She wrenched herself away from her thoughts and finally recaptured her voice. “Please, come into the living room, Mr. Armstrong. We can talk there.”
She led the way into the dark room and flicked on a table lamp. Then two. She needed to flood the room with enough light to dispel this trance that had ensnared her ever since she’d opened the door.
Mary curled in the corner of the sofa and waved a hand toward a pair of easy chairs a safe ten feet away. “Have a seat, Mr. Armstrong. I suppose you’ll want to ask me some questions.”
Moving with the casual grace of the jungle cat he resembled, Trace tread lightly toward her, poised on the balls of his feet as if ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey. Mary had the fleeting sensation of being a field mouse, caught in a trap, unable to escape the advancing danger.
Not taking the proffered chair, Trace asked without preamble, “Is that door the only access into this apartment?” His voice was low-pitched, velvety and shot with a hint of menace.
Mary pushed a wayward lock of hair from her eyes. “No. There’s the balcony. But we’re on the eighth floor. I can’t imagine anyone scaling an eight-story brick wall to break in. There’s also a connecting door to the suite next door, but—”
“Show me.”
Taken aback by his brusque, almost rude manner, Mary decided two could play his game. Wordlessly, she uncoiled from the sofa and led the way down the hall, to her bedroom. Without turning on the light, she leaned in the doorway and pointed to a pair of white doors set in the pale blue wall. She didn’t bother to mention that one door connected with the adjoining suite, the other led to her closet.
He strode through the maze of her shadowy bedroom, looking neither to the right nor left, yet avoiding the dresser, the foot of the bed, even the jumble of clothing she’d dropped on the carpet. Again, Mary had the image of a jaguar weaving its way through the underbrush without disturbing a single leaf.
Trace grasped one of the door handles and tugged, pulling open the closet door. Undeterred, he entered the small walk-in and made a careful inspection of the interior. Then he stepped back outside and tested the connecting door to the adjoining suite.
“We’ll need to put a reinforcing dead bolt on this side of the door,” he said. “A child could pick this lock.”
Mary shook her head. “Jonathan—Jonathan Regent, my fiancé—owns this hotel. Both of these suites are reserved for his private use. No one ever uses the adjoining apartment. It’s always empty.”
Trace snorted in disbelief. “If that’s true, it’s even more dangerous.”
Mary’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Anyone who knows that room is never occupied would feel pretty secure about using it without permission. How many people know about it?”
Again, Mary shook her head in protest. “Hardly anyone.”
With a cock of his eyebrow, Trace held up his hand and began ticking off possibilities on his fingertips. “Let’s see, you know it’s empty, and now I know, as well. Then, there’s Mr. Regent and his key people. Not to mention the entire hotel staff, and probably most of their friends and relatives. Any other people live full-time in this hotel?”
Mary shrugged. “There are six penthouse apartments on this floor. Jon—my fiancé—retains two of them, there’s an old man who has a long-term lease, and a Japanese corporation keeps the fourth for when their executives visit the area. That leaves two penthouse units for visiting dignitaries. You’d have to ask the manager about the other floors.”
Nodding, Trace counted along on his fingertips. “So, in addition to the old man and the Japanese corporation, we could add Regent’s friends and business associates, and former hotel employees, as well. All in all, I’d say more than a few people are probably aware of the easy access to that vacant apartment.”
“Perhaps,” Mary said quietly. “But none of those people would want to harm me.”
He continued to watch her from across the room. The only illumination was the dusky light that seeped in through the window. Yet from the intensity of his stare, Mary had the strongest notion that Trace possessed powerful night vision like that of his feline counterpart.
Then, with a quick, decisive movement, he stepped forward. Within a few strides, he closed the distance between them. He eased his body close to hers in the doorway, bringing his face only inches away from hers. Inexplicably, her breath caught in her throat and her heart started to pound.
A shock of ebony hair fell over his forehead as he shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t be so naive that you think you’re safe in a city like Washington. Maniacs and stalkers thrive on sweet young things like you.”
She wanted to cover her ears against his words. Against all the ugliness he’d seen in his life that was now mirrored in those gold-flecked eyes. Instead, she whispered, “I’m not that young. And certainly not that sweet.”
Wordlessly, he raised a finger and reached toward her face as if to brush aside a strand of hair. For an eternal instant, his fingertip hovered just over her cheek. Mary’s skin flamed and she stood breathless, anticipating his touch.
Then, with a sudden jerk, Trace yanked away his hand as if he’d been stung by a scorpion. “I’d say you were sweet. You have an air of virginal innocence that makes you vulnerable to that kind of creep. And you are an innocent, aren’t you, Mary Wilder?”
When she refused to take his bait, Trace stalked past her, heading toward the living room and leaving a faint waft of musky scent in his wake.
She felt weak with fear. Nothing in her existence had prepared her for the strength of her reaction and the sure knowledge that this man held the key that could unlock her innermost thoughts and release her very essence.
But she was engaged to Jonathan. Steady, stable, reliable Jonathan. Even back in school, she’d never been tempted by the “bad boys” the way most of her female classmates had been. Mary had always been old for her years, more mature than her friends. This purely physical response to Trace had to be a case of delayed puberty. Raging hormones.
Hauling her rebellious pulse back under control, Mary followed Trace into the front of the apartment.
He was standing in the middle of the room, legs splayed widely, fists planted on his hips. “Let’s check out the balcony.”
Afraid her own voice might betray her, Mary mutely nodded and jerked open the drapes.
Twenty minutes later, Trace had managed to make Mary feel as if her apartment was wide open to anyone who wanted to trespass. Not only did he consider the balcony accessible, he also pointed out the false ceiling where someone could gain entry through the air-conditioning shaft.
Mary stood in the middle of her living room, her arms wrapped across her chest as if to protect herself from the horde of intruders Trace’s graphic description had conjured up.
“Now, before I get the details about your stalker,” Trace continued, “I need to lay down a few ground rules. For your protection. First, you’re not to leave this apartment unless you’re accompanied by either me or your fiancé, and preferably me. Second, I’m going to screen
