Veil Of Fear

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.