Читать книгу Veil Of Fear - Judi Lind - Страница 10

The easy camaraderie Trace and Mary had enjoyed over their sandwiches had vanished like morning mist on the White House lawn. She tried a couple of times to draw him out, to find that genial companion of a few short moments ago. It was no use. Trace had retreated into his shell and locked the door firmly behind him.

He paced across the living room, as if suddenly ill at ease, pausing only to check and recheck the patio-door lock. His charcoal jacket swung away from his hip, and Mary saw for the first time that he was wearing a gun.

She felt weak and trembly all of a sudden. If Jonathan had hired an armed guard, then surely she’d been underestimating the danger. Suddenly, Mary was very glad to have the arrogant Mr. Armstrong around.

When he started toward the front door, she asked, “Are you leaving?”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob and nodded. “For tonight. So far, Mr. Regent’s authorized me to accompany you only when you’re outside this apartment. He doesn’t feel that you need twenty-four-hour-a-day protection. He thinks you’ll be safe here as long as you keep the door bolted.”

“And what do you think?” Mary asked, trying once again to reestablish the earlier rapport she’d felt with this enigmatic man.

Trace shrugged. “He’s probably right. I’ll check the roof access before I leave the hotel tonight, and tomorrow I’ll get a dead bolt for that adjoining suite. You should be safe enough for tonight. Besides, we don’t have any reason to believe this kook is going to do any more than send nasty letters.”

Mary crossed her arms and stifled a yawn. Even after that long nap she’d taken, she was still exhausted. “So, what’s the game plan for tomorrow?”

“I’ll be back early in the morning. You just go ahead with your normal plans and whither thou goest, I’ll tag along. Then, in the evenings, I’ll lock you up in your tower like Rapunzel.”

“Sounds exciting. Do I ever get to let down my hair?”

Trace groaned and walked to the door. “On that really awful pun, I’ll say good night. And, Mary—”

“I know, I know. Lock the door behind you.”

He nodded and disappeared into the hallway without a backward glance.

She followed behind him and bolted the door, then flipped on the security latch. Turning around, Mary faced the empty foyer. How much larger, and lonelier, her apartment seemed without Trace here. She went through the rooms turning off lights, and tried to ignore the way Trace’s presence still dominated her thoughts.

Now, she understood the lure of the perpetually bad boy. Suddenly, she felt more alive than she’d ever felt in her life. Every nerve ending was sparking. But all that raw, blatant sensuality he exuded was bad news. He was bad news. Men like Trace deprived a woman of her reason and self-control. If Mary had a lick of sense, she’d call Jonathan right now and demand a replacement bodyguard. An old one. Or a fat one. Even a muscle-bound hulk. Anybody but Trace Armstrong.

But even as the thought flitted through her mind, Mary knew she wouldn’t make that phone call.

* * *

LIKE A RECURRING nightmare, a thunderous pounding on the apartment door awakened Mary. She sat up with a groan. It seemed as though she’d just dozed off.

“Just a minute,” she called as the knocking continued nonstop. “Hold on.”

She stumbled into the bathroom for her robe and took a moment to quickly brush her teeth before hurrying down the hall to the front door.

She already knew who was at the door; only Trace’s “knock” sounded like a battering ram. After peeking through the peephole, she unlocked the dead bolt, disengaged the security latch and opened the door. Trace surged in, two large containers of what smelled like fresh coffee in each hand.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled in lieu of a greeting. “I was starting to worry.”

Mary shoved her hair out of her eyes. “What time is it?”

He balanced one container of coffee on top of the other and looked at his watch. “Quarter after seven.”

“In the morning?” Mary squeaked.

“Yeah, I’m late.” His eyes raked her length, from unkempt hair to bare feet. “Sorry to get you up so early, Your Highness. But some of us have to work for a living.”

Arghh! He was starting already. The last thing she felt like was more sniping and sarcasm. She’d hoped he would have slept off his surly mood of last night, but no such luck.

Not up to his brand of repartee this early in the morning, she muttered, “I’m going back to bed. You stay out here and...and continue working.”

She went to her bedroom and slumped into bed, pulling the mound of blankets on top of herself. But after ten minutes of turning, tossing and punching the pillow, Mary gave up. It was impossible to get to sleep with Trace just on the other side of the bedroom wall.

