Veil of Fear Page 6

  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.”

  Mary eased up on her elbows. Pulling her hand from Trace’s grasp, she tucked the paper gown firmly beneath her. “Well, that lets Camille off the hook. I mean, she could hardly have stopped in the ladies’ room and steamed open the package, poked something into the chocolates and rewrapped the cellophane before bringing the box to me. Not that I suspected her in the first place.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. But I’d still like to talk to her.”

  The green curtain draped around the bed fluttered and Dr. Keller stepped inside, carrying a clipboard of lab results.

  “You certainly look better,” he said, glancing at her before turning his focus to the clipboard.

  Mary and Trace watched in rapt attention as he flipped from one form to the next. When he let the last sheet of paper drop back into place, the doctor crossed his arms and frowned at Mary. “This is the damnedest attempt at poisoning I’ve ever seen.”

  Mary sat up. “So it was all my imagination, right?”

  “No-o-o. I wouldn’t say that exactly.”

  “What exactly would you say?” Trace cut in. “Has she been poisoned or not?”

  As if noticing him for the first time, Dr. Keller arched an eyebrow and asked pointedly, “Are you a family member, sir?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I suggest you keep quiet and allow me to speak with my patient. Otherwise, I’ll have to ask you to wait outside.”

  Trace felt his back stiffen at the doctor’s patronizing tone. Obviously, Dr. Keller knew who Mary was—or rather, to whom she was engaged. He probably thought Trace was her chauffeur. Quelling the urge to shove the doctor’s condescending tone down his ivy-league throat, Trace said quietly, “I’ve been hired by Mr. Regent as a security consultant for his fiancée.”

  “Oh. Her bodyguard. I see.” He made bodyguard sound like the social equivalent of a ragpicker. Turning his back on Trace, totally dismissing his presence, the doctor said to Mary, “All right, then. The lab report shows that several of the chocolates had been tampered with. Someone, Ms. Wilder, has an ugly sense of humor.”

  Forgetting the short paper gown she wore, Mary slid her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Lifting her chin so that she was at eye level with the doctor, she asked, “What do you mean? That this was some kind of joke?”

  Dr. Keller nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of a very crude practical joke. Those chocolates were laced with ipecac syrup.”

  Mary frowned. “What’s that?”

  “It’s an emetic,” Dr. Keller said.

  Seeing Mary’s bewilderment, Trace explained, “It makes you throw up. People with small children keep it on hand in case the kid eats something toxic. Is that correct, Doctor?”

  “Simply put, but accurate. Your poisoner didn’t want to kill you, Ms. Wilder. Someone was playing games with you.”

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, Trace opened the door of Mary’s apartment and followed her inside. She was exhausted and imagined that she looked worse than she felt. Not that she really cared at this moment. She wanted nothing more than to drop onto her bed and—

  “Why don’t you go in and lie down?”

  Mary blinked. That was three times in as many hours that Trace Armstrong appeared to have the uncanny ability to read her mind. It was disconcerting to have a man know what you were feeling even before you did. It made her nervous, very nervous. Jonathan never invaded her m
ind like this.

  When she realized that Trace was still waiting for a response, she shook her head. “I really should eat something. All I’ve had today was a handful of chocolates. And those didn’t sit well.”

  Trace laughed. “No, I guess they didn’t.”

  Mary glanced at the credenza in the corner of the foyer where the telephone answering machine rested. To her surprise, there was no flashing red light announcing a message. She thought Jonathan would at least have called to check on her condition by now. Unless, of course, she’d been mistaken and the desk clerk hadn’t been phoning Jonathan. Maybe her fiancé didn’t even know that she’d been taken to the hospital.

  “Did you happen to think to call Jonathan’s office?” she asked Trace. Mary didn’t want to think about the ugly little part of her brain that said she should have thought of phoning her future husband.

  Trace frowned. “To tell the truth, I didn’t even think of it. Do you want me to phone his office?”

