He was halfway surprised when she didn't jerk away from him. So, with the first hurdle successfully jumped, he moved on to the next and urged her into motion, leading her up the steps and onto the back porch.
"Something tells me that I'm going to live to regret this," Peggy Jo said as Jack opened the back door and they took the kitten inside to the warm kitchen.
Once inside, Jack closed the door behind them. "Darling, don't you know it's not the things we do in life that we most regret, it's the things we didn't do."
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Only the inducement of a trip to the bookstore to purchase a copy of Peter Pan pried Wendy away from Fur Ball. The two had taken to each other instantly, and the bedraggled kitty had slept on a pillow beside Wendy's bed last night. By morning the weak feline had roused enough to drink more milk and licked a paste of cream and oatmeal from Jack's finger. Hetty had promised Wendy to keep a close watch on the household's new pet and to give him more milk whenever he woke from napping.
Jack had tried his best to be subtle in his efforts to do his job, not wanting to alarm Wendy or spoil the outing for her. But despite how much he was enjoying himself with Peggy Jo and her daughter, he couldn't help feeling a bit uneasy just having them out on the crowded downtown streets. After they'd left the car in a parking garage, Peggy Jo had suggested taking a shuttle to the bookstore and the restaurant, but Wendy had pleaded for them to walk. Of course, if they'd gone to Hamilton Place
, the problem would be even greater. The day-after-Thanksgiving sales were in full swing at the mall. As Peggy Jo had requested, he'd made sure his weapon was out of sight, the holster hidden beneath his pullover sweater. He understood why she didn't want Wendy exposed to the gun.
As they came out of The Children's Hour bookstore on Broad Street
, Wendy clutched the bag that held her new book close to her chest. Peggy Jo clasped her child's other hand tightly.
"After lunch you're going to read this book to me, aren't you, Jack?"
"You bet I am. And if you like it a lot, I'll read it to you again as a bedtime story. How does that sound to you?"
"It sounds good," she replied, her pretty little face alight with happiness.
Jack extended his left arm over Wendy's head and rested his open palm on Peggy Jo's back, bringing them closer together, Wendy just slightly in front of him. The threesome walked up Broad Street
, probably appearing to passersby as the ideal American family.
Jack didn't make a big production out of staying alert to his surroundings or being constantly aware of every stranger. Who was to say whether Peggy Jo's stalker might be some innocent-looking person or a weirdo he could spot a mile away. However, Peggy Jo and he had agreed that locking her daughter and her away in the house until her crazed admirer was caught simply wasn't an option. So far the person hadn't made any threats against Wendy, only Peggy Jo. Often just the presence of a bodyguard deterred an amateur criminal, and that was what most stalkers were—amateurs. But they were also more often than not mentally unbalanced, which made them less predictable than the regular, run-of-the-mill criminal.
Jack had shipped off the box of "love" letters to Dundee late Wednesday. And he'd put in a call to Sawyer McNamara, the FBI agent Dundee had worked with on several cases. Sawyer had promised two things: that the FBI's psycholinguistics expert would also take a look at the letters and come up with a profile and that Sawyer would come to Chattanooga next week to meet Peggy Jo, once this case became an official federal matter.
"You're awfully quiet," Wendy said. "Is something wrong?" She tugged on the hem of Jack's denim coat.
"Sorry, I was just thinking about lunch," Jack replied. "Your mom tells me that this restaurant has some mighty good food."
"You sure do like to eat, don't you?" Wendy giggled.
Jack slowed his gait. "It's one of my favorite things to do," he said, then glanced over Wendy's head to catch Peggy Jo staring at him. "I'm a man with a healthy appetite."
He could tell that Miss Peggy Jo understood his meaning. That creamy skin of hers flushed pink as she turned up her cute, freckled nose, hurriedly looked away and began walking faster. He chuckled softly. Heck, it was so damn easy to rile her that he found himself doing it just for the fun of it.
"What's your hurry?" Jack asked.
"Mommy must be hungry, too." Wendy stared up at her mother.
