Veil Of Fear

“Just a minute, Armstrong.” Mary held up her hand, halting him in midsentence. Trace’s abrupt manner and bossiness had finally broken through the fog she’d been wallowing in since Jonathan’s phone call had snatched her from sleep.

“The first thing I’m going to do,” she declared, “is go in the kitchen and make myself a cup of coffee. After that, we can either sit down like civilized human beings and discuss which of your suggestions I may or may not want to implement to enhance my security. But what we’re not going to do, Mr. Armstrong, is continue this little power play where you try to scare the living daylights out of me and then start telling me how I’m going to live my life. Do I make myself clear?”

“What’s clear is that you’re the one who’s apparently in danger—not me. You arranged for your sugar daddy to hire me, Ms. Wilder. You need me, not the other way around.”

Sugar daddy! Mary’s palm itched with a sharp need to slap the knowing smirk off this Neanderthal’s handsome face. Wrapping her anger in a coating of sarcasm, she said slowly, “Nevertheless, Mr. Armstrong, my ‘sugar daddy’ will be paying your salary. If I decide to engage your services—and that’s a very big if. Now, I’m going to fix that cup of coffee. Should you still be here when I return, then we’ll discuss the possibility of your employment—on my terms.”

With that she whirled and strode out of the room in what she hoped was a confident, assured manner.

Trace stood in the living room, moored in her wake. Whew! Ms. Mary, Mary Quite Contrary had a long fuse, but once it was ignited, that woman went off like a neutron bomb. Not that he hadn’t deserved the resulting explosion, Trace thought ruefully. From the moment Bob Newland had referred to his employer’s fiancée as “something of a gold digger,” Trace had felt the first pang of enmity.

Too often in this business, he’d seen rich, powerful men brought down by “helpless” women whose only goals were to separate their lover from his money. Careers, families and even lives had been lost when private affairs suddenly became public fodder.

Once, Trace had guarded a presidential candidate whose career was ruined by a single indiscretion. He’d been a decent man, and Trace had been an unwilling witness to the man’s shame and humiliation.

Remembering that sad time, Trace’s first instinct had been to turn down this assignment. That would have been the smart thing to do. And he would have if he hadn’t been so busy playing head games with himself that he’d blotted out common sense.

Still, there was no denying that by the time he’d arrived at this penthouse suite, he had built up a full head of steam.

Then Mary Wilder had opened the door and her ingenuous face had pushed him over the edge.

You should have walked out right then, Armstrong, Trace chided himself. He was no match for wide brown eyes glowing in an angelic face. Eyes that could make the strongest man bend to their will.

It wasn’t too late. He should leave right now. He could send any one of a half-dozen competent ex-secret service agents to Bob Newland for this job. But even as the thought whispered through his mind, Trace knew he wouldn’t do it.

Mary Wilder was afraid. He’d seen it in the faint blue smudges beneath her eyes. Seen it in the way she kept hugging herself, as if to ward off harm. Trace had seen the fear even when she’d lifted her chin in defiance just before she’d darted into the kitchen.

Whatever he felt about Mary’s motives in becoming engaged to the wealthy and much older Jonathan Regent, one thing was clear: someone was terrorizing the bride-to-be. And Trace had had his fill of a world where the bullies ruled by intimidation.

Turning on his heel, he followed Mary into the narrow galley-style kitchen. “Got any more of that coffee?”

To her credit, she didn’t gloat at his capitulation. Taking a stoneware mug from a wooden stand, she raised a questioning eyebrow. “How do you take it?”

“Black.”

She handed him a steaming mug and pointed to a plate of sandwich fixings on the counter. “I didn’t have supper. Would you care for a sandwich?”

Trace’s salivary glands shifted into overdrive. He hadn’t eaten dinner, and had only taken a couple of bites of a greasy burger at lunch. When was the last time he’d sat down and eaten a complete meal? Sharing a late snack with Mary suddenly sounded very appealing. “Here,” he said, setting his mug on the counter. “Let me give you a hand.”

While Mary rustled up plates and condiments, Trace slapped together a small platter of sandwiches. By silent accord, they carried their bounty into the dining room and settled across from each other at the glass-topped table.

