Her Bodyguard Page 10

  He grabbed it and downed half of it in one gulp. “Thanks.”

  “Now take off your jacket.”

  “Listen, Ange, I can handle this. I just—”

  “Is there a first-aid kit in here? Because I’ve got one in my apartment. I can go—”

  “Ange!” He grabbed her arm. “Slow down. I’m fine. I just need to get this shirt off and clean up a little. I saw a kit in the big office on the first floor. Toward the back. The lights work down there, but don’t leave them on any longer than you have to. I’d rather nobody know we’re here.”

  She nodded and left.

  Lucas turned around to look at the back of his jacket. The collar was stained with blood, and there were a few spots down his spine where blood had seeped through the jacket. He shed it then looked in the mirror again.

  His white shirt had a dark red streak nearly a foot long running down it, just to the right of his spine. It started at the base of his neck and stretched across his shoulder blades. The material of the shirt was puckered along the edge of the red stain.

  He unbuttoned the shirt and grabbed the lapels to ease the material away from the wound, but it was stuck fast. He pulled at it gently and felt a searing pain as the fabric tore at his skin.

  “Wait!” Angela came hurrying into the room. “Don’t do that. Let me wet the shirt.”

  He didn’t protest.

  She sat the first-aid kit down on the back of the toilet and put the seat cover down. “Sit.”

  Lucas wanted to laugh, to act like the wound was no big deal, but Angela was serious, her face crunched into a frown of concentration. So he stayed quiet and followed her instructions.

  She ran water on the towel until it was sopping wet. Then she applied it to his back.

  He shivered in spite of himself. The water had been tepid and flat on his tongue, but it seemed both cold and hot at the same time as it soaked his shirt and trickled down his skin.

  “Damn, you’re getting my pants wet.”

  “Do you want to take them off? Because I’m not done yet.”

  “No.” He clamped his jaw and sat still while she slowly, meticulously pulled the soaked shirt away from the wound.

  Finally he heard her sigh. “There.” She slid his shirt down his arms and tugged the tail out of his pants. “Oh.”

  “What? What is it?” He craned his neck to look at her.

  “Take off your belt.”

  He uttered a quiet chuckle. “The bullet didn’t go any farther, Ange.”

  “I know. It hit your belt.” Her gaze raised to his and he saw the horror in her eyes.

  He understood. As cavalier as he was acting, he was unnerved by just how close the shot had come to his head. If he listed all the times he’d come close to being killed or maimed—well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  He unbuckled his belt and pulled it off. “I’ll be damned. The belt did stop the bullet. It hit that metal stud right there.” The one that was mangled. He suppressed a shudder. Like his body would have been if the bullet had penetrated rather than skimmed him.

  “Sit down. I need to finish cleaning your wound.”

  “Fine. But maybe you could hurry. I’m not used to being fused over.”

  He certainly wasn’t used to so much gentle, tender personal attention. The last relationship he’d had was with an attorney in Dallas. It had been a casual relationship anyway, and when she found out he was being suspended, she’d turned cold pretty fast.

  Apparently a detective on his way up was good for her career, but a detective on suspension was not.

  Angela’s warm, capable hands roamed over his bare back as the faint scent of chocolate filled the close space of the bathroom. Her touch was quickly turning from antiseptic and clinical to intimate and sensual, at least in Lucas’s mind.

  He had to think about something else—quick.

  “Ow! Crap!” he cried, as cold liquid turned to blazing fire sizzling down his back.

  That worked.

  “Don’t be such a baby. I needed to disinfect it.”

  “With—hot lava?” he gasped.

  “Iodine. This is a very old first-aid kit.”

  He heard suppressed laughter in her voice. It reminded him of when they were kids and he’d do or say something she thought was funny.

  A pang hit him in the center of his chest. She’d always thought he was funny. She and Brad. Two people in his life who’d stuck by him no matter what. No expectations. No disapproval. No disappointment. And no punishment.

