Judi Lind - Veil Of Fear

“If you think that’s wise,” he responded tartly. On several occasions, Jonathan had hinted that Mary should drop her friends from Arlington. He felt she should cultivate new friends in his social circle. Jonathan didn’t understand that his social level was as unfamiliar to Mary as a foreign culture.

Interrupting her thoughts, Jonathan said, “What I think you should do, honey, is to take a long nap. Then soak in a bubble bath and order up room service. Leave Mark Lester to me.”

Mary bit her lip. She didn’t want Jonathan to get into a fight with Mark, but she also wanted to defuse this disturbing situation before it got worse. Reluctantly, she agreed.

“Good. Now, don’t you worry your pretty little head another minute—”

“Jonathan! You make me sound like a Barbie doll.”

There was a long pause before he continued, “I see you’re still distraught. I can understand that. But really, dear, you have to stop finding offense in every minor comment. Now, you take a nice nap and I’ll speak with you later.”

Mary felt less than satisfied with the outcome of their discussion but she was too emotionally drained to continue. After double-checking the lock on the apartment door, she went into her bedroom and pulled the drapes shut.

That king-size bed did look awfully inviting.

Ten minutes later, Mary was fast asleep.

* * *

“AH, ARMSTRONG! Glad you’re able to give us a hand on this.” Robert Newland ushered the newcomer into the conference room. Tossing a thick manila file folder on the polished teak conference table, Jonathan’s personal assistant raised a hand, offering Armstrong a seat.

The tall, slender man lowered himself into one of the swivel chairs and faced Newland. “What’s up? Another possible industrial spy you want us to run a check on?”

Newland seated himself across from Armstrong and steepled his fingers. “No, nothing like that.” He broke off and stared into space for a long moment, as if to gather his thoughts. “This is something that’s more of a...a personal nature.”

Armstrong leaned forward. “You know I can keep a confidence. Why don’t you just spit it out?”

Newland reached for the file folder he’d thrown on the conference table and pulled a sheaf of papers from it. The first item he passed to Armstrong was a color photograph of Jonathan Regent and his fiancée—taken from the cover of Newsweek magazine. “Did you happen to see this?”

Trace Armstrong glanced at the photo. “I haven’t been in Antarctica for the past two weeks. Of course I knew Regent was engaged. Kind of cute, isn’t she?”

Newland raised an eyebrow. “Cute like a fox. Crafty, shrewd and devious are words that come quickly to mind.”

“I gather you don’t care for the woman. Why not?”

Newland raised a hand. “Oh, it’s nothing personal, understand. It’s just that I can recognize a brass-plated gold digger when I see one. And believe you me, this Mary Wilder is a gold digger with two shovels!”

Trace retrieved the magazine photo and took a second look at the woman. Interesting. From the soft, guileless expression the photographer had captured, he would never have suspected the sweet-faced Mary Wilder of being after Regent’s money. “And you want me to dig around in her background, come up with a little dirt for your boss?”

Newland hesitated, then said, “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. But let’s hold off. Things may work out on their own.”

“How’s that?”

“It seems our sweet Mary is being followed. Stalked. Mr. Regent wants me to hire a full-time bodyguard for her. Of course, I thought of you.”

Trace shrugged. “No problem. I can put one of my people on it right away. Or did you want round-the-clock protection?”

“No.” Newland shook his head. “Right now, we think just someone to stay with her during the day. When she’s out and about. She’s staying at the Georgetown Regent. I think she’s pretty secure at night, but, of course, we’d like you to double-check the security.”

“Of course.”

Newland drummed the tabletop with his fingertips. “The other thing is, I don’t want one of your operatives on this job. I’d like you to handle it personally.”

“Wait a minute!” Trace’s head popped up. “You know that I don’t do fieldwork anymore. I’m retired to a desk, remember?”

“I know, and normally I wouldn’t ask you but...”

“But what?”

Newland paused, appearing to weigh his words. His slight, rabbitlike features were more pronounced than usual. “I want you to do more than protect the young lady. I want you to watch her, form your own opinion.”

“On what?”

Again, Newland paused. He glanced around the large office as if searching for listeners hiding behind the empty chairs. “Remember, this is in confidence?”

Trace Armstrong frowned. “You don’t have to ask, you know that.”

Leaning forward, Newland continued in a conspiratorial manner. “I think the whole thing is some kind of a con. I don’t think there’s a stalker. I think Mary Wilder is playing a game. Manipulating Mr. Regent into moving up the wedding date so she can get her hooks into his money that much quicker.”

“I see,” Trace said, not sure what else to add. He’d done a half-dozen jobs for Regent Hotels in the past year or so. They always paid well and promptly. Yet in all that time, Trace had never seen the slight personal assistant so riled. So agitated. This Mary Wilder must be some piece of work.

Trace rose to his feet. “I think I can free myself for a couple of weeks. Let’s see what our Miss Wilder is up to.”

* * *

MARY HAD NO IDEA how long she slept, but the insistent ringing of the bedside phone finally brought her to wakefulness.

Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she yawned into the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mary? What took you so long to answer? I was starting to get concerned.”

“Oh, Jonathan. I decided to follow your advice and take a nap.”

“Still sleeping? Oh, well, it really doesn’t matter. Listen, dear, I’ve been doing some more thinking about this problem. Even though I’m convinced that Mark Lester is our culprit, there’s no sense taking chances. Anyway, Bob Newland knew of a private bodyguard who has an excellent reputation and I’ve decided to hire him.”

“A bodyguard? That seems a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“More extreme than your buying a gun?”

“No,” Mary admitted, “I guess not.” But the very word bodyguard conjured up an image of a hulking brute about the size of a tractor trailer with bulging biceps and corded muscles where his neck should be. In the movies, bodyguards always had names like Moose or Tank. And their intelligence quotients usually matched their names. Nevertheless, right now she needed protection, not someone who read the Encyclopedia Britannica for pleasure.

As if taking her lack of argument for concurrence, Jonathan went on, “Anyway, this guy—his name’s Armstrong, by the way—should be at your place any minute now. Tell him everything that’s been going on. Show him the note. I realize I told you to throw it away, but you haven’t yet, have you?”

“No, I haven’t. But...do you really think I need a full-time bodyguard? It’s not like I’m a rich rock star, or something.”

Jonathan’s sigh was long and deep. “You still haven’t grasped the changes yet. Mary, sweet, you may not be wealthy but I am. This whole business stinks of Mark Lester, but I could be wrong. Someone could be using you to get to me. There could be a kidnapping in the works, who knows? I’ll just feel better if I know you’re protected.”

Mary heaved a sigh of her own. She was the one who had kept insisting that her intuition be taken seriously. She was the one who kept jumping at every shadow. So why was she now trying to decline the very help she’d been asking for?