a minute, Armstrong.” Mary held up her hand, halting him in midsentence. Trace’s abrupt manner and bossiness had finally broken through the fog she’d been wallowing in since Jonathan’s phone call had snatched her from sleep.
“The first thing I’m going to do,” she declared, “is go in the kitchen and make myself a cup of coffee. After that, we can either sit down like civilized human beings and discuss which of your suggestions I may or may not want to implement to enhance my security. But what we’re not going to do, Mr. Armstrong, is continue this little power play where you try to scare the living daylights out of me and then start telling me how I’m going to live my life. Do I make myself clear?”
“What’s clear is that you’re the one who’s apparently in danger—not me. You arranged for your sugar daddy to hire me, Ms. Wilder. You need me, not the other way around.”
Sugar daddy! Mary’s palm itched with a sharp need to slap the knowing smirk off this Neanderthal’s handsome face. Wrapping her anger in a coating of sarcasm, she said slowly, “Nevertheless, Mr. Armstrong, my ‘sugar daddy’ will be paying your salary. If I decide to engage your services—and that’s a very big if. Now, I’m going to fix that cup of coffee. Should you still be here when I return, then we’ll discuss the possibility of your employment—on my terms.”
With that she whirled and strode out of the room in what she hoped was a confident, assured manner.
Trace stood in the living room, moored in her wake. Whew! Ms. Mary, Mary Quite Contrary had a long fuse, but once it was ignited, that woman went off like a neutron bomb. Not that he hadn’t deserved the resulting explosion, Trace thought ruefully. From the moment Bob Newland had referred to his employer’s fiancée as “something of a gold digger,” Trace had felt the first pang of enmity.
Too often in this business, he’d seen rich, powerful men brought down by “helpless” women whose only goals were to separate their lover from his money. Careers, families and even lives had been lost when private affairs suddenly became public fodder.
Once, Trace had guarded a presidential candidate whose career was ruined by a single indiscretion. He’d been a decent man, and Trace had been an unwilling witness to the man’s shame and humiliation.
Remembering that sad time, Trace’s first instinct had been to turn down this assignment. That would have been the smart thing to do. And he would have if he hadn’t been so busy playing head games with himself that he’d blotted out common sense.
Still, there was no denying that by the time he’d arrived at this penthouse suite, he had built up a full head of steam.
Then Mary Wilder had opened the door and her ingenuous face had pushed him over the edge.
You should have walked out right then, Armstrong, Trace chided himself. He was no match for wide brown eyes glowing in an angelic face. Eyes that could make the strongest man bend to their will.
It wasn’t too late. He should leave right now. He could send any one of a half-dozen competent ex-secret service agents to Bob Newland for this job. But even as the thought whispered through his mind, Trace knew he wouldn’t do it.
Mary Wilder was afraid. He’d seen it in the faint blue smudges beneath her eyes. Seen it in the way she kept hugging herself, as if to ward off harm. Trace had seen the fear even when she’d lifted her chin in defiance just before she’d darted into the kitchen.
Whatever he felt about Mary’s motives in becoming engaged to the wealthy and much older Jonathan Regent, one thing was clear: someone was terrorizing the bride-to-be. And Trace had had his fill of a world where the bullies ruled by intimidation.
Turning on his heel, he followed Mary into the narrow galley-style kitchen. “Got any more of that coffee?”
To her credit, she didn’t gloat at his capitulation. Taking a stoneware mug from a wooden stand, she raised a questioning eyebrow. “How do you take it?”
“Black.”
She handed him a steaming mug and pointed to a plate of sandwich fixings on the counter. “I didn’t have supper. Would you care for a sandwich?”
Trace’s salivary glands shifted into overdrive. He hadn’t eaten dinner, and had only taken a couple of bites of a greasy burger at lunch. When was the last time he’d sat down and eaten a complete meal? Sharing a late snack with Mary suddenly sounded very appealing. “Here,” he said, setting his mug on the counter. “Let me give you a hand.”
While Mary rustled up plates and condiments, Trace slapped together a small platter of sandwiches. By silent accord, they carried their bounty into the dining room and settled across from each other at the glass-topped table.
For a time, they ate without speaking. Then, as Mary leaned back to sip her coffee, Trace polished off his third sandwich and wiped his mouth on the soft linen napkin. With a replete sigh, he picked up his own mug. “So, tell me about your stalker.”
After a long pause, Mary lowered her gaze and recited dully. “I don’t really remember the first time I felt like I was being followed. A couple of weeks ago. Just after Jonathan and I announced our engagement.”
“How many times has it happened? That feeling of someone watching you?”
She frowned. “Five. Six. I’m not really sure.”
“What did you do about it?”
“I talked it over with Jonathan and he said I should ignore it.”
Trace’s coal black eyebrow lifted. “Ignore it? Strange reaction for a man whose future wife is being threatened.”
Feeling it her duty to defend Jonathan, Mary sat up, and insisted, “Oh, no! It wasn’t like that. I mean, you see, at first Jonathan thought it was just my nerves.”
“Are you prone to nervousness?”
“No, but...but so much has happened in my life so quickly that...that I haven’t really been myself lately.”
“I see. So if Mr. Regent thought you were a little overwrought, what changed his mind?”
Mary raised her hand, lifting a thick fall of hair and letting it drift through her fingers back onto her shoulder. “Today I was certain I saw someone. Jonathan seemed to believe me, but...”
“But what?” Trace prodded.
“Jonathan was convinced that if I was being spied on, that it was an old, uh, friend of mine. Mark Lester.”
“Friend? Or old boyfriend?”
Mary shrugged. “We dated, but nothing serious.”
It was on the tip of Trace’s tongue to ask if Mary and this Mark Lester had been lovers, but he sensed that she’d hate the intrusion. Besides, why was he so interested in her love life, anyway?
Instead, he asked, “Is this the kind of stunt your former boyfriend would pull?”
Mary squirmed in her chair, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Again, Trace had the impression that she was a very private woman, unused to divulging details of her personal life. Finally,
