A Time to Die. BEVERLY BARTON

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      He followed her, and when they reached the back door, he held up her keys. “It’s that one.” She reached out and touched the correct key.

      He inserted it in the lock and opened the back door. Once inside the dimly lit back hall, he grunted. “A good hard shove and that back door would come open, locked or unlocked.”

      “In the two years I’ve lived here, there’s never been a break-in.”

      “You’re lucky.”

      “Are you always so negative?” She punched the up button on the old service elevator. It was the only operable elevator in the building. The other tenants used the staircase most of the time; only she and Mr. Rafferty, the elderly gentleman who lived on the fourth floor of the five-story building, used the elevator on a regular basis.

      Deke didn’t respond to her question and remained silent as they ascended to the top floor of the 1920s structure. The fifth level of the building was a loft that had been used for storage in years gone by. Before she moved to Chattanooga, Bedell, Inc. had purchased the building and renovated it, turning it into a small condo complex, with one condo on each level. When she’d moved in two years ago, the loft had been a wide-open space, a blank canvas for her to decorate as she wished.

      “The door key is the shiny brass one next to the back-door key,” Lexie told him. “The security keypad is on the right-hand side as you enter. My code is thirty-four, thirty-four.”

      He frowned.

      “Before you tell me that it’s stupid to repeat numbers in a code—don’t. I change my code every year on my birthday. I’m thirty-four years old, so—”

      “I’ll change it tonight,” he said, then unlocked the door, entered the apartment and disarmed the security system.

      Feeling slightly disoriented because she was unaccustomed to having anyone else in control of her life in any way, Lexie crossed the threshold. Since she had ended her physical therapy sessions five years ago, she had prided herself on taking care of all her own needs and being dependent on no one. How could she explain to this man—this high-priced security agent—that his presence in her life disturbed her on more than one level? First and foremost, she hated that she needed him to protect her. Second, she didn’t like being sexually attracted to a man she didn’t even know.

      DEKE WASN’T SURE what he’d been expecting. He’d been in numerous loft apartments over the years, and although each had been different, the basic style had been the same. Modern and minimalist. But there was nothing modern or bare bones about the sight that met him upon entering the vast expanse of Lexie’s place. He dropped his duffel bag on the wooden floor, which had mellowed with age to a dark patina and glistened with the sheen of fresh polish. The huge open room encompassed the kitchen—bright, white and airy, with stainless-steel appliances; a living room in varying shades of beige, brown and taupe and boasting a black baby grand piano near one of three sets of French doors; and last but not least, a formal dining room with a crystal chandelier and a mahogany table that seated six.

      “Impressive,” Deke said. “It must have cost a fortune to decorate.”

      “Most of the furniture was my grandmother’s. I was her only grandchild, and she left an entire houseful of furniture to me,” Lexie told him. “As for the cost of fixing this place up—I have a small fortune. Nothing to compare to Cara Bedell’s, but more than I’ll ever need.”

      He knew how she had acquired her small fortune, but unless he wanted to explain to her how he knew, he figured he’d better at least act as if he were curious. “What did you do, win the lottery?”

      She shook her head. “I was involved in a work-related accident—” she tapped her cane on the floor “—and my mother and stepfather sued my employer. We settled out of court to the tune of three million dollars.”

      Deke faked a surprised expression, then walked farther into the loft and looked around. “How many bedrooms?”

      She followed him toward the living room. “Two bedrooms, and two and a half baths.”

      He studied the layout of the apartment. “The bedrooms are side by side, there on the left.”

      “That’s right. I didn’t want the bedrooms or baths open, so when we closed them off, my contractor and I thought it best to partition off one side of the loft for them.”

      “No connecting door between the bedrooms.” It was a statement, not a question.

      “No, there isn’t. Why?”

      “How many windows in your bedroom?”

      “Two.”

      “Does either open up onto a balcony?”

      “No.”

      “Good.”

      “You’re thinking about security, aren’t you?”

      “Yes, ma’am, that’s my job.”

      “The fire escape connects to the balcony, which is accessible only through those three sets of French doors there.” She indicated the doors in the living room. “The only way someone could reach the windows in the bedrooms would be if they could climb walls or had a five-story ladder.”

      He nodded but didn’t speak. As he walked through one room and into another, studying the layout and grunting now and then, Lexie watched him with those big blue eyes of hers. He tried his best not to look directly at her unless it was absolutely necessary. Logically, he understood that she had no idea who he was, but on a primal gut level, he feared she might somehow know him, know what he’d done to her.

      Stop worrying. She doesn’t know who you are, he told himself.

      She had no idea that the Dundee agent assigned to protect her was the man whose bullet had crippled her ten years ago.

      Not long after the assassination of Babu Tum, Deke had resigned from the army, leaving the Delta Force and his career behind him. Less than three months later, Geoff Monday had parted company with the SAS, and joined Deke and several other former Special-Ops warriors to form their own team of mercenaries. During those renegade years, he’d kept track of Lexie Murrough’s slow, painful recovery. The bullet she’d taken in the back had not been fatal, and the paralysis it had caused hadn’t been permanent. But because of the delay in getting her to a hospital and starting her on steroids to control the swelling in her spinal cord, the injury had worsened. It had taken over a year before she could walk again, and then four more years of physical and psychiatric therapy had followed.

      Once she’d resumed a normal life, he had lost track of her—over five years ago.

      “This is my bedroom,” Lexie said.

      She swung open the door to reveal a pristine blue-and-cream room. A king-size bed with a blue-and-white checkered cloth headboard and matching stool at the foot dominated the large space. A photograph of the sky—blue and white and pale gray—hung over the fireplace mantel. Floor-to-ceiling blue-gray silk curtains hung from the two windows, and two blue-and-white print chairs flanked a small decorative table. Although the room was not excessively feminine, the bouquet of blue СКАЧАТЬ