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  “About?”

  “Our wedding.” He held up a hand, forestalling her quick response. “Before your feminist hackles are raised, let me rephrase that. I’ve changed my mind about something, come around to your way of thinking on one issue.”

  Mary twiddled with her engagement ring, still unaccountably nervous about what Jonathan was trying to impart. “What issue is that?”

  He laid his palm on the tabletop with a sharp slap. “I’ve decided you’re right—we don’t need a huge wedding with a thousand guests. A small intimate affair would be more in keeping with the mood of the nineties. No conspicuous consumption...getting back to the basics, that sort of thing.”

  “I see.” Relief flooded through her. She hadn’t been looking forward to the media circus that would have accompanied the extravaganza Jonathan had originally outlined.

  “You don’t sound too thrilled.”

  “No, truly. I’m very pleased.” She didn’t know what else to say. A week ago she would have been thrilled at his capitulation, now she found herself questioning his motives. Had he deferred to her wishes to please her or to please his future constituents?

  “In fact,” he continued, “there’s no sense in delaying our wedding for several months. If we’re going to have the small private ceremony that you wanted, we can move the date up accordingly.”

  “When...when were you thinking of?”

  Jonathan stared up at the mirrored ceiling in deliberation. “How about sometime in June?”

  “June! That doesn’t give us much time.” June was only two months away. Suddenly, Mary felt as if her air supply had been severed. Was this an attack of the infamous premarital jitters?

  “What’s happening in June?” Camille Castnor’s husky voice reverberated at Mary’s shoulder.

  She hadn’t seen Camille and Brad approaching but, for once, she was grateful for their appearance. “Brad! Camille! How nice to see you both,” she gushed a little too forcefully.

  Camille looked somewhat taken aback by Mary’s sudden burst of enthusiasm but Brad was his usual nonplussed self.

  He leaned down and bestowed a friendly kiss on Mary’s cheek before pulling out Camille’s chair. After shaking Jonathan’s hand, the corpulent senator demanded, “What’s this about June?”

  Jonathan covered Mary’s hand with his own. “We’ve decided to get married sometime in June. I’ll leave the actual date to my bride.”

  “But, Jonathan,” Camille protested, “surely you’re joking. Even Madame Guillarge would be hard-pressed to put on a wedding of any substance in such a short period of time.”

  He waved a hand in the air, dismissing any objections. “The wedding will be small and intimate—just as Mary wanted.”

  Further conversation was delayed by the arrival of the sommelier with the bottle of Romanee-Conti Montrachet that Jonathan had ordered. Despite her own personal opinion that all the hoopla in opening a bottle of wine was a bit overdone, Mary nevertheless watched in fascination as Jonathan and the steward went through the elaborate procedure of uncorking, sniffing and tasting that preceded the consumption of a bottle of expensive wine.

  After all four glasses had been filled, Jonathan called for a toast. “To a June wedding!”

  “Here, here!” the Castnors chimed in unison, Camille having apparently overcome her earlier reservations.

  In the jocularity of the moment, Mary hoped no one took notice of her own silence. Jonathan was right. She had wanted a small wedding. And she’d argued against a long, drawn-out engagement. But now, when actually faced with the prospect of setting a date, she found herself wanting to pull back. Everything was moving too fast. She was still too...too what? Too unsure of her feelings?

  She sipped her wine in an effort to dispel the disconcerting thought.

  “I have a wonderful idea,” Camille said suddenly. “Why don’t you have the ceremony at our place in Middleburg? An outdoor wedding, wouldn’t that be lovely? We could put up canopies and trellises with climbing roses and—”

  “Why, that’s an outstanding idea,” Jonathan cut in. “Don’t you think so, Mary? It would be played up in the media as a down-home, folksy kind of wedding. Just the sort of thing voters love.”

  Mary shot him an irritated glance. “I’m not planning my wedding around the media, Jonathan. That’s precisely why I wanted a smaller ceremony, in the first place—to avoid a media circus.”

  “Of course, of course.” He patted her hand in a soothing gesture. “But if you get the kind of wedding you’ve always wanted, and it still plays well in the press, what have we got to lose?”

