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.”
Chapter Four
A jolt of rage, heavily laced with fear, shuddered down Trace’s backbone. Until now, he hadn’t truly believed Mary was in real danger. He’d attributed her vague feeling of being followed to premarital jitters. Nor had he taken the note left under her door too seriously, dismissing it as a spiteful but harmless missive from her former boyfriend. No, from the moment Bob Newland had phoned him, Trace had expected this assignment to be mere baby-sitting duty.
He’d done his job, of course. Taken the usual precautions. But in Trace’s experience, only rarely did an anonymous note writer come out of the shadows to harm his prey.
Poisoners, however, were different. Far more twisted, and in Trace’s mind, far more evil. Usually closely associated with the victim, a poisoner was a deadly cold bastard who could stand and watch his target writhe in agonizing pain.
A trickle of sweat beaded down Trace’s cheek. Praying that Mary was wrong, that her stalker hadn’t made that horrible leap to attempted murderer, Trace leaned closer. With a gentle hand, he swept a damp strand of golden hair off her forehead. “Why do you think you’ve been poisoned? Maybe it’s just nerves. You’ve been under a terrible strain lately.”
Mary pushed his hand away and sat up. Her face was pale, ghostly pale and her lower lip trembled. As if overcome with the effort of sitting, she dropped back against the pillow. “It was the candy. I...I ate just a few pieces and became horribly ill. It had to be the candy. I was feeling fine before.”
Trace frowned. “What candy?”
Mary lifted an arm and pointed toward the living room. “Camille brought me a box of candy. Splendora Chocolates. My favorite.”
Dropping her hand, Trace leapt to his feet and bounded into the living room. A few moments later, he stalked back into the bedroom, bearing the gold-foil box. “I’ve called for an ambulance. It should be here in a couple minutes. How are you feeling?”
“Better, much better. Maybe...maybe I don’t need to go to the hospital.” To her amazement, Mary realized it was true. Now that the horrible surges of nausea had passed, she was feeling stronger by the minute.
Trace ran his fingertips along the ridge of her jaw, feeling the clamminess of her flesh. Mary’s voice was stronger but her skin was still ghastly white, tinged with rings of blue and lavender beneath her eyes. Trace shook his head vehemently. “We’re not taking any chances.” He laid the box of chocolates on the bedside table. “How did you receive this?”
Mary closed her eyes. “I told you. Camille Castnor.”
Trace’s eyebrows furrowed in surprise. “The senator’s wife?”
“Uh-huh. They’re both good friends of Jonathan’s. We see quite a lot of them.”
“When was the package delivered? How? A hotel clerk? Messenger service?”
Screwing her face into a frown, she raised herself onto wobbly elbows, tucking the sheet under her chin. “You’re not listening to me. I told you already. Camille brought them herself.”
Trace picked out a piece of dark chocolate candy and raised it to the light so he could examine it more closely. He didn’t see any signs of tampering, but a tiny puncture left by a hypodermic needle would be easy to erase. The poisoner had only to heat the candy slightly and smear the slick chocolate over the small hole. No one would suspect a thing.
He tossed the candy into the box and turned his attention to Mary. “This doesn’t make sense. If Mrs. Castnor wanted to poison you, she wouldn’t bring the candy herself.”
Mary scooted up against the headboard and pulled the blanket over