* * *

BY EIGHT O’CLOCK, Mary was seriously considering shooting Trace Armstrong.

He hadn’t even given her time to get dressed before he started making his demands. He wanted a key to her apartment, the addresses and phone numbers of all her friends and a list of every man she’d dated since she’d moved to the D.C. metropolitan area.

For the past half hour, Trace had prowled around her apartment, asking rapid-fire questions and muttering under his breath. Finally, her patience snapped.

She slammed her coffee mug on the counter and stalked into the living room. He’d gone out onto the balcony and was staring into the distance with a pair of binoculars.

Following him out into the chilly morning, Mary said, “I don’t know how you expect me to answer you when you’re grousing under your breath and then walking off in midsentence. What are you griping about now?”

He pointed toward two high-rise apartment complexes across the park. “Do you realize that you’d be an easy target for anyone over there with a high-power rifle? We’re going to have to keep your blinds drawn all the time.”

“Are you serious? You expect me to live in the dark and only leave my cavern if I’m escorted by you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And you shouldn’t go out any more than necessary.”

Mary snatched the binoculars out of his hand. She lifted them to her eyes and adjusted the focus. To her amazement, occupants of apartments a quarter mile away appeared as close as if they were standing on her patio. She shoved the glasses back at Trace. “My God, I feel like a Peeping Tom with those things. We’ll be lucky if someone doesn’t call the police on us!” She turned and stalked back inside.

Trace followed on her heels and pulled the vertical blinds closed behind him.

With an exasperated sigh, Mary switched on all the lamps and plumped down on the sofa. Scowling at the man who was now testing the ceiling tiles, she asked, “When do I get my bulletproof vest?”

Trace glanced down at her. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your tone this morning, Ms. Wilder?”

“If I had a hammer, you’d detect a knot on your head!”

“Tsk, tsk. A bad temper and prone to violence. Not a good combination.”

The man was maddening. He refused to acknowledge what drastic sacrifices he was asking her to make in her life-style. Worse, he flicked aside her complaints as easily as if he were swiping aside an irritating mosquito. Nothing seemed to ruffle him.

Trace glanced at his wristwatch. “All right, Mary Sunshine, what have you got planned for the day?”

She looked down at her disheveled appearance. “Take a shower and change my clothes.”

“Good start,” he agreed. “And then?”

“I have some phone calls to make this morning. Then I don’t have anything scheduled until after lunch. I need to meet with a bridal consultant at two this afternoon.”

Trace’s eyes darkened inexplicably. “Do you have a car?”

“No. If I don’t walk, I generally take a cab or Jonathan sends his limo.”

“Not anymore,” he told her. “Do you have an assigned parking spot in the hotel garage?”

She shrugged. “I imagine so. Why?”

“Because I’m going to park my car downstairs. We’ll take it when we need to go out. It’s too unpredictable having to rely on public transportation.”

Mary nodded. For the first time, one of his suggestions sounded reasonable rather than paranoid. “I’ll call the desk and arrange for you to pick up a parking pass.”

“Good. Since you have your morning planned here in the apartment, I’m going to run some errands. I’ll pick up the dead bolt for the connecting door and then I’m going to arrange for a locksmith I know to come install a special lock on that glass patio door.”

With a slow shake of her head, she said, “Isn’t that overkill, Trace? I mean, do you seriously think someone’s going to climb up seven balconies—outside occupied rooms—to reach mine? Without being seen?”

“No, I don’t think someone is going to scale the building, and no, I don’t think I’m being paranoid. I’m concerned someone could gain access to the roof and drop a rope over the side and slide down one floor to your balcony.”

“Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

Instead of the snide rejoinder she expected, he replied with a hint of modesty, “Well, this is what I do for a living. No one would expect you to think of things like that.”

He slipped on his windbreaker and started for the door. “Are you sure you feel okay about staying here alone for a while?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I imagine I can struggle through by myself for a couple hours.”

“You’d better have another cup of coffee. I think you need the caffeine.”

Mary slammed the door behind him and snapped the bolt with unnecessary force. What a pain in the... The man was more irritating than sand in a bathing suit.

She sighed and started for the bathroom. Turning the hot water on full force, she stripped off her robe and nightgown. She stepped under the relaxing, steamy flow and thought about Trace Armstrong—and her reaction to him. What was it about that man that made her want to punch his lights out one minute, only to find herself laughing at his droll humor the next?

