Veil of Fear

by Judi Lind

  Even when she was dressed like an uptight society maven, she aroused him. Now, with her long delicate limbs exposed before his greedy eyes, Trace had all he could handle to keep from dragging her into his bed by that luscious blond hair.

  He watched as, with a graceful economy of motion, she lifted her foot onto the counter and smeared body lotion over the length of her leg. At that moment, Trace would have traded Jonathan Regent’s fortune to be that handful of creamy lotion.

  For days now, the thought of making love to her had been a ceaseless, pounding fantasy. The woman was driving him nuts.

  She straightened up and began smoothing the lotion over her arms, her shoulders, across the sweetly curved tops of her breasts. Lower. Her fingers massaged the liquid into her midriff, then lower still, onto her abdomen, dangerously close to the low-slung elastic waist of her panties.

  Trace closed his eyes tightly, imagining his mouth gliding over the same skin her fingertips had just massaged. Breathing in the delicious, musky aroma of her.

  Damn, he was going to lose it!

  He turned over and faced the wall, but the image wouldn’t fade.

  Without true awareness of when he’d moved from fantasy to reality, Trace rose from the bed and crossed the room to stand behind her. She was smoothing the lotion across her shoulders. Suddenly, her eyes caught his in the mirror. The inky darkening of her brown eyes gave her away; she’d been aware of his watchful eyes all along.

  Taking the small bottle of lotion from her hands, he whispered, “Here, let me help you.”

  He poured a small amount of the cool, slick fluid on his fingers and brushed his hand over the smoothness of her upper back. She sighed and leaned into his hard body, fueling the fires even higher.

  With a small whimper of desire, she turned around to face him. Trace lowered his hands to the countertop on either side of her, capturing her in the circle of his embrace. He gazed down into the smoky depths of her eyes, as they pulled him closer, a shimmering, hypnotizing force.

  “Mary-Mary,” he murmured, raising his hands to cup her face. His fingertips sought and found the tiny scar at the edge of her mouth. With an infinite sweetness, he lowered his lips to kiss the old wound. “Tell me about this,” he demanded gently.

  “Now?” Her voice was a husky eloquent reminder of the white-hot passion sizzling in the air between them.

  “Yes, now. I want to know everything about you, Mary-Mary. I want to know all of you. Taste all of you.”

  Flushing at the intimacy his words provoked, she breathed, “I was in my Tarzan phase. I slid off the grapevine.”

  He smiled and lowered his head once more, nuzzling her neck. “I won’t let you fall anymore, Mary. I’ll always catch you.”

  She bit her lip and plunged her fingers into his thick hair, drawing his face up to hers. Finding his mouth with her own, she demanded everything with her kiss. He willingly gave it.

  Lightly skimming his fingers up the smooth, satiny plane of her back, he bent over and trailed kisses along the path his fingertips had just taken.

  Mary shuddered in response and leaned back, pressing her gently rounded bottom against the hard vee at the crest of his legs.

  Lifting his mouth from her shoulder, Trace gently turned her around to face him. He stared at her in awe. Never had he known a woman so gentle yet so strong; so warm yet with a core of solid steel; so innocent and so very, very desirable.

  He touched her face, brushing her delicate eyelids, along the planes of her cheekbones and finally, pausing at the soft fullness of her lips.

  Wordlessly, Mary opened her lips and pulled his fingertip into the sweet moist cavern of her mouth. Suckling gently, she moaned with delight and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Feeling a shaft of desire so strong it was almost painful, Trace lifted with an arm under her thighs and seated her on the edge of the countertop.

  A wild, uncontrollable passion finally overtook them and he lowered his lips to her seeking mouth, replacing his finger with his probing tongue.

  Somewhere deep in the hidden recesses of his mind, Trace knew what he was doing was wrong. Unfair to Mary. He was taking advantage of her vulnerability. He’d hate himself in the morning.

  He didn’t care.

  Let the devil take tomorrow. Tonight, he had Mary. And that was enough for any man.

