Veil of Fear

by Judi Lind

  While she tossed odds and ends into the crimson-stained suitcase, she voiced a tentative plan for checking out the alibis of Mark Lester and Bob Newland.

  Trace listened with only half his concentration. Mentally, he was wrestling with a concern of his own. The police had pointed out one very disconcerting fact—the front-door lock showed no signs of forced entry. The hinges hadn’t been pried off nor was the doorframe forced. There were no scratches on the polished brass surround. No nicks on the edge of the lock itself.

  It was almost as if the intruder had a key.

  Chapter Twelve

  Although Trace tried his level best to talk Mary into moving into his condo until the stalker was apprehended, she steadfastly refused. The hotel manager was easily able to provide them with another suite, and Mary knew Jonathan would be upset if he tried to call her and discovered she’d moved out.

  Trace countered by telling her to contact Jonathan in Alaska, but Mary pointed out that in order to get his phone number, she’d have to go through Bob Newland. And, at this point, they were still waiting for the FBI report from Harley before approaching Newland.

  Trace was forced to accept her rationale, so they moved their belongings into a cold and impersonal hotel suite on the concierge level one floor below Mary’s penthouse suite.

  The main shortcoming of living in one of the regular suites became immediately apparent; there was only one bedroom. True, it had two king-size beds, but they were separated only by a nightstand.

  Nor was there a kitchen, so they were forced to either go out for every meal or rely on room service, a situation that made Trace extremely uncomfortable.

  That evening, as if the specter of the single bedroom stood between them, Mary and Trace sat up playing gin rummy until late in the evening. Both of them stifling yawns, he glanced up to see her knuckling her eyes like a small child fighting sleep. His heart melted at the telling gesture. He’d have to make the first move, and somehow reassure her that he wasn’t going to sneak into her bed in the middle of the night.

  Then he had to keep himself from actually doing it.

  Throwing his cards on the table, Trace stood up and stretched. “I’ve had it. You want the bathroom first?”

  Mary refused to meet his eye. “No, you go ahead. I’ll straighten up out here.”

  “Okay.” He forced a huge yawn. “I’m beat.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I’ll probably be snoring by the time you come in, so I’ll say good night now.” He stretched again, forcing his hands skyward until the bones in his back creaked and groaned. Actually, he was tired, but how was a man supposed to rest with Mary snuggled into bed a couple feet away?

  “‘Night. See you in the morning.” She stood up and started picking up glasses and potato-chip bags.

  Knowing she needed this time to herself, Trace ambled into the shower. He was already in bed, the sheet pulled demurely above his bare hips when Mary tiptoed into the bedroom. Keeping his eyes closed, he feigned sleep while she quietly gathered her things and slipped into the small, adjoining bathroom.

  A few moments later, the air was filled with her soft, delicious fragrance and he heard the sheets rustle as she crawled into bed. For a long time, the room was perfectly still as they lay in the darkness, both pretending to sleep. Eventually, Trace was able to decoy his mind away from her disturbing nearness, and sometime after midnight, sleep finally took him.

  It was still dark when something awoke him. He sat up in bed. Alert. Listening intently to the night sounds.

  A soft moan broke the waiting stillness. Mary! He eased his body to the edge of the bed and listened. Again, her voice broke the quiet as she cried out. She was having a nightmare, and one that was growing in intensity, judging by the way she was twisting in the bed.

  Unmindful of his own nudity, Trace eased from his bed and crossed the small space between them. Lowering himself beside her, he called softly, “Mary?” He leaned over and clasped her shoulders, gently rocking her awake. “Mary, sweetheart, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

  She moaned again and turned into his arms. Her body was damp with perspiration, and she burrowed her head against his bare chest. “No! Please. Stop...” Her words trailed off as a sob broke loose from somewhere deep in her chest.

