Veil of Fear
Judi Lind

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With love and affection for the Thursday Group who always challenge me while bolstering my confidence.

Te adoro.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Mary Wilder—Could she save herself from her stalker—without falling prey to her own emotions?

Trace Armstrong—He was Mary’s bodyguard. But who was going to protect Mary from Trace?

Jonathan Regent—Mary’s rich, powerful fiancé. He wanted Mary all to himself.

Bob Newland—He thought the upcoming nuptials were a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Camille Castnor—Camille was determined to stop the marriage of her former lover to his young fiancée. At any cost.

Senator Brad Castnor—His wife’s obsession with Jonathan Regent threatened his political career. Would he destroy Mary to save his career and his wife?

Mark Lester—A deeply disturbed man, he would go to any extreme to avenge his wounded pride.

Madame Guillarge—The flamboyant woman’s French accent was an obvious fraud. What else was she hiding?

The Man in the Purple Cap—A shadowy figure who was always around when trouble started.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Prologue

It was only by chance that the reader even picked up the D.C. Diplomat newspaper. But there, on the society page, the boldfaced caption read: HOTEL MAGNATE JONATHAN REGENT ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT.

The reader sank into a chair and pored over the small print. Little was said about the bride-to-be, only that prior to her engagement she’d been a clerk at a rare-books store in Georgetown. There was no shortage of information, however, on the prospective groom. Jonathan Regent was well known in Washington society. A self-made multimillionaire who’d gone from manager of a small inn to CEO of the huge conglomerate Regent Hotels International in just under twenty years.

Jonathan, apparently bored with adding more money to his already burgeoning coffers, had recently taken to dabbling in local politics. The newspaper article hinted that Jonathan was expected to enter the congressional race for the small northern Virginia suburb where he resided.

The insinuation was that every budding politician needed a wife. Hence the engagement.

But was it a politically correct decision to ally himself to a nobody little shop clerk?

The person reading the article held it up, scanning the accompanying photograph of the smiling couple.

Mary Wilder, the bride-to-be, appeared considerably younger than her fiancé. She had shoulder-length blondish hair, wide dark eyes, and a disarming smile. Not a classically beautiful woman, but she was imbued with a sweet expression evident even in the fuzzy newspaper photo.

Yes, the reader thought, Mary Wilder had a vulnerable prettiness that would appeal to any man.

But the image of the woman’s guileless eyes staring into the camera like those of a frightened doe suddenly made one thing clear: she wasn’t the right wife for Jonathan Regent.

He needed a woman with a boldness of character who could withstand even the most strident opponent. A society matron beyond reproach. A social hostess who could dine with sharks and not sustain a nibble. Mary Wilder was too innocent, too naive. She would be eaten alive by those power-hungry congressional wives.

The reader took a pair of large shears from the desk drawer and neatly cut out the photograph.

No, Miss Mary Wilder wouldn’t do at all. She was a mistake, but one that could be eliminated.

Chapter One

Mary Wilder tapped her fingers on the desk top, barely able to contain her excitement. At last, the somber voice on the other end of the telephone line droned his usual greeting, “Good morning. Mr. Jonathan Regent’s office. Robert Newland at your service. How may I—”

She cut off his practiced patter. “Hi! This is Mary. Is Jonathan available?”

“I’m afraid he’s quite busy at the moment, but I’m sure if it’s important he won’t mind being interrupted.”

“Oh, it’s not that important, Bob.”

“Robert.”

“Sorry. Robert. Anyway, I know Jonathan is used to this kind of publicity, but have you seen the cover of—”

“Of practically every magazine and newspaper in the country, Ms. Wilder? Yes, I have.”

Mary frowned, her enthusiasm deflating with every second she spent talking to Bob—Robert—Newland. Jonathan called him a perfect assistant, but Robert Newland was so...so stuffy he made her want to say something outrageous just to shock him out of his pomposity.

Giving in to that devilish urge, she continued, “Gee, Robert, since Jonathan’s tied up, I’ll chat with you. How many magazines do you suppose—”

“Oh, Ms. Wilder, I see Mr. Regent’s off the phone now. One moment and I’ll connect you.”

A moment later, the deep stentorian tones of Mary’s fiancé boomed over the line. “Mary, darling! You haven’t forgotten about our luncheon date, have you?”

“No, of course not. But I just had to call you. Our picture was on the cover of Newsweek this morning!”

“As a matter of fact, I just cut off the cover for your scrapbook. It’s right here on my desk.” Jonathan chuckled. “Mary, my sweet, sweet innocent. You’d better get used to seeing your lovely face in the media. As Mrs. Jonathan Regent, you’re going to become something of a celebrity.”

“This is going to take some adjustment, Jonathan. I mean, everything is happening so fast, I feel like I can’t catch my breath.”

“Speaking of fast,” Jonathan cut in, “I have to leave here in five minutes if we’re going to make our lunch reservation. Is Camille with you?”

“No,” Mary said. “She and the senator are going to meet us at the restaurant. I’m on my way out the door right now.”

“Good. I’ll see you there. Oh, and Mary?”

“Yes?”

