Veil of Fear

by Judi Lind

  Suddenly, almost from the moment their engagement was announced, everything had started to change. He’d wanted her to revamp her hairstyle and wardrobe, drop her old friends, completely divorce herself from the woman she had been. At first, Mary had resented Jonathan’s insistence that she curtail her relationship with Mark; although now it looked as though Jonathan had been a better judge of Mark’s character than she. Then had come her vague misgivings and the sense of being pursued by a shadowy figure. And lately, even Jonathan had changed. For the past few days, he’d been stiff and irritable, and she’d found herself eagerly looking forward to Trace’s laid-back manner.

  But now she had this new, frightening dimension of Trace to contend with. For a brief moment, Mary considered throwing it all away and running home to Michigan. Back to safety. Back to the soft comfort of a life-style she knew and loved.

  “Butte, Montana, is where I’d go,” Trace said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “If I was going to run away, that’s where I’d go. Butte, Montana.”

  Mary chuckled despite herself. “We’re going to have to talk about this mind-reading skill of yours.”

  Trace tossed her a quick grin before returning his attention to the traffic. “Hey, I don’t have to be Kreskin to be able to read your face. And just a moment ago, you were at least a thousand miles away.”

  “Not a bad guess, Armstrong,” she conceded. “Why Butte, Montana?”

  He shrugged. “When we were kids—I have three brothers—I guess we were quite a handful. Usually my mom kept her cool pretty well, but once in a while...” He paused as if reliving a fond memory. “Once in a while, she’d line us all up and tell us that she’d had all she could take and she was leaving. Nobody would ever find her in Butte, Montana, she always said.” He chuckled. “Of course, she never left. We knew she didn’t mean it, anyway. But we’d pretend to be scared and toe the line for a few days.”

  “Your mother was right,” Mary said thoughtfully. “Sometimes the reality is that we just have to stick it out. I can see where fantasizing about chucking it all and fleeing to a faraway place would somehow make reality more bearable.”

  He gave her a long, appraising glance. “And is that what you want to do, Mary? Chuck it all and run away?”

  She turned her head and stared unseeingly at the traffic outside the passenger window. “Sometimes. Times like today.”

  “Mmm. Mark Lester.”

  She shifted on the seat and faced Trace once again. “It didn’t take psychic ability to figure that one out, Armstrong.”

  “No, it didn’t. But I’ll admit I’m baffled by one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  They stopped for a traffic light and Trace drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel for a long moment before answering. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind to continue. “Your relationship with Lester. Both Regent and Bob Newland told me that Mark Lester was an old flame of yours that you threw over for Regent.”

  “And?”

  “And you’ve never confirmed or denied it.” After the light turned green, Trace kept his eyes on the road as he drove. “But to be frank, I can’t quite bring myself to believe that you were ever involved with that character.”

  “Mark’s a very nice person,” she said, knowing she sounded as though she was reciting a dull but often-repeated argument. She was dismayed to hear her own doubts filter through her upbeat declaration.

  “I heard Regent was thinking of getting into politics,” Trace said in an apparent non sequitur. “You’d make a great politician’s wife.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked sharply.

  “It means that your Mark’s-a-very-nice-person answer was no answer at all.”

  Mary felt her agitation growing. Sometimes, Trace’s investigative instincts dueled mightily with her own sense of privacy. “Why is my relationship—or lack of one—with Mark Lester any of your business?”

  Trace stopped the car at a stop sign and twisted in the seat to face her. “Because I’m trying to keep you alive and it would make my job a hell of a lot easier if I knew what was really going on.”

  He stepped on the accelerator and made a sharp right turn.

  Mary sighed aloud. How could she explain to Trace when she wasn’t sure she even understood, herself? Right now, all she wanted was to escape from her problems, and Trace’s troublesome questions, for a few hours.

  They had reached Georgetown proper by now and the streets were less crowded. Mary truly loved the old Georgian and colonial buildings, with their aged brick exteriors and brightly painted doors and shutters. They were only a few blocks from the Georgetown Regent and she found she was looking forward to the sanctity of her own apartment.

