Peggy Jo sighed, then nodded agreement just as the studio security officer answered his phone. She explained hurriedly what had happened. He assured her that he’d give the studio a thorough check for an intruder and notify Mr. Compton about what had happened.
She simply couldn’t believe things had reached this point. And why now? Just when she had the world by the tail, when everything was almost perfect in her life. After all the years of struggling to overcome the past and be the best person she could be, at long last everything had fallen into place. Professionally and personally, she’d never had it so good. Her local Chattanooga television program Self-Made Woman was going into national syndication after the first of the year, and she’d be making more money than she’d ever dreamed possible. And her second self-help book had made the New York Times extended list and gone into a third printing. Her private life was filled with peace and contentment. She had a beautiful, healthy six-year-old daughter, who was the joy of her life. And even if she didn’t have a significant other, she didn’t lack for male companionship whenever she wanted it. And best of all, those relationships were always on her terms. She had come a long way from the days when she had allowed a man to run her life.
The minute she finished talking to Ted Wilkes, head of security, she dialed the police and was immediately put through to Detective Gifford. Despite the hint of distrust in his voice, the burly fifty-year-old police veteran told Peggy Jo that he would come to the studio posthaste. As she hung up the receiver, she heard the last few words of her agent’s conversation.
“Then we can expect him first thing tomorrow morning?” Jill said. “Good. Thanks, Ellen. I appreciate your sending one of your top agents for this job. Peggy Jo is more than a client. She’s a good friend.”
“Him?” Peggy Jo snarled. “They’re sending a man?”
“Yes, they’re sending one of their top agents. A guy named Jack Parker. Ellen assures me that he’s the best.”
“I don’t want a male bodyguard,” Peggy Jo said. “When we discussed this and I promised to agree to a bodyguard, you said you’d get a female agent.”
“I tried. Honest I did.” Jill widened her big brown eyes, a you-must-believe-me expression on her face. “The Dundee Agency has only a handful of female agents, and right now they’re all on assignments or they’ve already taken off for the Thanksgiving holiday this weekend.”
Peggy Jo groaned. Great! That’s all she needed, some big, sweaty, bossy man in her face twenty-four hours a day. It wasn’t that she hated men. There were a few she genuinely liked. But she’d had her fill—personally—of swaggering, chest-beating, womanizing hell-raisers. She’d been married to one a long time ago, and that experience had left a bitter taste in her mouth. And her own father had taught her how disloyal and unreliable men can be. No, Peggy Jo Riley depended on no one except Peggy Jo Riley, and the thought of a bodyguard, especially a male bodyguard, didn’t sit well with her.
She intended to lay down some ground rules with Mr. Jack Parker the moment they met. He had to know, up front, that she wasn’t a helpless female who loved the idea of being protected by some big, strong man. She intended to make it perfectly clear to him that he was her employee and she was the boss. She would be issuing the orders and making the decisions. And if he didn’t like it, he could just go straight back to Atlanta. Or straight to hell, for all she cared. Nobody—absolutely nobody—told Peggy Jo Riley what she could and couldn’t do. Least of all some man!
Chapter 1
J ack Parker checked into the Reed House hotel in downtown Chattanooga, paid the bellhop an extra twenty bucks to bring him a bottle of Crown Royal, then turned on the sports channel and tossed his black Stetson on the bed. He had approximately twelve hours to acquaint himself with the details of this new case, one he’d been reluctant to take. He had heard about the Dundee Agency’s new client, Peggy Jo Riley, and knew her type well. The type who preached that men where the bane of every woman’s existence, and all the ills of society could be laid at the feet of the male sex. Hell, who hadn’t heard of the latest guru to American womankind, the up-and-coming Chattanooga talk-show hostess whose program was going into national syndication the first of the year?
Jack shoved his Stetson aside on the bed, then lifted his duffel bag, laid it on the spread and unzipped it. He removed a video tape of Peggy Jo’s show, Self-Made Woman, a paperback copy of her latest book, Putting Yourself First, and a file folder of information about the woman herself.
Good thing he’d eaten on the drive over from Atlanta. He’d picked up a couple of barbecue sandwiches and a bag of chips. That would tide him over until breakfast. He’d be up past midnight going over the information, skimming the book and studying the video. The more he knew about Peggy Jo, her lifestyle and her daily routine, the better able he’d be to protect her and to hopefully figure out who was harassing her. With her attitude, she had probably pissed off half the men in the state, but only a real nut case would become a stalker and pose a threat to her.
After taking off his denim jacket, Jack sat on the edge of the bed to remove his black boots. As he massaged his feet, he thought about why he’d asked Ellen, Dundee’s CEO, to give this case to another agent. Could he be totally honest with himself? He sure hadn’t been up front with Ellen. What he should have said was, “I don’t want to have to guard some man-hating feminist twenty-four/seven because her attitude sticks in my craw.” Because Jack knew better than anyone that a woman could be just as guilty of mistreating a man as a man could of mistreating a woman. As a boy he had watched his mother slowly but surely drive his father to suicide. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the ladies; on the contrary, he loved the ladies and they loved him. But because he understood the dangers of commitment, nobody owned Jack Parker. No woman would ever rope and tie him and put her personal brand on his backside. Love ’em and leave ’em had been his philosophy since he’d been a teenager. And so far, that motto had served him well.
Jack realized that he and Peggy Jo Riley would mix like oil and water. When he had pointed out to Ellen that a female agent would probably be more to Ms. Riley’s liking, Ellen had laughed.
“She requested a female agent, but unfortunately Lucie, J.J. and Kate are all on assignments,” Ellen had said. “And you’re my only experienced agent who’s free, so you’re taking this assignment. Get your gear together and head for Chattanooga pronto.”
Jack padded barefoot across the carpeted floor, switched channels and inserted the tape into the video machine. By the time he had unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt, the theme music for Self-Made Woman reverberated throughout the hotel room. A jazzy instrumental rendition of a once-popular song by Helen Reddy that he recognized immediately. “I Am Woman.” The announcer introduced the hostess of the show to resounding applause from her audience. Jack plopped down in a chair in front of the TV and studied his new client as she marched front and center.
Peggy Jo Riley was no ordinary woman. One look told him that she was tough, self-confident and aggressive. He was a pretty good judge of women. He’d known more than his share and could usually size up a filly immediately and never be proven wrong. Ms. Riley spoke with a soft, country Southern accent that could easily melt the polar ice cap. As he listened to her rhetoric, he surmised several things—that she was intelligent, charming and had a fairy godmother complex. She wanted to help all the women of the world to fix their problems, be it problems with men, with work, with feelings of inadequacy or incompetence. No wonder the media was comparing her to Oprah.
As he watched and listened, Jack automatically began sizing her up, checking out her physical attributes or lack thereof. He’d never preferred a specific type. He liked ’em all. Blondes, brunettes and redheads. Short, tall, thin, plump. The bimbo type as well as the brainy type. So why was it that he knew instantly that Miss Peggy Jo wasn’t his type?
Hell, what difference did it make? He wasn’t going to be wooing her into his bed. She was a client, an assignment, just like any other. But he couldn’t remember when he’d dreaded taking on a case as much as he did this one.
As