The Bodyguard: Protecting Plain Jane. Debra Cowan

the threat that her kidnappers would find her and hurt her even worse, in any number of ways, if she tried to escape and trust her own decisions and be free again.

      With a weighty, sorrowful sigh, she pulled her black trench coat more tightly around the skirt and sweater she wore. She let her fingers slide into her pocket to touch the brand-new phone with the unlisted number that her father had given her. She could call for help anytime she needed to. Too bad there wasn’t a number she could call to make her feel truly warm and confident and normal again.

      When the low tones of “Amazing Grace” filtered in through the walls of the limo, Charlotte turned her attention toward the green tent again. The service was winding down and people were moving, probably to lay a flower on the casket or express condolences to Mrs. Eames, her children and grandchildren. Charlotte’s heart rate picked up a notch in anticipation. She wanted to be one of those people trading hugs, holding someone close to share her grief.

      But she couldn’t. Even if she could see some faces now, they were all strangers to her. How could she face them, wondering if the man who’d killed Richard and terrorized her was one of them? Was there someone else in that crowd waiting to knock her senseless and take her away from everything she knew and loved in exchange for her father’s money? Was there someone out there who wanted to kill her, too?

      Besides, the mourners weren’t the only crowd at Mt. Washington today. Down at the bottom of the hill, at a restricted distance beyond the line of cars, was a gathering of reporters, complete with microphones and television cameras. They might be waiting for a glimpse of Jackson Mayweather or a sound bite from one of his stepchildren or second wife, but there’d be a crazy dash if they knew that, after ten years of hiding from Kansas City society, the Mad Miss Mayweather had ventured out of her ivory tower. And no matter how badly she wanted to pay her respects, she wouldn’t risk the potential media circus of her appearance detracting from the Eames family and the sadness of the day.

      So she’d sit right where she was until the crowd cleared and her father came to get her to walk her up to the grave site.

      When she realized she was watching the clock as closely as her time-obsessed stepbrother, Charlotte flipped her watch around on her wrist and reached down to scratch Max’s head. “We just need to be patient. After ten years of solitude, you’d think I’d know how to do that, right?”

      Max answered with a sniff of her hand and a bored look in his round brown eyes. Leaving him to polish off his chew toy, she returned to the task of spying from her anonymous vantage point. The mourners were spread out across the hillside now, trickling down to their cars—walking in small groups, stopping to chat with old friends. As the crowd thinned, she spotted Alex and Audrey with one of the uniformed guards from Gallagher Security. Two motorcycle cops from KCPD cruised by, pulling into position at the front of the procession.

      A tall man climbed out of a police SUV parked up ahead, hunching his shoulders against the rain as he crossed the road to speak to the traffic cops. Charlotte pulled one knee beneath her and sat up taller. She recognized that man in the black SWAT uniform. Salt-and-pepper hair. Air of authority. He was Alex’s captain, one of the men she’d seen him talking to the night of Richard’s murder.

      A second man from Alex’s team, lanky, with dark brown hair beneath his black SWAT cap, climbed out from the passenger side of the SUV. He lowered the walkie-talkie he’d been speaking into and pointed up the hill.

      Spinning in her seat, Charlotte followed the direction of his arm. She searched higher up the hill, beyond the green tent, and saw the policewoman with the blond ponytail looking through a pair of binoculars.

      Charlotte searched the entire crowd, from one tree line to the next. If the rest of Alex’s team was here, did that mean …?

      Trip Jones.

      Her pulse skipped a beat then drummed into overtime. How had she missed seeing the oversize mountain of a man in the black uniform and boots standing near the media cars and trucks, squinting into the drizzling rain because he had no hat?

      The water added nutmeg-colored streaks to his light brown hair. The rain had to be running down the back of his neck, making his crisp uniform damp and sticky. One hand rested on the butt of the gun strapped to his thigh, the other tapped at the tiny microphone clipped to his ear as his lips moved in some sort of terse reply. But she detected no hint of discomfort in his implacable stance, no trace of complaint in the methodical back-and-forth scan of his eyes.

      “Maximus, I think we owe the guy a new hat.” And an apology. And maybe an explanation for her odd behavior.

      And maybe while she was doing that, she could study those hazel eyes again, to see if she’d only imagined the gentle humor and unflinching support there when he’d handed her Max and told the others at that ambulance to bug off.

      Of course, to do that, she’d have to meet him again. She’d have to be close enough to make that eye contact. She’d have to speak. Rationally. But she hadn’t seen any pigs flying around—

      A sharp knock on the window beside her made her jump halfway across the seat. Max’s woof matched her startled gasp. Clutching her hand over her thumping heart, Charlotte reminded herself to breathe and called herself twenty kinds of fool once she identified the man with the wire-rimmed glasses waiting patiently outside the car.

      Jeffrey Beecher was the executive assistant for the event company handling the memorial reception today. The earbud he wore and corkscrew cord that curled down beneath his suit jacket confirmed that he was the hired help. Her stepmother often employed Jeffrey and his crew to coordinate parties and fundraisers. Charlotte didn’t attend those functions, but her father ran thorough background checks and made sure that she was introduced to any staff who came onto the estate. Just in case she would need to leave her rooms during an event, she would be able to identify the employee and not go into a panic.

      She briefly considered staying where she was and not responding to the knock. But Max had barked and she had yelped, and the man with the business suit and umbrella really was standing ever so patiently in the rain, so he had to know she was in here.

      Just do it, Charlotte. She had no place to withdraw to right now. Engage.

      Crawling back across the leather seat, Charlotte pushed the button and lowered the window a few inches—just enough to peek through and smell the green, woodsy dampness in the cool outside air. “Yes?”

      Jeffrey’s umbrella blocked the rain as he bent over far enough to line his eyes up with hers. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and smiled. “Miss Mayweather. Sorry to intrude on your privacy. But I need to tell you there’s been a slight change in plans.”

      “Oh?” She didn’t like change. She didn’t like surprises.

      Something of her confusion must have read on her face, because he put up a hand and patted the air in a placating gesture. “Don’t worry. We’ll still get you up to lay a flower on the grave and say your goodbyes. But I’ll have to ask you to wait in the car a little bit longer.”

      She reached down to stroke Max’s ears. “Is something wrong?”

      He quickly shook his head to reassure her. “We weren’t anticipating the numbers of reporters here at the cemetery, so we’re having to improvise. Clarice,” his boss, “actually invited them to attend the reception. As long as they stay outside of the gates, of course.”

      Charlotte climbed up onto her knees again, her gaze flitting over to the news vans and photographers and the mountain of a man keeping watch over them. Would they really try to intrude on the family’s privacy with Trip standing guard?

      Her father apparently thought so. “Mr. Mayweather is going to send your stepmother and stepsister on to the house so that the press corps will follow them. Then he’ll come back for you to lay the flowers on the grave.”

      “What about Kyle?”

      “Oh, yes.” His gaze darted over to Kyle Austin, jogging down the hill. Charlotte saw her blond-haired stepbrother collapse his umbrella, climb into his white Jaguar and speed