recognize you,” he said calmly. “Keep your sunglasses on and the hat pulled low.”
She felt like a latter-day Mata Hari, on a mission and trying to keep up a pretense of disguise. Clyde had insisted she attend the funeral of Christopher Jamison rather than stay at the ranch alone all afternoon and evening. It would be very late before they returned home, he’d said.
His parents would be with Ryan Fortune and his wife, Lily. Miles was coming in his own truck. She and Clyde were in the station wagon, which was clean and more comfortable for the trip than the pickup, he’d told her.
She didn’t recall his being so bossy years ago.
After flicking a piece of lint off the navy blue pants suit, she sighed, settled into the seat and gazed at the landscape, a cloud of depression hovering over her. Funerals were hardly joyous occasions.
Unfortunately, where the rich and famous congregated, the press also made an appearance.
“I told you I shouldn’t have come,” she muttered.
“The police will keep the reporters at bay,” Clyde said, driving through an ornate wrought-iron gate to a private parking area after an officer had checked his identity and waved them through.
Two reporters pushed forward, but they were ordered back behind the police barriers that cordoned off the lane leading to the church and cemetery.
When she and Clyde got out of the station wagon, Jessica kept her wide-brimmed lacy hat on, effectively covering her hair, which she’d twisted up on the back of her head. Very dark sunglasses hid her trademark blue eyes.
The funeral chapel was filled to overflowing. The entire Fortune family was there, it seemed. Jessica recognized most of those from Texas. Ryan’s twin daughters, Vanessa and Victoria, were present with their husbands.
Jessica nodded to them, then to Lily, Ryan’s wife. His third wife, she recounted. Apparently they’d been in love long ago, but fate had intervened. Now they were together again and very happy in their marriage, according to Violet.
Clyde made sure she stayed close to him, as if he’d put a claim in on her. Whenever his suit sleeve brushed her arm, shimmering tingles flowed through her like champagne bubbles dancing through her blood. It was disconcerting to be so aware of another person.
The last time she’d felt so utterly alive, she’d been nineteen and in the throes of her first great love.
With him.
“Clyde, Jessica, this is Blake and Darcy Jamison,” Lacey introduced the parents of the deceased young man. “You’ve already met Clyde. Jessica is a longtime friend of our daughter, Violet.”
“How do you do?” she said politely. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
She really was. She couldn’t imagine a worse pain than losing a child. Violet had told her of the death of a patient and the woman’s unborn child just before Jessica left New York. It had been a terrible case, and the family had blamed Violet and the neurosurgeon who’d performed the risky surgery for the tragedy.
The Jamisons’ son had been a handsome young man in his prime and a respected teacher. It was sad.
“This is our youngest son, Emmett,” Mr. Jamison said.
Emmett Jamison was around Clyde’s height and had the muscular build of someone who stayed in shape. He had short dark hair and attractive green eyes that seemed to take in everything going on around him without overtly noticing anything in particular. From the slump of his shoulders, he seemed overwhelmed by the death of his older brother.
During dinner the previous evening, Jessica had heard Lacey mention that Emmett was with some government agency now, but he’d once had a career as a legal advisor on Wall Street.
An interesting career change. She wondered what had prompted it.
There was also another Jamison brother, according to Lacey, one who was estranged from the family and hadn’t been seen in a long time. Jessica couldn’t imagine deliberately cutting herself off from her parents, sister, a very nice brother-in-law and two adorable nieces.
At least a dozen reporters stood at the fence to the Hanson Park cemetery and jotted down notes as the silent group gathered inside the lovely grounds for the last ritual of the service.
Jessica noticed eyes on her—it was impossible to disguise her height although she wore flats—and the photographers who snapped pictures of everyone who passed through the gate. She hid behind Clyde’s greater bulk as much as possible in an attempt to keep her identity unknown.
He took her arm at one point as they crossed the grass. From the glances of the Jamisons’ friends, she was sure they thought she was with the handsome rancher as more than a friend of the family.
As she observed the Fortune and Jamison families, she saw that Ryan, now patriarch of the Texas Fortunes, and Patrick, of the New York Fortunes, and Blake Jamison seemed to have formed a close friendship.
From their mingled heritage—with Ryan being kin to Blake by blood and to Patrick by adoption—the three men probably had a lot to discuss concerning their family connections. It was puzzling that Blake’s son, who was from Seattle, should have been found murdered and left in a lake near Ryan’s ranch in Texas.
After the funeral, those connected by family ties returned to the Jamison home. Jessica quietly positioned herself in a side chair almost hidden by a palm tree and wished they would soon leave for the ranch. It was getting dark and the trip was lengthy.
A buffet dinner was ready for the mourners, and the guests talked quietly of happier times. Darcy Jamison related some mischief her three sons had gotten into when they were very young boys.
Clyde’s mom had earlier told similar tales about her five children. Jessica especially liked the one about the triplets’ lemonade stand that had been so successful they’d caused a traffic jam and neighbors had called the police on them.
A while later, while Jessica sipped an iced tea, alone, she overheard Clyde’s smooth baritone. “I’m going to collect Jessica and head back to the ranch,” he said.
Jessica was relieved to hear this news.
“Good,” his mother replied. “Try to be pleasant to her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice was polite but carried a note of irritation.
“I mean,” said his mother, “that you ignore your guest to the point of rudeness. Your father and I noticed it last night at dinner. Then you glared at Miles when he talked to Jessica. You did the same thing when Emmett Jamison spoke to her earlier today. Jealousy isn’t a becoming trait.”
“I’m hardly jealous,” he scoffed in a cool tone.
Lacey wasn’t daunted. “Well, you act like it.”
“I’m keeping an eye on her—”
Jessica silently groaned as he stopped abruptly.
“Why?” his mom immediately asked.
His sigh was audible. “She had some problem
