Veil of Fear Read online

  Trace read the words a second time, then a third. Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Mary’s and saw the color fade from her face. The poor kid was devastated. Who wouldn’t be? Out of the corner of his eye, Trace watched as Mary valiantly fought to stem the flow of tears, but a telltale sheen of silver brightened her eyes.

  “Wh-who?” she asked. “Who could hate me so much?”

  A red tide of anger started low in Trace’s gut and rose higher and higher until he thought he would drown in rage. He was going to find this sicko if it was the last thing he ever did. Rising from the floor, he eased next to her on the sofa and gathered her into his arms.

  Most women would have fallen apart under such severe provocation, but Mary Wilder had a core of forged steel, Trace discovered anew. After a single teardrop slipped down her cheek, she pulled away from him and knuckled off the drop of moisture. “I think the man I’ve been seeing was hired by someone else. I don’t think he’s the real stalker—the person who wants to harm me.”

  Trace gave her an appraising look. “Why do you say that?”

  Mary tossed her head, dislodging a strand of glimmering golden hair. She pushed the hair from her cheek with careless ease. “I don’t know exactly. Except, doesn’t it make sense that the culprit is someone I know? I mean, why would someone I don’t even know want to...to kill me?”

  The idea of anyone wanting to harm Mary was inconceivable to Trace. In the past few days, he’d grown to see her not as the greedy, ambitious gold digger that Bob Newland had described, but as a gentle, affectionate and courageous woman. A woman he was growing to care for, maybe too much.

  Trace had to keep reminding himself that Mary was already committed, engaged to another man. It was only their constant proximity that was making him feel protective and tender. Not to mention that the long hours he’d been keeping since he’d taken this assignment were fogging his thinking. He’d never been involved with a client before and he wouldn’t let sweet Mary be the first.

  Moving a safe distance away from her, Trace swiped the fatigue from his face. “Let’s go over this again. Other than Mark Lester, you can’t think of anyone else who might be carrying a grudge?”

  Mary hesitated. “Only one name comes to mind. But he wouldn’t...no, no. There’s no one.”

  “Only who?”

  “It’s silly. A name popped into my head, that’s all. Someone I don’t think likes me very much, but he wouldn’t have any reason to hate me.”

  “Who?” Trace insisted, a hint of exasperation sneaking into his voice. If she kept absolving every possible suspect, they’d never find the person behind these threatening notes.

  Mary paused again and nibbled her upper lip. “Well, like I said, I don’t have any reason to suspect him, but Jonathan’s assistant doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

  Newland’s actions that morning hadn’t absolved the man in Trace’s eyes. But until there was proof of the assistant’s involvement with the stalker, Trace would keep his continued suspicions to himself.

  “You mentioned the possibility of the man you saw being a hired messenger,” Trace said noncommittally. “If Bob Newland is behind all of this, he would have to hire someone to do his dirty work.”

  “Robert Newland is a pompous stuffed shirt, but he’s not a stupid man,” Mary admitted, “why would he have pushed Jonathan to hire you if he’s the one masterminding this?”

  “Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  “So we’re right back where we started,” Mary said. “Square one. Not a single viable suspect.”

  “Well, maybe one,” Trace hedged.

  “Who? Did you find something out at the candy shop?”

  Trace’s forehead furrowed in a thoughtful frown. Raking his fingertips through his dark hair, he said hesitantly, “The clerk did recognize one person.”

  Mary’s heart thumped in dreadful anticipation. “Who?”

  “Camille Castnor.”

  The name hung on the air between them for a long moment. Finally, Mary asked, “What did the clerk remember about her?”

  Trace shrugged. “Only that she’d been in the store earlier this week and bought a box of chocolates. She couldn’t remember what kind or what size box. She wasn’t even certain which day, but she sure remembered that fur coat.”

  “Oh, the clerk must have been mistaken. Plenty of women wear fancy furs around here. Didn’t the store have records?”

  “She paid cash.”