  * * *

  IT WAS STILL DARK when Mary awoke with the immediate sensation that something was wrong.

  Shifting slightly, she felt the warmth of Trace’s body lying beside her and, suddenly, she remembered their shared passion of last night.

  What had she done?

  Blinking away sudden tears, she inched off the bed and tiptoed into the bathroom. It didn’t matter that she’d already decided to break off her engagement to Jonathan. In her heart, they were already finished. But she hadn’t told him yet and, consequently, she’d broken a vow. Worse, she’d betrayed Jonathan’s trust and her own self-respect.

  As she stepped into the shower, she thought about the dinner she and Jonathan had planned for this evening. He was probably eager to hear the details of the extravagant wedding she’d arranged. The wedding that would never take place.

  Mary knew she couldn’t face that discussion. At least not yet. She had to get away from all the stress, go someplace where she could think. Where she’d be safe.

  She wanted to go home.

  Mary hadn’t been home since her father’s mild heart attack before Christmas, and she had a sudden, desperate need to cocoon herself in her parents’ loving embrace.

  Now that she’d made the decision, Mary could hardly wait to get started. She wanted to rush to Michigan where she would be protected and loved. Although it was still April and the weather was temperamental in the far north, conditions had been mild on the Upper Peninsula this year. Undoubtedly, her parents would be getting ready to move to their summer home on the shores of Lake Superior, a few miles outside Marquette. The place she loved more than any other on earth.

  Dressing quickly, she hurried into the bedroom and nudged Trace. “Wake up! Hurry!”

  Coming to his senses almost immediately, he grabbed for his revolver on the night table. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I...I just had an idea.”

  He flopped back down on the pillow and glared at the red glowing numerals on the bedside clock. “At 4:00 a.m.?”

  “Yes.” She sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. Ignoring the tantalizing rumple of his black hair against the white pillowcase, she slowly tried to explain. “I know what we did last night was wrong.”

  She held up a hand as he started to protest. “Let me finish. Please.”

  With a deep sigh, Trace locked his fingers around his wrists above his head and waited.

  Mary fingered the coins he’d pulled from his pockets and tossed on the bedside table. “I’m breaking my engagement to Jonathan. I should have done it as soon as he returned from his business trip, but I...well, he was too busy to see me and I didn’t force the issue. Anyway, after what happened between us last night—”

  “What happened is that we made love,” he interrupted. “Why can’t you say the words?”

  “Because I’m trying to forget it happened!” she snapped, angry with him for making her face her infidelity, her ultimate betrayal of Jonathan.

  Trace didn’t say a word, but a mask of cold indifference fell over his face as his jaw clenched. Wordlessly, he stared into her eyes, waiting for her to continue.

  “Anyway,” she said, shifting her eyes away from the icy aloofness of his, “I’ve decided to go spend some time with my parents. In Michigan. I want you to drive me to the airport.”

  Still without uttering a word, he pushed her aside and got out of bed.

  Mary stifled a sudden yearning as she looked up at the hard-muscled beauty of his nude body, highlighted by remnants of moonlight. “Will you take me?” she asked, grimacing at the unintentional double entendre.

  “I’l
l be ready in five minutes. Get your stuff together.”

  As good as his word, Trace came back into the bedroom in less than five minutes. Looking fresh and enticing from his shower, he stuffed his dirty clothing into his duffel and walked to the door. “Ready when you are.”

  Although Mary tried several times to engage him in conversation on the two-hour drive back to Asheville, Trace only muttered monosyllabic responses to her queries and initiated no dialogue on his own.

  He stood silently while she settled the rental car bill with her credit card and, later, made a careful examination of his fingertips while she attempted to cancel her dinner with Jonathan that evening. When Bob Newland answered, she merely asked him to pass along to Jonathan that she’d gone home to visit her family for a few days. Even if Newland was completely innocent of involvement with the stalker, he gave her the creeps and she didn’t want to divulge any information about her personal life to the man.

  The first time Trace spoke of his own volition was when they approached the airline counter to buy a ticket to Marquette, Michigan. “Make that two,” he said to the clerk.