  A protective instinct such as he’d never known surged through him. The bastard—whoever he was. Wasn’t it enough that he filled her days with terror? Now he was infiltrating her nights.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her against him as if he could cushion her from the evil and fear that seemed to rule her life. “Shh, honey. It’s okay. I’m here now. No one’s going to harm you. I promise.”

  He held her until the sobs subsided, until the trembling in her limbs ceased and her breathing at last evened out. “Trace?” her voice whispered in the darkness. “Please don’t leave me.”

  His heart lurched in his chest at the poignant pleading in her tone. Smoothing the silky texture of her golden hair, he murmured, “I’m here, Mary. I won’t leave you. I promise.”

  She snuggled deeper against him, her hip nesting between his thighs. A torrent of heat rushed through him and he gritted his teeth to keep from hauling her into his bed. She was driving him crazy. But she was his client; his job was to protect her. Shield her. Defend her.

  But how could he defend himself against these feelings that threatened to drown him?

  Squinching his eyes closed against the desire flooding his body, he lowered his head and dropped a soft kiss on the top of her head. As if she’d been waiting for a cue, Mary twisted in his arms and lifted her lips to his.

  The moment he felt the sweet softness of her mouth, Trace knew he was lost. With a groan of his own, he crushed her to him and at long last, savored the promise of her lips.

  Mary stirred. She was drowning. Falling into a pool of silky softness. Warm water swirled around her, stroking her, caressing her. Suddenly, that smooth sensation became hands, touching her. Causing tides of sensation rippling through her body. It was Trace Armstrong. In her dream and in her heart, she knew his touch. Knew his delicious scent. Languorously, she lifted her arms and burrowed her fingers in his rich, thick hair as her mouth sought his.

  Oh, it was so good. So right. So different from the dry, tentative kisses Jonathan—

  Jonathan! Reality swept through her like an icy wind. This forbidden, treacherous need for Trace was going to destroy her. Dear God, how far would she have gone?

  “No! Trace, no.” Struggling to sit up, she pulled herself from his beguiling arms and huddled against the headboard, the sheet yanked up protectively beneath her chin.

  Afraid to look at him, she nevertheless sneaked a quick peek at his shadowed features. Even in the near darkness, she could read his confusion.

  “Mary? What is it? What...” His voice was husky and tinged with bewilderment.

  Clenching her teeth against the ebbing tide of emotion, she growled, “What did you think you were doing?”

  He leaned back and stared at her. “I was kissing you. And you were kissing back.”

  “I was not! I was asleep.” And she was, at least, at first.

  “You were awake! No one could have that kind of...passion while they were asleep. You make it sound like I took advantage of you and—”

  “And maybe you did. Okay, so there’s this...this chemistry thing between us. Fine. But we’re adults, we’re supposed to be able to rise above it.”

  For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he stood and slowly stepped over to his own bed. Dragging the bedspread loose, he draped it around his shoulders and snagged a pillow.

  Pausing inches from Mary’s bed, he said quietly, “I may be a lot of things, Mary Wilder, but I’m not something you need to rise above. You flatter yourself.”

  Without another word, he turned and marched out of the bedroom, leaving Mary alone with her guilt. And with a nagging itch of desire.

  * * *

  THE NEXT TWO DAYS were filled wit
h ominous tension. Mary kept the incident with Trace hidden at the back of her consciousness. Concern because she hadn’t heard from Jonathan mixed with frustration caused by her inability to check in with Bob Newland. For his part, Trace felt as though they were sitting on a ticking bomb. And he didn’t know which wire to pull to stop the impending explosion.

  Every instinct he’d honed over the years told him that one of his operatives should be on “baby-sitting” duty with Mary while Trace was pounding the pavement looking for answers. But Jonathan Regent had specifically ordered Trace to stay by her side. Anyway, Trace knew he would worry about Mary every second they were apart. Even if he wanted to wring her high-handed neck about half the time.

  Worse, she wouldn’t listen to him and keep her activities confined to the hotel room.