  Mary debated whether she should call Jonathan now or just wait and tell him the whole story tonight. Tonight! The embassy party. She’d forgotten all about that highbrow affair. But there was no way she was going to attend. She was still feeling too weak to stand on her feet all evening and listen to lobbyists argue about their special interests. Jonathan would be annoyed, but for once, Mary wasn’t going to cave in to his wishes. It would take a crisis of catastrophic proportions to make her budge from her room tonight.

  “No,” she said at last. “He’ll be over later. I’ll tell him then.”

  When she looked up and saw Trace’s dark eyebrows dipped in a scowl, she hastened to explain. “There’s no point worrying him needlessly. What more could he do? He’s already hired a bodyguard for me.”

  “Yeah. Some bodyguard. If those chocolates had contained arsenic instead of ipecac, you’d be laid out on a marble slab in the morgue right now.”

  Mary cringed at the graphic and chilling description. “It wasn’t your fault, Trace. Even if you’d have been here, you wouldn’t have thought twice about my eating chocolates that were delivered by the wife of a U.S. senator. You’d probably have eaten a few, yourself.”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t change anything. My job is to keep you safe, and in less than twenty-four hours, I’ve already allowed someone to get close enough to possibly harm you. Believe me, I won’t be that careless again.”

  Mary wanted to argue, to convince Trace that it wasn’t due to any lack of dedication on his part that the doctored chocolates had gotten into her possession. Her stalker, whoever he was, was very cunning. Mary had the horrible feeling that if her stalker wanted to harm her badly enough, no force on earth could keep her safe.

  Knowing that it was useless to pursue the issue, she rubbed her weary eyes. “I’m going to fix a sandwich. Then I’m going to take that nap you prescribed. The tranquilizer the nurse gave me just before we left the hospital is starting to kick in.”

  Trace intercepted her on the way to the kitchen. “Good, you need the rest. I’ll fix you something to eat. Why don’t you go on and lie down?”

  Suddenly, being pampered sounded like a very good idea. She was so emotionally and physically drained that she doubted she’d have the strength even to slice a tomato. “I’d love a sandwich, Trace. Thanks.” With a wave of her hand, she started down the hall.

  When Trace carried a cloth-covered tray into her room fifteen minutes later, Mary was sprawled on top of the bed, sound asleep. Still dressed in the slacks and T-shirt she’d worn home from the hospital, she looked like an innocent waif lying there with her fist curled under her cheek.

  He hated to wake her, but she should get something in her stomach. She was too thin already. Trace laid the tray on the bedside table and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. In a minute. He’d let her sleep just a little longer.

  As he sat watching her slumber, Trace found himself mesmerized by the sweetness of her expression. She was such a genuine person, with a fresh, old-fashioned sweetness of spirit. Yet it was that very unworldliness that made her so vulnerable.

  Without thinking, he reached over and stroked her cheek with the edge of his finger. Her skin was soft. Kissably soft, just as he’d known it would be.

  Mary stirred in her sleep and curled toward him, trapping his hand between her cheek and the pillow. “Mmm,” she murmured, as a lazy smile curved her lips.

  Trying not to awaken her, Trace started easing his hand from beneath her face.

  Mary moaned softly and tossed her head in a nestling motion against his palm. A tiny responsive thrill shivered in the pit of his stomach. She moaned in her sleep again, like a woman delighting to her lover’s touch.

  That innocently enticing moan was almost Trace’s undoing. The small spark in his stomach ignited like a wildfire, sending a trail of white-hot flame through his loins.

  Taken aback by the strength of his response, Trace knew he had to get out of there. Away from Mary. At least until he could regain his equilibrium.

  Pressing his hand against her shoulder, he tried to raise her slightly so he could free his hand. Without warning and still sound asleep, Mary lifted an arm and hooked it around his neck, pulling him to her. Her soft, enticing lips were so close he could feel the soft puff of her breath. Too close. Way too close. Before he could extricate himself, Trace heard the bedroom door open.

  Swiveling his head free of Mary’s grasp, Trace swung around to face the tall, well-dressed man who stood in the doorway.

  “Just what the hell is going on here?” the stranger boomed.