“I know you still have some misgivings about Camille, but, darling, she’s doing us a tremendous favor. There’s no woman in Washington who knows more, who gives better parties, who always has the correct assortment of guests and who—”

“I know, I know. And who is always dressed with impeccable style. I told you that I’d listen to her advice, Jonathan, and I will, but...”

“But what?”

Mary chewed on the edge of her fingernail and blinked away a sudden tear of frustration. Jonathan had been so generous, so wonderful, that she always felt an ingrate when she refused his largess. But his apparent wish to transform her into a duplicate of Camille Castnor made Mary feel...deflated, somehow.

Oh, she knew Jonathan wouldn’t understand. They’d been over this ground a dozen times already. And he was right, really he was. Not many women would complain because their fiancés wanted them to wear designer clothing and have their hair done by a celebrity stylist. So why did Mary feel as though she were losing herself?

“Mary? Are you all right?”

She knuckled away the single tear and took a deep breath. She was being silly. Silly and immature. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I’m fine. Truly.”

“Good.” Relief was evident in his voice. Jonathan prided himself on running a smooth ship, as he called his corporation. “See you at the Pepper Tree in half an hour. And, Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t worry so much, darling. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

After they broke the connection, Mary went into her bedroom for a last-minute peek in the mirror. The sleek image that stared back at her seemed alien, bearing little resemblance to the Mary of a few short months ago. Her hair was several shades lighter than its natural honey-blond color, and this Mary wore her hair in a trendy, asymmetrical pageboy that skimmed her shoulders. This Mary’s makeup was applied with a light but polished hand. And her simply cut suit cost more than the old Mary earned in a month.

She dabbed on a bit more lip gloss. Finally satisfied that Jonathan would approve, she picked up her handbag and left her hotel suite. Just two weeks ago, the same night that he’d proposed, Jonathan had urged her to move into a two-bedroom apartment suite in one of his hotels. He couldn’t sleep nights, he’d said, worrying about her safety in that dingy studio she’d rented in Arlington.

Part of his reasoning, Mary acknowledged as she waited for the elevator, was Jonathan’s eagerness to separate her from Mark Lester, the man she’d been seeing casually pre-Jonathan. Not that she could blame her fiancé. Mark hadn’t handled the breakup very well, even though they hadn’t had a serious relationship to start with.

Jonathan had been right, Mary admitted as she exited the elevator and strolled across the sumptuous lobby. Her moving into the hotel, and making a clean break from Mark, was best for everyone.

And she loved living in the Georgetown Regent Hotel. There was an old-world style and dignity about the red brick building that spoke of an earlier, more genteel era. The lobby and hallways were spacious and papered in pale gold brocade. Even the elevator cabs were made of fine cherry wood, the fixtures polished brass. Although Jonathan often bemoaned the fact that the Georgetown Regent was so small, and held so few guests, Mary loved the feeling of intimacy the hotel fostered. Only eight floors high, it was a far cry from the chrome and glass monstrosities that were popping up all over the metropolitan D.C. area.

She smiled at Rick Carey, the day desk manager, as she passed. Just walking through the lobby with its huge bowls of fresh cut flowers made her feel cheery and warm.

When she stepped outside into the balmy April afternoon, Mary still had nearly twenty minutes before she was due at the Pepper Tree. No need to take a taxi. She had plenty of time to walk and enjoy the warm spring weather.

Spring was absolutely her favorite time of year. Especially here in D.C. The shrill, icy winter had faded into memory, while the sultry heat of summer was still a distant promise. And because tourist season hadn’t yet commenced in full force, one could still amble comfortably through the pleasant Georgetown neighborhood and admire the glorious old brick houses that lined the cobbled streets.

Mary had walked only a few blocks down Wisconsin Avenue, when a prickly sensation began inching up her spine. Keep walking. Don’t turn around, she told herself. There was no one behind her, no one following. There never was, even though she’d checked often enough in the past few days. Yet...yet she couldn’t escape the feeling of unseen eyes following her every move. Boring into her with a white-hot intensity.

The day was suddenly, ominously, quiet. Only the click of Mary’s heels on the pavement broke the menacing stillness. Then, she heard it. The soft thud of a footfall.

Someone was behind her. Close. Very, very close.

Mary eased her fingers into her handbag and pulled out her key ring. Gripping her door key tightly between her fingers, its sharp end pointing outward like a small but lethal weapon, she took a deep breath and whirled.

The quiet street was completely empty.

Mary waited for a long moment, willing her battering heart to stop hammering. What was wrong with her? When had she developed this...this paranoia? But even as she argued with herself, she scanned the recessed doorways, looking for anything unusual. A shadow too deep. A curtain suddenly swaying.

Just as she started to walk on, a darting movement caught her peripheral vision. Someone was there! A shadowy form had scurried around the corner.

Was it someone hurrying to return to work or an unseen stalker? She rubbed her fingertips across her temple, as if somehow, she could summon the truth.

Lost in her confused thoughts, Mary stood for several minutes on the deserted sidewalk until the roar of a delivery truck broke her concentration. She glanced at her watch, and realized that her dawdling would make her late for her luncheon date. With a growl of vexation, she hurried toward the Pepper Tree.

