Veil Of Fear

His gloomy expression lightened immediately. “Only the best for my bashful bride.”

Camille stood up and clasped her clutch bag. Her already pale face looked pinched and drawn. “All I can say is, if Mary wasn’t being stalked by muggers before, she will be in the future. Jonathan, that ring is about one carat shy of being a diamond mine unto itself. Brad, are you ready to go? I have an appointment with my personal trainer at three.”

Stuffing a last bite of dinner roll into his mouth, Brad heaved his bulk out of his chair. “I suppose you know, Regent, that I’ll never hear the end of this. For the rest of my life, Camille is going to be griping about that ‘chip’ on Mary’s finger.”

Jonathan laughed and clapped the senator on the shoulder. “As my candid bride would say—vote yourself another pay raise and buy your wife a bigger one!”

With that rejoinder, the foursome parted company. At Jonathan’s insistence, Mary accompanied him in the limousine until it dropped him off at his Alexandria, Virginia office. Then the chauffeur reversed his route, taking the George Washington Bridge back across the Potomac River, and threaded his way along the Washington streets. It was over an hour later before he finally dropped Mary off at the Georgetown Regent Hotel.

As she crossed the lobby, pausing only to check for mail at the desk, she paid scant attention to the luxurious surroundings. Her mind was on the details involved in planning a society wedding. She wondered what Jonathan would say if she told him she’d rather exchange vows in her mother’s living room in northern Michigan than go through all the hoopla Camille had recited at lunch.

Reaching her apartment door, Mary fumbled in her bag for her key, unlocked the door and stepped across the threshold. Suddenly, she stopped.

There it was again. That creepy sensation of something being wrong. Out of place.

No, it couldn’t be. Not here in her home.

Forcing herself to take several calming breaths, she turned to lock the door behind her, when her foot crunched on something on the carpet. Moving her foot, she saw that she’d stepped on an envelope that apparently had been slipped under the door.

Relief flooded through her.

Something had been out of place. Her subconscious had simply picked up on the envelope lying on the floor.

It looked like an invitation. Must have been hand-delivered, she mused. Plucking the envelope off the rug, Mary engaged the dead bolt and kicked off her shoes. She hated wearing high heels every day, but Camille insisted that a woman of “Mary’s station” should always wear heels in public. Wriggling her toes in the thick pile carpet, Mary crossed into the living room and nestled on the shell pink damask sofa. She curled her feet beneath her and opened the envelope.

For a moment, she stared with perplexity at the single sheet of paper. After reading the brief message for the third time, she watched the paper slip from her numb fingers. Acting purely on instinct, Mary picked up the telephone and punched in Jonathan’s office number.

“Oh, Ms. Wilder, it’s you. Again.” Robert Newland sighed, as if her telephoning twice in one day was a tremendous trial for him.

Swallowing a biting retort, she said quietly, “May I speak with Jonathan? It’s quite important.”

“Of course. I’m certain Mr. Regent won’t mind another interruption.”

“Thank you.”

When Robert finally transferred her call, Jonathan’s voice sounded harsh, impatient. “What is it, Mary? I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

Briefly, her voice as cold and hard as the chunk of ice forming inside her, Mary told him about finding the note inside her apartment door.

“So? I’m afraid I’ve missed the point, dear. What did the note say?”

Mary didn’t have to retrieve the note to recite the ugly words cut from magazine articles and pasted onto the sheet of white bond paper. They were already branded into her soul.

“Oh, Jonathan, it’s so awful. It said, ‘Life isn’t like a fairy tale where Cinderella lives happily ever after with Prince Charming. If you marry Jonathan Regent, you will not live happily...or ever after.’”

Jonathan sighed. “Damn that Mark Lester. I told you he was behind all this. Mary, darling, the idiot is only trying to take his petty revenge because you dumped him. He obviously wants to frighten you into breaking our engagement. Don’t give him the satisfaction of responding to his childish game.”

Mark? She could imagine Mark storming over to her apartment and shouting at her through the door, but sending anonymous threatening letters? Mary desperately wanted to believe it was Mark’s wounded pride causing him to act so horribly and not some madman pursuing her. “Do you think that’s all it is? Mark, acting out?”

