"I'll check the back porch," Jack told her.
"Wait. I want to go with you."
"There's no need."
"There's every need," she said. "Please don't treat me like some weak, helpless female. This is my life, my problem, and I'm not going to back down just because I'm scared."
Damn, he didn't want to like her, didn't want to admire her spunk. But he did. She was nothing like his mother. Nothing like so many of the women who claimed to be liberated females but in reality were as weak and clinging as their mothers and grandmothers had been.
"Come on, then," he said. "Let's go see what your secret admirer left for you."
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Peggy Jo absolutely hated the fact that she was glad Jack Parker stood at her side as they opened the back door and walked out onto the porch. The escalating actions of her stalker unnerved her. And the very idea that the man had been to her home, on her back porch, gave her more than enough reason to be scared. Phone calls and letters had been annoying, but recent events—like the ransacking of her dressing room at the station—made her realize her life could well be in danger. Jill had done the right thing contacting the Dundee Agency before she returned to Atlanta last night. And even though Peggy Jo would have preferred a female agent, she wasn't going to complain—ever again—about being protected by a macho hunk. A macho hunk with a gun! When he had gone out to her car for his bag, he'd removed his pistol from his hip holster, then taken a look around the house before he had allowed her to come outside. She'd thought she would never see the day when she would give any man the power to tell her what she could and couldn't do. Yet there she had stood, waiting for Jack to give her the signal, letting her know it was okay. For now, at least.
She might not like being forced to rely on someone else, but she wasn't stupid. Due to no fault of her own, some outside force was wreaking havoc on her peace of mind. She could well be in real danger. The only smart thing to do in a case like this was just what Jill had done. Call in a professional.
"There's a box right beside the steps!" Peggy Jo's heartbeat roared inside her head as she stared at the object plainly revealed by the overhead porch light.
"Just stay right here and let me take a look first." Jack motioned for her to stay put.
She didn't argue, didn't even think about voicing a complaint. Nausea churned in her stomach as visions of all the horrible things that might be inside the box flashed through her mind. A dead animal. A poisonous snake. An explosive device of some sort.
Feeling as if her stomach had just turned inside out, Peggy Jo waited for Jack to examine the shoe-box size container. He took his time, looking at it, listening to it, feeling it. He did everything but lick the damn thing. After he lifted the lid and peered inside, he groaned.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Come see for yourself." He held the box out in front of him.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched bravely forward, then cursed under her breath when she saw the contents of "the gift" her crazed admirer had left for her. She reached down and lifted the shiny jacket from her latest book, Putting Yourself First. A beard and mustache had been drawn in black marker on her publicity picture that graced the back of the jacket. And a monologue bubble had been drawn above her head, stating, "Kill all men!" Inside the box the broken spine of the hardback book lay open, and ripped-out pages had been torn in two or marred with black X marks.
"Well, at least it's not a snake or a bomb." Peggy Jo forced a weak smile. "The contents really don't matter half as much as the fact that he was here, at my house. In my yard. On my back porch."
"It seems obvious that this guy doesn't like you. You've pissed him off in some way, and he wants you to know about it."
"So it would seem." Peggy Jo didn't feel half as brave as she was pretending to be. "So, what now?"
"Put the book jacket back in the box," Jack said. "We'll want it all together when we turn it over to the police."
"The police?"
"I believe Detective Gifford is the policeman you've been dealing with on this case. Right?"
Peggy Jo nodded.
"I'll request that they contact him and I'll make sure they understand that I expect them to go over the grounds thoroughly to see if they can find anything that I didn't. They can take this box and its contents and have the crime lab go over everything with a fine-tooth comb."
"I think Detective Gifford and the Chattanooga Police Department aren't 100 percent sure that my stalker even exists. You know they've implied that Jill Lennard, my agent, created an imaginary stalker just to get me some extra publicity."
"If that's what they think, then it's time they alter their opinion." Jack grasped Peggy Jo's arm and hauled her back into the kitchen. Once inside, he released her and laid the box on the table. "Why don't you fix us something warm to drink, while I contact the police."