Walking briskly, Mary tried to ignore that heavy curtain of apprehension that pressed in on her with each step. She forced herself not to look back, yet with every step, she half expected a hand to grab her. Once, unaccustomed to the high heels she wore, she stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk. Flailing her arms wildly in an effort to maintain her balance, she almost screamed as her hand encountered something solid.

A lamppost.

Mary hung on to the iron post for a moment until her wobbly knees stopped shaking. She was being ridiculous, working herself into a panic like that. She had to learn to ignore these sudden, eerie feelings that overtook her lately. Obviously, her intuition wasn’t working and she was only scaring herself.

Taking deep, calming breaths as she walked toward her destination, she managed to release the fear and even regain a feeling of ease before she arrived at the Pepper Tree.

Inside the restaurant, Jonathan and his friends, Senator and Camille Castnor, were already seated. When the maître d’ showed Mary to the table, she kissed Jonathan lightly on the cheek and slid into her chair. “Hi, everybody. Sorry I’m late.”

Jonathan patted her hand. “No problem, dear. What happened? Did your taxi get snarled in traffic?”

A light flush crept up her cheeks. Jonathan had been bedeviling her for weeks about walking alone in the city. Mary was willing to make some changes in her life to please her fiancé, but she wasn’t about to give up walking. Instead of answering directly, she took a drink of water and murmured, “The time just got away from me. Sorry.”

In an effort to change the subject, she turned and teased the rotund senator seated across the table. “So, Brad, what’s new with you? Have you voted yourself any new pay raises lately?”

“Mary!” Jonathan blurted out in consternation. “Really, dear, your sense of humor—”

“Oh, leave her alone, Regent. She’s probably the only straight-talking person left inside the Beltway.” Brad Castnor leaned back in his chair and roared with unabashed delight. “Voted myself any pay raises, that’s rich! Wait till I tell that one up on Capitol Hill this afternoon.”

Camille Castnor, the senator’s wife, took a tiny sip from her glass of chardonnay and gave Mary a wan smile. “I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, Mary, dear, but after you and Jonathan are married, you will have to watch your...little witticisms. Someone might overhear and misunderstand.”

It was on the tip of Mary’s tongue to remind Camille that her husband’s voting history was a matter of public record, and he had, in fact, been one of the ringleaders involved in the latest senate pay hike. She was saved from her own candor by the waiter who approached their table, glistening white cloth draped over his arm.

“May I bring ma’mselle a cocktail before her meal?”

“No, thank you. Water will be fine,” Mary said, and picked up the menu.

After they ordered, the mood became more festive when Brad proposed a toast to celebrate the announcement of Jonathan and Mary’s engagement.

“Ah, yes,” Camille said, holding her glass for her husband to fill. “I saw the happy couple made the cover of Newsweek. I’m impressed.” Her tone implied she was anything but impressed.

“Is that so?” Brad boomed. “Hope you saved it for me.”

Camille smiled sweetly. “I cut the article out for my scrapbook, but you can read it. Let’s have the toast now. To Jonathan and Mary, an unusual but adorable couple.”

“So when’s the big date?” Brad asked after the foursome had clinked glasses.

“We haven’t set a date yet,” Jonathan answered. “Probably sometime in the early fall. I was willing to wait until we could book the cathedral, but Mary said she’d rather have a small, more intimate ceremony.”

Camille raised an eyebrow. “A small wedding means some important people will be left out. That could come back to haunt you at election time, Jonathan.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But this was Mary’s decision.”

Mary set down her salad fork and took a deep, calming breath. “That’s not fair, Jonathan. We discussed this and I thought we’d agreed.”

He reached across the snowy linen cloth to take her hand in his. “Why so prickly? I was just having a bit of fun with you, dear. Your feathers are ruffling awfully easily today. Are you sure you’re all right? I mean, you seem a bit... edgy.”

He’d hit the nail squarely on the head, Mary conceded to herself. She was tense. That incident on Wisconsin Avenue was bothering her more than she wanted to admit. She hated to bring up the subject in front of the Castnors but felt she should at least explain her sudden moodiness.

Mary ran a fingertip around the rim of her water goblet, trying to find the right place to begin. “Do you remember last week when I told you that I had the oddest impression that someone was watching me?”

“Certainly.” Jonathan smiled. “And I told you that I didn’t want to let you out of my sight, so I was having my imagination follow you around.”

Camille rolled her eyes. “Oh, God, that’s just too, too sweet for words.”

Ignoring Camille’s sarcasm, Mary continued. “Anyway, I’ve had that feeling several more times since then. When I was walking here today, suddenly I just knew someone was behind me.”

“Good heavens, Mary, I thought we discussed your walking around the city by yourself.”

Mary raised her chin and stared into Jonathan’s pale gray eyes, now dark with irritation. “Yes, Jonathan, we discussed it, but the day was so beautiful I decided to walk.”

“But you see what happens? There probably was a mugger trailing you, just waiting for the right moment to snatch your purse. I wish you’d listen to me, Mary. I know this city.”