For a time, they ate without speaking. Then, as Mary leaned back to sip her coffee, Trace polished off his third sandwich and wiped his mouth on the soft linen napkin. With a replete sigh, he picked up his own mug. “So, tell me about your stalker.”

After a long pause, Mary lowered her gaze and recited dully. “I don’t really remember the first time I felt like I was being followed. A couple of weeks ago. Just after Jonathan and I announced our engagement.”

“How many times has it happened? That feeling of someone watching you?”

She frowned. “Five. Six. I’m not really sure.”

“What did you do about it?”

“I talked it over with Jonathan and he said I should ignore it.”

Trace’s coal black eyebrow lifted. “Ignore it? Strange reaction for a man whose future wife is being threatened.”

Feeling it her duty to defend Jonathan, Mary sat up, and insisted, “Oh, no! It wasn’t like that. I mean, you see, at first Jonathan thought it was just my nerves.”

“Are you prone to nervousness?”

“No, but...but so much has happened in my life so quickly that...that I haven’t really been myself lately.”

“I see. So if Mr. Regent thought you were a little overwrought, what changed his mind?”

Mary raised her hand, lifting a thick fall of hair and letting it drift through her fingers back onto her shoulder. “Today I was certain I saw someone. Jonathan seemed to believe me, but...”

“But what?” Trace prodded.

“Jonathan was convinced that if I was being spied on, that it was an old, uh, friend of mine. Mark Lester.”

“Friend? Or old boyfriend?”

Mary shrugged. “We dated, but nothing serious.”

It was on the tip of Trace’s tongue to ask if Mary and this Mark Lester had been lovers, but he sensed that she’d hate the intrusion. Besides, why was he so interested in her love life, anyway?

Instead, he asked, “Is this the kind of stunt your former boyfriend would pull?”

Mary squirmed in her chair, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Again, Trace had the impression that she was a very private woman, unused to divulging details of her personal life. Finally, she looked up and slowly shook her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, Mark was really angry when I broke off the relationship, but I think that was just his pride.”

“Nobody likes being dumped.”

“I guess you’re right,” Mary agreed. “And Mark does have an overgrown ego.”

Trace reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black notebook and ballpoint. “Do you know Mark Lester’s address? Phone number? What’s he do for a living?”

Clearly relieved by Trace’s professional manner, Mary filled in the details about Mark.

When she was finished, Trace flipped the notebook closed and dropped it on the table. He finished off his now-cool coffee and pushed the mug aside. “Did you ever actually see anyone when you thought you were being followed?”

Mary’s forehead furrowed in concentration. “I’m not sure. A couple times I caught a blurred movement out of the corner of my eye. I had the impression of someone ducking around a corner or into a doorway.”

So far, all he had to go on were some shadows Mary might or might not have seen. Jonathan Regent was a busy man, obsessively ambitious, according to Bob Newland. Was this shadow man of Mary’s her way of trying to get more of her fiancé’s attention?

Lost in thought, Trace rubbed his chin with his fingertips and was surprised to encounter stubble. Surely he’d shaved that morning. Great. Now he was forgetting to eat and shave. Why the hell couldn’t he get his life back on track?

Not wanting to deal with his own screwed-up life, he turned again to the woman who was watching him with quiet absorption. “Okay, Mary, now I want you to think very carefully about the last two weeks. Close your eyes, it might help. Try to recall where you were and what you were doing when these events occurred. Visualize all the people standing around. Was there anyone, a bum, a traffic cop, anyone you can remember seeing on more than one occasion?”

She hesitated, then followed his instructions. The moment her eyes drifted shut, it was as if she had removed a lovely mask, revealing a vulnerability that was almost painful to behold. Mary Wilder was a woman without artifice, without contrivance. Her lessening fear and her growing confidence in Trace were clearly etched on her features. The inner beauty, inner honesty she had unwittingly exposed was rare among the women of Trace’s acquaintance, and utterly beguiling.

He watched her mobile face as the memories flitted through her mind. Suddenly, she chewed her upper lip and frowned. “Yes! A man.”