  Mary rubbed her fingertips across her suddenly throbbing forehead. Camille? But...why? No, it had to be a simple coincidence. “Just because Camille bought a box of candy doesn’t mean she’s the culprit.”

  “That’s right. But, quite frankly, it seems a little peculiar to me that she’d never mention the purchase to you. Especially since she was the one who delivered the tainted chocolates to you in the first place.”

  The telephone rang, interrupting their disturbing conversation. Mary reached for the receiver, and a flush stole up her cheeks when she recognized the caller. “Jonathan, I’ve been waiting for your call.”

  Trace rose and crossed to the patio door, allowing a discreet distance so Mary could talk with her fiancé with some degree of privacy. With his fingertip, Trace pushed aside the vertical blinds and stared, unseeing, down onto the bustling street below.

  That blush of excitement on her face had been a dead giveaway. His fanciful daydreams had been just that—fantasies. Why had he imagined for a single moment that Mary would consider tossing over her rich boyfriend for a bodyguard? At least, Trace thought with a hint of rueful satisfaction, he hadn’t made a complete jackass of himself by exposing his snowballing feelings to her. No doubt she’d have gotten a good chuckle out of the idea.

  “Trace?” Mary’s voice called out behind him.

  He dropped the blinds back into place and turned around, forcing a nonchalant tone into his voice. “Yeah?”

  She raised the telephone toward him. “Jonathan wants to talk with you.”

  A feeling of dread settled in the pit of Trace’s stomach as he crossed the room and took the receiver from her. “Armstrong here.”

  Trace listened with an expanding sense of foreboding as Jonathan Regent told him of the business trip that was going to keep him out of D.C. for the next couple of weeks. “I’m very concerned about Mary’s well-being, Armstrong.”

  “So am I.”

  “This fiend is getting too close.”

  “I agree,” Trace said. “I’d like you to authorize me to put some more operatives on this case. I think Mary should have round-the-clock protection.”

  “Hmm. More operatives? No, no, I don’t think so.”

  “But, Mr. Regent, I’m only with Mary eight or ten hours a day. She’s still unprotected better than half of the time.”

  “That’s a good point, but the way I see it, the more people involved, the more chance of something going wrong. No, the only person I want on this case is you, Armstrong.”

  “But—”

  “It’s not a matter of money. Charge whatever you think is fair. But until this business trip is over, I don’t want you to leave Mary’s side. I want you to move into the spare room and stay with her. Right away.”

  Move in here? Live with Mary? Didn’t Regent see what he was doing, throwing them together like this? It was too dangerous. “Mr. Regent, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Why?” Jonathan asked sharply. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Plenty. But nothing Regent would want to hear. “No, nothing like that. It’s just that...I think there’s safety in numbers.” For himself as well as Mary.

  Jonathan didn’t answer right away, but when he did, there was a razor-sharp edge in his tone. “I don’t agree. Too many people involved and someone gets sloppy. Just you, Armstrong. That’s my final decision.”

  Trace took a deep breath and considered his options. He could resign. The financial well-being of his company wasn’t dependent on the
Regent account. But if he quit, who would protect Mary from the stalker?

  And if he moved into her apartment, who was going to protect her from her bodyguard?

  Chapter Nine

  That night, Mary lay awake well into the small, dark hours after midnight. At first she’d resisted the idea of Trace moving in. Granted, she felt physically secure when he was with her, but emotionally...well, emotionally, Mary knew she was treading in very dangerous territory.

  Lately, Trace Armstrong occupied almost as much of her thoughts as the stalker.

  She punched the pillow and rolled onto her side but sleep still eluded her. Lying in the darkness, curiously disturbed by Trace’s presence in the next room, Mary stared at the dancing shadows on the wall and thought about the strange twists her life had taken.

  Just a few short months ago, she’d left her parents’ home in northern Michigan and moved to Washington. Armed with an almost useless degree in cultural anthropology, her aim had been to acquire a position at the Smithsonian Institution. Unfortunately, the single opening had been filled before her arrival, forcing Mary to take the low-paying clerical job at the bookstore.