“Jonathan, whether or not I should walk around Washington on my own isn’t the issue here. Besides, you’ve said all along that this...this feeling is nothing more than premarital jitters.”

The senator hooted. “I wonder what Freud would say about the symbolism—she’s engaged to one man and fantasizing about being pursued by another!”

“That’s not funny,” Jonathan snapped.

“Sorry. It was meant to be.”

Mary stifled a grin. She rather enjoyed the senator’s sense of humor. People in politics tended to take themselves quite seriously, if her recent introduction into the Washington social strata was any indication. In fact, it sometimes seemed she and Brad Castnor were the only people within the Beltway who had a sense of humor.

Apparently satisfied that his friend’s apology was sincere, Jonathan turned back to Mary. “Darling, exactly how often have you had this feeling of being watched?”

She closed her eyes and considered. “At least five or six different times. And they weren’t all when I was out in public. Once when I was at the hairdresser’s, I sensed someone staring at me through the front window.”

Camille leaned forward. “Mary, how horrible! Why didn’t you say something? I could have asked Henri to give you a more secluded booth in the rear.”

Mary shook her head. “I can’t go through life riding in taxis and hiding in the back rooms of beauty salons. If someone is following me, then I need to take some reasonable precautions.” She placed a strong emphasis on reasonable. “In fact, I’m thinking about buying a gun.”

Jonathan threaded his fingers together and stared at her. “I don’t think that’s wise. I believe statistics will bear me out here, Mary. Unless you’re completely prepared to use that gun and perhaps take another person’s life, owning a firearm is more of a liability than an asset. Besides, I really don’t believe a weapon is necessary.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that, Regent,” the senator interjected. “If someone is really following Mary, she could be in danger.”

Jonathan shook his head. Rather than respond directly to his friend, he continued addressing his remarks to Mary. “Forgive me, my dear, but I’m still not convinced that what you’ve been experiencing isn’t merely a case of nerves. But if someone is lurking around beauty shops, I’m sure it’s that unemployed waiter you used to date.”

Mary stifled a grin at Jonathan’s description of her previous boyfriend. Despite her continued protests that she and Mark Lester had never had a serious relationship, Jonathan still acted jealous whenever Mark’s name came up. And he knew perfectly well that Mark had only worked as a waiter a few nights a week to help cover his graduate-school expenses.

She couldn’t seriously believe that Mark was skulking around behind her, watching her every move. He hadn’t been that interested when they were dating.

Camille, as if annoyed that the conversation was centered on Mary’s welfare, pointedly shifted the subject. “Well, I’m sure Mary will take every precaution just in case some lunatic is out there. But let’s talk about the wedding! Mary, when do we get to go look at wedding gowns? You know, my dear, I’d be more than happy to help you plan the wedding. An event of this magnitude takes a certain amount of...social experience, you know.”

The rest of their meal was punctuated with merriment as the two women discussed color schemes and honeymoon locales. The men groaned frequently and made obligatory macho comments about the cost of the upcoming nuptials exceeding the national debt.

Just before they broke up their lengthy luncheon, Jonathan raised his hand. “Brad, Camille, I asked the two of you to dine with us today for a reason. You’re my oldest friends and I wanted both of you present for the occasion.” Jonathan reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a small, blue velvet jeweler’s box. He pushed the unopened case in front of Mary. “For my beloved bride. I’m afraid it pales compared to the purity of your smile, but it was the best I could do.”

With a trembling hand, Mary opened the tiny box and gasped in astonishment. Nestled in the midnight blue lining was a twinkling diamond solitaire. Quite possibly the largest diamond she’d ever seen outside the Smithsonian. “Jonathan, it’s lovely. But...but it’s so...enormous!”

Immediately, his eyebrows dipped and a scowl took command of his handsome features. With an incredulous shake of his head, he asked, “Don’t you like it?”

Mary lifted the glittering band out of the box and slipped it on her left ring finger. The stone was much larger, and more ostentatious than what she would have chosen for herself, but she knew that to Jonathan the size of the diamond was comparable to the depth of his devotion. She was swamped with a surge of tenderness for this complex man who’d breezed into her life and swept her into a world she’d never dreamed existed.

Raising her hand so everyone could see the exquisite stone dominating her delicate fingers, Mary turned to Jonathan. “It’s the most impressive ring I’ve ever seen. Thank you so much, Jonathan. Truly.”

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—”

“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.

Following him out into the chilly morning, Mary said, “I don’t know how you expect me to answer you when you’re grousing under your breath and then walking off in midsentence. What are you griping about now?”

He pointed toward two high-rise apartment complexes across the park. “Do you realize that you’d be an easy target for anyone over there with a high-power rifle? We’re going to have to keep your blinds drawn all the time.”

“Are you serious? You expect me to live in the dark and only leave my cavern if I’m escorted by you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And you shouldn’t go out any more than necessary.”

Mary snatched the binoculars out of his hand. She lifted them to her eyes and adjusted the focus. To her amazement, occupants of apartments a quarter mile away appeared as close as if they were standing on her patio. She shoved the glasses back at Trace. “My God, I feel like a Peeping Tom with those things. We’ll be lucky if someone doesn’t call the police on us!” She turned and stalked back inside.