It wasn’t just that he was annoying. Bob Newland was annoying and she didn’t like him.

Nor was it simply that Trace was so drop-dead gorgeous that he made her tummy wobbly. Heck, Jonathan was a very attractive man in his own right. More sophisticated. And certainly more...gentlemanly. But, although Jonathan’s kisses sometimes made her pulse race, she’d never felt that warm liquid rush in her insides when Jonathan walked into a room.

There was no doubt about it—Trace Armstrong was a sorcerer, a snake charmer. And if she wasn’t careful, Mary knew she could easily succumb to his brand of magic.

A harsh shaft of guilt shot through her. She was acting and talking to herself as if she were unattached, available. There was no need to concern herself with Trace’s raw magnetism, because she was promised to another man. She was going to marry Jonathan Regent.

Grabbing the shampoo bottle, Mary poured a lavish amount on her hair and kept repeating the little speech she’d just given herself. Maybe she could convince herself it was the truth.

After finishing her shower and blow-drying her hair, Mary went into the bedroom and deliberately selected the most unattractive outfit she owned. One of those tweed skirt and mud-colored sweater combinations she’d worn most of her life. Before Jonathan and Camille had helped transform her. Somehow, Mary hoped the unflattering outfit would make her feel less attractive, and maybe help repress her purely hormonal responses to Trace.

She’d just walked into the front of the apartment, when the doorbell buzzed. She frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and the hotel maids always serviced Mary’s apartment in the afternoon.

Feeling a chill of apprehension, she padded softly to the door and looked out the peephole. Camille Castnor’s distorted image stared back.

Mary quickly opened the door and stepped aside. “Camille! Come in, please. Did we have plans that I’ve forgotten?”

Camille entered the foyer and smiled. Even before nine in the morning, not a glimmering blond hair was out of place. Her black Donna Karan suit was perfectly suited to Camille’s tall, slender form. A simple gold brooch was her only adornment. Even though Mary thought the pale sable coat draped over her shoulders was a bit of an overstatement for a warm spring day, Camille was, as always, perfectly attired.

Mary sorely wished she’d chosen a different outfit. Even when she looked her very best, she felt frumpy beside Camille.

“I’m sorry to disturb you so early,” Camille said with her perfectly modulated voice. “And, no, we didn’t have an appointment. Actually, I had a yen to go over to Alexandria for some shopping. There’s a marvelous new boutique that Julie Stennard says is just too divine. Anyway, after I dropped the senator off, I decided on the spur of the moment to see if you wanted to go.”

Camille was the only person Mary had ever met who habitually referred to her husband by his title rather than his given name. “I’m afraid I have other plans today, Camille, but thanks for asking.” Leading the way into the living room, Mary asked, “Can I get you a cup of coffee? I was just about to make myself some toast.”

Camille took a few steps inside, then hesitated. “I’d love to, but maybe I’d better pass. As I said, I just stopped by on the spur of the moment. My car’s in the loading zone out front. Are we all still on for dinner tonight?”

“As far as I know,” Mary said.

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Have you and Jonathan decided yet on a date for the big event?”

“No. I imagine we’ll pick one pretty soon.”

“Well, my dear, you’d better get moving. You cannot imagine the million details we’ll have to attend to right away. Besides, you can’t even book the reception hall or the church until you’ve decided on a date.”

“I know. And I promise, we’ll make a decision soon.” Mary opened the door and Camille walked out into the corridor.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Camille reached into her oversize handbag and extracted a package. “This is for you.”

“Why, thank you!” Mary said, totally surprised. She’d recognized the extravagant packaging immediately. It was her favorite brand of chocolates. The forty-dollar a pound variety. She had always thought that Camille merely tolerated her because of Jonathan. And here Camille was, giving her a gift. What a lovely gesture. Mary made an immediate mental vow to try her best to warm up to Camille Castnor. “Please, let me fix you some coffee and let’s dive into this box.”

“No, thanks.” Camille laughed. “I’ve been a chocoholic ever since Jonathan bought me my first box of Splendoras. If I eat even one, I’ll snatch the entire package out of your hands.”

“I know what you mean. But I certainly appreciate this.”

Camille pulled her sable around her shoulders, and slipped her purse under her arm. “No trouble. I’ll see you this evening then.”

“Bye.”