  Undaunted, she’d kept a close watch on the job openings at the Smithsonian, moved into the studio apartment across the hall from Mark Lester and took those first baby steps into the life-style she’d always yearned for. At the bookstore, she’d been privy to thought-provoking lectures by visiting authors, and she and Mark had spent many evenings sharing pizza and arguing opposing sides of a legion of issues.

  Mary was caught in the memory of Jonathan Regent walking into the bookstore one morning last fall. Her life had been a breathtaking roller-coaster ride ever since.

  First had come the multitudinous baskets of flowers, delivered by a uniformed chauffeur. Catered picnics beside the reflecting pool near the Lincoln Memorial. Then, that first huge box of Splendora Chocolates. But when he invited her to a private gala at the Smithsonian and she had been immersed in conversation with a host of Jonathan’s entertaining and cosmopolitan associates, Mary knew she was hooked. Jonathan was simply the most generous and sophisticated man she’d ever known.

  Even when, like Pygmalion, he’d set about “refining” her image, she knew he had only her best interests at heart. True, sometimes his insistence on always being socially correct annoyed her, but Mary had to admit Jonathan’s world was of her own choosing, and, for the most part, she’d been content.

  At least, she’d been content before the stalker had crept into her life, tainting her world with his vicious presence. Closing her eyes and grasping the extra pillow to her chest, Mary again questioned the identity of this unseen person who’d rather see her dead than married to Jonathan.

  Trace felt Camille Castnor was responsible. Jealous, perhaps, that Mary had succeeding in “luring” Jonathan to the altar, where she, herself, had failed. Could Camille’s cool exterior be hiding an inner rage? Mary wondered.

  Or was Bob Newland the guilty party?

  From the first day, Jonathan’s assistant seemed to find Mary an odious presence, well beneath Jonathan’s exalted station. But was that motive enough to threaten murder?

  And, of course, there was still Mark Lester. Despite his denials, Mary felt her old friend was hiding something from her. Because of her relationship with Jonathan, Mark’s pain was an open, festering sore in his soul. Had Mark decided to ease his own anguish by causing Mary to suffer as he had?

  As sleep finally captured her, Mary’s last thought was of the man she’d found apparently trying to break into her apartment. Although his face had been somewhat hidden by the brim of his cap, she’d seen enough to know one thing: the would-be intruder wasn’t Bob or Mark or Camille.

  He was a stranger.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, following a leisurely, but somehow tense, breakfast of granola-topped yogurt and fresh fruit, Trace poured the remaining dregs of coffee into his cup and sat back in his chair. “So what’s on the agenda today?”

  Mary glanced at the kitchen clock. “I have a fitting on my wedding gown this morning. After that, I don’t have any specific plans.”

  Trace grimaced. “Wedding gown, huh? Sounds like fun.”

  From the tone of his voice, Trace obviously thought shopping for a wedding dress would be about as much fun as shoving bamboo shoots under his fingernails. His crabby manner was really starting to annoy her. “I am in the final stages of planning my wedding, you know.”

  “How could I forget?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mary’s brown eyes flashed dangerously.

  “Nothing. Peace.” He smiled. “Anyway, after the fitting, I think we ought to pay your friend Camille a visit. If you ask me, I think the senator’s wife is one guilty lady.”

  “Well, I think you’re wrong.”

  “Why?”

  Mary shrugged and poked a section of cantaloupe with her fork. “You just are.”

  “Now that’s logic you can’t argue with!” Trace threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture.

  “Look, I’ll grant you that Camille still has an emotional attachment to Jonathan—they’re old friends,” Mary said. “But she’s a happily married woman. Why would she want to stop his marriage?”

  Trace shrugged. “Camille might not want him, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want someone else to have him, either.”

  He looked up suddenly and caught Mary’s gaze. For a long moment, they held the look, both of them taunted by the irony in the situation. Jonathan Regent, it appeared, was the key that could open—or bolt—the bonds that held all of them prisoners.

  Camille Castnor might very well be in love with Jonathan, but she was bound by her ties to her husband. Just as Trace and Mary were constrained by her engagement to Jonathan.

