by Judi Lind
Jealousy.
The simple answer came to him in a lightning bolt of insight. He was plainly and perfectly jealous because Mary Wilder was so contentedly planning her wedding day to that pompous ass Jonathan Regent.
It wasn’t that Trace had any designs on the woman himself, he mentally insisted. It was just that he hated to see her settle for a man who was so obviously unsuitable for her. Regent’s wealth was shining so brightly in her eyes that Mary couldn’t see the truth. But Trace could see what was going on. Mary was one of the plain people, like himself. She’d soon tire of this glittery whirl of cocktail parties and staid embassy receptions. And then where would she be? Married to a workaholic and spending her afternoons shopping for yet another expensive dress that she didn’t need or want.
And if this was so clear to him, why couldn’t Mary see the truth for herself?
Still, it was none of his business, and unless he wanted to lose this easy and lucrative job, Trace knew he’d do well to keep his opinions to himself. But if Mary gave him any inkling that she wasn’t deliriously happy with her upcoming nuptials...
Then, in that case, he might just have to point out a few facts to her.
Mumbling for her to stay in the apartment until he returned, Trace disappeared down the hallway.
When she heard the door click shut behind him, Mary sighed and returned to the living room. She tried to give her attention to the wedding consultant, but her enthusiasm had left with Trace. Suddenly, the last thing on earth she wanted to do was pore over pages of invitations, flower arrangements and bridesmaid’s gowns. She wanted nothing more than to forget the entire thing. At least for a few hours.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of their noon meal. After making sure that she recognized the room-service attendant who was pushing the stainless-steel cart, Mary stood aside while he set up the salmon salad and iced tea luncheon.
Madame Guillarge, as Mary suspected she would, devoured her meal with gusto. Mary had taken only a few bites of a hot, crusty roll, when the flamboyant woman shoved aside her own empty plate.
“So! Vee are ready to get back to work, no?”
No. Silently, Mary acknowledged ruefully that she’d rather be mall-walking with Trace than concentrating on picking her color scheme.
Nonetheless, she admonished herself to display at least a semblance of interest when Madame Guillarge hefted a photo album filled with pictures of wedding cakes onto the dining room table.
By the time they had gone through the entire album and Mary had selected a cake and buffet menu, her eyes were burning and her head felt as if it would explode at any moment.
“Enough for today,” she declared, rising to her feet.
“But, my child, we still need to talk about zee flowers, no?”
“No,” Mary insisted firmly. “Not today. I’m exhausted.”
Madame Guillarge rose ponderously. “Zen you must call zee front desk for a strong man.”
The flamboyant wedding consultant had arrived sans her able-bodied assistant that morning, but a bellman had carried up her cargo. Obviously, the woman would need help getting all of her gear back downstairs.
When Mary telephoned the bell captain, she was dismayed to be told that the delegates of a medical convention had just arrived and it would be nearly an hour before a bellman was available. Mary knew she’d scream out loud if she had to endure Madame Guillarge that much longer.
Picking up her keys, she said, “Come on, I’ll help carry this stuff down to a taxi.”
“Oh, if you’re sure.” Madame Guillarge hefted her handbag onto her shoulder, picked up a silk pouch filled with fabric samples and sailed to the entry, leaving Mary to wrestle with the remaining pair of canvas tote bags.
When they reached the lobby, Mary gladly handed her burden to a bellman and asked him to see the tiring bridal consultant into a taxi.
As she handed a tip to the young bellman, Mary felt a moment’s loss when she realized she didn’t know his name. Until a few days ago, she’d spent five or ten minutes in the lobby every morning. Under the pretense of fetching her mail, she’d chatted with everyone from the desk manager to the custodian.
Now she felt a virtual prisoner in her luxurious apartment. And a stranger was now someone to be distrusted, instead of a potential friend.
She knew Trace was justified in insisting on these stringent precautions. Yet...yet sometimes Mary yearned for a return to the peaceful anonymity of being a bookstore clerk.
With a wave to Rick, the desk manager, she crossed the sparkling lobby and waited for the next elevator. During the slow, soothing ascent, Mary tried to forget the stalker and the concessions in her personal freedom he’d forced upon her, concentrating instead on the positive changes in her life.
She was mentally reliving the lazy afternoons she used to spend poring over exhibits in the Smithsonian, when the elevator pinged, announcing she’d arrived at her floor.
Stepping off, she was still smiling at the wonders of the Smithsonian while she made her way down the hall toward her apartment. The faint whir of the elevator cab returning to the lobby was the only sound in the echoing silence.
Suddenly, she sensed a movement ahead of her and looked up.
A strange man was bending over in front of her door. She was certain he was trying to jimmy the lock.
Chapter Eight
With a quirk snap of her head, Mary scanned the empty hall for an escape route. The emergency stairwell was on the other side of her apartment, effectively cut off by the stranger at her door.
The elevator had already returned to the lobby. Even if she could get another in a few seconds, it was unlikely she would continue to be unnoticed by the intruder while she awaited its return.
She thought about screaming, but knew no one would hear her through the soundproof walls. Besides, her mouth was so dry she doubted she could utter a sound.