Trace followed on her heels and pulled the vertical blinds closed behind him.

With an exasperated sigh, Mary switched on all the lamps and plumped down on the sofa. Scowling at the man who was now testing the ceiling tiles, she asked, “When do I get my bulletproof vest?”

Trace glanced down at her. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your tone this morning, Ms. Wilder?”

“If I had a hammer, you’d detect a knot on your head!”

“Tsk, tsk. A bad temper and prone to violence. Not a good combination.”

The man was maddening. He refused to acknowledge what drastic sacrifices he was asking her to make in her life-style. Worse, he flicked aside her complaints as easily as if he were swiping aside an irritating mosquito. Nothing seemed to ruffle him.

Trace glanced at his wristwatch. “All right, Mary Sunshine, what have you got planned for the day?”

She looked down at her disheveled appearance. “Take a shower and change my clothes.”

“Good start,” he agreed. “And then?”

“I have some phone calls to make this morning. Then I don’t have anything scheduled until after lunch. I need to meet with a bridal consultant at two this afternoon.”

Trace’s eyes darkened inexplicably. “Do you have a car?”

“No. If I don’t walk, I generally take a cab or Jonathan sends his limo.”

“Not anymore,” he told her. “Do you have an assigned parking spot in the hotel garage?”

She shrugged. “I imagine so. Why?”

“Because I’m going to park my car downstairs. We’ll take it when we need to go out. It’s too unpredictable having to rely on public transportation.”

Mary nodded. For the first time, one of his suggestions sounded reasonable rather than paranoid. “I’ll call the desk and arrange for you to pick up a parking pass.”

“Good. Since you have your morning planned here in the apartment, I’m going to run some errands. I’ll pick up the dead bolt for the connecting door and then I’m going to arrange for a locksmith I know to come install a special lock on that glass patio door.”

With a slow shake of her head, she said, “Isn’t that overkill, Trace? I mean, do you seriously think someone’s going to climb up seven balconies—outside occupied rooms—to reach mine? Without being seen?”

“No, I don’t think someone is going to scale the building, and no, I don’t think I’m being paranoid. I’m concerned someone could gain access to the roof and drop a rope over the side and slide down one floor to your balcony.”

“Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

Instead of the snide rejoinder she expected, he replied with a hint of modesty, “Well, this is what I do for a living. No one would expect you to think of things like that.”

He slipped on his windbreaker and started for the door. “Are you sure you feel okay about staying here alone for a while?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I imagine I can struggle through by myself for a couple hours.”

“You’d better have another cup of coffee. I think you need the caffeine.”

Mary slammed the door behind him and snapped the bolt with unnecessary force. What a pain in the... The man was more irritating than sand in a bathing suit.

She sighed and started for the bathroom. Turning the hot water on full force, she stripped off her robe and nightgown. She stepped under the relaxing, steamy flow and thought about Trace Armstrong—and her reaction to him. What was it about that man that made her want to punch his lights out one minute, only to find herself laughing at his droll humor the next?

It wasn’t just that he was annoying. Bob Newland was annoying and she didn’t like him.

Nor was it simply that Trace was so drop-dead gorgeous that he made her tummy wobbly. Heck, Jonathan was a very attractive man in his own right. More sophisticated. And certainly more...gentlemanly. But, although Jonathan’s kisses sometimes made her pulse race, she’d never felt that warm liquid rush in her insides when Jonathan walked into a room.

There was no doubt about it—Trace Armstrong was a sorcerer, a snake charmer. And if she wasn’t careful, Mary knew she could easily succumb to his brand of magic.

A harsh shaft of guilt shot through her. She was acting and talking to herself as if she were unattached, available. There was no need to concern herself with Trace’s raw magnetism, because she was promised to another man. She was going to marry Jonathan Regent.

Grabbing the shampoo bottle, Mary poured a lavish amount on her hair and kept repeating the little speech she’d just given herself. Maybe she could convince herself it was the truth.

After finishing her shower and blow-drying her hair, Mary went into the bedroom and deliberately selected the most unattractive outfit she owned. One of those tweed skirt and mud-colored sweater combinations she’d worn most of her life. Before Jonathan and Camille had helped transform her. Somehow, Mary hoped the unflattering outfit would make her feel less attractive, and maybe help repress her purely hormonal responses to Trace.

She’d just walked into the front of the apartment, when the doorbell buzzed. She frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and the hotel maids always serviced Mary’s apartment in the afternoon.

Feeling a chill of apprehension, she padded softly to the door and looked out the peephole. Camille Castnor’s distorted image stared back.

Mary quickly opened the door and stepped aside. “Camille! Come in, please. Did we have plans that I’ve forgotten?”

Camille entered the foyer and smiled. Even before nine in the morning, not a glimmering blond hair was out of place. Her black Donna Karan suit was perfectly suited to Camille’s tall, slender form. A simple gold brooch was her only adornment. Even though Mary thought the pale sable coat draped over her shoulders was a bit of an overstatement for a warm spring day, Camille was, as always, perfectly attired.

Mary sorely wished she’d chosen a different outfit. Even when she looked her very best, she felt frumpy beside Camille.

