by Judi Lind
“Why?” Regent asked rhetorically. “Why would anyone want to hurt my sweet Mary? She’s so...pure...so angelic.”
Trace wasn’t sure he agreed with the angelic part. He’d seen that lush streak of sensuality that bubbled just beneath her demure surface. He didn’t think this was the optimum time to discuss Mary’s latent sexuality with her incensed future husband.
In fact, Jonathan had taken to pacing, his spit-polished black Vitadelli loafers almost disappearing in the plush ivory carpet. Jonathan paused and shook a finger at Trace. “This is monstrous! I won’t have my fiancée stalked and annoyed like...like one of those pitiful women on television talk shows.”
For the first time, Trace wondered if Regent’s over-the-top agitation was fear for Mary’s safety or fear of public scandal. Cursing himself for being so cynical, and not wanting to examine his own motivation too closely, Trace hastened to reassure the distraught man. “Try not to worry too much, Mr. Regent. Nine times out of ten, these kinds of things turn out to be the actions of a spurned lover.”
“Mary doesn’t have lovers!” Jonathan snapped. “I told you, she’s pure. Innocent. She merely went out with this Mark Lester character a few times. Nothing more.”
Suddenly, Trace recalled Bob Newland’s description of Mary as a “brass-plated gold digger.” How could one woman present three different faces—three different images—to as many different men? Newland had all but called her a deceptive tramp; Regent apparently thought she was only a step away from sainthood, while he found her...intriguing, even seductive. But which one was the real Mary Wilder?
Looking up, he saw Regent staring at him with an expectant expression on his face. It was clear he was waiting for Trace to apologize for besmirching Mary’s pristine name. “No disrespect intended, Mr. Regent,” he murmured in a mollifying tone.
“None taken.” Jonathan nodded sharply. “Now. Last week I had Newland send Lester a warning, but apparently the man has decided not to heed my advice. I want you to find hard evidence that Lester has been harassing my fiancée. Once I know for certain that he’s behind all of this trouble, I swear I’ll use every ounce of influence I have to see that he’s locked up and the key tossed into the Potomac!”
* * *
MARY SURPRISED TRACE by being out of bed and dressed when he arrived at her apartment the next morning. Apparently fully recovered from the ipecac mishap, she was bright and cheery. And looking entirely too beautiful standing in the rays of the morning sun as it filtered through the open patio door.
She was wearing a silky outfit that was the color of winter wheat. Almost the identical shade as those paler streaks in her blond hair. When she walked away from him to pick up her coffee cup from the dining room table, her flowing skirt swirled around her knees, offering a tantalizing glimpse of smooth, tanned thigh. It should be illegal for a woman who was already promised to another man to walk around looking like a golden goddess come to life. Jonathan Regent’s goddess, Trace reminded himself.
“I thought I told you to keep the patio door locked,” Trace growled. “And keep the blinds closed.” With one powerful tug, he pulled the drapes across the broad expanse of glass.
Mary clamped her fists on her hips and glared at him. “And I said I wasn’t going to live in a dungeon!” She stormed past him and yanked the curtains wide open. Turning to face him again, she demanded, “How do you manage to wake up on the wrong side of the bed every morning?”
“Not the wrong side, just the wrong bed,” he grumbled under his breath. Any bed that didn’t have Mary curled in it would be the wrong one.
In a deliberate effort to wrest his mind from the disturbing image of Mary snuggled in his bed, Trace strolled into the kitchen and poured himself a steaming mug of coffee. Caffeine. That’s what he needed. Either that or a cold shower.
He lifted the cup and took a long quick drink. “Dammit!” Trace exclaimed as the scalding hot liquid took the first layer of hide off the roof of his mouth.
“Drink some cold water. It’ll help stop the burning.” Mary’s voice was soft behind him. She stepped into the kitchen and held a glass under the nozzle on the refrigerator door.
She handed Trace the glass and stood leaning against the counter while he downed the soothing water.