  She whirled. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s all part of the job. Armstrong’s bodyguard and escort service. We aim to please. Did I, Mary? Did I please you last night? Maybe you could write me an endorsement?”

  “Stop it, Trace!” Catching the interested expression on the ticket agent’s face, Mary grabbed Trace’s shirtsleeve and pulled him a few feet away. “I tried to explain to you, but you heard only what you wanted. Don’t diminish what happened between us last night. Please.”

  “Haven’t you already done that?” he whispered.

  “Ma’am? How will you be paying for these tickets?”

  With a sigh of regret, Mary turned away from Trace to complete the airline transaction. More bereft than she’d ever been in her entire life, she felt alone and abandoned. She’d lost more than Jonathan, more than her heart, more than her self-esteem. The sharp stabbing pain in her chest was her undeniable reaction to losing Trace, as well.

  They had to hurry to catch the first flight to Chicago, where they’d change planes. Trace slept most of the way, sitting up only when the flight attendant served the bland, microwaved breakfast.

  After barely making their connection in Chicago, they made the short jaunt to Green Bay, where they changed planes once again for the final leg of the journey to Marquette.

  Since they only had carry-on luggage, it took only a few moments to make their way through the small airport to the taxi stand outside. There was an icy nip in the air and the sky was gray and overcast. A complete change of climate from the almost tropical warmth in the south. But while others might bemoan the harsh northern climate, Mary gloried in it.

  “I just can’t wait to get to camp again,” she enthused.

  Trace swiveled his head quizzically as he placed their bags into the trunk of a waiting cab. “Camp? As in community cabins and arts and crafts?”

  “No.” She laughed. “Camp is what everybody calls their summer place in these parts.”

  Sliding into the back seat, she smiled at the driver. “Five-twenty-six Pine Street. That’s off the Munising Road about four miles out.”

  “Camp,” Trace repeated as he slid in beside her. “Does this place have indoor plumbing by any chance? I’m a city boy, you know.”

  Catching the cabdriver’s eye in the rearview mirror, she rolled her eyes and laughed aloud. Not even Trace’s good-natured grumbling could blemish her unabashed joy.

  At long last, she was home.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Elizabeth Wilder stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on an ancient stained apron. “Mary! Darling! Why didn’t you tell us you were coming home?” She pushed open the glass storm door and waved her daughter inside, like a mother hen gathering her chick into the nest. “Come in, come in. John, come here a minute!”

  Wrapping her arm around Mary, the older woman hugged her tightly. “Your dad will be so happy. He hasn’t been the same since...well, you know, his illness. But you’ll sure perk him—Mary, for goodness’ sakes, I didn’t know you brought someone!”

  Pushing open the storm door again, Mrs. Wilder ushered Trace out of the cold. “You must be Jonathan. Mary’s told me all about you! Except she never said you were so handsome. Oh, Mary, this is a fine-looking young man. But, honey, somehow I’d gotten the impression that your fiancé was...was an older man.”

  Trace held up his hand, palm out, like a traffic officer stopping the flow of her words. “Actually, I’m not Jonathan Regent, Mrs. Wilder. Although I am pleased to meet you.”

  “Oh?” She looked questioningly at Mary.

  “This is Trace Armstrong, Mother. I, uh, have a lot to tell you.”

  “I guess you do,” Mrs. Wilder said mildly as she closed the front door behind them. “John? Are you coming? Mary’s home.”

  An hour later, the foursome sat around the scarred kitchen table drinking Elizabeth’s famous malted hot chocolate. Not wanting to cause her parents worry, especially in view of her father’s heart condition, Mary had given her parents a heavily edited version of the events of the past few weeks.

  Her mother’s conversation had focused on the change in men in Mary’s life and most of her queries had been channeled in that direction. John Wilder was simply so happy to see his only child that he just kept patting her hand and beaming, asking no questions at all.

  Suddenly, Elizabeth jumped to her feet. “Oh! I’ll bet you kids are starving. I’d better see to dinner.”