“I’m sorry to disturb you so early,” Camille said with her perfectly modulated voice. “And, no, we didn’t have an appointment. Actually, I had a yen to go over to Alexandria for some shopping. There’s a marvelous new boutique that Julie Stennard says is just too divine. Anyway, after I dropped the senator off, I decided on the spur of the moment to see if you wanted to go.”

Camille was the only person Mary had ever met who habitually referred to her husband by his title rather than his given name. “I’m afraid I have other plans today, Camille, but thanks for asking.” Leading the way into the living room, Mary asked, “Can I get you a cup of coffee? I was just about to make myself some toast.”

Camille took a few steps inside, then hesitated. “I’d love to, but maybe I’d better pass. As I said, I just stopped by on the spur of the moment. My car’s in the loading zone out front. Are we all still on for dinner tonight?”

“As far as I know,” Mary said.

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Have you and Jonathan decided yet on a date for the big event?”

“No. I imagine we’ll pick one pretty soon.”

“Well, my dear, you’d better get moving. You cannot imagine the million details we’ll have to attend to right away. Besides, you can’t even book the reception hall or the church until you’ve decided on a date.”

“I know. And I promise, we’ll make a decision soon.” Mary opened the door and Camille walked out into the corridor.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Camille reached into her oversize handbag and extracted a package. “This is for you.”

“Why, thank you!” Mary said, totally surprised. She’d recognized the extravagant packaging immediately. It was her favorite brand of chocolates. The forty-dollar a pound variety. She had always thought that Camille merely tolerated her because of Jonathan. And here Camille was, giving her a gift. What a lovely gesture. Mary made an immediate mental vow to try her best to warm up to Camille Castnor. “Please, let me fix you some coffee and let’s dive into this box.”

“No, thanks.” Camille laughed. “I’ve been a chocoholic ever since Jonathan bought me my first box of Splendoras. If I eat even one, I’ll snatch the entire package out of your hands.”

“I know what you mean. But I certainly appreciate this.”

Camille pulled her sable around her shoulders, and slipped her purse under her arm. “No trouble. I’ll see you this evening then.”

“Bye.”

Mary locked the door and carried the beautiful gold-foiled box into the dining room. Her lips curved in an eager smile.

Feeling like a naughty child, Mary untied the midnight blue ribbon. She hadn’t even known such things as Splendora Chocolates existed before Jonathan presented her with a two-pound box on their second date. It had been love at first bite.

Mary could hear her mother’s voice in her head, chiding her for even thinking about eating candy for breakfast. Laughing out loud, she decided that was one of the best things about being an adult—she could darn well eat chocolate for breakfast if she wanted. And she wanted.

Mary lifted the sparkling gold lid and selected one from the center—hazelnut liqueur, her favorite.

Carrying her gilded box into the living room, she curled up in her customary spot in the corner of the sofa and bit into the delicious confection. Heaven. Pure unadulterated heaven. Although a little sweeter than she remembered. But then, she’d never eaten Splendora Chocolates this early in the morning before.

Feeling totally decadent, Mary decided to delay her phone calls for a while. She topped off her coffee from the carafe on the end table, picked up a half-finished novel and draped a woolly afghan over her lap. One hour. She’d be a sloth for just one hour.

Mary licked a smear of dark chocolate from her fingertip. She could do serious damage to this box of delight in an hour.

* * *

FOR SOME inexplicable reason, Trace found himself whistling as he ambled down the hallway to Mary’s apartment. In complete contrast to his initial reaction to this assignment, Trace found himself looking forward to the next few weeks.

Since he’d gone into the private security business, he’d found himself guarding a half-dozen beautiful women. But their beauty had all been artifice. Faces surgically sculpted, individually applied false eyelashes, and fake nails an inch long. Mary Wilder, on the other hand, was a refreshingly natural beauty.

Twice now, he’d seen her looking...scruffy was the kindest word he could think of. But she hadn’t apologized or made excuses. She was who she was. That was a rare quality in a Washington socialite.

It was just too damn bad she had that five-pound diamond on her ring finger.

Burdened with packages of security devices, Trace paused outside her apartment. Lifting his foot, he lightly kicked the bottom of the door. “Mary! Open up. It’s Trace.”

There was no answering grumble from the other side of the door.

Deciding that she must not have heard him, he leaned over and punched the doorbell with his elbow.

Still, a full minute passed and Mary didn’t respond.

Annoyance rapidly mutating into concern, Trace dropped his bags and fumbled in his pocket for the key she’d given him. For once, he hoped she’d forgotten his standing order to keep the security bolt engaged.

While he was feeling for the loose key, Trace used his other hand to pound on the door. “Mary? Are you all right? Answer me!”

Not a sound emerged from the too-quiet suite.

Finally finding the key, Trace inserted it into the lock and pushed against the door. Thankfully, Mary had neglected to lock the security bolt and the door swung open.

Trace stepped inside and paused. “Mary? Are you in here?”

Only silence greeted his call.

Easing the door closed behind him, Trace drew his service revolver from the concealed holster beneath his windbreaker.