  Just love and acceptance. At least until he’d kissed her.

  “At least it has some sterile strips. I can use them to close the wound.”

  “Close the wound? How bad is it?” He stood and backed up to the small mirror, craning his neck to see. There was a red strip with ragged edges down the right side of his upper back. It still oozed blood. “Looks to me like there’s not much to pull together. Just bandage it.”

  “Will you let me take care of it? I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you?” he sent her a crooked smile.

  “I’ve tended my share of scrapes and scratches. Even a broken bone or two. I’m certified in first aid. I was a lifeguard at the Chef Voleur Country Club, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “That must have been after I graduated.”

  Her gaze faltered. “That’s right. It was. Turn around and I’ll finish up.”

  He obeyed. Her fingers slid sensuously over his skin as she dried his back and applied the sterile strips. With his eyes closed, he could fantasize that she was massaging warm, chocolate-scented oil into his skin as a prelude to sex, and soon she would turn him toward her and slide her fingers across his chest, his abs and further, until she was—

  He shook his head to rid himself of the wayward, lustful thoughts.

  “What? Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” he said shortly. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes again.

  Within a couple of minutes she had finished bandaging his back. “There. How do you feel? I wish I had some aspirin or something to give you—”

  “I’m fine.” He caught her gaze in the mirror. “Now, I need to clean up and change clothes, if that’s okay with you.”

  Her face turned pink. “Sure. Okay.” She backed out of the bathroom, clutching the first-aid kit. “Ange—”

  She stopped, and her chocolate eyes met his in the mirror.

  “Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

  “Of course. No problem.” Then she fled.

  As soon as she’d gone round the corner, Lucas kicked the bathroom door closed and turned back to the mirror. He took a deep breath and grimaced—not from the pain of his wound but from the pain of unquenched desire.

  He hadn’t dared to turn around, or she’d have known how turned on he was by her touch, even with the sting of the iodine.

  He narrowed his eyes and gave himself a stern stare. “Keep your head where it needs to be. You are protecting her. Not trying to get her in the sack.”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. Now that she’d touched him, it was going to be harder than ever to remember that it wasn’t his job to lust after her. It was to keep her alive.

  ANGELA SAT DOWN AT THE TABLE in front of the big window and packed everything back into the first-aid kit. She left it sitting on the edge of the table. Who knew when they might need it again.

  The sight of Lucas’s bloody back had scared her half to death. Thank God it was nothing more than a flesh wound. It might sting like hell, but at least it was just a scrape. The bullet had nearly missed him. Nearly.

  The picture in her head of him diving at Doug was lit by the bright imaginary path of the bullet as it slid along the flesh of his back. If he hadn’t ducked his head—she shuddered.

  He could have died.

  She was a little surprised at the depth of horror and sadness that enveloped her at the thought of him dying. She loved Lucas. She always had. Almost as much as she loved her brother. Lucas had always be
en as much of an older brother to her as Brad had.

  Until that night.

  She still didn’t know even now, twelve years later, why she’d kissed him that night. All she remembered was that suddenly, the idea of him graduating from high school and leaving Chef Voleur was unbearable.

  Unbearable and very different from the way she had felt about Brad, who was also graduating and leaving. She would miss Brad, of course. But he was her brother. His father was married to her mother. She’d see him again. Often. And anyhow, he wasn’t leaving the area. He was going to law school at Tulane.

  On the other hand, Lucas had been heading out to Dallas. He’d told her he wanted to get as far away from Chef Voleur and his family as he possibly could.

  Somewhere the name Delancey means nothing, he’d said. I’m going out to Dallas to become a cowboy.

  When she’d found out that he really meant it, she’d kissed him. She’d had nothing to lose, or so she’d thought.

  She hadn’t known she’d lose her heart.

  “Okay,” Lucas said behind her, startling her. His bare feet had made no noise on the hardwood floor. “I feel a whole lot better now. Thanks.”