When he finished, he set the glass on the counter and looked at Mary, a sheepish grin on his face. “Let’s start over. Hello, Mary Sunshine. And how are you this fine spring morning?”
She grinned in return. “Fine. In fact, truly fine. Thanks to you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I never did get the chance yesterday to thank you properly for all you did.”
Trace turned away. He didn’t deserve her thanks. He hadn’t done anything except show up in time to take her to the hospital. Not exactly a stellar recommendation for a man who was supposed to be protecting her. Realizing she was waiting for a comment, he muttered, “It was nothing.”
“I’d hardly call saving my life nothing,” Mary insisted in that quiet tone Trace was already starting to think of as her forged-steel voice. When she used that tone, he knew she wasn’t about to change her mind, or be dissuaded. Mary had made a decision about him, and she was going to cling to that decision with steely determination.
“I didn’t save your life,” he insisted, even though he knew it was pointless to argue. “You heard the doctor, it was only a prank. You never were in any real danger.” Picking up his mug, Trace took a cautious sip.
“You couldn’t have convinced me of that yesterday. I felt like I’d have to die to feel better.” Mary finished off her own coffee and rinsed out the mug. “Anyway, whether you like it or not, I am grateful.”
“Hmmph. So what’s up for today? Are you being presented to royalty?” He nodded at Mary’s silk dress.
“What—this old rag?” She waggled an eyebrow in ersatz disparagement. “Actually, I have an appointment with Madame Guillarge at nine this morning.”
“Is she bringing a crystal ball or does she read tea leaves?”
“Peasant! I’ll have you know that Madame Guillarge is the foremost wedding consultant in the capital.”
Trace lifted a pinky and raised his mug in a mock salute.
“Actually, Jonathan set up the appointment,” Mary continued as she twisted her engagement ring around and around on her finger. “She’s due at nine. Any minute.” She looked up suddenly, the expression on her face one of pure bewilderment. “Do you know exactly what it is that a wedding consultant does?”
Trace shrugged. “Wedding consultants are out of my league.”
Mary lowered her gaze. “Mine too, I’m afraid,” she murmured.
“Tell you what. While you’re meeting with Madame LaFarge—”
“Guillarge,” Mary corrected automatically.
“Sorry. Anyway, according to the phone book, there are only a half-dozen outlets for Splendora Chocolates in the metro area. I thought I’d visit them and see if we can get a line on who might have purchased a two-pound box of liqueur centers in the last day or so. With any luck, some clerk might remember.”
“I still can’t believe it was Mark,” Mary said.
“Yeah. Well, scorned love is a pretty strong motive.”
“Maybe. But for one thing, Mark could barely afford to take me for pizza once a week. How’s he going to buy a two-pound box of expensive candy?”
“Why don’t we ask him? After Madame Tussaud leaves, why don’t you see if you can find out when Marky-boy will be home this afternoon. I think it’s high time we paid that young man a visit.”
A long, shuddering sigh escaped Mary’s lips. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just that... I hate to believe Mark could be behind all of this stuff. And I guess that I’m afraid to find out the truth.”
Trace reached out and chucked Mary under the chin with his knuckle curved. An electric charge sizzled up his arm and he quickly pulled his hand back. But he couldn’t still the muscles in his stomach that were twitching in response to Mary’s
high-voltage magnetism. Hoping she didn’t hear the sudden wobble in his voice, he picked up the thread of their conversation. “I can understand your not wanting your friend to be the guilty party, but hiding your head in the sand like an ostrich isn’t going to make this problem go away.”
The bleating of the doorbell saved her from further reply.
She trailed behind Trace as he went into the foyer to answer the door.
Madame Guillarge swept into the room, totally ignoring Trace. Although on closer examination, Madame Guillarge was surely approaching seventy, she gave a first impression of being much younger. Maybe, Trace thought, it was the extremely dramatic dress she affected, a Technicolor vision of flowing lavender scarves and layered mauve clothing. Behind her, a frazzled assistant struggled with a stack of photo albums.
