his life.”

  She relaxed minutely and her arms slid around his waist. Lucas groaned inwardly as her breasts pressed against his chest.

  Here he was back in the same position he’d been in earlier, when he’d gotten too close to her at the refrigerator.

  Only this time, she was wearing nothing but a flimsy orange gown. The thin material did nothing to disguise the sweet round shape of her breasts.

  As soon as they came in contact with his chest, they tightened, the nipples erecting into tiny, hard buds that scraped disturbingly against his skin through the T-shirt he wore.

  She took a deep breath, which pressed those pebbled buds more fully against him. Then she gasped and lifted her head.

  Her eyes glistened like chocolate syrup and her lips parted. Luscious, sexy lips—not thin, but not too full, either. Perfect.

  He remembered them, their cool softness changing to heat as he’d deepened the kiss on that innocent night twelve years ago. And the small, round O they’d made when he’d pulled away, mirroring her wide, round eyes that glittered with hurt.

  He couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t indulge himself by kissing her, not now. He needed all his senses, all his focus about him if he was going to be able to protect her from the man who was after her.

  All at once, to his surprise, she lifted her head and touched her lips to his, just like she had that long-ago night when she was sixteen and he was a few weeks away from his eighteenth birthday.

  Her mouth was cool and soft, just like he remembered. He bent his head and pressed his parted lips to hers. She gasped quietly, then exhaled. Her delicate breath was suffused with the scent of chocolate.

  “How do you always taste like chocolate?” he whispered against her lips.

  “Trade secret,” she whispered back, then stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Last time we did this you tasted like cigarettes.”

  “I was an idiot back then.”

  “In more ways than one,” she agreed. Then she slid her tongue along the soft inner flesh of his lips.

  Without thinking, he tightened his arms and kissed her, responding not like a kid but like a man. He met her flirtatious tongue with a deep sexual response—a mimicry of the act of love itself.

  His body reacted, but not with the hot, desperate, explosive lust that he’d felt back in high school.

  What he felt now was a slower, deeper burn, not as frantic, yet far more erotic. More erotic than anything he’d ever felt, in fact.

  Stunned, he pulled back and stared at her. What was it about her?

  “Lucas?” Her mouth was open, her eyes dewy and heavy-lidded. She was turned on, too.

  Don’t kiss her again, his brain warned him. But he wasn’t about to listen to reason. Reason would prevail soon enough. Right now his libido was in charge. And his libido insisted that once was not enough to taste those chocolate-flavored lips. It demanded he taste them again.

  So he did.

  He held her head between his hands and kissed her long and hard, soaking up her taste, her scent, the exquisite inconsistency of her cool lips and her hot tongue. He held her there until they were both breathless.

  “Oh, Lucas,” she whispered. “It’s been so long—”

  And like a race car slamming against a wall, everything stopped dead still.

  Reason. That bitch.

  He pulled away. “This is stupid,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Angela. I’ll get out of here so you can get dressed.”

  He held his hands up, palms out—as if he could shield himself from her attraction. Then he bolted for the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Angela stood in the middle of the bedroom, her lips and her breasts and her sexual center throbbing. She looked at the bedroom door. The sound of it slamming shut still echoed through the room.

  She pressed her suddenly cold hands against her hot cheeks. Lucas had rejected her—again. Just like twelve years ago.

  Twice, she’d opened herself to him, and twice he’d turned away. Tears pricked her eyelids.

  Fine. Maybe she was a little slow. Maybe it had taken her twelve years, but she’d finally gotten the message.

  This is stupid, he’d said. Harsh words. Cold words. But she knew they were true. It was stupid. She was stupid. She should have gotten the message way back then.

  After all, what red-blooded high school senior would turn down a chance to have sex with a reasonably attractive sophomore? Okay, she didn’t know from personal experience, because back in high school she’d extended that invitation to one person and one person only.

  From everything she’d seen back then and since, the odds of any man turning down a sure thing were enormous. A guy would be nuts to walk away.

  But Lucas Delancey had done just that.

  And now he’d done it again.

  She stumbled into the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water, then let the water run across her wrists. Finally, her tears stopped and the heat of embarrassment and humiliation let up.

  As she dried her face and hands with a towel, Angela swore to herself that there would be a blizzard in hell the day she ever made any sort of overture toward Lucas Delancey again.

  She knew him. He’d given Brad his word, and he would keep it. He’d stick by her side until he was sure she was safe. Or until he was reinstated by the Dallas Police Department.

  As soon as he could, he’d go back to his life in Dallas and leave her and Louisiana behind.

  She’d known from the beginning how much he hated New Orleans and Chef Voleur. He’d always said that as soon as he could he was
going to leave Louisiana behind and find a place where nobody knew who the Delanceys were. Or at least where nobody cared.

  He had. He’d high-tailed it out of there the day after graduation. And he’d never looked back. Not once.

  She knew that as soon as he was certain she was out of danger and he’d made good on his promise to Brad, she’d never see him again.

  Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—

  “Shame on me,” she whispered.

  TONY SPENT SATURDAY afternoon watching his GPS device as it tracked Angela and Delancey. They ended up stopping on a ridiculous-sounding and unpronounceable river spelled Tchefuncte. They were near a place called Pleasure Beach, a couple of miles from the town of Madisonville on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. He shook his head. Over half the names in this wretched state were unpronounceable.

  As soon as he decided they weren’t going anywhere else, he traded his big rented Lexus for a midsized four-wheel-drive vehicle, stopped at a local discount store and bought some heavy-duty work boots. Because even on the white-and-blue GPS map, the area looked muddy. His lip curled in disgust. If there was anything he hated more than rats, it was mud.

  He’d had an early dinner, and now he was back in his hotel room, figuring out the best way to get from his hotel on Bourbon Street to the town of Madisonville on a Saturday night or Sunday morning. It looked like the fastest way was to head across the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. Then it was two miles from Madisonville to Angela.

  He jotted the directions on a piece of hotel notepaper. Just as he finished, his phone rang. It was Paulo.

  “I didn’t see no announcement of the ADA’s sister dying. Harcourt wasn’t broken up at all in court, neither.”

  Tony grimaced. “Not my fault. I set a beautiful car bomb, but a car thief set it off.”

  “A car bomb? Your big, fancy idea for killing the sister was a car bomb? I thought you said you had new ideas. Damn it, Tony. You’re gonna end up in jail in Louisi-freakin-ana.”

  “You wait and see. They’ll never trace it back to me. I made sure of that. You need to start respecting my talents. I can’t help it if some loser decided to hot-wire the car and blew himself up. That was bad luck.”