  She nodded without looking at him. “No problem.”

  He glanced at the refrigerator. “Although, I’m starving and I’m sick of ham sandwiches. What do you say we go out tonight. Get a real meal?”

  “Are you sure you feel like it?”

  “I’m starving. I guess bleeding works up an appetite.”

  “That’s not funny.” Angela looked at the clock in the corner of one of the computer screens. “It’s after seven. And I think you need to rest. What if we just walked up to the café and got a sandwich? Or maybe some bread pudding and a café au lait. I’ve been thinking about bread pudding ever since Lou-Lou mentioned it.”

  “Sure. That’ll work. I’ll put on a shirt. I didn’t bring another jacket.”

  “I could wash the blood off yours. But it’s got that—you know—bullet hole in the collar.”

  “Yeah. I trashed it. I’ll need to pick up another one somewhere. But for now, I can wear a long-sleeved shirt to hide my weapon.”

  “You’re going to take your gun to the café.” She didn’t even bother to make it a question. The reminder turned her stomach upside down and killed her appetite. He was here because Brad thought her life was in danger. And he agreed.

  Since the incident with Doug this afternoon, and the admissions Bouvier had made, it wasn’t as difficult for her to believe that as it had been.

  He sent her a look. “You’d better believe I am,” he said. “I’m taking my weapon everywhere until I’m sure nobody’s out there looking for you.”

  TONY HEARD THE LOCK on the door to the abandoned building just in time. He ducked back into the alley as the big man and Angela appeared. If they’d have been two seconds later, they’d have caught him.

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. They were going somewhere. No telling how long he’d have to wait before they got back. If they came back.

  He hoped like hell they weren’t leaving the building permanently. They didn’t have any bags, so he was optimistic. There was no way he’d have time to retrieve his Lexus from the parking garage and follow them.

  He huddled there in the shadows, clutching the backpack filled with the tools and supplies he’d bought earlier against his side, and held his breath, waiting.

  The big man looked around. Tony had already figured out that he didn’t miss much. Tony hunched further back against the wall and tried to breathe normally, quietly. It wasn’t easy with the smell of decaying garbage and mildew tickling his nostrils. He prayed there were no rats in the dirty alley. He hated rats.

  Angela and her bodyguard skirted the Cobra and walked up the street toward the sidewalk café.

  Tony breathed a sigh that was part relief, part frustration. They weren’t taking the car. They were just out to get a sandwich or some coffee. They’d probably be done in an hour. But from the café they’d be able to see him if he approached the car.

  He retraced his steps to the opposite end of the narrow alley, crossed Royal Street and came out on Bourbon, a few blocks from his hotel. Then he swung the backpack over his shoulder, dug his baseball cap out of his back pocket and strolled up the street with his head down, as if he were a tired student heading home after a late study session.

  There was no way he was going to hang around Chartres Street waiting for them to finish eating and go back inside. It was too risky. The bodyguard might see him.

  He’d come back later. Much later. After they had retired for the night.

  LUCAS RUBBED HIS EYES and squinted at the clock in the corner of the computer display. Five o’clock in the morning. He groaned quietly. He’d seen the same display at twelve midnight, at 2:20, at 3:27, and at 4:11.

  He couldn’t sleep. Partly because it just wasn’t that easy to sleep sitting up in a straight-backed chair, partly because he kept hearing noises in the street below and partly because something was niggling at his brain and he couldn’t figure out what.

  He stood carefully, trying to stay quiet as he stretched and yawned. Angela was asleep on the cot with her back to him. She’d fallen asleep around midnight. He’d detected the change in her breathing. And as far as he could tell, she’d been asleep ever since.

  Outside the window, he heard something metallic hit the pavement. He stepped over to the glass and looked across at her apartment. It was dark. No sign of anyone inside.

