Undercover Fiance. Sheryl Lynn
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“Please Come In” invitation posted on the office door.
“Some people think so,” he said and rose. “You must be Janine.” She was so stunning, he had to keep checking to make sure her perfection wasn’t an illusion.
A small frown formed between her eyebrows. “Yes, I’m Ms. Duke.” She clutched a large paper shopping bag—Neiman Marcus, he noticed—before her like a shield.
He rolled a hand, gesturing for her to enter. Reality seemed to shift. Women who looked like this only existed on a movie screen or on the airbrushed, expertly lit, artfully arranged pages of glamour magazines. He swept his other darts off the desk and into a drawer. The clattering assured him he was awake and she was for real.
“I’m Daniel Tucker.”
She eyed the dart in the woodwork warily.
He moved around the desk and held a chair for her. “Man, J.T. said you were a knockout, but as usual he understated.”
“Pardon?” She clutched the bag to her chest.
Those fabulous eyes glared up at him as if he were a bug in need of exterminating. He caught a whiff of light floral perfume with a note of vanilla. He wanted to bury his nose in her hair and snuffle like a horse.
“J.T. said you’re beautiful. I bet you hear that all the time.” He closed the office door and offered coffee.
She lifted that perfect chin. “I did not come here to be judged like a show dog, Mr. Tucker.” She frowned at the dart board hanging on the back of the door. “Or to have my eyeballs skewered.”
“Sorry about that, ma’am. I’m learning how to throw blindfolded.”
“Whatever for?”
Because the living was so damned easy he wondered why he even bothered getting out of bed in the morning. He lifted his shoulders. “New Year’s resolution. Sure you don’t want some coffee? Special blend, made fresh. Tea? Soda?” My heart, bank accounts, car?
“No, thank you.” She set the shopping bag on the floor at her feet. “I’d like to discuss business. Did J.T. tell you about my...problem?”
“Only that you have one.”
“I need confidentiality. This is a personal problem. I want it solved without involving my family.”
“Confidentiality is my specialty.” He leaned back on the chair, but stopped himself before throwing his feet up on the desk. Her posture would make a finishing-school teacher proud; his should at least rise above slovenly. He opened a drawer and swept beanbag animals, puzzles and a miniature croquet set off the desk and out of sight. “What exactly is your problem?”
“I seem to have acquired a stalker.”
That dampened his good humor. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk. “Go on.”
She looked around the office. The room was spacious, but cluttered with a jungle of plants and two computers. The screen-savers on both computers had words scrolling across the monitors. One said, “Vote for Dan Tucker, Emperor of the Universe.” The other said, “Smile, you’re gonna die anyway.”
The frown line appeared between her eyebrows again.
Daniel tried to guess her age. Her complexion was as smooth as polished marble. From what he could see, she didn’t sag or bag anywhere. Late twenties, he guessed. No wedding ring.
“What exactly do you do, Mr. Tucker?” She peered at his duck-decoy telephone as if it might offer information. “J.T. didn’t elaborate. Are you a private investigator? A security specialist?”
Lately he hadn’t been doing much of anything. “You might say I’m a professional problem solver.”
“And your credentials? References?”
“Confidential. My specialty is helping abused women escape their abusers. My clients come by referral only, and I don’t keep their names on file. Not even the CIA could trace anyone through me.”
“I see.”
“I also own some martial arts studios. J.T. runs them for me. His wife, Frankie, is your cousin, right?”
“Yes.” The frown line deepened. “I haven’t been in an abusive relationship. A man insists we’re in love, but we don’t have a relationship, and he won’t leave me alone. I don’t know if you can help me.”
The old, ever-present knot in his belly gave a little tug, reminding him that no matter how much time passed he’d never be completely, 100 percent free. “I know more about stalkers than most people care to know. Firsthand experience. I used to have one.”
Interest brightened her eyes, and her shoulders relaxed. She leaned forward.
“It started when I won the lottery.”
Those elegant eyebrows rose like wings.
“Do you buy Lotto tickets, ma’am?”
“No.”
“Don’t start. Imagining being a winner is a hoot, but actually doing it is a royal pain in the butt. I hit a jackpot for thirty-two million.” He paused; he never tired of seeing people’s reaction when the number sank in.
Janine’s lovely mouth formed an O.
“I get an annuity, and let me tell you, it’s a tax nightmare. I’m on a first-name basis with every IRS agent in the state. I also made the mistake of getting a big head and letting them put my picture in the newspaper and on television. Big mistake. Some folks make careers out of begging for money.”
“Your stalker is one of them?”
“No. At the time, I taught a karate class at the YMCA. She was one of my students. Kind of flaky, I thought, but a nice kid. After I went nuts with a new car, fancy condo, presents for everybody, I made some donations.” He stroked his thumbs under imaginary lapels. “The big-shot philanthropist. I paid for an annual YMCA membership for each of my students. She took it as a sign that I loved her.”
“Why?”
“It’s what she wanted to believe. If I’ve learned nothing else, it’s this—there’s no arguing with a delusion.”
“Does she have mental problems?”
“All stalkers have mental problems. My stalker was borderline schizophrenic, plus she had a disorder called erotomania. If that sounds sexy, trust me, it isn’t. It’s got nothing to do with sex or anything erotic. It’s a delusion about being in love.”
Janine lowered her gaze to the bag at her feet. She twisted a hank of hair around her fingers.
“Strike a nerve?”
“He insists what we have is true love.”
Daniel grunted. Erotomanic stalkers were the absolute worst. “My stalker called me dozens of times a day. I’d change my number, she’d find it. She broke into my home numerous times. When I called the cops, she told them she was my wife. One time she convinced them to arrest me for domestic abuse.” He shook his head at the memory.
“I moved out of state, but it only took her three months to find me. She intercepted my mail. She threatened the women I dated. I tried being nice. I tried reason. I got restraining orders. I took her to court. I had her arrested, but she convinced her parents and her attorneys that I was stringing her along. They always bailed her out of trouble.”
“How did you make her stop?”
The knot in his belly jerked tighter. “She stopped herself. She committed suicide.”
“Oh, my God,” Janine whispered.
He blew a long breath in a vain attempt to erase the sourness of old horrors from the back of his throat. “She hung herself off my bedroom balcony. She used a sheet from my bed as a noose.” He forcibly