Jack's Christmas Mission

Acting purely on instinct, Jack shoved the bedroom door fully open and then brushed the back of his hand against 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, that’s to be expected. And if you don’t want any of your friends to see you weak, then turn to me, Miss Peggy Jo. I’m your man.”

She stared at him, and for a couple of seconds he thought she was going to succumb. But suddenly the barriers came back up. “You’re mistaken, Mr. Parker. You’re my bodyguard. Nothing more. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go to bed.”

Dear Reader,

The year is almost over, but the excitement continues here at Intimate Moments. Reader favorite Ruth Langan launches a new miniseries, THE LASSITER LAW, with By Honor Bound. Law enforcement is the Lassiter family legacy—and love is their future. Be there to see it all happen.

Our FIRSTBORN SONS continuity is almost at an end. This month’s installment is Born in Secret, by Kylie Brant. Next month Alexandra Sellers finishes up this six-book series, which leads right into ROMANCING THE CROWN, our new twelve-book Intimate Moments continuity continuing the saga of the Montebellan royal family. THE PROTECTORS, by Beverly Barton, is one of our most popular ongoing miniseries, so don’t miss this seasonal offering, Jack’s Christmas Mission. Judith Duncan takes you back to the WIDE OPEN SPACES of Alberta, Canada, for The Renegade and the Heiress, a romantic wilderness adventure you won’t soon forget. Finish up the month with Once Forbidden… by Carla Cassidy, the latest in her miniseries THE DELANEY HEIRS, and That Kind of Girl, the second novel by exciting new talent Kim McKade.

And in case you’d like a sneak preview of next month, our Christmas gifts to you include the above-mentioned conclusion to FIRSTBORN SONS, Born Royal, as well as Brand-New Heartache, award-winning Maggie Shayne’s latest of THE OKLAHOMA ALL-GIRL BRANDS. See you then!

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Jack’s Christmas Mission

Beverly Barton

BEVERLY BARTON

has been in love with romance since her grandfather gave her an illustrated book of Beauty and the Beast. An avid reader since childhood, Beverly wrote her first book at the age of nine. After marriage to her own “hero” and the births of her daughter and son, Beverly chose to be a full-time homemaker, aka wife, mother, friend and volunteer. The author of over thirty-five books, Beverly is a member of Romance Writers of America and helped found the Heart of Dixie chapter in Alabama. She has won numerous awards and has made the Waldenbooks and USA Today bestseller lists.

In loving memory of my sister-in-law Winnie Sue Bradford, whose beautiful smile and boisterous laughter brightened the world around her. We love you, Sis.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Prologue

“I love you to death!”

Peggy Jo Riley stared in disbelief at the message scrawled in red paint on the mirror. Half a second later her mind registered that not only was her dressing room at WLOK totally ransacked but that her secret admirer had somehow gotten inside the television studio and into her private quarters, adjacent to her office. An adrenaline rush surged through her body, jangling her nerves. Her mouth opened to scream, but the sound froze in her throat, becoming a silent cry. What if he were still in here somewhere? Hiding in a closet? Behind the paneled screen where she often changed clothes? Beneath the daybed? Her accelerated heartbeat roared inside her head, temporarily deafening her to all other sounds.

The sudden touch of a hand on her shoulder jarred Peggy Jo into action. She yelled as she whirled around to face her attacker, ready to retaliate with the self-defense tactics she had learned from the experts who had appeared on her television show last year.

“Don’t!” the woman cried. “It’s me. Jill.”

With fear still pumping through her system like an insidious poison, Peggy Jo took several deep, calming breaths as she looked directly at her agent, Jill Lennard. Suddenly she remembered that Jill had driven in from Atlanta today because they had made plans to go out for dinner, after she taped two episodes of Self-Made Woman.

“Oh, God, Jill, I’m sorry,” Peggy Jo said. “I almost attacked you. I thought—”

Jill shoved past Peggy Jo to take a closer look at the dressing room. Shaking her head, she voiced a strong curse word. “No wonder you went berserk when I touched you. I was afraid this would happen. This is absolutely the last straw.” Jill backed out of the room. “Come on, we’re getting the station’s security to check for an intruder, and then we’re calling the police.”

“How could he have gotten in here?” Peggy Jo didn’t resist when Jill grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the dressing room and into her office.