"It's forty-six degrees today and I'm cold. Besides, the restaurant is still five blocks away, and I want to eat and get home in plenty of time to bring the Christmas things down from the attic."
"We'll have plenty of time to get everything done," Jack told her. "I'm looking forward to getting the tree set up and stringing outside lights and—"
"You sound genuinely excited, as if you've never put up Christmas decorations before," Peggy Jo said. "Believe me, it can be a major chore. Last year I hired Ross to help me get the icicle lights put up outside."
"You've got me this year. I am, as you've guessed, a novice, but I'm willing to follow orders," Jack said.
"You really haven't ever helped put up Christmas decorations?" Peggy Jo asked. "Didn't you help your parents get everything ready when you were at home?"
"Nope. My mother always oversaw things like that, and she most certainly didn't allow my father or me to get involved."
Libbie had always hired a decorator to design the perfect Christmas atmosphere, with fancy, glittery items not suited for a child to touch. His mother had been a great one for pomp and circumstance, for showing off what his father's money could buy. And later on what his succession of step-fathers' millions and multimillions could buy.
"Mommy always lets me help," Wendy said. "I'm her best helper. And every year we always buy a new ornament for each of us to put on the tree. One for me, one for Mommy and one for Hetty."
"So that's why you bought those tree ornaments at the bookstore." But unless he had counted wrong, Wendy had chosen four brightly painted wooden ornaments, and Peggy Jo had laid the four items on the checkout counter.
"Yep, that's why," Wendy replied. "And we bought an extra one this year—for you!"
"Wendy, I thought that was suppose to be a secret, until later," Peggy Jo said.
"Oops, sorry. I let it slip."
Jack felt as if a hard fist had punched him in the gut. It wasn't that he hadn't been given gifts; he had. Perhaps he'd been given too many gifts as a young man. A horse. A sports car. Expensive trips. Gifts from his mother to make up for the time she hadn't spent with him. Sometimes he wondered if those gifts had been bribes to keep him from warning off her potential husbands. Had Libbie been afraid he'd tell each new man in her life that she was a black widow spider? And sometimes lady friends gave him gifts, usually flirtatious little items like silk boxer shorts or specialty condoms. He'd had women cook meals for him, give him back rubs and one even flew him down to St. Croix in her private plane. But a simple ten-dollar Christmas tree ornament had him going all soft and sentimental. And why was that? he wondered. Because Wendy had chosen the gift or because Peggy Jo hadn't vetoed the idea?
"We thought that since you might still be with us at Christmas, you should have your own memento to put on the tree." Peggy Jo didn't even glance his way as she continued walking as briskly as Wendy's short stride could accommodate.
They reached the Big River Grille and Brewing Works at five minutes after twelve. The renovated warehouse on Broad Street
housed a family-style restaurant and a brewery. The waiting line for seating was relatively short considering the time of day, so they managed to find room inside, out of the crisp November wind. Jack surveyed the others in line, then the restaurant itself, packed with customers. Wendy kept peeking inside the plastic bag she held tightly to her, checking on her new book. And Peggy Jo smiled and spoke to several people who recognized her.
A burly guy with curly gray hair, who was several feet ahead of them in line, turned around and glared at the
m. "Hey, you're that Peggy Jo Riley who's on TV, aren't you?"
Red warning lights went off inside Jack's head. His hackles bristled. The man's tone was downright unfriendly. "Can I help you?" Jack moved from Peggy Jo's side to stand directly in front of her. "I'm Ms. Riley's personal bodyguard."
"Is that so?" The man's tone didn't soften any as he gave Jack the once-over, then glanced around at the other people in line. "It's a good thing she's hired herself a watchdog. If she keeps spouting off that feminist garbage and making good wives start questioning the right a man has to be the head of his own household, then somebody's bound to try to shut her up."
Every muscle in Jack's body tightened. His hands instinctively curled into fists, and without conscious thought, he eased toward the loudmouthed man, who stepped out of the line.
Peggy Jo grabbed Jack's arm, leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Please, don't make a scene."