“Of course. Now, just throw the silly thing in the trash and forget all about it. And, by the way, sweet, I’m going to have to cancel dinner tonight.”

“Oh, Jonathan, I’d looked forward to it.”

“Me, too, but it can’t be helped. Have to take care of business, you know. But if you’re so upset that you really feel I should cancel this meeting, then, of course...”

Mary’s nerves were so jittery that she hated the idea of spending the evening alone. Still, Jonathan had so much responsibility with his corporation that she felt guilty even considering asking him to cancel his business appointment. After taking a few seconds to rationally evaluate the situation, Mary responded, “Don’t worry, Jonathan, I’ll be fine. You go ahead with your meeting. Maybe I’ll call a friend from the bookstore. I may go to a movie, or something.”

“If you think that’s wise,” he responded tartly. On several occasions, Jonathan had hinted that Mary should drop her friends from Arlington. He felt she should cultivate new friends in his social circle. Jonathan didn’t understand that his social level was as unfamiliar to Mary as a foreign culture.

Interrupting her thoughts, Jonathan said, “What I think you should do, honey, is to take a long nap. Then soak in a bubble bath and order up room service. Leave Mark Lester to me.”

Mary bit her lip. She didn’t want Jonathan to get into a fight with Mark, but she also wanted to defuse this disturbing situation before it got worse. Reluctantly, she agreed.

“Good. Now, don’t you worry your pretty little head another minute—”

“Jonathan! You make me sound like a Barbie doll.”

There was a long pause before he continued, “I see you’re still distraught. I can understand that. But really, dear, you have to stop finding offense in every minor comment. Now, you take a nice nap and I’ll speak with you later.”

Mary felt less than satisfied with the outcome of their discussion but she was too emotionally drained to continue. After double-checking the lock on the apartment door, she went into her bedroom and pulled the drapes shut.

That king-size bed did look awfully inviting.

Ten minutes later, Mary was fast asleep.

* * *

“AH, ARMSTRONG! Glad you’re able to give us a hand on this.” Robert Newland ushered the newcomer into the conference room. Tossing a thick manila file folder on the polished teak conference table, Jonathan’s personal assistant raised a hand, offering Armstrong a seat.

The tall, slender man lowered himself into one of the swivel chairs and faced Newland. “What’s up? Another possible industrial spy you want us to run a check on?”

Newland seated himself across from Armstrong and steepled his fingers. “No, nothing like that.” He broke off and stared into space for a long moment, as if to gather his thoughts. “This is something that’s more of a...a personal nature.”

Armstrong leaned forward. “You know I can keep a confidence. Why don’t you just spit it out?”

Newland reached for the file folder he’d thrown on the conference table and pulled a sheaf of papers from it. The first item he passed to Armstrong was a color photograph of Jonathan Regent and his fiancée—taken from the cover of Newsweek magazine. “Did you happen to see this?”

Trace Armstrong glanced at the photo. “I haven’t been in Antarctica for the past two weeks. Of course I knew Regent was engaged. Kind of cute, isn’t she?”

Newland raised an eyebrow. “Cute like a fox. Crafty, shrewd and devious are words that come quickly to mind.”

“I gather you don’t care for the woman. Why not?”

Newland raised a hand. “Oh, it’s nothing personal, understand. It’s just that I can recognize a brass-plated gold digger when I see one. And believe you me, this Mary Wilder is a gold digger with two shovels!”

Trace retrieved the magazine photo and took a second look at the woman. Interesting. From the soft, guileless expression the photographer had captured, he would never have suspected the sweet-faced Mary Wilder of being after Regent’s money. “And you want me to dig around in her background, come up with a little dirt for your boss?”

Newland hesitated, then said, “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. But let’s hold off. Things may work out on their own.”

“How’s that?”

“It seems our sweet Mary is being followed. Stalked. Mr. Regent wants me to hire a full-time bodyguard for her. Of course, I thought of you.”

Trace shrugged. “No problem. I can put one of my people on it right away. Or did you want round-the-clock protection?”

“No.” Newland shook his head. “Right now, we think just someone to stay with her during the day. When she’s out and about. She’s staying at the Georgetown Regent. I think she’s pretty secure at night, but, of course, we’d like you to double-check the security.”

“Of course.”