  He thought about Angela’s bed, her sofa, her air conditioning. There was probably no reason they couldn’t stay over there. If Picone’s hit man was here in New Orleans, he had certainly already spotted them. And at least on her sofa he could stretch out—okay, almost stretch out, if he rested his feet on the arm.

  He endured another jaw-cracking yawn and took a look up and down the street. The faint glow of coming dawn dusted the sidewalks and storefronts with a misty blurriness.

  In less than an hour, the café would open and he could run down and get a café au lait. That would help. In the meantime, he’d have to make do with cold water.

  Just as he started to turn from the window toward the mini-fridge, a movement on the sidewalk below caught his eye. Someone was standing at the passenger-side door of his car.

  He squinted. “Son of a bitch!” he growled. “He’s stealing my car!”

  Angela started and then sat up. “What? What is it?”

  Lucas grabbed his weapon and headed out the door. “Stay here!”

  He heard her voice behind him as he ran toward the stairs.

  “You’re barefoot!”

  He vaulted down the stairs three at a time and landed at the bottom with a quiet thud. He flaunted his weapon in his right hand and the keys to the street door in his left. He couldn’t see the guy through the dirty glass door, but he could tell that the passenger-side door, the one facing the curb, was open.

  The punk was hot-wiring his car. He reached out and inserted the key into the door’s lock and turned it.

  And all hell broke loose.

  Later, he would remember it as if it were being replayed on a TV screen in slow motion. His beautiful red Mustang Cobra transformed into a yellow and white and red ball of fire. For an instant, there was no sound. Just light.

  Then came the bang.

  Somehow, he managed to turn and crouch before the blast sent him flying across the room. He slammed headfirst into the wooden stairs. Stars shot back and forth across his field of vision as sharp pain peppered his whole body.

  From somewhere far away, he heard Angela scream his name.

  Chapter Ten

  At first, Angela couldn’t figure out what had happened.

  Something had exploded. Something big. Like a transformer blowing when struck by lightning. But lower, deeper. It shook the floor under her, and she suddenly realized it had been preceded by a flash of light. Light that didn’t fade. A fire.

  She jumped up and screamed for Lucas as she ran
out the door and down the stairs.

  She saw him crumpled against the bottom step, his body glinting in the harsh orange light from the street.

  It took a few seconds for Angela’s brain to process what her eyes saw. She knew she needed to be doing something for Lucas, but the sheer unbelievability of the scene before her kept her paralyzed.

  She raised her gaze to the street door. Through the glass she could see fire. Something was on fire.

  A car. Lucas’s car.

  On fire.

  Then she realized she wasn’t looking through the door. Because the door wasn’t there. It was—gone.

  She looked back down at Lucas.

  Glass was scattered all around him. All over him.

  Glass. From the door.

  At that instant, everything made sense.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  Lucas’s car had exploded. It had shattered the glass in the door and windows of the building and thrown Lucas across the room.

  She dropped to her knees. “Lucas! Lucas, answer me!”

  He groaned.

  Angela sobbed with relief. He was alive.

  “Don’t move!” she warned him. “You’re covered with glass. I’ll be right back. Oh, Lucas, please be all right. And please don’t move!”

  She turned and ran up the stairs, hardly noticing a sharp pain in her left heel. Back in the room, she grabbed her cell phone and shoved her feet into her running shoes. When she did, the sharp pain stabbed her heel again. She must have stepped on a piece of glass, but she didn’t have time to check. She had to call for help.

  As she ran down the stairs she dialed 911, but before she finished punching the numbers in, she heard sirens. Someone was on their way. Police or fire department.

  At that instant, a voice asked her what her emergency was. She screamed for them to send an ambulance. To hurry. The voice asked her the address, and somehow she was able to tell them.

  The next hour flew by in a blur. The fire department arrived first and extinguished the blaze.

  Then police cars and ambulances roared up.

  The EMTs took charge of Lucas. She followed behind them as they rolled him on a gurney through the growing crowd of onlookers that gathered around the ambulance.