The man was still bending over her doorknob, so intent on what he was doing that he hadn’t yet noticed her. But it was only a matter of time.
Tiptoeing backward toward the elevator, Mary kept a wary eye on the man. As she watched, he moved slightly and lifted his head. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of his profile.
He was wearing a bright purple baseball cap.
She no longer could deny the truth. He was the stalker, the man who had been following and watching her for days. Now, he was here. A hard, cold knot of fear settled in her stomach. She leaned back against the wall, as if she could somehow disappear into the pale gold wallpaper.
Suddenly, Mary heard the distinct click of a door being unlocked somewhere behind her. She swung her head toward the welcome sound. Someone was in one of the other suites! If she could just get inside before the stranger noticed her...
It was already too late.
He, too, had heard the door catch being unlocked and had straightened up. Mary’s heart thudded in her chest as icy fear stalked her spine. The man was staring straight at her with a cold, penetrating gaze that bored through her.
They were so close she could easily make out the gold insignia on the front of his cap. It was the profile of a howling wolf. Horrifyingly appropriate.
A cool rush of refrigerated air poured over her already icy flesh as the apartment door directly behind her swung open. She sensed rather than heard another presence in the hall.
“Help!” Mary squeaked, finding her voice at last.
The intruder took one step in her direction, then turned and bolted toward the emergency stairwell. The metallic clang of the heavy steel door slamming behind him reverberated in the stillness of the empty corridor.
In an instant, the stalker had vanished as though he’d never existed.
“What’s going on out here?” a querulous voice called out behind her.
Mary twisted around, weak with relief at the sight of the old man who was the only other full-time tenant on her floor. “Oh, Mr. Waltham, I’m so glad you were home. Someone was trying to get into my a
partment!”
He hobbled into the hallway, leaning heavily on his cane. “Damnable hooligans! This used to be a nice city, but these young punks think they own the world. No respect. That’s the root of all this crime, you know. No respect. Come on inside, girl, and we’ll call hotel security and the police. Not that they’ll be able to do a blessed thing. Punks have taken over everything.”
Mary sagged against the wall, allowing his familiar tirade to wash over her like a soothing balm. Ever since the elderly man had been mugged by a group of young roughnecks a few weeks earlier, the irresponsibility of modern youth had been his favorite topic of conversation. Mary was afraid this incident would only incite her neighbor to redouble his harangue, but she couldn’t bring herself to confess that her intruder hadn’t been a kid from a street gang.
The man at her apartment door had been older, in his early forties, perhaps. His features had been shaded but she vividly recalled the defeated slump of his shoulders and the slight bulge of his belly hanging over his belt. His hands had been knobby and rough.
No, the man who’d tried breaking into Mary’s apartment hadn’t been a street kid looking for trinkets to hock. There had been obvious purpose to his movements, a sense of urgency. She shuddered, thinking what his purpose might have been.
“You’re right,” she said suddenly, pushing herself away from the stabilizing wall. “I should call the police. I’ll go do that right away.”
Mr. Waltham shook his head. “Come inside, girl. The rest of his gang might be waiting for you.”
“No, he was alone. I’ll be all right once I lock the door. But I’d appreciate if you’d watch until I’m safely inside. And I do thank you for coming to my rescue.”
The contentious senior paused, his drooping shoulders straightening just a fraction. “Hey, I guess I did rescue you, huh?”
Mary patted his arm, feeling his frailness beneath the heavy flannel shirt. “That’s right, Mr. Waltham,” she said softly. “If you hadn’t been here, there’s no telling what that man might have done.”
His shoulders straightened a bit more as he hitched up his trousers. “Glad to do what I could. You need anything else, you just holler. Even though I haven’t got the speed I used to have, my hearing’s still right keen and I can sure dial a telephone. Not that the cops or hotel security would get here anytime soon. Damn shame what’s happening in this city.”
Giving the older man a weak smile, Mary walked swiftly down the hall to her own apartment, anxious to get away before Mr. Waltham picked up any more steam. She held up her key ring and reached for the dead bolt.
To her surprise, the brass plate around the knob was shiny and unscratched. Almost as if the man hadn’t been trying to jimmy the lock. Curious.
Then she noticed a white, crumpled envelope was jammed between the door and the frame. The stalker had left her another note.
Nausea burbled in her stomach and her fingers shook as she reached for the cursed white envelope. It was as if, by leaving his venom in the form of another hate letter, the stalker had left a part of himself behind. Once again, she’d been bested, defeated, by this unknown man who hated her relentlessly and without apparent cause.
Biting her lip, she forced herself to remain calm, to concentrate on one thing at a time. She’d think about the note later. Right now, she had to open this lock.
Mr. Waltham was still standing in the hallway, watching her fumble with the door latch. Mary felt inordinately comforted by the dubious safety his vigilance offered. Bolstered by his concern, she forced herself to forget the envelope and concentrate on the lock. At last, the tumblers in the dead bolt disengaged and she slipped inside her apartment.
Once she reached the sanctuary of her home, Mary bolted the door behind her and raced for the telephone. Now that she was safe, her body gave in to the delayed reaction of the harrowing experience. Her fingertips trembled as she dialed Jonathan’s number.
