by Judi Lind
Mary grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “Don’t baby me. I’m fine. Really. It’s just that I was thinking of staying in tonight.”
He shook his head decisively. “And wallowing in your problems. No way. Dr. Armstrong has a surefire prescription for the blues. Now, are you going to take your shower, or do I have to help you?” He waggled his eyebrows in a comic exaggeration of a lecher.
Despite herself, Mary laughed at his antics. He was good for her soul. “Okay, okay. What’s the dress code for this ‘joint’ you’re taking me to?”
“Casual to mid-dressy.”
Before she could head for the shower, the telephone rang. Mary, being closest, picked it up. “Hello? Jonathan. Are you back in town? Oh, tomorrow.”
Trace watched surreptitiously while she spoke to her fiancé. He didn’t get it. There was no love-talk, no dreamy expression on her face, nothing that would give truth to her claim of being in love with Jonathan Regent.
He unabashedly listened to her conversation while she glossed over last night’s events, and wondered again why Regent didn’t cancel his all-important business deals and come straight to his fiancée’s side. How much more money did the man need, anyhow?
Trace knew one thing: if Mary Wilder was his woman, he’d have been at her side night and day until the stalker was apprehended.
“Trace!”
At Mary’s stage whisper, he looked up. She had her palm over the receiver and was looking at him expectantly.
“Yeah?” he said.
“What’s the name of that restaurant you’re taking me to for dinner?”
“Cap’n Frank’s. Why?”
“Jonathan wanted to know. Said he thought he’d been there.”
Not likely, Trace thought as she returned to her murmured conversation. From what he’d learned of Regent, the man only frequented high-profile, ritzy restaurants where he stood a chance of having his photo snapped by the local paparazzi. Jonathan Regent had a penchant for the spotlight, and in Trace’s mind, that was why he’d dumped Camille Castnor in the first place. Although Camille certainly was an attractive woman for her age, she didn’t have the exquisite, soft beauty of Mary—nor the glamour of youth.
Again, Trace looked up as Mary’s voice rose. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. We don’t know for sure that it was him. This could be an elaborate setup by the stalker to make me think I’m safe.”
She listened a moment longer, shaking her head in response to Jonathan’s voice. “I just want to be sure before Trace leaves, that’s all. We’ll talk about it more tomorrow. All right. Good night.”
Trace was standing beside her when she hung up the receiver.
“So Regent doesn’t think my services are needed any longer?”
She shook her finger in his face. “Don’t you know eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves?”
“That’s part of my job.” He grinned. “And you never answered my question. Your boyfriend wants to fire me?”
“Not fire,” Mary hedged. “He thinks that since we can be reasonably certain the dead man was the one stalking me, I’ll be okay on my own. He reminded me how much I argued against a bodyguard in the first place.”
Trace tucked his fingertips in his jeans pockets and thrummed the carpeting with the toe of his sneaker. “So, what changed your mind?”
Patting his cheeks with her fingertips, she said, “The promise of an all-you-can-eat seafood dinner, what did you think? Now feed me, Armstrong. Feed me!”
* * *
THE DRIVE to the small beach community on the Chesapeake Bay was exactly what Mary needed to take her mind off her problems. The electrical storm that had threatened rain all last night had never really materialized, dropping only a light mist that cleared the air and colored the roadside a dazzling emerald green.
The sun was dipping low in the sky when Trace pulled into the gravel parking lot outside Cap’n Frank’s. At first glance, the restaurant did resemble a dilapidated beer joint, but closer observation showed the silvery gray boards on the exterior had been deliberately weathered to enhance its nautical appearance.
When they started up a small ramp, it swayed beneath her feet and Mary discovered delightedly that the ramp was actually a short dock. Cap’n Frank’s was a converted houseboat and sat directly on the water.
Inside, as they sipped icy margaritas and nibbled on crab-stuffed mushroom appetizers, Mary was glad she’d opted for “mid-dressy” attire. Although a quartet of rowdy young people in the corner were decked out in shorts and flip-flops, most of the patrons were slightly more formally dressed.