  Hastily jumping to his feet, Trace ran his sweaty palms against the sides of his jeans.

  Taking two steps toward the shadowy figure silhouetted in the doorway, Trace thrust out his right hand. “Jonathan Regent, I presume?”

  Chapter Five

  Trace kept his voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb Mary. “I’m Trace Armstrong, Mr. Regent. The bodyguard you hired?”

  The air was palpable with tension as the man continued to ignore Trace’s outstretched hand. The only sound in the bedroom was the soft rustle of sheets as Mary stirred in her sleep.

  A fractional easing of Jonathan’s tensed shoulders was his only reaction. He glared at Trace, his eyes glittering with fury even in the dim lighting. With a quick glance at the still-slumbering woman, Jonathan muttered between gritted teeth, “Bodyguard, huh? I believe we may need to redefine your duties, Mr. Armstrong. May I see you in the living room?”

  Without awaiting a response, he turned on his heel and stalked down the hallway.

  Trace strolled out of the bedroom and found Jonathan waiting in the living room. The man had opened the small bar that was set into the ebony-wood entertainment center and was pouring a dark amber liquid from a decanter into a faceted tumbler. He watched Jonathan toss down a deep swallow, then roll the glass in his palms while he assessed Trace.

  “All right, Armstrong,” Jonathan said after taking a second long draft. “Explain to me why you were kissing my fiancée.”

  Knowing Regent had every reason to be outraged, Trace decided to disregard the man’s rudeness. If Trace had walked in and found some stranger perched on his fiancée’s bed, all but nuzzling her neck, hell, he’d be ticked off, too.

  Fighting the surge of guilt that was chewing at his gut, Trace combed back his thick, black hair with his fingertips and chose his words carefully. “I’m afraid you’ve misread the entire situation, Mr. Regent. I wasn’t kissing Ms. Wilder.” But I might have been in another second if you hadn’t walked in.

  Jonathan slammed the tumbler on the chrome and glass coffee table. Amber liquid sloshed over the edge of the glass, and the air was instantly redolent of expensive cognac. “I’ve got eyes, man!” he shouted. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “No.” Trace shook his head emphatically. “Not at all. And I can see where you might have gotten the mistaken impression that I was...kissing Ms. Wilder.”

  “Then just what in hell were you
doing?”

  How could he explain something to Jonathan Regent that he didn’t understand, himself? Trace had never been the kind of man who got involved with married, or even engaged, women. Some kind of macho honor, maybe. But his growing attraction to Mary Wilder drained his nobler instincts. If Regent fired him, Trace knew he’d probably never see Mary again. That possibility left him feeling shaken and somehow forlorn. Knowing that he was guilty as charged, Trace nevertheless tried to smooth over the situation. “She was asleep. I didn’t want to wake her, but I wanted to make sure she was breathing evenly.” That was lame, but the best he could come up with on short notice.

  “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

  Suddenly, the guilt Trace had been feeling shifted and metamorphosed into irritation. If the man had punched him in the jaw, he’d have taken it. But Regent seemed determined to talk him to death. Worse, Jonathan hadn’t even asked about Mary. After taking a slow ten-count, Trace tucked his fingertips into his back pockets and stared with deliberate challenge into Regent’s startled gaze. “Quite frankly, I don’t give a damn what you believe. Sir. But if I were you, I think I might be a little more concerned about my fiancée’s health than my injured ego.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Armstrong? What’s wrong with Mary’s health?”

  “You mean you don’t know? Bob Newland was supposed to give you a message.” In spite of Mary’s decision not to call Jonathan herself, Trace had felt it necessary to report the incident.

  With a toss of his silver-flecked head, Jonathan snarled, “Well, as it happens, I haven’t talked with Newland since lunch. I’ve been unavailable. Suppose you tell me what’s going on, Armstrong.”

  Amazed that Bob Newland hadn’t tracked down his boss, Trace launched into a detailed explanation of the tainted candy. When he finished, he was startled to see the tortured expression on the older man’s face.