“Mr. Regent’s off—”
“Bob! This is Mary. Is Jonathan in?”
“No, I’m afraid Mr. Regent is out of town at the moment. May I take a message?”
Mary felt his disapproval zinging over the telephone lines. She had never figured out exactly what she had done to make her fiancé’s assistant dislike her with such intensity, but the man took very few pains to keep his animosity from showing. Only in front of Jonathan did he put on a smooth performance of amiable servitude.
“No,” she said at last. “No message. Just tell him I phoned, please.”
“Certainly,” Newland said before replacing the receiver without the courtesy of saying goodbye.
Refusing to dwell on the man’s boorish attitude, Mary punched in Trace’s beeper number. While she waited for him to return her call, she carried the portable phone into the living room and sank into the corner of the sofa. Only then did she notice the white envelope was still clutched in her left hand.
She sat quietly, staring at it with the same mesmerized intensity with which a snake charmer watches a trained cobra. Mary knew the stinging bite of the hate letter could be every bit as fatal as the bite of a cobra.
The phone rang and Mary jumped, her heart thumping wildly.
“He-hello,” she breathed into the receiver.
“Mary? What’s happened? Are you all right?” Trace’s deep voice poured over her shattered nerves like a soothing lotion.
“I’m fine, I guess. Just a little shaken.”
“What happened?” he repeated.
“Someone...was trying to break in. He left another note.”
Trace’s outrage rippled over the phone lines. “Son of a—I thought our visit might have dissuaded our Mr. Lester.”
“It wasn’t Mark,” she said quickly.
“How do you know?”
“I saw him.”
There was a long pause during which Mary could imagine Trace fitting the pieces together. “Does he know you saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Call Regent. Tell him I need to speak to him right away. I’ll be at your place in—” he broke off, and her mind’s eye saw him looking at his watch “—fifteen minutes. Don’t answer the door for any reason before I get there. Understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
There was another long pause. This time, Mary couldn’t guess what Trace was thinking. When he spoke again, his voice was lower-pitched, somehow gentler. “Mary, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Other than having had a good scare, I’m fine.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t leave you alone again.”
Trace hung up the phone and Mary sat staring at the receiver. He’d called her sweetheart. An innocuous enough endearment, yet she knew that they’d moved onto another plane in their relationship.
She and Trace were tied together by more than a mad stalker. There was some cosmic connection that they’d both been trying to deny since the moment they’d met. And with his utterance of that one word—sweetheart—they’d both somehow acknowledged the connection.
* * *
MARY WAS STILL NESTLED on the sofa, when she heard Trace’s key in the lock a short time later. Her subconscious registered the comforting heft of his footfall in the apartment, but her conscious thoughts were still taken up by the startling and overwhelming emotions engulfing her. Her mind was filled to overflowing. Fractured images of the malevolent stalker were mixed in a disquieting montage of Trace and Jonathan hovering over her. Protecting her. Wanting her.
Suddenly, Trace was in front of her. He dropped to his knees and took her hands in his. “Mary? Are you all right? Tell me exactly what happened.”
The white envelope fluttered, unnoticed, onto the carpeting.
Taking a deep breath, Mary collected her thoughts and tried to keep the events in sequence as she described her trip to the lobby to help Madame Guillarge. And the man waiting on her doorstep when she returned.
To Trace’s credit, he didn’t waste a moment in recriminations. He didn’t remind her of
her broken promise not to leave the apartment without him. Not a single I-told-you-so passed his lips.
When she finished her story, Mary looked up at Trace. “So I locked myself in and called you.” And Jonathan. Mary couldn’t help making the mental comparison. Trace had come running to her aid immediately, while Jonathan hadn’t yet found the time to return her phone call.
Trace rocked back on his heels and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Mary noticed the persistent dark wreath of razor stubble along his chin. It was somehow endearing. Her fingers itched to skim the rough surface, but she held her hands tightly entwined until the urge dissipated.
She closed her eyes and forced her mind into a soothing void. She had to stop thinking like this. Obviously, her highly charged emotional state was coloring her logic. Trace had come running because that was his job. Jonathan, on the other hand, was a powerful, busy man who—
“Did you get a good look at him?” Trace asked suddenly.
Glad he’d interrupted her thoughts, Mary shook her head. “Only enough of an impression to know that he’s the same person who’s been following me.”
“What did the note say?”
The note! “I don’t know. I...I haven’t opened it yet. In fact, I’d forgotten all about it. Now, where did I put that...” Mary dug in between the sofa cushions until she spotted the pale envelope on the floor.
Following her gaze, Trace scooped the envelope off the floor and held it up to the light. “No sense having it dusted for prints. Our boy is too smart to leave traceable evidence.”
Slipping his fingernail under the flap, Trace slit the edge of the envelope. As before, a single sheet of heavy bond white paper was all that the envelope contained.
He turned the paper over so that Mary could read along with him. Also as before, the words were cut from magazines and newsprint and glued to the single sheet. It read:
THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING. CALL OFF YOUR WEDDING OR DEATH WILL BE YOUR HONEYMOON COMPANION.