Her eyes popped open and she stared at Trace in wonderment. “I remember now. I didn’t really get a good look at him, or even particularly notice him at the time, but I saw the same man at least twice. Once when I was coming out of Jonathan’s office in Alexandria. Then, a few days later, that same man was standing across the aisle from me in a department store.”

Trace reached across the table and enveloped her hand in his. She had good mental recall—if it wasn’t her imagination painting a very vivid picture. “Now, take your time. Don’t rush it and don’t let your imagination manufacture any details. But try to remember everything you can about this man. How tall was he? What color hair? What was he wearing? How do you know it’s the same man?”

Leaving her hand tucked in his, Mary closed her eyes again and tried to conjure up a mental picture of the man who’d looked so out of place in the lingerie department of Woody’s. “He was wearing blue jeans. Old jeans, patched. And work shoes. The kind that lace up.”

“You’re doing just fine, Mary. Now keep that picture in your mind. Don’t open your eyes.” Trace lowered his voice to a smooth monotone so as not to divert her attention. “Try to visualize his features. Can you remember what he looked like? Did you see his face?”

Shaking her head pensively, Mary murmured, “No. I couldn’t.”

“Why couldn’t you?”

“The bill of his cap covered his face. That’s it!” Her eyes blinked open. “That’s why I noticed him. It wasn’t the work clothes. He was wearing a cap, like a baseball player. But it wasn’t a Redskins cap or one from the Baltimore Orioles. You see those all the time around here. No, this one was different but I can’t remember—”

“What color was it?”

“Purple,” she answered promptly. “Bright purple with a huge gold insignia. Some kind of animal, I think, but I can’t really recall.” Her eyes darkened with disappointment.

Trace patted her hand. “Don’t push it. It’ll come back to you when you’re not concentrating so hard. You did just fine. One last question, then we’ll move on. Think about this man’s overall size and appearance. Could he have been Mark Lester? Maybe wearing work clothes as a disguise?”

Her eyebrows dipped as she considered his question. “I suppose so. He was about the same size as Mark but I never had the impression that it was Mark. I just don’t know.”

Trace picked up his pen and scribbled a note in his pad. “That’s okay, at least we know not to rule him out. Tomorrow I’ll start a background check on Lester.”

She cocked her head. For the first time, he noticed a faint inch-long scar running from the edge of her upper lip into her cheek. Somehow, the small imperfection only highlighted her gentle loveliness. Made her more vulnerable, softer. He had an urge to touch his lips to the scar, and kiss away the long-ago pain of her injury.

Mary must have felt his gaze fasten on her lip because she raised a hand to her mouth, covering the scar. The gesture was almost automatic and told him how sensitive she was to the flaw.

“How do you go about checking into a person’s background?” she asked. “Are you like a private investigator?”

He smiled mirthlessly. “Not really. But I’ve still got a few friends with connections. Computer connections.”

“Oh. So, how does one become a bodyguard, in the first place? Most boys want to be a doctor or fireman when they grow up. Maybe a policeman. Did you always want to be a bodyguard?”

“No. I wanted to be a Mafia hit man or a jewel thief,” Trace answered with a straight face. “Just joking,” he added when he saw her stricken expression. “Actually, I planned on going into the FBI after college but somehow I got sidetracked and ended up in the secret service.”

“Why did you leave?”

Trace felt his back go rigid. How had they meandered into such dangerous territory? He didn’t want to talk about the near-fatal shooting that had left him lying in a hospital bed for months, wondering if he’d ever walk again. Hell, he didn’t even want to think about those endless weeks. But her words had already evoked the nightmare. A bead of sweat tickled his forehead as he vividly recalled the agonizing hours of physical therapy. And the million disappointments before the first small flare of hope.

Now, he felt Mary’s eyes on him, studying him with curiosity. After nearly two years he should be able to come up with some cute quip to explain his early retirement. He’d even thought of a cocky rejoinder—something about being shot by a jealous president. Trace should be able to laugh the whole thing off and keep his private hell locked away, but he couldn’t find the bantering tone necessary to pull it off. When he finally answered, his voice was tense and guarded. “Retired. Disability.” He stood up.

All business once again, he asked her for the anonymous letter she’d found earlier.