  Plans for the upcoming nuptials continued while the waiter served their salads. Mary took little part in the discussion. Instead, she sat back, her annoyance growing with each passing moment as Camille and Jonathan plotted out the details.

  It was decided that Madame Guillarge would be retained first thing in the morning—Jonathan would delegate that task to Bob Newland. Madame Guillarge could work directly with Mary and Camille to arrange the catering and seating for the five hundred guests Jonathan considered a small gathering.

  The conspirators continued to map out every detail while the main course was served. Jonathan had called ahead and ordered Jean-Claude’s specialty, magret duck with dates and honey, for the foursome. To Mary, the normally excellent dish tasted like rubber.

  Worse, she wasn’t even sure why she was so upset. She knew absolutely nothing about planning a wedding. She should be glad of Camille’s help. And yet...and yet, Mary felt somehow removed from what should have been the most exciting event in her life.

  At first she tried to convince herself she was feeling a natural resentment toward Jonathan and Camille for taking over what should be her role, but in her heart, Mary knew it was a lie. What was bothering her was clear. A haunting mirage that had suddenly taken over her mind. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t dispel the disturbing and impossible image of herself dancing in the moonlight. Feeling the warm, thrilling embrace of strong hands on her bare arms. Basking beneath the caress of eyes that were steamy with desire.

  Eyes that didn’t belong to Jonathan.

  Eyes that were catlike and predatory. Trace Armstrong’s eyes.

  Mary sipped her wine, nibbled at her meal and pretended to pay attention to the conversation swirling around her. Normally, she found their discourse witty and urbane; tonight, the table talk seemed forced and superficial. Who had changed? she wondered. Jonathan and the Castnors? Or was it her own attitude that had somehow been transfigured?

  When Jonathan announced they would have to cut the evening short, Mary stifled a sigh of immense relief.

  “It’ll be quite a shock to the old system, getting up at 4:00 a.m.,” Jonathan said, pushing aside his half-empty wineglass.

  Mary mentally forced herself back into the conversation. “Why do you have to get up so early?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I’m flying to Nome in the morning.”

  “Nome? As in Alaska?” When he nodded, Mary continued, “No, you didn’t say a word. How long will you be gone?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “A week. Maybe ten days. You know we’re planning a resort out on the Alaskan tundra and we’ve run into a snag with the damned environmentalists. Looks like I’ll have to handle this one personally.”

  Camille leaned forward and patted Jonathan’s hand. “That doesn’t surprise me. Your business acumen is truly amazing.”

  So fervent was her declaration that Mary’s gaze was immediately drawn to the senator to see if he, too, had noticed. The dark, hovering glare that he shot back and forth between his wife and Jonathan was answer enough. Mary could see that Brad was well aware that his wife was still carrying some sort of torch for Jonathan Regent. She could also see that Brad Castnor didn’t like it one bit.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, Trace deliberately waited for a “decent” hour before he called Mary. Still, he could hear the foggy remnants of interrupted slumber in her voice as
she snarled into the receiver, “What?”

  “And top o’ the morning to you, too, Mary. Such a delight to hear your cheerful voice.”

  “Armstrong, don’t you ever sleep? The sun isn’t even up yet.”

  “Hey, it’s after six. Long past time you hauled your lazy, but lovely, rear out of the sack.”

  “Leave my rear end out of this. What do you want?”

  He leaned back in his empty bed and imagined Mary, fresh and cuddly from her night’s slumber. Probably wearing a satin gown, cool and soft to the touch. It would have a deep vee in the front, exposing just enough cleavage to tantalize. Her soft blond hair would be tumbling in careless abandon around her face. Yep, no doubt, Mary Wilder curled up in her bed was a winsome and alluring vision. And definitely off limits to the hired help.

  Bringing himself back to reality with a frustrated groan, Trace rubbed his knuckles across his stubbled chin to rid his mind of the taunting image. “I wanted to tell you I’d be late this morning.”

  “Good.”

  “Jeez, you’re a grouch. Don’t you even want to know why I’ll be late?”