The man came toward Jack, who hadn't moved a muscle. He couldn't pull his weapon in a restaurant filled with people. With families. Wives and children.
The guy glared at Jack, then walked past him and said, "I've lost my appetite," as he exited the restaurant.
The people around them murmured and stared, and all of the women smiled at Peggy Jo. Jack willed his body to relax, to switch from defensive mode to observation mode. Some people could be such idiots and men like that loudmouth gave all men a bad name.
"That man wasn't very nice, was he?" Wendy looked to her mother for a response. "He doesn't like you."
"No, sweetpea, he wasn't very nice. And no, he doesn't like me," Peggy Jo said. "But he's gone now, so let's just forget about him and enjoy our lunch. What do you say?"
Wendy nodded, then looked up at Jack. "You like Mommy, don't you? You'd never be ugly to her the way that bad man was, would you?"
Jack gently popped his index finger on Wendy's nose, then squeezed her chin playfully. "You bet I like your mommy. She's a very interesting lady. Very smart. And pretty, too." Jack lifted his gaze in time to catch Peggy Jo watching him.
The hostess came up to Jack and said, "Sir, your table is ready."
As they followed the young woman, Wendy chatted away about what she wanted to order for lunch, about decorating the house for Christmas and about Jack reading her new book to her. Peggy Jo kept a tight hold on Wendy's hand, and Jack brought up the rear.
"Peggy Jo!" a man's voice called from behind them.
Jack grabbed Peggy Jo's arm, effectively halting her, while he snapped around to search for the man who had spoken. Chet Compton came rushing out of the bar area. Jack had seen the guy both days he'd been with Peggy Jo at WLOK, and there was something about the station manager that rubbed Jack the wrong way. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he sensed that Chet was bad news.
"Mind if I join, y'all?" Chet asked. "I just got here and went straight to the bar. The wait for a table is up to twenty-five minutes now, so it would help me out if I could share a table."
Jack would like to have told the guy to get lost, but it wasn't his call. Not about this.
"Sure," Peggy Jo said, then glanced at the waitress. "This gentleman is with us."
When they reached the table that seated four, Jack helped Peggy Jo and Wendy off with their coats and held out a chair, first for Wendy and then for Peggy Jo.
"Do you have to pay him extra for that?" Chet asked Peggy Jo.
"What?" she stared at Chet in puzzlement.
Chet laughed. "I was making a joke. Just asking if you had to pay this guy extra to be a gentleman."
Before Jack could speak for himself, Peggy Jo replied, "I'm finding that being a gentleman is part of Jack's nature." She turned to her daughter. "Wendy, you remember Mr. Compton, don't you?"
"Yeah, sure." Wendy pointed at Chet. "You're the man my mommy doesn't want to date anymore."
Jack couldn't suppress a chuckle. Out of the mouths of babes!
"Yeah, that would be me," Chet said with a grimace, as he accepted the menu the waitress handed him.
* * *
Peggy Jo had never been so glad to have a meal come to an end. Chet had tried to be pleasant, but he kept making little digs at Jack, and Jack reciprocated in kind. Once or twice she actually thought Jack might ask Chet to step outside. And to make matters worse, Chet had caught the same shuttle and ridden back to the same parking deck where they had parked. On the drive home Jack had commented that he thought it rather odd that Chet had just happened to park in the same garage and had shown up at Big River right behind them.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think your old boyfriend might have been following us," Jack had said.
"Chet is not my old boyfriend," she'd replied quite adamantly.
But in retrospect it did seem a bit too coincidental that Chet just happened to show up for lunch moments after they arrived at the restaurant. He often ate lunch at the studio. She'd heard him complain more than once about how he hated waiting in lines at restaurants, so he seldom ate lunch downtown during a weekday.
Peggy Jo sat at the kitchen table helping Hetty fold a load of towels fresh out of the dryer. They could hear Jack reading to Wendy. The twosome sat together on the den sofa, Fur Ball curled up asleep in Wendy's lap.
"This is turning out to be quite a good holiday weekend for our Wendy," Hetty said. "She's adopted a kitten and a mm."