A refusal danced on the tip of her tongue. She almost told him that she wasn't going to fix him something to drink just because he was the man and she was the woman. But she thought better of the comment. She doubted he had meant anything sexist by his request. At least she could give him the benefit of the doubt. In fact, she wondered why she felt twice as tense around Jack as she did around any other man. Maybe it was precisely because his blatant masculinity was a constant reminder that she was still very much a woman.
"How about hot chocolate?" she asked, shrugging aside her uncomfortable thoughts.
He glanced back at her and grinned as he lifted the receiver off the wall phone. "That would be great. Thanks."
Peggy Jo's stomach fluttered. Reacting to Jack on a physical level surprised her. It wasn't often that she felt attracted to a man in a sexual way. But there was something about this particular man, and her instincts warned her that if she didn't keep up her guard, she'd be in deep trouble. Oh, girl, get real. What's wrong with you? All the guy did was smile and say thanks. He didn't award you a Nobel Prize or anything.
By the time she had the milk warming and the cocoa mix and two mugs sitting on the counter, Jack hung up the phone and turned to her.
"They're sending someone over right now," he said. "And they'll notify Detective Gifford."
When the milk came to almost a boil, she took the pot off the hot stove. As she spooned the cocoa mix into their mugs, she said, "I assume you've worked on cases like mine before, haven't you?"
"Yep."
She poured the steaming milk into the mugs, then hurriedly stirred the milk to blend in the cocoa. "What usually happens? Do y'all catch the stalker? Does the stalker—"
"In most cases the stalker is caught and sent to prison. In a few cases the stalker is killed by the police or by the victim. And sometimes … sometimes, the stalker kills his or her victim."
"Things have begun progressing quickly. He's gone from letters and phone calls to ransacking my dressing room, sending me roses that everyone knows I detest, and now leaving me this little present." She eyed the box on the table. "So, in your opinion, what comes next? Is there a way to predict what he'll do now?"
"You can't accurately predict what a deranged mind will come up with, but his actions are advancing fairly rapidly now, so my guess would be that he's building up to a more personal contact."
Peggy Jo handed Jack a cup of hot chocolate. He accepted it, nodded and mouthed a thank-you.
"Are you talking about face-to-face contact?" she asked.
"Not at first. Not yet. But we can expect him or her to do more things to let you know that he or she can get to you. At work. At home." Jack sipped the rich, warm drink. "I think it's time the FBI got involved. The CPD might have been reluctant to contact the Bureau since they suspected your stalker was a publicity hoax, but I'm going to insist the Feds be brought in as soon as possible."
Peggy Jo pulled out a chair and sat at the table, then set her untouched cocoa on the place mat in front of her. "I don't understand how a stalking case could be a federal matter."<
br />
"There's a federal statute that prohibits sending physical threats through the U.S. mail." Jack pulled out a chair and sat down beside her. "Ms. Lennard faxed the Dundee Agency several of the letters your admirer sent to you. I think both of the ones I read would qualify as physical threats. Regardless of what they suspected, the police should have already called the FBI."
"And what can the FBI do that the police and you can't do?"
"We each serve a different purpose. The local police are duty bound to investigate any criminal activities that fall under their jurisdiction. The Dundee Agency provides you constant protection—" he thumped himself on the chest "—in the form of yours truly. And our firm can do private investigative work that the police either can't do or won't do. Then the Feds add another element. Just knowing that the FBI is involved might deter the stalker."
"I see."
"And getting a psychological profile on our stalker could help us unearth his identity. Dundee has a psycholinguistics expert, and we can compare his finding with the Bureau's expert. The bottom line is that the more people we have working on this case, the better our odds of finding this person and keeping you safe."
"My life was so simple, so uncomplicated, until six months ago." Peggy Jo stared down into her mug. "I just don't understand why anyone would be doing this to me."