Like Trace. He looked absolutely gorgeous in white cotton trousers and a loose, aqua shirt made of fine linen. With his collar-length mane of thick black hair and the long, flowing sleeves of his open-neck shirt, Trace could have passed for one of the pirates that had prowled this area two hundred years before.
After a scrumptious, but far too abundant dinner, they adjourned to the cocktail lounge outside on the open deck. Mary patted her tummy. “That may have been the most wonderful meal I’ve ever eaten. It was certainly the largest!”
His appreciative gaze raked the length of her flower-sprigged sundress. “Glad you enjoyed it. Turn your chair around. Watch the sunset.”
Mary frowned. “Trace, the Atlantic faces east. The sun sets on the other coast.”
“Not from this side of the bay. See how this finger of land kind of curves around like a fishhook?”
Her enchanted gaze followed the path his finger directed and, suddenly, she gasped. The sun was, in fact, lowering itself to the opposite side of the shore. A fiery ball of color, it promised a spectacular finish to a glorious day. She twisted her chair closer to Trace’s and sat beside him while they watched the sky shift through a prism of colors. Bright crimson, burning scarlet, into a softer pink and finally, a pale purple haze.
Somehow, Trace’s hand slipped over hers. After a moment’s hesitation, she let it linger. She’d never felt more secure, more restful, more...happy in her entire life. Just being here with Trace made her feel whole.
She didn’t know how long they sat in silent communion, but when the waiter came to light the candles on each table, she was surprised to see that dusk had completely fallen.
When the waiter moved away, she lifted her glass of Kahlúa to her lips. As she tossed her head back to drain the delicious coffee-flavored dregs, Mary’s gaze met Trace’s. His eyes said all the words they’d both been avoiding for days. In those depths, Mary saw her own uncertainty and desire mirrored like a golden reflection. In that instant, she knew she was lost.
Trace shoved his half-empty glass aside. “Let’s get out of here.”
Wordlessly, she waited while he dropped several bills on the table, then taking her hand, led her out a side door and around to the little ramp.
Back on the shore, he passed by the parking lot, instead guiding them to the beach. Still saying nothing, they walked along the water’s edge, listening to the gentle lapping of water. Since they were at the bay, and not the ocean, there was no heavy surf crashing with dramatic abandon. Only the lonely, haunting cry of an occasional gull foraging for its dinner and the soft slap of water whispering onto shore.
Darkness had fallen completely before they stopped and stared out at the moonlit bay. The wind had picked up; its whistling melody sounded like a love song. Trace found a fragment of seashell, examined it carefully, then tossed it out to sea.
Without warning, he turned to her and pulled her into his arms. “Mary-Mary, you’re driving me crazy,” he whispered, plunging his hands into her hair, just before he lowered his head and kissed her.
Mary felt herself melting in his arms. His pure, male fragrance was intoxicating, and she found herself returning his kiss. This time there was no fooling herself. She was fully, exquisitely awake. What she was feeling was no foggy remnant from a sensual dream. Her need for Trace was real. Now.
Raising her arms to grasp his neck, she f
eathered her fingertips through the ruffle of hair at his collar while her lips made demands of their own.
When at last he released her, Mary laid her head against his chest, and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her heart thudded violently in response to his nearness, while a shaft of shame pierced her flesh. She’d never responded to Jonathan like this. Never.
The stalker had been right all along. She was a Jezebel, a betrayer of men. A wanton woman who allowed herself to be ruled by her deceitful passions. The kind of woman who didn’t deserve a man with Jonathan’s goodness. Or a man who made her heart sing like Trace.
Pushing away from his chest with her palms, she murmured, “We’d better get back now.”
“Mary, you can’t keep kissing me and then pretending it never happened. We need to talk about this.”