  Insisting that she continue with her wedding arrangements, she hauled him to florists, caterers, seamstresses and engravers. Although Mary said Madame Guillarge was attending to the lion’s share of the mundane details, it seemed to him that Mary was personally overseeing every facet of the involved procedure.

  And that kiss in the darkness hung in the air between them.

  In their comings and goings from the hotel, Trace had been certain that he’d caught a glimpse of the stalker at least twice before the man darted from sight. Once, just once, Trace wished the wretch was close enough to catch. Saying nothing to Mary, Trace pretended to ignore the stalker, hoping the man would become frustrated and venture just a little too close.

  But they’d seen no sign of the stalker when they’d left the hotel this morning. Their destination, a music studio, was within walking distance of the hotel, and Mary, in one of her stubborn moods, insisted they walk. Although Trace kept his antennae tuned for a medium-size man in a purple cap, the stalker didn’t appear. Pacing back and forth, Trace wasted half the morning twiddling his thumbs while she listened to a half-dozen different bands audition to play the music at the reception.

  When they talked at all, they kept the conversation strictly impersonal. Current affairs, movies, books, “Jeopardy!” categories.

  They returned to the hotel without incident, but when they walked through the revolving glass doors into the lobby, the day manager called out, “Oh, Ms. Wilder! May I see you for a moment?”

  “Hi, Rick. What can I do for you?”

  The manager reached behind him and pulled out a shiny brass key. “I have a surprise for you. The workmen have finished in your apartment. It’s completely restored, although I’m afraid the furniture isn’t the same. Couldn’t be duplicated, you know. Antiques.”

  “Already? That’s quite a surprise. I thought it would take weeks to clean up that mess.”

  The manager’s chest puffed out proudly. “We’ve had a crew working night and day just for you, Ms. Wilder. And, if I say so myself, they’ve done an excellent job. Excellent.”

  “So...so my apartment’s ready for me to move back in?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.” Rick beamed. “Of course, we had a new dead bolt put in, and Mr. Regent insisted we have a high-tech security system installed. The representative from the security company will come right over and show you how to work the alarm as soon as you call him.” He handed Mary a business card from the Beltway Alarm Company.

  With considerable trepidation, she took the key and business card from the manager’s fingertips. “Thank you.”

  Turning to Trace, she said, “I guess we may as well go check it out.”

  She didn’t catch his response, but the brooding look on his face spoke volumes. Trace wasn’t any more anxious to move back in than she was.

  Together, they took the elevator to the top floor and slowly walked down the long hallway to Mary’s apartment. Allowing Trace to open the door and check out the empty rooms before she entered, Mary took a deep breath and followed him inside.

  Bolstered by Trace’s support, she went through the rooms one by one. Because the decor had been changed, she was surprised at how little she was affected by walking through the same rooms that had been destroyed only a few short days ago.

  It was only when she returned to the living room that Mary’s heart pounded suddenly. On the blank wall above the sofa, was an explosion of red.

  “JEZEBEL BEWARE!” her mind screamed. Instinctively backing up until she could feel Trace’s warmth behind her, Mary closed her eyes, blinking away the shocking crimson color.

  “What is it?” Trace murmured in her ear. “What’s wrong?”

  She leaned back against him, drawing comfort from his presence, gaining strength from his arms. How could she have endured these past weeks without Trace at her side? Even harder to imagine was how she would survive the future without him.

  Gathering all her courage, Mary forced her eyes open. The hateful message was gone. Replaced by an enormous painting of bright red poppies on a creamy background. Her mind had only been playing tricks on her, but the effect was as vivid as reality. She would never be free of the remembrance of that detestable scrawl. Maybe she even deserved it.

  The stalker hadn’t been that far off in labeling her Jezebel. In her mind, she was almost as guilty as that wanton queen had been. Except for that single kiss when she’d been half-asleep, she’d never been physically unfaithful to Jonathan. No, her betrayal of him went deeper. Much deeper.