"Believe me, he has his reasons. They may be illogical and totally insane, but to him they're reason enough to come after you, to torment you. It could be as simple as your having said something on one of your shows that he took offense at, or something in your book." Jack eyed the box resting on the table. "Or it could be someone you know. A rejected suitor. A guy with a sick crush on you who has grown to hate you because you haven't responded to his advances. The list goes on and on."
"Chet Compton. Ross Brewster. Buck Forbes," she said. "Each one of them might have reason to hate me."
"And it could be a woman behind the threats, so don't rule out your TV rival, Tia Tuesday. Or a female admirer with a loose screw." Jack gestured by tapping his head. "Your assistant, Kayla. Or if you have a fan club, someone in that club."
"My fan club? Surely, not someone who— The president of my fan club lives here in Chattanooga. Donel Elmore. But she's a sweetheart of a person. She sends me Christmas gifts and birthday gifts. And I trust Kayla completely. I just can't suspect everyone I know."
"You can't afford not to suspect everyone—with the possible exceptions of Hetty and Wendy. And me."
That damn don't - you - just - find - me - irresistible grin of Jack's all but curled Peggy Jo's toes. This is getting ridiculous, she told herself. She didn't even like this man and yet when he smiled at her, her knees turned to Jell-O. The last thing she needed right now, at this time in her life, was some man that made her feel like a woman. A silly, fluttering female in heat!
She cleared her throat. "Does that include everyone at the station? Are you really asking me to suspect people I trust implicitly? People like Kayla and Leda and Burt?"
"I'm not asking you to suspect them. Not exactly. All I want you to do is be careful not to trust anyone too easily. If anyone you know has done or said anything that is suspect, then I want you to tell me. I've begun compiling a suspects list and once we get the profile done on your stalker, we can see if that profile fits anyone on our list."
"Mmm-hmm." Finally Peggy Jo lifted the mug to her lips and drank the lukewarm cocoa. It didn't matter that it wasn't hot. It was sweet and it was chocolate. What else did a woman need during a stressful time like this?
The doorbell rang. Peggy Jo gasped and trembled. Jack reached over and placed his hand on her shoulder. She stared at him for a brief moment and suddenly wanted to throw herself into his arms and cry. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, the strain was getting to her. Her nerves were shot.
"You stay here, and I'll go to the door," Jack told her. "It's probably the police. I told them I'd be timing how long it took them to get here."
"You didn't." Peggy Jo smiled.
"Oh, yes, ma'am, I did."
* * *
An hour later, after the police questioned Peggy Jo and Jack as well as Hetty, who'd gotten up and come downstairs shortly after the doorbell rang, quiet descended on the Riverview house. Jack waited until Hetty and Peggy Jo had gone upstairs before he did a final check and armed the security system. As he turned off the last light downstairs, he hesitated a moment. He heard the soft, distant tinkling of music. Something sweet. An old-fashioned tune playing so quietly that at first he'd thought he was imagining the sound. What was it? Where was it coming from? As he climbed the stairs and walked down the hall toward his room, the music grew slightly louder, yet was still hushed and delicate. It sounded like a music box.
He glanced into Wendy's room. She was sound asleep. The music wasn't coming from there. Hetty, wrapped up m her flannel housecoat, stood in the doorway to her room. Her gaze locked with Jack's. She nodded in the direction of Peggy Jo's room. He understood that her gesture was to let him know exactly where the music was coming from. When he knocked on Peggy Jo's door, he glanced back at Hetty. She smiled at him, then turned around and went into her room.
Peggy Jo opened the door just a crack and peered at Jack. "Yes, what is it?"
He grasped the side of the door and forced it open a few more inches. When he got a good look at her face, he saw that Peggy Jo had been crying. He glanced beyond her, inside her room. There in the center of her bed lay a large musical snow globe.
"I heard the music," he said.
"Oh. It's just that." She pointed to the glass globe. "I didn't realize anyone else could hear it, not with my door closed."