"The kitten we can handle," Peggy Jo said. "It's the man who worries me."
"Afraid you can't handle him?" Hetty kept her gaze focused on the towels, never once glancing up at Peggy Jo.
"I know I can't handle him."
"That's the kind of man you want, honey. The kind that's his own man. Despite what you think—and what you sometimes imply to others—you don't really want some easily manipulated guy who'd let you run over him like a steamroller."
"Well, I certainly don't want another Neanderthal jerk like Buck."
"No, you don't," Hetty agreed. "But there's a happy medium to be found in men like Jack." She inclined her head toward the den. "I'd say he's that perfect combination of strength and gentleness."
"My, my, my. You're certainly singing his praises." Peggy Jo folded one last towel, scooted back her chair and stood. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, "If you like him so damn much, why don't you … adopt him or something? Because, believe me, that's the only way he's going to become a member of this family."
Hetty placed a stack of towels in the laundry basket. "I think you're kicking up too big a fuss about it. You like him just a little bit more than you want to."
"I've heard enough of this. I'm going upstairs to put on my old clothes and then head up to the attic and go through the Christmas boxes."
"All right." Hetty lifted the basket. "After I put these away, I'll start looking for the extra extension cords. I think they're in the hall closet."
Fifteen minutes later Peggy Jo climbed the narrow steps that led from the upstairs hall to the attic. She reached out on the wall and flipped the switch that controlled the two attic lights. When she stepped out into the large open space, she realized that the lightbulb that lit the right side of the attic had burned out, leaving that part of the room in shadows. A small attic window allowed the afternoon sunshine to add enough illumination to see all the boxes of stored Christmas items.
She had a few memories of the holidays before her mother died, and although she cherished those sweet memories, she tried not to think about them often. Her mother's death had irrevocably changed her life forever. What was that old adage? Something about a child without a father is half an orphan, but a child without a mother is an orphan. For some children that might not be true, but in her case those words had proven prophetic.
In the beginning it hadn't been that way. She and her father had clung to each other after her mother's death, becoming closer than ever—until he met Agnes. Of all the sweet, loving women her father had dated during the years after her mother's death, Peggy Jo couldn't figure out why he'd married Agnes, who wasn't as pretty or
smart or nice as the others. Sometimes she wondered if Agnes's young son had been as much an attraction for Vernon McNair as the woman herself had been. Vernon had been one of those old-fashioned men who valued male children more than female children.
Such a pity that Agnes hadn't been able to give him a son of his own. After four miscarriages, the doctors had told them not to try again. Things had been strained between Peggy Jo and her stepmother from the very beginning, but once Agnes learned that there would be no babies, she had made it her mission in life to make Vernon accept her son, Derek, as the son she couldn't give him. And the more her father doted on Derek, the more he neglected her. And the stronger the bond grew with his stepson, the more miserable Agnes made life for Peggy Jo.
No, she tried not to think too much about the past, about her childhood. Even the good memories had somehow become tainted by the bad ones.
Pushing thoughts of long-ago holidays from her mind, she set to work checking the labels on the boxes and moving them toward the stairs, one heavy box at a time. When she had half the large cardboard cartons in place, she managed to ease the box which contained the Christmas tree from beneath several other containers. But the long, narrow tree box was heavier than she'd remembered and as she tugged on the end, she lost her balance and fell backward—right into Jack's arms.
She screeched when he grabbed her, breaking her fall.
"Oh, my God, you scared me half to death," she gasped. "I didn't hear you come up here."
"Good thing I arrived when I did or you'd have wound up flat on your … backside."
He brought her closer to him and tightened his hold. Her body clenched with awareness, spreading tingles from her core to every nerve ending. She didn't want this. Couldn't deal with it. If she succumbed to her attraction to this rugged cowboy, she'd be in way over her head. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she just ignore the fact that Jack was good-looking, sexy as hell and a really nice guy? Ever since her divorce from Buck, she'd been able to resist combinations like that, so why did she feel as if Jack Parker just might be her own personal Waterloo?
JACK'S CHRISTMAS MISSION Page 9