“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.”

“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.”