  She’d only been fooling herself when she’d gone through the motions of preparing for her wedding these past few days. Fruitless, senseless busywork to keep her from dwelling on the painful truth.

  Now, in this room, with the memories still calling her name, Mary knew the time had come to face her own emotions.

  Her feelings for Trace were too strong to be denied any longer. For days now, Mary had ignored her growing attraction for the laconic bodyguard, and she had no idea if his attraction to her was only physical. It didn’t really matter; at least, not right now.

  For Mary was faced with another truth. She couldn’t marry one man when she loved another. It was as simple as that. But Jonathan loved her. Adored her. Trusted her. What was she going to tell him?

  He would be returning soon and Mary knew she’d have to make him aware of the harsh reality when he arrived. It was a scene she knew would be ugly and painful for them both.

  Whirling, she bumped her nose against Trace’s hard chest and looked up, melting in his golden gaze. “I can’t move back in here. I know Rick Carey had his people work overtime to get it ready for me, but I just can’t.”

  “You don’t have to,” he said softly. Cupping her face in his hands, Trace smoothed the satiny skin along her jaw. Moved his fingers up until they were buried in her glossy blond hair. Giving her a long, searching look, he whispered, “No one can tell you what to do with your life, Mary, except you. Stop worrying about what the desk manager wants, what Jonathan wants, even what I want. What do you want, Mary-Mary? Tell me. Trust me.”

  What did she want? She wanted life to be unsophisticated again. Where her problems could be resolved by a bandage. But wasn’t that what adulthood was all about? Problems too complicated to be easily solved? Trace made it sound as if all she had to do was make a simple choice. Marry Jonathan or not. But it wasn’t that easy. Plans had been made. News of their engagement had been announced on television and radio, in magazines and in virtually every newspaper in the country. Jonathan would be hurt, mortified if she just dumped him. And he didn’t deserve to be publicly humiliated.

  As she was trying to think of a way to explain all of that to Trace, the doorbell rang.

  “Who could that be?” she asked. “Nobody but the manager knows we’re up here.”

  “Go into the kitchen and stay out of sight.” Trace gave her a gentle nudge in the right direction and pulled his service revolver. Holding it above his head, he eased toward the entry.

  Mary waited just inside the kitchen door so she could still hear what was happening.

  “Who is it?” Trace’s deep voice had a harsh, threatening edge to it.

  She
couldn’t make out the muffled masculine reply, but she heard Trace’s response. “What messenger service are you from? I want to see your ID.”

  Again, a man’s voice, but the words were garbled.

  Then, Trace spoke. “Step back away from the door.”

  For the next few moments, Mary could detect the hum of their voices, but she could only catch an occasional word. Then, the front door closed, the lock was engaged with a sharp click and heavy footsteps moved toward her.

  “Trace?”

  “Just me,” he answered.

  Mary stepped out of the kitchen to meet him in the dining room. He was holding a white envelope—a duplicate of the others—in his right hand.

  “Wh-who was at the door?” Her eyes fastened on the envelope as if it were a predatory viper that might suddenly strike at her.

  “Messenger service. The envelope and the correct fee was left on the counter at the messenger office during a busy time this morning. Our boy’s taking no chances delivering his garbage in person.”

  Mary closed her eyes tightly and hugged herself. She just couldn’t face another hate-filled missive. “Open it,” she told Trace. “Don’t tell me what it says.”

  He sliced open the paper edge with his pocketknife and extracted the sheet of heavy bond paper. After reading it, he folded it and tucked it into his jeans pocket.

  Curiosity finally overcame her sense of repulsion. “I take it back. What did it say?”

  Trace shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. It...it’s not like the others.”

  “My God, what could be worse than threatening to kill me!”

  Wordlessly, he pulled the crumpled sheet out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  Mary read the terse message once. Then again. And again.

  Finally, she appealed to Trace. “This is too bizarre. It doesn’t make sense.”