His senses were on full alert now and he moved into the dim apartment one careful step at a time. Slowly, stealthily, he made his way into the living room. Empty. As were the dining room and kitchen.

His back almost skimming the wall, Trace started down the hall to Mary’s room. Stopping outside the guest bedroom, he eased open the door. Dropping low, he jumped into the room, his gun held at arm’s length. After a quick but thorough check of the vacant room, he headed back toward Mary’s bedroom.

Her door was half-open and he could see that her rumpled bed was unoccupied. Using his shoulder, he pushed the door fully open, until the knob made contact with the wall. Then he stepped inside.

This room, too, appeared deserted.

At that moment, Trace detected the sound of running water in the adjoining bathroom. A shudder of relief rippled through him and he realized he’d been holding his breath.

Dropping his gun hand to his side, he crossed the room and rapped on the bathroom door with his knuckle. “Mary? Are you all right in there?”

Almost instantly, the door opened and she stepped out.

Trace sucked in a deep breath of alarm. Instead of the perky, somewhat contentious woman he’d been expecting, a wan and frightened Mary Wilder slumped against him.

Shoving his revolver into its holster, Trace lifted her weak body into his arms. He carried her to the bed and laid her head on the soft pillow and pulled the covers up to her chin.

He knelt beside her and took her trembling hand in his. “What is it, honey? What’s happened?”

“I...I think I’ve been poisoned.”

Chapter Four

A jolt of rage, heavily laced with fear, shuddered down Trace’s backbone. Until now, he hadn’t truly believed Mary was in real danger. He’d attributed her vague feeling of being followed to premarital jitters. Nor had he taken the note left under her door too seriously, dismissing it as a spiteful but harmless missive from her former boyfriend. No, from the moment Bob Newland had phoned him, Trace had expected this assignment to be mere baby-sitting duty.

He’d done his job, of course. Taken the usual precautions. But in Trace’s experience, only rarely did an anonymous note writer come out of the shadows to harm his prey.

Poisoners, however, were different. Far more twisted, and in Trace’s mind, far more evil. Usually closely associated with the victim, a poisoner was a deadly cold bastard who could stand and watch his target writhe in agonizing pain.

A trickle of sweat beaded down Trace’s cheek. Praying that Mary was wrong, that her stalker hadn’t made that horrible leap to attempted murderer, Trace leaned closer. With a gentle hand, he swept a damp strand of golden hair off her forehead. “Why do you think you’ve been poisoned? Maybe it’s just nerves. You’ve been under a terrible strain lately.”

Mary pushed his hand away and sat up. Her face was pale, ghostly pale and her lower lip trembled. As if overcome with the effort of sitting, she dropped back against the pillow. “It was the candy. I...I ate just a few pieces and became horribly ill. It had to be the candy. I was feeling fine before.”

Trace frowned. “What candy?”

Mary lifted an arm and pointed toward the living room. “Camille brought me a box of candy. Splendora Chocolates. My favorite.”

Dropping her hand, Trace leapt to his feet and bounded into the living room. A few moments later, he stalked back into the bedroom, bearing the gold-foil box. “I’ve called for an ambulance. It should be here in a couple minutes. How are you feeling?”

“Better, much better. Maybe...maybe I don’t need to go to the hospital.” To her amazement, Mary realized it was true. Now that the horrible surges of nausea had passed, she was feeling stronger by the minute.

Trace ran his fingertips along the ridge of her jaw, feeling the clamminess of her flesh. Mary’s voice was stronger but her skin was still ghastly white, tinged with rings of blue and lavender beneath her eyes. Trace shook his head vehemently. “We’re not taking any chances.” He laid the box of chocolates on the bedside table. “How did you receive this?”

Mary closed her eyes. “I told you. Camille Castnor.”

Trace’s eyebrows furrowed in surprise. “The senator’s wife?”

“Uh-huh. They’re both good friends of Jonathan’s. We see quite a lot of them.”

“When was the package delivered? How? A hotel clerk? Messenger service?”

Screwing her face into a frown, she raised herself onto wobbly elbows, tucking the sheet under her chin. “You’re not listening to me. I told you already. Camille brought them herself.”

Trace picked out a piece of dark chocolate candy and raised it to the light so he could examine it more closely. He didn’t see any signs of tampering, but a tiny puncture left by a hypodermic needle would be easy to erase. The poisoner had only to heat the candy slightly and smear the slick chocolate over the small hole. No one would suspect a thing.

He tossed the candy into the box and turned his attention to Mary. “This doesn’t make sense. If Mrs. Castnor wanted to poison you, she wouldn’t bring the candy herself.”

Mary scooted up against the headboard and pulled the blanket over her bare legs. “Camille? Oh, Trace, I can’t believe she’d do anything like this. I mean, why? And, for crying out loud, she’s a senator’s wife! She’d never risk the headlines, even if she hated me.”

“Does she?”

“Hate me? No, of course not.” Mary paused for a long moment, considering the outlandish suggestion. Camille wasn’t exactly her closest friend...but why would she want to harm her? Just because Camille and Jonathan had once dated was no reason for Camille to—

Mary’s troubling thoughts were interrupted by a pounding at the front door, immediately followed by a long blare of the doorbell.