Mary locked the door and carried the beautiful gold-foiled box into the dining room. Her lips curved in an eager smile.

Feeling like a naughty child, Mary untied the midnight blue ribbon. She hadn’t even known such things as Splendora Chocolates existed before Jonathan presented her with a two-pound box on their second date. It had been love at first bite.

Mary could hear her mother’s voice in her head, chiding her for even thinking about eating candy for breakfast. Laughing out loud, she decided that was one of the best things about being an adult—she could darn well eat chocolate for breakfast if she wanted. And she wanted.

Mary lifted the sparkling gold lid and selected one from the center—hazelnut liqueur, her favorite.

Carrying her gilded box into the living room, she curled up in her customary spot in the corner of the sofa and bit into the delicious confection. Heaven. Pure unadulterated heaven. Although a little sweeter than she remembered. But then, she’d never eaten Splendora Chocolates this early in the morning before.

Feeling totally decadent, Mary decided to delay her phone calls for a while. She topped off her coffee from the carafe on the end table, picked up a half-finished novel and draped a woolly afghan over her lap. One hour. She’d be a sloth for just one hour.

Mary licked a smear of dark chocolate from her fingertip. She could do serious damage to this box of delight in an hour.

* * *

FOR SOME inexplicable reason, Trace found himself whistling as he ambled down the hallway to Mary’s apartment. In complete contrast to his initial reaction to this assignment, Trace found himself looking forward to the next few weeks.

Since he’d gone into the private security business, he’d found himself guarding a half-dozen beautiful women. But their beauty had all been artifice. Faces surgically sculpted, individually applied false eyelashes, and fake nails an inch long. Mary Wilder, on the other hand, was a refreshingly natural beauty.

Twice now, he’d seen her looking...scruffy was the kindest word he could think of. But she hadn’t apologized or made excuses. She was who she was. That was a rare quality in a Washington socialite.

It was just too damn bad she had that five-pound diamond on her ring finger.

Burdened with packages of security devices, Trace paused outside her apartment. Lifting his foot, he lightly kicked the bottom of the door. “Mary! Open up. It’s Trace.”

There was no answering grumble from the other side of the door.

Deciding that she must not have heard him, he leaned over and punched the doorbell with his elbow.

Still, a full minute passed and Mary didn’t respond.

Annoyance rapidly mutating into concern, Trace dropped his bags and fumbled in his pocket for the key she’d given him. For once, he hoped she’d forgotten his standing order to keep the security bolt engaged.

While he was feeling for the loose key, Trace used his other hand to pound on the door. “Mary? Are you all right? Answer me!”

Not a sound emerged from the too-quiet suite.

Finally finding the key, Trace inserted it into the lock and pushed against the door. Thankfully, Mary had neglected to lock the security bolt and the door swung open.

Trace stepped inside and paused. “Mary? Are you in here?”

Only silence greeted his call.

Easing the door closed behind him, Trace drew his service revolver from the concealed holster beneath his windbreaker.

His senses were on full alert now and he moved into the dim apartment one careful step at a time. Slowly, stealthily, he made his way into the living room. Empty. As were the dining room and kitchen.

His back almost skimming the wall, Trace started down the hall to Mary’s room. Stopping outside the guest bedroom, he eased open the door. Dropping low, he jumped into the room, his gun held at arm’s length. After a quick but thorough check of the vacant room, he headed back toward Mary’s bedroom.

Her door was half-open and he could see that her rumpled bed was unoccupied. Using his shoulder, he pushed the door fully open, until the knob made contact with the wall. Then he stepped inside.

This room, too, appeared deserted.

At that moment, Trace detected the sound of running water in the adjoining bathroom. A shudder of relief rippled through him and he realized he’d been holding his breath.

Dropping his gun hand to his side, he crossed the room and rapped on the bathroom door with his knuckle. “Mary? Are you all right in there?”

Almost instantly, the door opened and she stepped out.

Trace sucked in a deep breath of alarm. Instead of the perky, somewhat contentious woman he’d been expecting, a wan and frightened Mary Wilder slumped against him.

Shoving his revolver into its holster, Trace lifted her weak body into his arms. He carried her to the bed and laid her head on the soft pillow and pulled the covers up to her chin.

He knelt beside her and took her trembling hand in his. “What is it, honey? What’s happened?”

“I...I think I’ve been poisoned.”