  In fact, she wished there was some way she could cancel her dinner with Jonathan because, suddenly, she wanted nothing more than a quiet evening to sort out her disquieting emotions.

  As Trace steered the ancient Mercedes into the Georgetown Regent’s parking garage, Mary said quietly, “Mark and I were never ‘involved,’ I think was the word you used. We were friends. Close friends. But nothing more. Although...although there were times when I felt Mark wanted a more intimate relationship. But he never pushed me. Never.”

  “That seems to come easily for the men in your life, doesn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been your shadow for three days now and I sure haven’t seen any signs of overwhelming passion when it comes to your relationship with Jonathan Regent, either.”

  “How dare you!” Mary couldn’t believe her ears. The nerve of the man! Her physical relationship with her fiancé was none of Trace Armstrong’s business. Even, a tiny voice whispered in her ear, even when he was right.

  “How dare I what—point out the obvious? Most people who are on the verge of marriage usually can’t keep their hands off each other. That’s clearly not a problem with you and Regent.”

  “Mr. Armstrong, to some people, marriage is more than a license to copulate. For some people—civilized people— marriage is also a sharing of commitment, companionship and respect.”

  He nodded sagely. “Yeah, those are important. But without that hot, almost frenzied desire two people feel for each other to see them through the tough times, a marriage doesn’t stand a chance.”

  She tried to banish the sudden, and completely unbidden, image of she and Trace fumbling for each other’s clothes in that “frenzied desire” he referred to. She shook her head, momentarily dispelling the forbidden thought. “The hotter the fire, the faster it burns out,” she said primly.

  “Maybe so, but I’ll be damned if I’d want to miss the blaze.”

  Mary had had enough of his probing. Worse, he was causing her to dissect issues that she feared wouldn’t withstand too fine an examination. “Look, Trace, I really don’t care about your opinion of my love life. Quite frankly, I’d appreciate it if you’d just stick to your job and keep your nose out of my personal life!”

  “As you wish, princess.” He reached down and turned up the car radio, drowning the silence between them in the hot, sultry jazz of Kenny G.

  Mary stared out the window, trying to erase Trace’s pronouncement from her memory. I’ll be damned if I’d want to miss the blaze.

  Was that what she was doing—selling herself short, because she and Jonathan didn’t have the kind of relationship where they were constantly fumbling with each other’s clothes in frenzied rushes of desire? Wouldn’t that come later?

  Trace just didn’t understand; he came from a world where people were more direct, wore their emotions on their sleeve. She and Jonathan didn’t need to make that kind of public avowal.

  Once they were married and their love had the chance to grow and blossom, surely the heart-thumping passion would follow. And despite Trace’s unflattering portrayal of her relationship with her fiancé, Mary and Jonathan did love each other. It was just a different, easier, more genteel kind of love.

&nbs
p; Suddenly, Trace reached over and flipped off the radio. “I apologize for dipping into your business, Mary. What I said was crude and crass and...and I don’t know what in hell caused me to spout off like that.”

  She knew. Trace had only been picking up on the erratic hormonal impulses she’d been emitting since he’d first walked in her door. Pheromones, the scientists called them. Sexual signals. Well, Trace Armstrong was setting off a pheromone bonfire! “No problem,” she murmured. “It’s already forgotten.” But deep inside, she knew the impact of his telling words would linger in her mind well into the night.

  In an obvious attempt to move their conversation onto safer ground, Trace asked, “You never did tell me why Regent believes your relationship with Mark Lester was more...intimate...than it actually was.”

  Mary sighed. How could she explain? There was no single moment when the confusion had cleared in her mind. At first, she had thought Jonathan understood her friendship with Mark. Then when it became clear he believed they’d been dating, she’d assured him that she and Mark had never shared a sexual relationship. That seemed to satisfy Jonathan, and Mary saw no reason to disillusion him. While Mary knew she was reasonably attractive, she had no fantasies about being a femme fatale. Only Jonathan believed every man in the country was lined up at her door.