“I don’t know how it could have happened, but after this, maybe Chet Compton will listen to me. As the station’s manager, it’s his job to make sure there’s enough security to see to it that no unauthorized people can just wander around in the building. This incident goes to show you what I’ve been trying to tell you for months now—this guy, whoever the hell he is, isn’t going to stop with just writing you dozens of sick fan letters and making threatening phone calls.” Jill gave Peggy Jo a gentle shove. “Sit.”

Peggy Jo plopped down in the chair behind her desk. “I’ll call security first, just in case he’s still in the studio.” Her hand shook as she picked up the telephone receiver.

Jill nodded and said, “Right. Call studio security, then call the local police. And if that detective dares to suggest that these threats aren’t real, that I’m probably behind them as some sort of publicity stunt, I’ll strangle him.”

As Peggy Jo dialed an inside line, she clutched the receiver tightly and curled her other hand into a fist to stop the trembling. “I thought…no, I hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I just don’t understand why this is happening. It’s not as if I’m some national celebrity.”

“Look, honey,” Jill said, rummaging in her purse for her cell phone, “I’m going to contact the Dundee Security Agency right now. You need around-the-clock protection.”

“No, don’t. I’ve told you I don’t want a bodyguard.”

“You can’t refuse,” Jill said, as she continued scrambling around in her oversize black shoulder bag until she came up with her address book. “You promised me that if things went beyond harassing letters and phone calls, you’d let me contact the Dundee Agency. I’m holding you to your promise.”

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 he watched Peggy Jo speaking, laughing and commiserating with her female guests, he did an immediate reevaluation. On this particular show she didn’t come across as a man hater, despite the fact that one of her guests was a male therapist who specialized in treating men who abused their wives and children.

Jack noticed the way her eyes glazed with tears when she spoke with a victim and the firmness of her handshake when she thanked the therapist for his valuable input. This was a woman who cared—genuinely cared.

When a knock sounded at the door, Jack paused the video, then stood and traipsed across the room. He opened the door, took the bottle of whisky from the bellhop and thanked him. After pouring himself half a glass of liquor, he picked up the file folder and carried it with him to the chair before restarting the video. Alternately he glanced at the TV screen and read a few pages of data on his client. He just couldn’t connect the high school drop-out and abused teenage wife he was reading about with the self-confident television hostess he saw on screen.

Peggy Jo was no raving beauty, but with her green eyes and freckles she possessed a healthy, clean-cut vibrance. She wore her long, dark-red hair pulled away from her full cheeks and square jaw, but allowed it to hang freely halfway down her back. A neat yet feminine style. She was plump, by today’s standards, not that he heeded today’s standards. Probably five-five, with an ample bosom, small waist and broad hips. Not a large woman, but Rubenesque. She dressed conservatively, in a classic camel tan jacket and black slacks and wore gold jewelry that glistened in the harsh studio lighting.

“Well, Jacky-boy,” he said aloud, “you’re going to have your hands full with this one. She sure is a contradiction. She looks like the type of woman made for loving, but her bio reads like a woman who’d sooner jump into a box of rattlesnakes than into bed with a man.”

He had a sinking feeling that his good-ole-boy charm wouldn’t work on this woman. He knew before even meeting her that this was going to be the most difficult bodyguard case he’d ever handled for Dundee.

Hetty met Peggy Jo at the front door, a concerned look on her wrinkled face and a sad gleam in her brown eyes. Peggy Jo had found a prize in Wendy’s nanny, who also served as her housekeeper. Hetty Ballard was a childless widow who had worked with children all her life, first as a grade school teacher and after retirement, as a baby-sitter. Hetty loved children and in the six years she had been with Peggy Jo and Wendy, the woman had become family; a substitute mother to Peggy Jo and a grandmother to Wendy.

After taking Peggy Jo’s coat the moment she removed it, Hetty hung the black wool garment in the hall closet. “That man called here a few minutes ago. He said to tell you that he’s at the Reed House and he’ll meet you at the station first thing in the morning.”

“Jack Parker is already in Chattanooga?” Peggy Jo headed down the hallway toward her daughter’s room.

“He sounded like a real nice man,” Hetty said. “Got a good Texas accent and was real charming.”

