Bodyguard Reunion. Beverly Long

retentive. But he didn’t appear to care how she kept track of her life.

      He pointed at the first entry, a two-hour block this afternoon, that she’d labeled “Financial Review/Cole Hager/Wallington Hotel.”

      “Cole Hager. Who is that?” he asked.

      “He’s the senior analyst for a large mutual fund. Our board is hoping that he’ll come out strong in support for us.”

      “Isn’t it the CFO’s job to talk to investors about financial results?”

      “Yes. And he’ll probably do that. But I’ve met Cole once before and it’s not that strange that he’d want to talk to me, too.”

      “He can’t come here?”

      “I don’t want to ask him to do that. At this point, it would look like a power play on my part and that’s not in my best interest.”

      He made no response to that. Simply settled his index finger on the X that she’d used to block out 10:00 a.m. to noon the next day with Sparrow next to it. “What’s this?” he asked.

      She’d written the information on the sheet after she’d printed her electronic calendar. Her assistant would be upset that it wasn’t appropriately color coded. “Sparrow is the room name,” she said. “Evidently, all their meeting rooms are named after birds.”

      “What’s happening there?” he asked.

      “That’s the panel presentation I mentioned this morning. I wasn’t originally scheduled to do it but evidently one of the original presenters had a conflict. Wayne Isman contacted me and asked if I’d fill in.”

      “Wayne Isman. Your old boss at Geneseel?”

      She was surprised that he’d remembered. “Yeah. We’ve kept in touch over the years. We do some humanitarian work in Africa together. This particular presentation is on new pathways to fighting drug-resistant bacteria. Wayne knows that’s a topic near and dear to my heart and he figured I wouldn’t need much prep time.”

      “Who else is on the panel?” he asked.

      “Besides Wayne and me, there’s a physician from Mass General.”

      “Name?”

      She knew where this was going. “Really, Royce? You think my two fellow panelists are hit men in disguise?”

      “I think that they’ll be the two closest to you during the event. That automatically puts them on my watch list.”

      “Fine.” She reached into her bag that was at the end of the couch and pulled out a sheet of paper. “This is hot off the press. Wayne is getting enough printed that we can give one to every attendee.”

      He stared at the paper and she regretted the impulse to show it to him. Not only were there biographies for Wayne Isman and Dr. Lilah Moorhead, there was also one for her. He knew her educational background and her work history. But would he be surprised to learn that she’d served on a presidential committee? Or that she authored a white paper that had gotten her an appearance on the Today show?

      “I remember you thinking a lot of Wayne Isman,” he said, pointing at the man’s picture.

      She was grateful that he didn’t want to talk about her. “He was a wonderful boss. I learned so much from him. Very bright and, of course, he’s got that killer accent, too,” she added.

      “Australian, right?” he asked.

      She nodded. “I could listen to him read the phone book and be totally entertained.”

      “The phone book, huh? I haven’t run across one of those, but there’s a manual that describes how the dishwasher works in that cupboard.” He pointed across the room.

      It was a spark of the old Royce, the one who made easy jokes and found pleasure in silly things.

      “I’m sure that would be lovely, too. Wayne is one of the most respected people in the industry,” JC said. “The project we’ve been collaborating on is making children’s vaccines more readily available in underdeveloped countries.” She paused. “Of course, I let him do most of the talking in the meetings.”

      “The accent thing,” he said. “I got it.”

      He was staring at the paper. Wayne was a good-looking man. Was it possible that Royce thought they were collaborating on more than the vaccine project?

      “Wayne Isman has been married for many years. He talks about his wife all the time. I met her once and thought she was lovely. And he’s crazy about his three daughters.”

      “How nice for him,” he said, as if he couldn’t care less.

      Maybe she’d read him wrong. Or maybe she’d been hoping that he was just a teensy bit jealous.

      She was pathetic.

      “Do attendees preregister for these sessions?” he asked.

      “No. This is like most conferences. There are concurrent sessions and attendees are free to choose whatever sparks their interest at the time. There are probably seven or eight different sessions in each time slot. Presenters have been advised to plan for 150 to 200 attendees.”

      “I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he said.

      “We’re not confident that it’s even a real threat.”

      “We’re not confident that it isn’t.”

      She sighed. “Look, I don’t want it to be obvious that I’ve got security.”

      “I’ll do the best I can,” he said. “But no promises. If I feel that the situation warrants it, I’m going to shut it down.”

      “The session?” she said incredulously.

      “At least your participation in it.”

      He was serious. “Royce, I have a professional reputation to maintain.”

      “My job is to keep you safe. That’s the priority.”

      Of course that was what she wanted, too. “All I’m asking is that if it’s possible, I’d like the two goals not to be mutually exclusive.”

      He shifted his attention back to the calendar. Six to ten on Thursday night was colored green and labeled Ballroom. “Is that the awards dinner?” he asked.

      “Yes. It may not last that long, but I wanted to plan on the careful side.”

      She was not the type to arrive three minutes before going onstage—after anyone remotely responsible for the event had had a mild stroke for fear that she wasn’t going to show—and then leave as soon as the applause had ended.

      She would arrive on time, mingle with other attendees, participate in dinner conversation, hopefully give a great speech and then hang around to answer questions afterward.

      He leaned back in his chair. “Who else has access to your schedule?”

      “Glory, my administrative assistant, and I are the only one who can see the details. Others, many others, of course, can look at my calendar and know if I’m busy or out of the office. Makes it easier to schedule things.”

      “We need to change that. Immediately.”

      “But—”

      Royce shook his head. “Can Glory do that on your behalf?”

      She nodded. This was a small hill. Certainly not one she intended to die upon. “Yes.”

      “Good. And I need Glory’s information. Full name, address, social.”

      “Miatroth has a rigid background screening process, I assure you.”

      “I don’t care. How long has she worked for you?”

      “Five years.”

      “No