Guilt and embarrassment were consuming her, and in her pain she snapped at him. “We don’t have anything to talk about! That kiss was nothing more than a reaction to the moonlight, the liquor.”
“So it meant nothing to you?”
If she heard the cold warning edge of Trace’s voice, she didn’t heed its meaning. “Nothing! Except my shame.”
“Shame!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close, until their eyes were inches apart. “Don’t be ashamed of me, Mary. Not now, not ever. I may not be in the same financial league as your boyfriend, but there’s more to being a man than counting your money.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she cried. Why couldn’t she make Trace understand? It wasn’t him—it was her. She couldn’t betray Jonathan’s trust. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself. “Jonathan deserves better than this. And you deserve more than—” She broke off when a stinging sob caught in her throat.
His contempt leaking through his voice, Trace uttered coldly, “More than a quick toss in the hay with another man’s woman? Is that what you’re saying? Don’t worry about me, Mary. I won’t spoil it for you. I won’t tell your precious Jonathan that your love for him is about as real as your concern for me.”
Leaving her standing alone in the sand, with tears streaming down her face, Trace strode to the car.
At first, she wanted to call out to him, to make him understand. But, in the end, she decided his misunderstanding was for the best. Let him think the worst of her—she already thought poorly enough of herself. Besides, what did explanations matter? The hard truth was that Jonathan was a wonderful man and Mary wouldn’t betray him. Period.
In time, she’d get over this infatuation for Trace Armstrong. In a few weeks, months or maybe years, he’d be a vague but pleasant memory.
After a moment, Mary wrapped her arms across her chest and followed him.
* * *
WHEN MARY CALLED Jonathan’s office the next morning, Bob Newland told her gruffly that Jonathan wasn’t available.
“Oh,” Mary said, her disappointment heavy in her voice. “He told me he’d be back from Alaska, and in his office most of the morning.”
“He’s here,” Newland acknowledged. “But he’s in a meeting, and he left strict instructions that he didn’t want to be interrupted. Shall I have him return your call?”
“Yes, please. Right away.” She slowly replaced the receiver and leaned against the headboard. Bob’s response to her had been chilly, as usual, but had she detected any real menace in his voice? Enough to wish her harm? She just didn’t know.
She could hear Trace moving around in the sitting area. She didn’t want to get up yet, to face him yet. What must he think of her? What did she think of herself?
Mary had been anxious to speak with Jonathan this morning. She wanted to feel his gentleness, remember what it was about him that had attracted her. They’d been spending entirely too much time apart. People on the brink of marriage were supposed to spend every possible second together; building up that hot point of sexual energy that would be released on their honeymoon, bonding their relationship. That was why she was so sexually responsive to Trace. Her hormones were already in overdrive.
Trace’s cheery whistle penetrated the tissue-thin walls and Mary’s confidence waned. He wasn’t even in sight and her pulse leapt erratically.
The phone ringing beside her startled her. “Hello?”
“Mary?” Jonathan’s voice was brusque, almost to the point of irritation. “What is so important?”
Their relationship. Her emotional infidelity. Couldn’t he hear the crisis in her voice?
“I wanted to talk to you. See you,” she told him.
There was a long hesitation. When he spoke again, his voice held a strange chilling remoteness. “Why?”
“I...I just miss you, Jonathan.”
“I have a business dinner tonight with some of the boys.”
The boys, Mary knew, was a euphemism for the political machine that was considering backing Jonathan’s bid for election. “How about lunch?”
She heard him flipping through his calendar. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m due in Richmond at one. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Jonathan? Is something wrong? I mean, we’re supposed to be getting married soon and you act like...like I’m a stranger off the street pestering you for a job.”
“Sorry,” he responded in that strangely clipped tone. He was silent for so long, Mary thought they might have been disconnected. Finally, he sighed deeply, sadly, and continued. “Mary, love, you’d better learn to be more cognizant of the stress I’m under. I make more momentous decisions before noon than you’re apt to make in a lifetime. I have a living to earn—for both of us. Someone has to pay for your designer gowns and penthouse apartments.”