  “No.” She yawned loudly. “Okay, why?”

  He hesitated, wondering just how much to tell her. A niggling suspicion had been growing in his mind for the past couple days, and he wanted to put it to rest—or prove its validity. “I thought I’d be waiting for Bob Newland when he gets to work this morning. I’ve got some questions for him.”

  Mary snorted. “Well, wish him a bad day for me.”

  “Hmm. That’s really an interesting hostility you two have for each other. Want to tell me what’s behind it?”

  “Why don’t you ask Bob, excuse me, Robert, Newland?” she snapped. “He’s been a real jerk since the day I met him.”

  “Okay, I will. I should be at your place by ten. Oh, and Mary?”

  “I know, I know, keep the door locked.”

  Trace replaced the receiver and allowed a grin to capture the lower half of his face. Sleepy, grumpy and incredibly intriguing, Mary Wilder grew more interesting by the minute.

  * * *

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, Trace was waiting in Newland’s anteroom when Jonathan’s assistant opened the door.

  “Armstrong! What brings you here so early in the morning? Nothing else has happened, has it?”

  Trace tossed aside the newspaper he’d been skimming and uncrossed his long legs. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  Newland’s eyebrows rose. “Is that supposed to be some kind of a joke?”

  Trace unfurled himself from the leather and chrome chair and stood looking down at the smaller man. “I never joke about attempts on a woman’s life, Newland. Never.”

  “Has something else happened?” Newland asked again. “Come inside.” He fumbled with the lock on his private office door. “Let’s talk about this.”

  Following the assistant into his cubbyhole of an office, Trace remained standing, maintaining a subtle advantage. As if sensing his ploy, Newland, too, stayed standing and paced behind his neatly organized desk. Rubbing his hands together in an apparent attempt to calm his nerves, he finally asked, “So what’s happened?”

  Trace rested a hip on the edge of Newland’s desk. “Nothing. At least, nothing I haven’t already reported. But what about you, Bobby? Aren’t there some things you kind of forgot to mention?”

  Wincing at Trace’s choice of nicknames, Newland wiped a sudden sheen of perspiration from his forehead. The confident man of Trace’s previous visit was gone. “I...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do, Bobby.”

  “Don’t call me that! My name’s Robert. Please, grant me that courtesy.”

  Leaning over the desk, Trace braced himself on one elbow. “All right...Robert. Suppose we start by talking about Mark Lester.”

  Newland shrugged. “What about him? I told you from the beginning, the man’s low class. I’m sure he’s behind all of Ms. Wilder’s problems.”

  “Maybe. But one thing’s certain. Mark Lester didn’t give himself that shiner he’s sporting.”

  “Shiner?”

  “You know, mouse, black eye. Mr. Lester claims he was roughed up. And he thinks you might have hired his assailants.”

  “Th-that’s preposterous!”

  “Is it?” Trace eased off the edge of the desk and walked around the corner until he stood toe-to-toe with Robert Newland. “I don’t think it’s so preposterous. I think it makes perfect sense. You sent a couple of roughnecks over to give Mark Lester a warning, didn’t you?”

  “I did not!”

  “My only question is, were you acting for Jonathan Regent or were those thugs protecting your interests?”

  Taking two halting steps away from Trace, the harried assistant continued to wring his hands. As if realizing a lie was futile, he apparently decided on bravado. “All right, so what if I did hire those men? Mr. Regent only had his fiancée’s welfare in mind. He knew Lester had to be behind all of Mary’s problems, so I—we—thought the easiest solution would be to scare him off.”

  He frowned, and added, “Clearly, it didn’t work.”

  Trace shook his head in disgust. Regent might be a world-class businessman, but he was nothing more than a punk in an Armani suit. At any rate, at least one mystery was solved.

  Heading for the door, Trace waited until he was in the doorway before he slammed Newland with his second shot. “Oh, by the way, what have you got against Mary Wilder?”

  “Why...why, nothing, of course! She’s engaged to my employer.”

  “Is that why you told me she was a brass-plated gold digger?”