Spying Mary, the older woman put her hands to her bosom and sighed eloquently. “Ah! You must be zee bride. Monsieur Regent said you were chez lovely.”
“Thank you, Madame. Won’t you come in?”
“But of course! Come, Mitzi,” Madame Guillarge called over her shoulder to the overburdened young woman. “Don’t dally, mon pet.”
“I think I’ll be going now,” Trace said as he stared after the flamboyant woman who was now ensconced on the sofa, picking out the cashews from a silver dish of mixed nuts on the coffee table.
“Coward,” Mary mumbled as she stepped forward to lock the door behind him.
* * *
THREE HOURS of Madame Guillarge’s flamboyance and on-and-off accent were more than any person should have to tolerate, Mary thought when she closed the door behind the woman, her assistant and all their accoutrements.
She was going to hurt Trace Armstrong for ducking out and leaving her to endure this ordeal alone.
Feeling rebellious, Mary stormed over to the patio door and yanked open the vertical blinds. To her surprise, the morning’s sunshine had disappeared, replaced by a dull, gray drizzle. At least the weather matched her mood now.
Actually, Mary didn’t mind the soft spring rain. She only wished she could go out walking in it. Raise her face to the sky and feel the mist penetrating her pores. Pretend she was someplace marvelous, like Paris or London. Although Georgetown was a wonderful substitute. The old-world ambience suited her nature, Mary decided, as she watched the passersby scurry to escape the rain.
Then, she saw him.
He was standing under a tree in the park across the street, his arms folded over his chest. That purple ball cap pulled low over his eyes.
She ducked back and quickly pulled the blinds closed. Dear Lord, she thought, grasping the cord with shaking fingers, was she never going to have a moment’s peace again? Why was this man tormenting her?
When she got up the courage to peek through an opening in the blinds again, the watcher was gone.
Although she tried to convince herself he’d been a figment of her imagination, or a father waiting to escort his child to school, Mary knew better. It was him. That same unknown man who dogged her night and day.
She looked out the window several more times during the next hour, but she never saw him again. Nonetheless, a thrill of relief raced through her when she heard Trace’s distinctive banging on the door.
Hurrying to meet him, she obediently looked through the peephole to make sure it was him, then left the chain engaged until she was certain Trace was alone.
“Don’t say a word, not one word,” Mary warned as he stepped inside. “That woman has given me zee migraine terrible,” she added in a mock French accent.
“That woman would give me a pain in the—”
“Never mind,” Mary interrupted. For some reason, she found herself unwilling to tell him about her having spotted the man on the street below. After all, what could Trace do now? He’d just become even more paranoid and chew her out for having the drapes open in the first place. Quelling the small prick to her conscience, she asked, “Did you find out who bought the candy?”
Trace shook his head. “No, not really. Although one clerk who works at the store that sells Splendora Chocolates in the Crystal City Mall wasn’t in today. So I still may get something from her tomorrow. What about you? I don’t suppose you had the chance to check on Mark Lester’s whereabouts?”
“Not yet. But why don’t you fix us a sandwich while I change clothes. After we eat, I’ll see what I can find out.”
An hour later, Mary hung up the phone. “Bingo! Mark goes into work at five today, so it’s a safe bet that he’s over at the American University library studying, if you still want to track him down this afternoon.”
Trace leaned back against the soft cushion and stared at the Dali painting over the fireplace. “No, that’s too public. Does he usually go home and change clothes before going to work?”
“Usually.”
“Good.” He stood up. “I think we should be waiting for Mr. Lester when he gets home. He’s so full of surprises lately. Let’s give him one for a change.”
Mary rose to her feet. “Then we’d better get going or we’ll get caught in the afternoon traffic.”
When Trace’s car pulled out onto the slick street, the brief misting of rain had stopped, having done its job of washing the air and leaving the city smelling cleaner. Mary loved the fresh earthy scent immediately after a downpour and rolled down the passenger-side window to inhale the sweetness. For just a moment, if she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself back at her parents’ summer camp on the shores of Lake Superior.