Newland drummed the tabletop with his fingertips. “The other thing is, I don’t want one of your operatives on this job. I’d like you to handle it personally.”

“Wait a minute!” Trace’s head popped up. “You know that I don’t do fieldwork anymore. I’m retired to a desk, remember?”

“I know, and normally I wouldn’t ask you but...”

“But what?”

Newland paused, appearing to weigh his words. His slight, rabbitlike features were more pronounced than usual. “I want you to do more than protect the young lady. I want you to watch her, form your own opinion.”

“On what?”

Again, Newland paused. He glanced around the large office as if searching for listeners hiding behind the empty chairs. “Remember, this is in confidence?”

Trace Armstrong frowned. “You don’t have to ask, you know that.”

Leaning forward, Newland continued in a conspiratorial manner. “I think the whole thing is some kind of a con. I don’t think there’s a stalker. I think Mary Wilder is playing a game. Manipulating Mr. Regent into moving up the wedding date so she can get her hooks into his money that much quicker.”

“I see,” Trace said, not sure what else to add. He’d done a half-dozen jobs for Regent Hotels in the past year or so. They always paid well and promptly. Yet in all that time, Trace had never seen the slight personal assistant so riled. So agitated. This Mary Wilder must be some piece of work.

Trace rose to his feet. “I think I can free myself for a couple of weeks. Let’s see what our Miss Wilder is up to.”

* * *

MARY HAD NO IDEA how long she slept, but the insistent ringing of the bedside phone finally brought her to wakefulness.

Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she yawned into the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mary? What took you so long to answer? I was starting to get concerned.”

“Oh, Jonathan. I decided to follow your advice and take a nap.”

“Still sleeping? Oh, well, it really doesn’t matter. Listen, dear, I’ve been doing some more thinking about this problem. Even though I’m convinced that Mark Lester is our culprit, there’s no sense taking chances. Anyway, Bob Newland knew of a private bodyguard who has an excellent reputation and I’ve decided to hire him.”

“A bodyguard? That seems a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“More extreme than your buying a gun?”

“No,” Mary admitted, “I guess not.” But the very word bodyguard conjured up an image of a hulking brute about the size of a tractor trailer with bulging biceps and corded muscles where his neck should be. In the movies, bodyguards always had names like Moose or Tank. And their intelligence quotients usually matched their names. Nevertheless, right now she needed protection, not someone who read the Encyclopedia Britannica for pleasure.

As if taking her lack of argument for concurrence, Jonathan went on, “Anyway, this guy—his name’s Armstrong, by the way—should be at your place any minute now. Tell him everything that’s been going on. Show him the note. I realize I told you to throw it away, but you haven’t yet, have you?”

“No, I haven’t. But...do you really think I need a full-time bodyguard? It’s not like I’m a rich rock star, or something.”

Jonathan’s sigh was long and deep. “You still haven’t grasped the changes yet. Mary, sweet, you may not be wealthy but I am. This whole business stinks of Mark Lester, but I could be wrong. Someone could be using you to get to me. There could be a kidnapping in the works, who knows? I’ll just feel better if I know you’re protected.”

Mary heaved a sigh of her own. She was the one who had kept insisting that her intuition be taken seriously. She was the one who kept jumping at every shadow. So why was she now trying to decline the very help she’d been asking for?

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Mary raised an eyebrow. To Jonathan she said, “Well, at least your bodyguard’s prompt. What did you say his name was—Armstrong?”

“That’s right. Be sure to see his identification before you let him in.”

“Jonathan, I’m not a child,” she said through clenched teeth. Honestly, sometimes his protective nature was a little confining. Before she could protest further, the doorbell buzzed again. And again.

This Armstrong might be prompt, but apparently patience wasn’t one of his virtues.

After finally breaking the connection with Jonathan, Mary ran her fingers through her hair, then grabbed her robe off the bed and stuffed her arms into the sleeves as she hurried into the living room.

The hulking bodybuilder in the hallway had punched the doorbell twice more while she was en route.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called as she tiptoed up to look out the peephole. “Who is it?”

“Name’s Trace Armstrong. Sent by a Bob Newland.”

