LITMIR.BIZ

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someone else? What about Ross Brewster or Burt Morgan?”

      When Kayla shook her head, her halo of chestnut-brown curls bounced about her moon-pie face. “It’s not either of them. Ross is such a sweet guy and Mr. Morgan is super-nice. They both adore Peggy Jo.”

      “Mmm-hmm.” Jack patted his Stetson on his leg. “So, Chet Compton is your only suspect?”

      “I didn’t say that. I just said it might be him. But if I were a betting person, I’d put my money on either Buck Forbes or Tia Tuesday.”

      “According to my files, Buck Forbes is Miss Peggy Jo’s ex-husband, so I can see why you’d consider him a suspect, but who is Tia Tuesday?”

      “Tia? She’s the airhead bimbo on a local rival station who has an exercise-and-fitness show on at the same time Self-Made Woman airs. Our show has been beating hers in the ratings ever since her show debuted last year, and the woman has made no secret that she despises Peggy Jo. She’s been saying some pretty mean things ever since Peggy Jo’s show got picked up for national syndication.”

      “Is that it?” Jack asked. “Anybody else?”

      “Those are the only people I know about, but couldn’t the stalker be somebody Peggy Jo doesn’t know?”

      Jack nodded. “Yeah, that’s always a possibility.” He patted Kayla on the shoulder. “Thanks for you help.”

      “Anytime. I’d do anything for Peggy Jo.”

      Jack glanced back at the set where his client was finishing up the last shot of the segment with the dietician. As soon as the spot concluded, Peggy Jo shook hands with her guest and thanked her profusely, then turned and walked off the set. She came straight toward Jack, walking with a confident strut, as if she owned the world. There was something downright appealing about a woman who was that self-assured. He couldn’t help wondering if her cocksure attitude was for real or just for show.

      “You weren’t interrogating Kayla, were you?” Peggy Jo asked, her voice slightly on edge.

      “I asked her a few questions,” Jack said, his tone defensive. “After all, she is your assistant and I thought she might have some insight into who your stalker might be.”

      “Let me guess—her number-one suspect is Tia Tuesday.” Laughing softly, Peggy Jo shook her head. “Tia might dislike me, but she isn’t my stalker. For one thing the woman can’t go anywhere in Chattanooga without being recognized. Believe me she has the most recognizable boobs in town.”

      “Ah, one of those.” Jack couldn’t stop the wide grin that spread across his face. “But even the most recognizable boobs in Chattanooga could hire somebody to do her dirty work for her.”

      “Okay, you’re right.” Peggy Jo reached out to touch his arm, but paused, her hand in midair. “Look, we’ll talk on my lunch break. Right now, I need to freshen my makeup and glance over the information on my next guest, a counselor who’s going to discuss dealing with depression during the holidays.”

      Jack nodded, then when she headed toward the door that opened into the corridor that led to her office, he followed her. The minute she realized he was marching along behind her, she stopped and turned to face him.

      “I’m just going to the powder room,” she said.

      “Where you go, I go.”

      “You are not going into the bathroom with me!”

      “No, but I’ll be standing guard right outside. So just holler if you need me.”

      “Wipe that smirk off your face, Mr. Parker. I hardly think I’ll be accosted in the bathroom. And I’m perfectly capable of doing anything I need to do in there without your assistance.”

      With that said, she turned and stomped down the hallway, shoved open the door to her office and made a beeline straight to her private bathroom. Jack leaned against the doorjamb, crossed one ankle over the other and waited.

      Usually an optimist, Jack didn’t understand why he couldn’t shake this pessimistic feeling he had that things with Miss Peggy Jo were bound to get worse. It was clear as the nose on his face that the woman was determined to dislike him. And even though she was well-known as a feminist, he didn’t think she hated all men. No, her feelings of animosity toward him were personal. But what could it be about him that rubbed her the wrong way? He wasn’t bad looking. He was fairly smart. And he had a likable personality. Most ladies found him downright irresistible.

      Heck, maybe he reminded her of her ex-husband in some way. If that were the case, he’d just have to show Miss Peggy Jo that he wasn’t anything like Buck Forbes. He’d never struck a woman in his entire life, not even with provocation. Why, he’d rather cut off his right hand than to ever hit a member of the fair sex.

      Jack noticed a shadow outside the office door. Just as he took a step forward, a perky young lady carrying a bouquet of red roses came prancing into the room.

      “A delivery for Ms. Riley,” she said.

      “Do you work here or are you delivering for the florist?” Jack asked, wondering if the station’s security people had allowed a delivery person to simply walk into Peggy Jo’s private office.

      “I work for Humphrey’s Florist,” she replied.

      Jack growled under his breath.

      “Sir, is something wrong?”

      “No. At least nothing that’s your fault.”

      “Where shall I put these?”

      “Set them on the desk.” He inclined his head toward the ornate cherry desk.

      She hurriedly placed the arrangement on the desk, and when Jack reached for his wallet, she shook her head. “It’s already been taken care of by the person who sent them.”

      The minute the woman left, Jack walked across the room, snatched the attached card from the flowers and opened the small envelope. But before he could look at the card, Peggy Jo emerged from the bathroom, took one look at the roses and cursed.

      “Damn! Get those things out of here. Right now!” She glared at the gorgeous floral arrangement as if it were a grotesque two-headed snake.

      “You want these roses tossed out?” he asked. “You don’t even know who they’re from.”

      “I don’t care who sent them,” she said. “Anyone who knows me well enough to be sending me flowers would know better than to send me red roses.”

      An alarm went off in Jack’s head. He glanced at the card he held in his hand. Hellfire! Peggy Jo’s sicko stalker had no doubt sent the flowers.

      “What does it say?” she asked.

      He hesitated, then lifted his gaze and looked her square in the eye. “‘Red roses for a dead lady.’”

      Her mouth rounded in a soundless gasp. “They’re from him.”

      “It would appear so.” Jack stuck the note in his pocket, then lifted the clear glass vase and dumped vase, flowers, water and all into the nearby wastebasket. “I’ll contact the florist and see if they have any idea who the sender was.”

      “Do you think they’ll know?” Peggy Jo stood ramrod stiff as she gazed at the wastebasket.

      “Probably not. Our stalker will be smart enough not to give himself away by letting himself be identified by the florist.”

      Why the hell did she keep staring at the discarded flowers? It was as if they held her under some sort of demonic spell. What was the significance of red roses? And why did she hate the one flower that most women adored?

      “Miss Peggy Jo?”

      “What?” Still she continued to stare, as if hypnotized by the floral arrangement that she had told him to deep six.

      “How about

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