likes being dumped.”
“I guess you’re right,” Mary agreed. “And Mark does have an overgrown ego.”
Trace reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black notebook and ballpoint. “Do you know Mark Lester’s address? Phone number? What’s he do for a living?”
Clearly relieved by Trace’s professional manner, Mary filled in the details about Mark.
When she was finished, Trace flipped the notebook closed and dropped it on the table. He finished off his now-cool coffee and pushed the mug aside. “Did you ever actually see anyone when you thought you were being followed?”
Mary’s forehead furrowed in concentration. “I’m not sure. A couple times I caught a blurred movement out of the corner of my eye. I had the impression of someone ducking around a corner or into a doorway.”
So far, all he had to go on were some shadows Mary might or might not have seen. Jonathan Regent was a busy man, obsessively ambitious, according to Bob Newland. Was this shadow man of Mary’s her way of trying to get more of her fiancé’s attention?
Lost in thought, Trace rubbed his chin with his fingertips and was surprised to encounter stubble. Surely he’d shaved that morning. Great. Now he was forgetting to eat and shave. Why the hell couldn’t he get his life back on track?
Not wanting to deal with his own screwed-up life, he turned again to the woman who was watching him with quiet absorption. “Okay, Mary, now I want you to think very carefully about the last two weeks. Close your eyes, it might help. Try to recall where you were and what you were doing when these events occurred. Visualize all the people standing around. Was there anyone, a bum, a traffic cop, anyone you can remember seeing on more than one occasion?”
She hesitated, then followed his instructions. The moment her eyes drifted shut, it was as if she had removed a lovely mask, revealing a vulnerability that was almost painful to behold. Mary Wilder was a woman without artifice, without contrivance. Her lessening fear and her growing confidence in Trace were clearly etched on her features. The inner beauty, inner honesty she had unwittingly exposed was rare among the women of Trace’s acquaintance, and utterly beguiling.
He watched her mobile face as the memories flitted through her mind. Suddenly, she chewed her upper lip and frowned. “Yes! A man.”
Her eyes popped open and she stared at Trace in wonderment. “I remember now. I didn’t really get a good look at him, or even particularly notice him at the time, but I saw the same man at least twice. Once when I was coming out of Jonathan’s office in Alexandria. Then, a few days later, that same man was standing across the aisle from me in a department store.”
Trace reached across the table and enveloped her hand in his. She had good mental recall—if it wasn’t her imagination painting a very vivid picture. “Now, take your time. Don’t rush it and don’t let your imagination manufacture any details. But try to remember everything you can about this man. How tall was he? What color hair? What was he wearing? How do you know it’s the same man?”
Leaving her hand tucked in his, Mary closed her eyes again and tried to conjure up a mental picture of the man who’d looked so out of place in the lingerie department of Woody’s. “He was wearing blue jeans. Old jeans, patched. And work shoes. The kind that lace up.”
“You’re doing just fine, Mary. Now keep that picture in your mind. Don’t open your eyes.” Trace lowered his voice to a smooth monotone so as not to divert her attention. “Try to visualize his features. Can you remember what he looked like? Did you see his face?”
Shaking her head pensively, Mary murmured, “No. I couldn’t.”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“The bill of his cap covered his face. That’s it!” Her eyes blinked open. “That’s why I noticed him. It wasn’t the work clothes. He was wearing a cap, like a baseball player. But it wasn’t a Redskins cap or one from the Baltimore Orioles. You see those all the time around here. No, this one was different but I can’t remember—”
“What color was it?”
“Purple,” she answered promptly. “Bright purple with a huge gold insignia. Some kind of animal, I think, but I can’t really recall.” Her eyes darkened with disappointment.
Trace patted her hand. “Don’t push it. It’ll come back to you when you’re not concentrating so hard. You did just fine. One last question, then we’ll move on. Think about this man’s overall size and appearance. Could he have been Mark Lester? Maybe wearing work clothes as a disguise?”
Her eyebrows dipped as she considered his question. “I suppose so. He was about the same size as Mark but I never had the impression that it was Mark. I just don’t know.”
Trace picked up his pen and scribbled a note in his pad. “That’s okay, at least we know not to rule him out. Tomorrow I’ll start a background check on Lester.”
She cocked her head. For the first time, he noticed a faint inch-long scar running from the edge of her upper lip into her cheek. Somehow, the small imperfection only highlighted her gentle loveliness. Made her more vulnerable, softer. He had an urge to touch his lips to the scar, and kiss away the long-ago pain of her injury.
Mary must have felt his gaze fasten on her lip because she raised a hand to her mouth, covering the scar. The gesture was almost automatic and told him how sensitive she was to the flaw.
“How do you go about checking into a person’s background?” she asked. “Are you like a private investigator?”
He smiled mirthlessly. “Not really. But I’ve still got a few friends with connections. Computer connections.”
“Oh. So, how does one become a bodyguard, in the first place? Most boys want to be a doctor or fireman when they grow up. Maybe a policeman. Did you always want to be a bodyguard?”
“No. I wanted to be a Mafia hit man or a jewel thief,” Trace answered with a straight face. “Just joking,” he added when he saw her stricken expression. “Actually, I planned on going into the FBI after college but somehow I got sidetracked and ended up in the secret service.”
“Why did you leave?”
Trace felt his back go rigid. How had they meandered into such dangerous territory? He didn’t want to talk about the near-fatal shooting that had left him lying in a hospital bed for months, wondering if he’d ever walk again. Hell, he didn’t even want to think about those endless weeks. But her words had already evoked the nightmare. A bead of sweat tickled his forehead as he vividly recalled the agonizing hours of physical therapy. And the million disappointments before the first small flare of hope.
Now, he felt Mary’s eyes on him, studying him with curiosity. After nearly two years he should be able to come up with some cute quip to explain his early retirement. He’d even thought of a cocky rejoinder—something about being shot by a jealous president. Trace should be able to laugh the whole thing off and keep his private hell locked away, but he couldn’t find the bantering tone necessary to pull it off. When he finally answered, his voice was tense and guarded. “Retired. Disability.” He stood up.
All business once again, he asked her for the anonymous letter she’d found earlier.
The note Mary handed him was typical