“Must be the ambulance,” Trace said. “I’ll let them in.”

* * *

FOR MARY, the next two hours passed in a blur of white uniforms, bright lights and unpleasant medical procedures.

The paramedics took her vital signs and had a brief, whispered conversation with Trace. One of the technicians approached the bed and with a reassuring murmur, inserted an IV needle into the tender flesh on the top of her hand. Acting quickly yet gently, the two men lifted her onto a gurney. Within minutes, Mary was staring up at the vaulted, gilded ceiling of the hotel lobby as they wheeled her through.

Catching the eye of the day manager, Mary watched him recover from his shock and grab a telephone. No doubt he was calling Jonathan who would be chagrined at his fiancée being a public spectacle in one of his hotels. Get over it, Jonathan, Mary thought, dropping a hand over her eyes to shield them from the bright sunlight as the paramedics pushed the gurney out through the glass double doors. She had more to worry about right now than Jonathan’s injured dignity.

Could it really be true that someone had tried to kill her? Now that her queasiness had finally subsided, the idea seemed impossible. Ludicrous. Yet deep in the darkest recesses of her heart, Mary knew her first reaction had been right.

It was too much of a coincidence that only moments after eating a few pieces of chocolate, her stomach had turned inside out. Mary had never had a nervous stomach and there was no reason to assume that this violent attack of nausea had been suddenly brought on by “nerves.”

Even Dr. Keller, the young resident in the emergency room, was openly skeptical. Nonetheless, he sighed deeply and ordered a full battery of tests.

Fortunately, Mary’s earlier bouts of vomiting saved her from the indignity of having her stomach pumped. Several more doctors came into the curtained cubicle and probed and poked every conceivable inch of her body. A lab technician entered with a metal basket filled with medieval instruments of torture, then departed after obtaining a healthy sampling of Mary’s blood.

Finally, the room was quiet and she was alone.

Mary fidgeted on the narrow examining table, wishing they’d given her a better-fitting gown or a sheet. Every tiny movement exposed some portion of her anatomy.

She looked around the sterile cubbyhole and felt unaccountably lonely. Suddenly, she realized that she’d lost track of Trace in the flurry of medical activity. He’d probably been banished to the waiting room. She was surprised how much she missed his warm comfort. His calm, reassuring voice.

Then, the curtain surrounding the bed moved and Trace was beside her, as if he’d felt her need. He reached down and took her hand.

“How’s it going, kiddo?”

Mary shrugged. “I’ve been better.” Now that her stomach was relatively calm, she didn’t feel sick. Or even frightened. She felt embarrassed. Foolish at having made such a fuss.

Lying here, under the bright glare of the emergency-room lights, her fears of poisoned candy seemed...melodramatic. Who could possibly want to harm her, anyway? No one.

Jonathan was right. In all probability, it was Mark Lester who had been following her around like a sulking teenager. And no doubt, it was Mark who’d slipped the note under her door. But try to kill her? No, she couldn’t believe that. Her imagination had simply got the best of her.

All she wanted now was to get into her clothes and slink out of the hospital with as little fanfare as possible. Clothes! With a groan, Mary remembered that she’d stripped down to her underwear after being taken ill. What was she going to wear home?

Again, as if in direct response to her thoughts, Trace dropped a brown paper bag on the foot of the narrow bed. “Just in case the doc decides not to keep you overnight, I brought you some stuff to wear home.”

Mary ignored his eerie mind-reading ability and rummaged gratefully through the bag. If Trace hadn’t kept his wits about him enough to gather her a pair of slacks and T-shirt, she’d be leaving the hospital in her bathrobe.

That provoked another disconcerting thought. What if the media got wind of her trip to the emergency room and plastered a photo of her on the cover of every supermarket tabloid? “REGENT’S FIANCéE CLAIMS SHE’S BEING STALKED BY CRAZED POISONER!”

Mary shuddered as she imagined Jonathan’s reaction to such sensational press. The best thing to do was get out of here before anyone discovered she’d been hospitalized.

Looking up at Trace, she couldn’t contain the surge of anxiety in her voice. Her words fell over one another in her haste to get them out. “Can we leave now? I—I didn’t mean to make such a fuss. I mean, I’m sure that I overreacted,” she rationalized, feeling a little guilty for her gluttony. Eating chocolate for breakfast would make anybody sick.

Trace shook his head. “I don’t know that you did overreact.”

A sudden chill crept through Mary’s body. What was he saying? What did he know that she didn’t? Whatever it was, Mary wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to hear it. In a self-protective gesture, she wrapped her arms around her chest. The crinkling of the paper gown was the only sound in the small cubicle.

Finally finding her voice, she asked, “Why do you say that?”

Still holding her hand, Trace ran the edge of his thumb over her trembling fingers. “I checked with the front desk before I came to the hospital. They don’t know who that candy was from. It suddenly ‘appeared’ on the counter early this morning. Mrs. Castnor saw the box sitting there when she stopped at the desk to see if you were in. She offered to bring it up. Since the clerk knew her, he didn’t think there could be any harm.”

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