Mary couldn’t see anything through the peephole but a vague shadow. She unlocked the dead bolt, but left the brass safety latch in place and peered out the small slit. The man stood between Mary’s vision and the soft lighting behind him, casting his form into a backlit silhouette. But he sure didn’t look as large as she’d imagined. “Could I see some identification, please?”

“At least you have some common sense,” he grumbled as he handed her a plastic card case.

Mary looked at the state-issued identification card and shrugged. What was she supposed to be looking for? The card was issued to a Trace Armstrong and it looked official. Still, from his ID photo, Armstrong looked like an escaped felon. She passed his card case to him through the slit. “Just a moment,” she murmured as she shut the door in order to undo the security latch.

The door opened. Expecting the muscle-bound hulk of her imagination, Mary started when the lean figure eased across her threshold. As the diffuse light from the overhead lamp illuminated his face, Mary’s breath stopped. Trace Armstrong wasn’t pretty-boy handsome, but he literally reeked of raw, masculine power.

Closing the door softly behind him, he thrust his hand in her direction. “Mary Wilder? I hear you’ve been having a little problem.”

Mary slipped her hand into his and looked up, losing herself in the most incredible pair of eyes she’d ever seen.

Chapter Two

Trace Armstrong leaned casually against the doorframe. Mary was caught in time, her gaze locked with his. His hazel eyes, reflecting golden light like those of a panther, flickered over her, cataloging and assessing.

Trace wasn’t as large a man as she’d expected. Instead of blatantly protruding muscles on an apelike frame, he was as lithe and sinewy as a jaguar.

Spare and rangy, yet wide-shouldered, he exuded a powerful catlike aura. A lush head of pitch-black hair fell in shaggy abandon, the ends curling against his collar. He wore black Levi’s, a creamy shirt and a charcoal sport coat. Mary thought the sport coat was a rare concession; like a tiger wearing a bow tie. He looked uncomfortable and a little surprised every time he moved his shoulders.

When he tilted his head, Mary noticed sooty stubble darkening the bottom of his face, framing an angular, aggressive jawline. But his most arresting feature were those startling eyes that continued to study her with laserlike intensity.

There was a gritty hardness about the man, a rugged unsparing toughness that made other men fade by comparison. And made Mary’s nerves jangle with an ominous premonition.

She wrenched herself away from her thoughts and finally recaptured her voice. “Please, come into the living room, Mr. Armstrong. We can talk there.”

She led the way into the dark room and flicked on a table lamp. Then two. She needed to flood the room with enough light to dispel this trance that had ensnared her ever since she’d opened the door.

Mary curled in the corner of the sofa and waved a hand toward a pair of easy chairs a safe ten feet away. “Have a seat, Mr. Armstrong. I suppose you’ll want to ask me some questions.”

Moving with the casual grace of the jungle cat he resembled, Trace tread lightly toward her, poised on the balls of his feet as if ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey. Mary had the fleeting sensation of being a field mouse, caught in a trap, unable to escape the advancing danger.

Not taking the proffered chair, Trace asked without preamble, “Is that door the only access into this apartment?” His voice was low-pitched, velvety and shot with a hint of menace.

Mary pushed a wayward lock of hair from her eyes. “No. There’s the balcony. But we’re on the eighth floor. I can’t imagine anyone scaling an eight-story brick wall to break in. There’s also a connecting door to the suite next door, but—”

“Show me.”

Taken aback by his brusque, almost rude manner, Mary decided two could play his game. Wordlessly, she uncoiled from the sofa and led the way down the hall, to her bedroom. Without turning on the light, she leaned in the doorway and pointed to a pair of white doors set in the pale blue wall. She didn’t bother to mention that one door connected with the adjoining suite, the other led to her closet.

He strode through the maze of her shadowy bedroom, looking neither to the right nor left, yet avoiding the dresser, the foot of the bed, even the jumble of clothing she’d dropped on the carpet. Again, Mary had the image of a jaguar weaving its way through the underbrush without disturbing a single leaf.

Trace grasped one of the door handles and tugged, pulling open the closet door. Undeterred, he entered the small walk-in and made a careful inspection of the interior. Then he stepped back outside and tested the connecting door to the adjoining suite.

“We’ll need to put a reinforcing dead bolt on this side of the door,” he said. “A child could pick this lock.”