“I’ve never asked for those things! For anything! Jonathan, I think we really need to have a serious discussion. Our relationship has gotten off track somewhere and—”
“You’re absolutely right,” he cut in. “That remark was uncalled for. I’m just...under a lot of pressure right now, darling.” His voice softened dramatically, as he became almost supplicating in his tone. “Forgive me, sweetie-pie? Please?”
Mary didn’t know which was more annoying, his occasional high-handedness or his silly baby talk when he was trying to regain her good graces. Still, knowing the telephone was no place to discuss the intricacies of their relationship, she forced a light tone into her own voice. “Of course, Jonathan. But I still want to talk with you.”
“Tomorrow night. Promise. I’ll take you someplace really special and we’ll have a private leisurely dinner. You can give your watchdog the night off.”
Unaccountably stung by his demeaning remark, she felt her hackles rising anew. “He’s not a watchdog, Jonathan.”
“My, we are touchy today, aren’t we? Very well, give your man the night off tomorrow. Oh, by the way...”
“Yes?”
His nonchalant manner told her they’d at last gotten to the crux of Jonathan’s annoyance. He was a consummate poker player, and the milder his tone, the more angry Jonathan was. “The desk clerk told me that you’d refused to move back into the apartment. Did the workmen leave something undone?”
Perhaps he felt her rejection of the apartment was in some way a rejection of him. How could she tell him that the luxurious penthouse suite now made her blood run cold? “The apartment looks fine, Jonathan. The workmen did a wonderful job restoring the place. It’s just that I’m still uncomfortable there. I don’t feel secure.”
“I thought that’s why we were paying your watch—your bodyguard such a handsome salary. To make you feel secure.”
They haggled over Mary’s living arrangements a few moments longer, before Jonathan abruptly ended the discussion, saying he was late for an appointment.
Mary strolled into the tiny bathroom for her morning shower, feeling strangely apprehensive. As the hot blast of water poured down on her like a fountain of knowledge, she suddenly realized she could no longer pretend otherwise: she didn’t love Jonathan Regent. She’d been infatuated, surely. Overpowered by his charisma. But never really in lo
ve.
Whether anything ever developed between her and Trace wasn’t the point any longer. She had to break up with Jonathan, and the sooner the better. To do anything else would be deceitful and cruel.
As she rinsed a film of sudsy lather from her hair, Mary felt a shudder of trepidation. Jonathan wasn’t going to take this well, not at all.
She was still dressing, when she heard a heavy rap at the front door. Tucking a cotton T-shirt into her denim shorts, she poked her head out of the bedroom.
Trace was showing the FBI agent, Harley Tobias, into the sitting area.
Quickly twisting her damp hair into a short braid, Mary slipped on her sandals and hurried to join them.
Trace was straddling one of the chairs by the dinette table while the titanic agent was taking up most of the love seat. They both rose to their feet when she walked in.
“At ease.” She smiled in greeting, carefully avoiding looking into Trace’s eyes. Taking the other dining chair, she sat a careful distance away from him. “What’s up, gentlemen?”
Not looking at her, Trace poured her a cup of coffee and pushed a bag of doughnuts her way. “Harley bought breakfast.”
“Thanks.” Mary reached into the grease-smeared white bag and found her favorite, a plain doughnut with a granulated sugar coating. After she washed down the first bite with a sip of the strong coffee, she and Trace both turned expectant faces toward Harley.
“We had a bit of luck in identifying your homicide victim.” The agent reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper covered with computer type. Handing the sheet to Trace, he continued, “He was a veteran, so his prints were on file. His name was King, Milo King. Mean anything to you?” He raised a sharp, black eyebrow in question.
Mary shook her head slowly. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before. Do we know where he was from?”
“Before his air force hitch, he was a factory worker in Kramer, a small town in the mountains in North Carolina.”
Mary frowned. “I’ve never been to North Carolina in my life. How could this man know me?”