  Jonathan always treated her as though she was so special, proclaiming her beautiful and desirable. She hadn’t wanted him to change his mind, to see her as the wallflower she’d always known herself to be. A woman who’d lived in an area populated predominantly by men and hadn’t had a single real date in nearly six months.

  Besides, Mark seemed to relish his role as her spurned lover.

  Trace parked and came around to open Mary’s door.

  She slipped out of the car and looked up at him in the dim lighting of the garage, her heart thumping unexpectedly in response to his strongly defined, exceedingly masculine profile. Trace’s physical appeal was so very unlike Jonathan’s. Jonathan was mannerly, refined. Safe.

  But Trace... Trace appealed to the wild, wanton side of her nature that Mary kept deeply hidden. Even from herself.

  He was so different from most people. So straight-ahead. To Trace Armstrong, everything was always either right or wrong. Black or white. He had no gray in his world.

  Taking advantage of the murkiness hiding her face and her emotions, Mary finally found the strength to answer his question. “I didn’t push the issue with Jonathan because I wanted very much to be the gorgeous, coveted woman he thought I was.”

  Thoroughly embarrassed by her humiliating confession, Mary turned away and started walking swiftly toward the hotel entrance.

  Trace caught up with her and grabbed her by the upper arm, spinning her around to face him. A trembling weakness overtook her at his touch and she felt herself sagging against him. Using every ounce of her self-control, Mary straightened her shoulders and raised her gaze to meet his.

  A strange quaver in his deep voice, he held her by her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. “Mary Wilder, you’re ten times the woman Jonathan Regent thinks you are. Don’t ever doubt it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jonathan was particularly attentive when he arrived at Mary’s shortly after eight.

  “Ah! Delightful, absolutely delightful,” he said in frank admiration of her new dress. “Who is the designer?”

  “I think Camille said it was Arnold Scasi.”

  “I should have known. The man is inspired.”

  Mary looked down at the deceptively simple lines of the satiny garment. “But horribly expensive.”

  “I don’t care. It’s worth every penny. You ought to wear red every day, darling, the color’s great on you.”

  Wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders, he asked, “And how are you feeling? You look wonderful, but...but I keep thinking about that candy. The consequences could have been far more serious. Who could do such a thing?”

  Slipping out of his grasp, she patted his soothing hand. “Now, Jonathan, it’s over and done with. It was a prank. Someone’s sick idea of a joke.”

  “You’re right, of course.” He gave her a wide and thoroughly charming grin. “Let’s not spoil our evening.”

  Mary gratefully returned his smile. It looked as though the “old” Jonathan was back. While he mixed cocktails, he recounted one anecdote after another about his afternoon golfing with three of the power players from the senate nominating committee.

  He was the most focused person she’d ever met, Mary mused. Once Jonathan had decided to run for office, he’d immediately set out to make every possible contact in his political party. He’d shown the same zeal when he’d decided to court her, she recalled in a sudden burst of insight.

  After finishing their drinks, he wrapped her satin shawl around her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I’m so delighted that you haven’t let that unfortunate incident with the spoiled candy upset you. You’re a real trooper, Mary.”

  She didn’t know whether to be gratified or disappointed. While she was indeed glad that she had suffered no long-lasting consequences from having eaten the tainted chocolates, she mildly wished Jonathan hadn’t been so quick to accept her explanation of the incident. Somehow, his blithely dismissing the candy episode made her feel as if he was just as blithely dismissing the entire string of frightful events that preceded it.

  When they settled into the rear seat of the limo, Jonathan leaned back into the leather seat and said, “So, tell me about your day. I’ve prattled on long enough.”

  In halting tones, she told him about the visit she and Trace had paid to Mark Lester. The scowl on Jonathan’s face expressed his opinion of their foray.