Mary shook her head. “Jonathan—Jonathan Regent, my fiancé—owns this hotel. Both of these suites are reserved for his private use. No one ever uses the adjoining apartment. It’s always empty.”

Trace snorted in disbelief. “If that’s true, it’s even more dangerous.”

Mary’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Anyone who knows that room is never occupied would feel pretty secure about using it without permission. How many people know about it?”

Again, Mary shook her head in protest. “Hardly anyone.”

With a cock of his eyebrow, Trace held up his hand and began ticking off possibilities on his fingertips. “Let’s see, you know it’s empty, and now I know, as well. Then, there’s Mr. Regent and his key people. Not to mention the entire hotel staff, and probably most of their friends and relatives. Any other people live full-time in this hotel?”

Mary shrugged. “There are six penthouse apartments on this floor. Jon—my fiancé—retains two of them, there’s an old man who has a long-term lease, and a Japanese corporation keeps the fourth for when their executives visit the area. That leaves two penthouse units for visiting dignitaries. You’d have to ask the manager about the other floors.”

Nodding, Trace counted along on his fingertips. “So, in addition to the old man and the Japanese corporation, we could add Regent’s friends and business associates, and former hotel employees, as well. All in all, I’d say more than a few people are probably aware of the easy access to that vacant apartment.”

“Perhaps,” Mary said quietly. “But none of those people would want to harm me.”

He continued to watch her from across the room. The only illumination was the dusky light that seeped in through the window. Yet from the intensity of his stare, Mary had the strongest notion that Trace possessed powerful night vision like that of his feline counterpart.

Then, with a quick, decisive movement, he stepped forward. Within a few strides, he closed the distance between them. He eased his body close to hers in the doorway, bringing his face only inches away from hers. Inexplicably, her breath caught in her throat and her heart started to pound.

A shock of ebony hair fell over his forehead as he shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t be so naive that you think you’re safe in a city like Washington. Maniacs and stalkers thrive on sweet young things like you.”

She wanted to cover her ears against his words. Against all the ugliness he’d seen in his life that was now mirrored in those gold-flecked eyes. Instead, she whispered, “I’m not that young. And certainly not that sweet.”

Wordlessly, he raised a finger and reached toward her face as if to brush aside a strand of hair. For an eternal instant, his fingertip hovered just over her cheek. Mary’s skin flamed and she stood breathless, anticipating his touch.

Then, with a sudden jerk, Trace yanked away his hand as if he’d been stung by a scorpion. “I’d say you were sweet. You have an air of virginal innocence that makes you vulnerable to that kind of creep. And you are an innocent, aren’t you, Mary Wilder?”

When she refused to take his bait, Trace stalked past her, heading toward the living room and leaving a faint waft of musky scent in his wake.

She felt weak with fear. Nothing in her existence had prepared her for the strength of her reaction and the sure knowledge that this man held the key that could unlock her innermost thoughts and release her very essence.

But she was engaged to Jonathan. Steady, stable, reliable Jonathan. Even back in school, she’d never been tempted by the “bad boys” the way most of her female classmates had been. Mary had always been old for her years, more mature than her friends. This purely physical response to Trace had to be a case of delayed puberty. Raging hormones.

Hauling her rebellious pulse back under control, Mary followed Trace into the front of the apartment.

He was standing in the middle of the room, legs splayed widely, fists planted on his hips. “Let’s check out the balcony.”

Afraid her own voice might betray her, Mary mutely nodded and jerked open the drapes.

Twenty minutes later, Trace had managed to make Mary feel as if her apartment was wide open to anyone who wanted to trespass. Not only did he consider the balcony accessible, he also pointed out the false ceiling where someone could gain entry through the air-conditioning shaft.

Mary stood in the middle of her living room, her arms wrapped across her chest as if to protect herself from the horde of intruders Trace’s graphic description had conjured up.

“Now, before I get the details about your stalker,” Trace continued, “I need to lay down a few ground rules. For your protection. First, you’re not to leave this apartment unless you’re accompanied by either me or your fiancé, and preferably me. Second, I’m going to screen all your telephone calls and mail. I’ll give you my beeper number in case anything happens when I’m not around—use it. Then we’re going to arrange a telephone code system so that anyone calling—”