The note Mary handed him was typical of hundreds of others Trace had seen during his eight years with the secret service. The words were cut from magazines and newspapers and glued to cheap paper.

The perp in this case, however, fancied himself witty. Usually, threatening letters, written by depressed and deeply disturbed people, were terse and to the point. This jerk used word games—the bride won’t live happily—or ever after, to intimidate his victim as if he was enjoying himself.

Trace dropped the note onto the table and looked up into Mary’s trusting eyes. He felt unaccountably compelled to reassure her. He couldn’t offer any real hope, so he resorted to platitudes. “Sounds innocent enough. Mr. Regent’s probably right, just your ex-boyfriend out to wreak a little revenge.”

“Oh, do you think so? Truly?”

He couldn’t lie—not when she asked him directly like that. “I hope so, Mary. That’s the best I can tell you right now.”

The crestfallen expression that claimed her features lasted only a moment. Proving herself a true Pollyanna by nature, she immediately forced a quavery smile. “But you’ll be able to stop this creep, won’t you? Can’t you send that note to the FBI? I took a tour of FBI headquarters, it’s amazing what they can do with a shred of evidence like this.”

Trace ignored her first question and responded to the easier one. “I’m afraid we can’t involve the FBI in this. No federal laws have been broken and no real harm’s been done. Besides, I doubt if their lab could be much help.”

Mary tapped the tabletop with an impatient fingertip. “Why not? During the tour, they told us how they’d tracked down criminals with partial fingerprints and DNA testing, and ink samples and...and all kinds of tiny clues no one would ever think about.”

Civilians! They were so used to seeing cases neatly resolved in an hour on television that they couldn’t understand that criminal investigation was rarely as clear-cut in real life. Trace hated to be the one to do it, but Mary was about to get a lesson in reality.

Choosing his words with care, he began. “First of all, fingerprints. How many people handled this envelope? You? The doorman? Did the perp bring it to your room himself or did he tip a bellboy to slip it under the door?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured.

Trace shook his head emphatically. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. That letter’s been handled so much, any prints it may have held have probably been obliterated.”

“I’m sorry,” Mary said. “I never thought about fingerprints when I opened it.”

He smiled to soften the implied rebuke. “You had no way of knowing. You also mentioned ink samples. What ink? The guy cut the words out of magazines. As for DNA testing—what’re we going to test? Okay, maybe our letter-writing friend actually licked the envelope and left traces of saliva. Do you have any idea how expensive DNA testing is? The amount of time it takes to process? More important, we have to have a suspect to compare against the results—assuming we get any conclusive evidence to begin with!”

“But what about Mark?” she argued.

Trace was impressed. Mary wasn’t going to give up easily. He was glad she had a strong fighting spirit. She was going to need it.

He stood up and slipped the note into his pocket. “Mark Lester is certainly a viable suspect. But even knowing that, what can we do? Go ask your ex-boyfriend to lick an envelope and give it to us so we can charge him with harassment?”

Mary pushed away from the table, her dark eyes flashing. “Your sarcasm is cute, but unnecessary. What do you propose we do, Mr. Know-It-All, wait until he tries to kill me?”

Trace busied himself with recapping his ballpoint and closing his notebook. He couldn’t look into Mary’s eyes just yet for fear she’d see the truth.

Nearly ten years of protecting people who were targets of deranged criminals had taught Trace one lesson: there really wasn’t much that could be done until and unless the criminal actually got bored with writing letters and decided to follow through with the threats.

Mary Wilder was absolutely right. Other than increasing security, there wasn’t much more they could do.

The next move was the stalker’s.

Chapter Three

The easy camaraderie Trace and Mary had enjoyed over their sandwiches had vanished like morning mist on the White House lawn. She tried a couple of times to draw him out, to find that genial companion of a few short moments ago. It was no use. Trace had retreated into his shell and locked the door firmly behind him.

He paced across the living room, as if suddenly ill at ease, pausing only to check and recheck the patio-door lock. His charcoal jacket swung away from his hip, and Mary saw for the first time that he was wearing a gun.

She felt weak and trembly all of a sudden. If Jonathan had hired an armed guard, then surely she’d been underestimating the danger. Suddenly, Mary was very glad to have the arrogant Mr. Armstrong around.

