He’d caught an unexpected glimpse of her bare feet, though. The toenails were painted a wild purple-a startling surprise.

Except for those wild toenails, she looked beyond vulnerable. Frail. As if a slap would beat her down.

Maguire’s father hadn’t slapped her. At his death, Gerald Cochran had left her fifteen million dollars. What should have been an incredible gift had turned into an incredible burden-and there was precisely the problem. The doctors didn’t get it. Lawyers certainly didn’t get it. No one in Carolina’s hard-working, middle-class family had any prayer of getting it.

That money could destroy her. Maguire knew it too well. In less than two months, it almost had.

“Mr. Cochran.”

Henry again. Maguire stood, catwalked up the aisle, past the leather seats and galley to the cockpit, and then strapped himself into the copilot’s chair.

He’d hired Henry four years ago. Henry was barely thirty, but he had an old man’s face, bassett-hound eyes and forehead wrinkles of worry that were already set in. Maguire always figured Henry came out of the womb an old soul, probably never had a childhood, and for damn sure never stepped on a crack in the sidewalk. But those weren’t bad character traits for a pilot and man Friday. Henry had turned into one of the few people Maguire could trust.

“Everything on track?” Maguire asked easily.

“Should be landing by eight. Washington time, of course. Weather patterns look good.” Henry lived for flying, yet his expression was as somber as mud.

“But.” Maguire knew there was one coming.

Henry shot him a darting glance. “Even for you, sir, this is a little unusual.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“I’m not questioning you. You know that. It’s just that this is so…”

“Unusual,” Maguire supplied, when it was obvious Henry couldn’t think of another word to put out there.

“Yes. The lady there…” Henry shook his head. “I just don’t quite understand how we’re going to communicate with her if she can’t hear.”