"Are you all right?" he asked. Of course, she wasn't all right, he realized. She'd been crying. And in his experience he found that when a strong, in-control woman like Peggy Jo cried, it meant something.
"I'm fine," she replied. "Perfectly fine."
"You wouldn't lie to me, would you?" He could tell she wasn't fine, but she also wasn't going to admit any momentary weakness to him.
"Mr. Parker, I didn't hire you to be my psychiatrist or my counselor. Your job is to protect me, not comfort me."
Acting purely on instinct, Jack shoved the door fully open and then brushed the back of his hand across Peggy Jo's flushed cheek. "My job is to take care of you. And that includes giving you a shoulder to cry on, if you need it."
"I don't need—"
He placed his index finger over her lips, adeptly silencing her rejection. "If you're feeling a little shaky right now, a little out of control, that's to be expected. And if you don't want Hetty or Wendy or any of your friends to see you being just the least bit weak, then turn to me, Miss Peggy Jo. I'm your man."
When she stared at him and for a couple of seconds, he thought she was going to succumb, that she was going to let down her defenses just enough to seek his comfort. But suddenly the barriers came back up, the defensive mechanisms snapped back into place. "You're mistaken, Mr. Parker. You're my bodyguard. Nothing more." She glared at him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go to bed."
"All right." He backed off, but when she started to close the door, he said, "Leave the door open, please."
"I'd prefer it closed."
"I insist that it stays open."
"But—"
"Your choice … either the door stays open or I sleep in your room."
She left the door open.
* * *
She wouldn't cry anymore. Not tonight. Not unless she hid in the bathroom so no one could possibly hear her. A she lay in bed, the musical snow globe resting on her stomach, Peggy Jo wondered why she'd obeyed Jack Parker's orders. When he'd given her a choice of either keeping the door open or him sleeping in her room, why hadn't she reminded him that she was his boss, not the other way around? Answer that! she demanded of herself. Because you knew the man wasn't bluffing. And you knew he was right.
She lifted the snow globe, turned it over and wound the musical mechanism. The th
eme from the old movie, Love Story, played softly, sweetly, reminding her of her mother. It had been her mother's favorite song. When Peggy Jo had left home at seventeen, fleeing from her angry, jealous step-mother and her weak-willed father, she had taken only a suitcase of clothes and this one precious item—Marjorie Riley McNair's treasured snow globe. Over the years this one possession of her mother's had become a symbol of security and love, just as taking her mother's maiden name had been a tribute to her mother's memory. If only her mother hadn't died when Peggy Jo was seven. If only her father hadn't married Agnes when Peggy Jo was fourteen. If only her father hadn't allowed his new wife to make life a living hell for the teenage Peggy Jo. If only Vernon McNair had given his own daughter half the love and attention he'd given his new wife and stepson. But years ago Peggy Jo had realized the uselessness of wasting too much time thinking if only. She seldom allowed herself to look back, to think about what might have been. Only on rare occasions when she wallowed in self-pity. She had so many regrets that she could spend a week just naming all of them.
Of course, the biggest mistake she'd ever made was marrying Buck Forbes.
Don't think about Buck! You have enough to worry about without reliving the three and a half miserable years you were married to that bastard!
She set the globe on the nightstand to her right, turned off the lamp and pulled the covers up to her neck. As she tossed and turned, adjusting and readjusting to find the most comfortable position for sleep, she started thinking about Jack Parker. And no matter how hard she tried to dismiss the man from her mind, she couldn't. She shut her eyes tight and started silently chanting the words to the theme song of her TV show. Suddenly an image of Jack flashed through her mind. His wide, sexy smile. His broad shoulders. His big hands. His big feet. His big gun!
How had her life come to this? After struggling to become the successful, confident woman she was today, how had she lost control of everything, even her day-to-day living? Her bodyguard had not only invaded her workplace and her home, but her thoughts. He had walked in tonight and within minutes charmed Hetty and Wendy. And if she wasn't careful, he'd charm the pants off her, too.
JACK'S CHRISTMAS MISSION Page 5