When he started toward the front door, she asked, “Are you leaving?”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob and nodded. “For tonight. So far, Mr. Regent’s authorized me to accompany you only when you’re outside this apartment. He doesn’t feel that you need twenty-four-hour-a-day protection. He thinks you’ll be safe here as long as you keep the door bolted.”

“And what do you think?” Mary asked, trying once again to reestablish the earlier rapport she’d felt with this enigmatic man.

Trace shrugged. “He’s probably right. I’ll check the roof access before I leave the hotel tonight, and tomorrow I’ll get a dead bolt for that adjoining suite. You should be safe enough for tonight. Besides, we don’t have any reason to believe this kook is going to do any more than send nasty letters.”

Mary crossed her arms and stifled a yawn. Even after that long nap she’d taken, she was still exhausted. “So, what’s the game plan for tomorrow?”

“I’ll be back early in the morning. You just go ahead with your normal plans and whither thou goest, I’ll tag along. Then, in the evenings, I’ll lock you up in your tower like Rapunzel.”

“Sounds exciting. Do I ever get to let down my hair?”

Trace groaned and walked to the door. “On that really awful pun, I’ll say good night. And, Mary—”

“I know, I know. Lock the door behind you.”

He nodded and disappeared into the hallway without a backward glance.

She followed behind him and bolted the door, then flipped on the security latch. Turning around, Mary faced the empty foyer. How much larger, and lonelier, her apartment seemed without Trace here. She went through the rooms turning off lights, and tried to ignore the way Trace’s presence still dominated her thoughts.

Now, she understood the lure of the perpetually bad boy. Suddenly, she felt more alive than she’d ever felt in her life. Every nerve ending was sparking. But all that raw, blatant sensuality he exuded was bad news. He was bad news. Men like Trace deprived a woman of her reason and self-control. If Mary had a lick of sense, she’d call Jonathan right now and demand a replacement bodyguard. An old one. Or a fat one. Even a muscle-bound hulk. Anybody but Trace Armstrong.

But even as the thought flitted through her mind, Mary knew she wouldn’t make that phone call.

* * *

LIKE A RECURRING nightmare, a thunderous pounding on the apartment door awakened Mary. She sat up with a groan. It seemed as though she’d just dozed off.

“Just a minute,” she called as the knocking continued nonstop. “Hold on.”

She stumbled into the bathroom for her robe and took a moment to quickly brush her teeth before hurrying down the hall to the front door.

She already knew who was at the door; only Trace’s “knock” sounded like a battering ram. After peeking through the peephole, she unlocked the dead bolt, disengaged the security latch and opened the door. Trace surged in, two large containers of what smelled like fresh coffee in each hand.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled in lieu of a greeting. “I was starting to worry.”

Mary shoved her hair out of her eyes. “What time is it?”

He balanced one container of coffee on top of the other and looked at his watch. “Quarter after seven.”

“In the morning?” Mary squeaked.

“Yeah, I’m late.” His eyes raked her length, from unkempt hair to bare feet. “Sorry to get you up so early, Your Highness. But some of us have to work for a living.”

Arghh! He was starting already. The last thing she felt like was more sniping and sarcasm. She’d hoped he would have slept off his surly mood of last night, but no such luck.

Not up to his brand of repartee this early in the morning, she muttered, “I’m going back to bed. You stay out here and...and continue working.”

She went to her bedroom and slumped into bed, pulling the mound of blankets on top of herself. But after ten minutes of turning, tossing and punching the pillow, Mary gave up. It was impossible to get to sleep with Trace just on the other side of the bedroom wall.

* * *

BY EIGHT O’CLOCK, Mary was seriously considering shooting Trace Armstrong.

He hadn’t even given her time to get dressed before he started making his demands. He wanted a key to her apartment, the addresses and phone numbers of all her friends and a list of every man she’d dated since she’d moved to the D.C. metropolitan area.

For the past half hour, Trace had prowled around her apartment, asking rapid-fire questions and muttering under his breath. Finally, her patience snapped.

She slammed her coffee mug on the counter and stalked into the living room. He’d gone out onto the balcony and was staring into the distance with a pair of binoculars.