Veil of Fear Page 5

  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.