  Funny, Mary mused. Those very ties to Jonathan she’d once wanted so badly, were now confining her. And her guilt was suffocating her.

  As if reading the torment in her soul, Trace dropped his gaze abruptly. Pushing his empty mug aside, he picked up a plump strawberry and made a production of hulling the berry and popping it into his mouth. After licking a drop of juice from his lower lip, he leaned forward, cupping his chin in his hands. Eyes focused on the tabletop, he asked, “What makes you think Camille Castnor’s happily married?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” Mary stood and pushed her chair in. She’d been having the same, ugly thought and was embarrassed that Trace had seemed to pick up on it. “Now you’re a psychoanalyst. Camille and Brad are as happy as most couples.” She raised a hand to forestall a protest from Trace. “I’ve spent a lot of time with them—you haven’t. Even if they were on the verge of divorce, Camille would still have no reason to harm me. She and Jonathan called it quits long before I came into the picture.”

  “Maybe. But Regent didn’t have another serious relationship between Camille and you, did he? Deep inside, Camille might have believed she still had a chance. Until you came along. You know what they say—’Hell hath no fury,’ et cetera.”

  Mary rammed her fists onto her hips. “My God, Armstrong, I seriously underestimated your truly amazing skills. Bodyguard, psychiatrist and now, expert on the female psyche. I am truly blessed by your presence!”

  Trace’s head popped up at the intensity of her pique. “I’ve heard of waking up on the wrong side of the bed, but you must have slept on a bed of nails last night. What’s eating you this morning, Princess Mary?”

  She opened her mouth to offer a stinging retort but the words hung in her throat. Trace was right; she was edgy to the point of bitchiness. What was bothering her? It wasn’t just the stalker, something else was treading on her nerves.

  The truth poured over her like a tidal wave. Trace’s nearness was making her jittery.

  She’d barely closed her eyes last night. She’d kept imagining him in the next room, with only a plasterboard wall separating them. When the night had been very still, Mary thought she detected the steady drone of his breathing. Occasional
ly, he’d shifted in the bed, and her fertile imagination had conjured up a disturbing picture of him curled in slumber, with only a thin sheet covering his unclothed body. An involuntary shiver raced down her back as the mental image came into focus.

  “Mary?” Trace’s fingertip brushed the top of her hand. His touch smoldered against her skin, and singed her frenetic nerve endings.

  Mary flinched but didn’t respond. Nor could she ignore the heavy shaft of guilt piercing her heart. She was engaged to another man. What kind of woman could be weeks away from marrying one man and having carnal thoughts about another?

  Trace walked around the table and stepped close to her, invading the sanctuary of her personal territory. “Are you still here? You look like you’ve drifted off to la-la land.”

  Inching away from him, Mary blurted out the first thing that crossed her mind. “You want to know why I’m grumpy? Because you’re smothering me! When I wake up in the morning, you’re at my door. And, now, you don’t even go away at night. I don’t want you for a roommate. I need my life back!”

  His easy grin faded and his jaw clenched. His tawny eyes narrowed like those of a stalking cougar. In a steely voice, heavy with sarcasm, he said, “Gee, Mary, I didn’t mean to invade your space. I was only trying to save your spoiled, ungrateful little rear end.”

  Realizing his bitter tone was a cover-up for his wounded feelings, Mary pushed away the guilt that was gnawing at her like a hungry rat. She reached out a tentative hand and placed it on his arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. Of course I’m grateful for all you’ve done. It’s just that...my whole life feels upside down and I’m just not handling it well.”

  Trace breathed deeply as he studied her face. “There are no guarantees, Mary. No matter how carefully we plan things, no matter how secure our nests are, sometimes people intrude and...screw up our orderly little lives.”

  She gulped and dropped her gaze. Trace couldn’t know how true his words were. His coming into her life had shaken her existence, but not in the way he meant. He thought he’d interfered in the order, the routine of her life. Far, far worse, his presence had caused her to question the direction of her future.