  Fresh droplets of shiny perspiration appeared on Newland’s face. Obviously, they were treading on very dangerous territory. “I’m afraid you might have misunderstood what I said—”

  “Oh, no,” Trace cut in. “I recall your exact words. Would you like me to repeat them for Mr. Regent?”

  “Please! It...it’s not like you’re thinking.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what it’s like, then?”

  “I don’t have anything against Ms. Wilder. Not really. It’s just that...well, Mr. Regent has such great political aspirations and...surely even you can see that she’s completely unsuitable for him.”

  “Mmm,” Trace muttered noncommittally. The truth was, that on this single point, he did agree with Newland. The luscious Mary Wilder deserved a better man than Regent. His hand still on the doorknob, Trace assumed a pleasant, conversational tone of voice. “So, just because you decided she was ‘unsuitable’ marriage material for your boss, you set about to break up the relationship?”

  “No! I mean, I didn’t actually try to break it up. I just thought if Ms. Wilder was exposed to the kind of attitude and...opinion that was sure to follow her marriage, that she might be dissuaded.”

  “But what does it matter to you? I mean, Regent’s political aspirations are his affair. What harm or gain can come to you if he marries Ms. Wilder?”

  For the first time since their interview began, Robert Newland straightened his shoulders. Smoothing his rumpled hair, he said stiffly, “My entire career is attached to Mr. Regent’s. If he fails, so do I. But if he realizes his political potential...well, he’ll need a chief of staff in the White House.”

  Trace whistled. Talk about a man who planned ahead. Jonathan Regent hadn’t yet officially tossed his hat in any political ring, but his assistant was already picking out his office in the White House. Robert Newland was a pitiful creature, surely. But despite his better judgment, Trace was almost convinced the man was telling the truth.

  * * *

  AS CAMILLE had forecast, Madame Guillarge was at first adamant that no wedding with any degree of gentility could possibly be pulled together in such a short time.

  But when Mary handed her the sizable retainer check from Jonathan, Madame Guillarge’s interest heightened immediately.

  She folded the check in half and stuffed it down her neckline, into the r
ecesses of her formidable bosom. “C’est difficult,” she cooed, “but not impossible, mon petite. Not impossible.”

  At noon, when Madame Guillarge suggested they send out for room service to save time, Trace threw aside the newspaper he’d been reading and rose from the easy chair in the corner, an annoyed expression on his face. “How much longer do you think this will last—this picking posies, and whatever?”

  Madame Guillarge waved a ring-bedecked hand. “Oh, hours, I am afraid. Zees planning of zee wedding is very complicated, no?”

  “Hmmph. Very tiring, I’m sure,” he said grimly.

  Needing a moment’s respite from Madame Guillarge’s robust personality, Mary went into the bedroom to use the telephone. While she was ordering salads from the hotel restaurant, Trace tapped on the doorframe and poked his head into the room. Pointing to his chest and shaking his head, he signaled that he didn’t want lunch. Ignoring Mary’s curious gaze, he left the room and returned a moment later, his worn leather jacket slung over his shoulder.

  She hung up the telephone and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Going out for lunch?”

  “Since you’re going to be tied up here all afternoon, I thought I’d head back over to the Crystal City Mall to see if that candy-store clerk is working today. I’ll grab a burger or something at the mall.”

  Mary frowned. “Do you really expect a salesclerk in a busy mall to remember who bought a box of candy two or three days ago?”

  He patted his jacket pocket. “Bob Newland gave me some photos this morning. Maybe seeing a picture will jog her memory.”

  “Photos of who?”

  “Mark Lester, the Castnors, a couple of Jonathan’s more vocal opponents. Just about anybody I could think of who knows you or maybe has a grudge against your fiancé.”

  Mary wrapped her arms around herself, as if claimed by a sudden chill. “I still keep hoping the culprit is a stranger. Someone we don’t know.”

  Trace cocked his head. “I’m not sure that I wouldn’t rather be dealing with someone we know, rather than an unknown stalker.” He’d no sooner said the words than he wanted to bite his own tongue. For the past few hours, she’d been happily planning her wedding, and now he’d gone and put that shadow of fear back onto her face. What was the matter with him?