Peggy Jo stopped abruptly, glanced over her shoulder and frowned at Hetty. “We’ve hired the man to be my bodyguard. Our relationship will be completely professional. So, if you have any ideas of trying to put any kind of romantic spin on his living here at the house, you can forget it right now.”

“You’re accusing me unjustly.” Hetty followed Peggy Jo down the hall. “I promised you, after my last attempt at matchmaking, that I would stay out of your love life.” Hetty lowered her voice to a whisper. “Or lack thereof.”

Although she had heard it quite clearly, Peggy Jo ignored the last comment as she opened the door to Wendy’s room.

“She’s supposed to be asleep, but my guess is that she’s been trying to stay awake until you got home,” Hetty said.

Only a soft pink night-light illuminated the darkness in Wendy’s bedroom, an area of pastel colors that created a perfect vision of a little girl’s haven. Peggy Jo had decorated the room from memories of the room she had always wanted as a child but never had. White French Provincial furniture. A canopy bed. Frilly pink curtains and bedspread. A Victorian dollhouse. One wall filled with shelves containing a doll collector’s dream come true. And stuffed animals of every size and variety. And inside the walk-in closet were enough clothes to dress half a dozen six-year-olds.

“Mommy?” Lifting her head from the lace-adorned pillow, the raven-haired child smiled the moment she saw her mother.

Peggy Jo rushed over and sat on the side of the bed. “You’re supposed to be asleep. It’s after nine.”

Wendy scooted out from beneath the covers and threw her arms around Peggy Jo’s neck. “I couldn’t go to sleep until you got home. I wanted to tell you that Missy’s got the flu and Mrs. Carson’s going to let me be an angel in the play. You’ve got to call Missy’s mother and see if we can use her costume.”

Peggy Jo hugged her daughter to her, savoring the bliss of being loved and needed by this special child. She had decided years ago to never remarry, so for an old-fashioned woman like she was, that meant never having children. But when her friend Ginny had died in a car accident, along with her husband, Wendy had been left an orphan at six months old. Adopting Wendy had been an easy decision. Peggy Jo’s maternal yearnings could be fulfilled without compromising her moral standards and without risking a second marriage. She had given Wendy all the love in her heart and everything that money could buy, including a private school. But recently Wendy had begun asking why Peggy Jo couldn’t get her a daddy.

“I’ll call Missy’s mother first thing tomorrow,” Peggy Jo said. “Right now, I have something to tell you.”

On the drive home from the station, she had thought about how she would explain to Wendy that a man would be moving into their home tomorrow. The last thing she wanted Wendy to do was become attached to a hired bodyguard. But for the past several months Wendy had become as obsessed as Hetty with finding her mother a mate. Every man Peggy Jo dated became a potential daddy candidate.

“Sweetie, we’re going to have a houseguest.” Peggy Jo eased Wendy onto her lap. Wendy’s big blue eyes rounded in surprise. “His name is Jack Parker, and he’s a bodyguard. Since Mommy’s TV show is going to be seen all over the United States and Mommy is going to be famous, Aunt Jill thinks I need someone to look after me.”

God, she hoped that explanation made sense to a six-year-old. She had gone over several different versions, and this one seemed simple and honest, without being frightening.

“Oh, Mommy, we’re going to have a man around the house,” Wendy mimicked Hetty’s repetitive declaration that what they needed was a man around the house. “He’s going to take care of you and me, and I can tell Missy and Jennifer and Martha Jane that I do so have a daddy.”

“No, Wendy.” Peggy Jo clasped her daughter’s chin gently. “Mr. Parker isn’t going to be your daddy and he isn’t going to take care of us. What have I told you about us girls?”

Wendy’s smile quickly turned into a frown. Her rosebud mouth became a pout. “That we don’t need a man to take care of us. That we can take care of ourselves.”

“That’s right.”

“But you said he was going to look after you,” Wendy whined. “Daddies look after mommies and little girls, don’t they?”

She wished she could tell Wendy that, yes, all daddies look after their wives and little girls, but she had never lied to her child and she wasn’t going to now. “Some daddies do, sweetie, but some daddies don’t. That’s why it’s very important for us girls to always know how to take care of ourselves and never depend on any man.”

Peggy Jo knew that some women had fathers and husbands who had never let them down, who had always taken care of them and looked after them, but she hadn’t been that lucky. She had been forced, at an early age, to face the harsh reality that some men were uncaring.