  She bustled around the kitchen gathering the ingredients for Mary’s favorite, Cornish pasties, a local tradition of a half-moon-shaped pastry filled with ground meat, onions and vegetables and baked to an aromatic rapture.

  John led Trace into the den, no doubt to show off Mary’s fishing trophies and baby photos, and Mary was left alone for the moment.

  The time had come, she knew, to make the phone call she’d been dreading all day. Slipping into her old bedroom, she curled up on her canopy bed and dialed Jonathan’s office number. When his voice-mail message came on, Mary broke the connection. Next, she tried his home phone number. After four rings, his service picked up. “Yes, this is Ms. Wilder. Has Mr. Regent left a number where he can be reached?”

  “Oh, hello, Ms. Wilder. Nice to talk to you. Where did I put that note? Oh, yes, here it is. Mr. Regent said he was sorry that you couldn’t make your engagement and that he had to fly to New York this evening. He’ll be in touch.”

  Couldn’t make their engagement. Most men would have said couldn’t make their appointment or couldn’t make dinner, but in his formal manner, Jonathan had unknowingly identified the problem. It was true; Mary couldn’t make the engagement.

  After giving the operator the phone number at her parents’ home, and leaving a message for Jonathan to return her call, Mary replaced the receiver. She should have been relieved that she had once more been spared the ordeal of breaking the news to Jonathan. Instead, she felt strangled, choking on the building tension, and wished it was over.

  It was as though a razor-sharp guillotine blade was suspended over her neck and she didn’t know when it was going to fall. Was the expectation worse than the actual blow?

  She didn’t know, but she did know that she was weary of her life being on hold. Although it had only been a couple of days since Mary had made her decision to break her engagement, it felt like weeks. She looked down at the enormous diamond still twinkling on her left hand.

  It would, of course, have to be returned to Jonathan. But until she’d told him in person—or at least on the phone—she felt uncomfortable removing the token of his affection. What if someone noticed her ringless finger and told Jonathan? It would be so awful for him to find out from someone else. Yet the platinum band felt like a yoke of indenture and she yearned to be free of her commitment.

  After dinner, they sat around the den talking until John yawned. Mary glanced at her watch. �
�My goodness, look at the time! Mom, don’t worry about those dishes, I’ll do them in the morning.”

  Mrs. Wilder had already shown Trace to the spare room, and joined her husband in their bedroom, when Trace rapped on Mary’s door.

  “Come in.”

  “Think your folks will mind if I make a long-distance call? I almost forgot that I wanted to check in with Harley Tobias.”

  “They won’t mind at all.” Mary pointed to the pink Princess phone beside her narrow bed. “Use this one. I want to hear what he found out.”

  She curled up in a wicker rocker and looked out the window while Trace phoned Harley in Virginia. She touched the pane with her fingertip. Even through the thickness of the dual pane windows, she could sense the bitter cold. Mary pressed her face against the cool glass and wasn’t at all surprised to see clouds of light snowflakes drifting past.

  Trace had finally reached Harley at his home and, as usual, the gruffly good-natured agent was one step ahead of them. By using his own sources, Harley had already discovered that Milo King had an older brother named Martin.

  “Did you happen to get any photographs of Martin King?” Trace asked.

  He listened to Harley’s response. “Is there someplace local you can fax them to me?”

  Again, a pause while Harley talked. Trace nodded. “That’ll be great, old man. I sure appreciate it.”

  Hanging up the phone, Trace said quietly, “I don’t know what good it will do, but Harley’s going to fax me copies of the photos he was able to dig up of Martin King.”

  Mary frowned. “Tonight?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know why, but I’ve got this...this feeling that everything’s coming to a boil. I don’t want to wait until morning.”

  His manner toward Mary in private was still aloof, but at least he didn’t seem as awkward with her as he had for most of the day. She took some comfort in his softer demeanor, yet missed the warmth and friendship that had been so much a part of their relationship. Before she’d spoiled it last night. “But where will you receive a fax this time of night? Nothing is open.”