But when Trace pulled up in front of the ratty-looking apartment building just off Columbia Pike in nearby Arlington, Mary’s illusion was shattered. They were back in the city.
“You wait here and I’ll go see if he’s home,” Trace said, getting out of the car.
“I’m going with you,” she said, opening the door and joining him on the sidewalk.
“But if he sees you—”
“I said I’m going with you.”
Recognizing her forged-steel tone, Trace decided there was nothing to do but give in gracefully. “All right, but let me do the talking.”
“Sure. As long as you say everything I want you to say.”
“You know, there are times when I almost feel sorry for Jonathan Regent.” Taking her by the elbow, Trace steered Mary up the sidewalk.
There was no doorman or security buzzer, so he pushed open a plate-glass door and they stepped inside. Typical of thousands of similar cheap apartment buildings, the foyer consisted of a wide space in the hall that held a bank of mailboxes and a steep flight of stairs. There was no elevator.
Mary peeked into a mailbox marked Lester, M., Apartment 3-C. “His mailbox is still full. I don’t think he’s home yet.”
“Then we’ll wait. Let’s go sit in the car.”
“Let me say hi to Mrs. Martino, the manager,” Mary said.
Without waiting for Trace to agree, she slipped around the staircase. He could hear her knocking on a door. A moment later, a booming female voice echoed through the quiet corridor. “Mary! What a pleasant surprise. Come in, dear.”
“Trace? Are you coming?”
“I’ll wait in the car,” he called back. “I don’t want to take a chance on missing...our friend.”
He didn’t have long to wait, however. He had just pushed open the entry door leading outside, when a lean young man with shaggy hair and black-framed eyeglasses bounded into the lobby. One of the arms of his glasses was mended with adhesive tape, and a large purple and yellow bruise was blooming on his right cheek.
He didn’t even glance at Trace, but stopped and inserted a small brass key into one of the mailboxes. The one labeled Lester, M.
Lester had scooped out a handful of mail and started up the narrow staircase, when Trace said, “Mr. Lester? I’d like to have a word with you.”
The man stopped and slowly turned around. He was clutching his bundle of mail against his chest in a protective manner. “Wh-who are you?”
Trace reached into his pocket
and pulled out the ID card the secret service had issued when he “retired.”
Lester merely glanced at the laminated card before returning his complete attention to Trace. He’d inched farther up the staircase and had his back firmly against the wall as if he expected Trace to assault him. “Wh-what do you want with me?” His high-pitched voice was an irritating whine.
“I’m here to talk to you about Mary Wilder. Jonathan Regent asked me to stop by.”
Lester’s face whitened. Then, without warning, he pitched the handful of envelopes toward Trace and fled up the staircase. Running as if demons from hell were nipping at his heels.
Chapter Six
In the split second it took for Trace to recover from his surprise, Mark Lester had disappeared up the staircase.
“Damn!” Trace kicked the flurry of envelopes aside and bolted after his quarry.
No sign of Lester on the second floor. Trace trotted up the next flight of steps. As he rounded the third-floor landing, he heard Lester’s feet thumping down the hallway away from him.
Trace reached the top of the staircase and sprinted down the hall after the shadowy figure. Mark Lester was in front of his apartment door, his shaky hands trying to insert his key into the lock.
“Hey, wait a minute!” Trace called.
Lester glanced over his shoulder and renewed his hurried efforts to open the door. In his haste and nervousness, he dropped the keys onto the threadbare carpet. Seeing Trace’s advancing figure, Lester took another searching look around the narrow passageway and ran.
But there was nowhere to go.
Faced with the dead end of the corridor, he backed against the wall and shook his fist threateningly. “Don’t touch me! Stay away!”
Trace slowed down and paused ten feet from the agitated man. He was like a wild creature caught in a trap—frightened and desperate. Lester’s gaunt features were strained. The acrid scent of his nervous perspiration rankled the air between them. His head jerked constantly from side to side as he searched for an escape route. Mark Lester was the picture of a certified paranoid.