  “I wish Armstrong hadn’t taken you along. He’s supposed to be protecting you, not exposing you to more danger.”

  “Jonathan, you can’t put me in a glass case and set me on the mantel! He had no choice. I would have followed him if he hadn’t taken me.”

  Jonathan laughed. “Ah, Mary, my darling, you’re such a delight. But, seriously, pet, I do wish you would learn to curb your more...shall we say, impetuous nature. After all, it was your involvement with Lester that started all of this in the first place.”

  She exhaled a long, slow sigh. They’d had this fight at least a half-dozen times and she was truly in no mood for a rematch. In an effort to change the subject before both their tempers flared, she asked, “Before you hired Trace, did you send anyone else to talk to Mark?”

  Jonathan’s frown was clearly visible even in the muted light. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

  “Because Mark told us that two men came to visit him last week. He had the impression that you had sent them.”

  “I can’t imagine what gave him that idea. What did these men supposedly say?”

  Mary chewed a knuckle as she remembered the painful-looking bruises discoloring Mark’s face. “They told him to stay away from me. Then they...they beat him up.”

  “What! And you thought I had something to do with that?”

  “No, of course not. I was only repeating what Mark told us.”

  “Well, if you ask me, Mark Lester is obviously suffering from some extreme mental affliction.”

  Mary couldn’t argue with that. Everything she had seen of Mark that afternoon seemed to prove Jonathan’s theory. Mark had been agitated almost to the point of panic, and he’d exhibited several sharp mood swings in the brief time she and Trace had been with him.

  Still, she felt a strong bond of loyalty with Mark and didn’t want to belittle him to Jonathan. Fortunately, while she was still searching for a rebuttal, the car came to a halt in front of the fabled Jean-Claude restaurant on DuPont Circle. A uniformed doorman appeared to help them alight, and a moment later they were walking into the opulent building.

  “Ah, Mr. Regent, it is our pleasure to have you with us this evening,” the maître d’ crooned. “May I take your wrap, Ms. Wilder?”

  After the man handed her shaw
l to a red-jacketed assistant, he led the way across the dining room to a secluded table set for four. Plucking an intricately folded linen napkin from the tabletop, he draped it across Mary’s lap. “The Senator and Mrs. Castnor phoned a moment ago to say they have been delayed but should be arriving shortly. May I have Armand bring you something from the bar?”

  “Mary?” Jonathan asked, “Would you like a cocktail?”

  “Just some wine, please.”

  “Excellent. The sommelier will be with you momentarily. Bon appetit.” Ducking his head obsequiously, the maître d’ departed, clicking his fingers for the wine steward, who appeared a second later.

  While Jonathan and the man conferred, Mary gazed around at the five-star restaurant. Jean-Claude’s was one of Jonathan’s favorite haunts. They’d come here several times previously but Mary still felt a flush of awe at the elegant surroundings. High, mirrored ceilings were softened by recessed lighting and silk wall hangings. Huge displays of exotic flowers brightened the tastefully muted decor.

  It was a far cry from the woodsy atmosphere of the Wildwood Country Club where her family had always gone for special occasions. Suddenly, Mary felt a rush of longing for the simpler, more familiar life she’d forsaken. Stop it, she chided herself, feeling like a spoiled ingrate. It was silly to yearn for fresh-caught lake trout when a sublime lobster banquet was hers for the asking.

  By the time she’d convinced herself that she was only suffering from a natural bout of homesickness, Jonathan had concluded his business with the wine steward and had turned to face her.

  “Frankly, Mary, I’m just as glad that Brad and Camille have been delayed. It gives me a chance to talk to you.”

  She couldn’t suppress the sense of foreboding that his casual words provoked. Tonight she wanted only lighthearted banter. No serious topics. But she could tell from his tone that Jonathan wouldn’t be swayed.

  Forcing a smile, she asked, “Did you want to talk about something in particular?”

  “Yes.” He leaned back in his chair and thrummed his fingers on the damask tablecloth. “I’ve made a decision.”