Despite his extensive training and experience, David Jennings could never get over how life could spin on a dime. Or, how strange its coincidences were.  Focus, focus, concentrate. David Jennings envisioned his imaginary opponent as he focused on the punching bag hanging on chains from his ceiling. Easy now, picture the ball of the foot sailing in a smooth arc. Two thoughts interrupted his concentration. This was boring. And it was juvenile.

Angry, he stepped back and gave the bag an uppercut, he then got into a combination of jabs, uppercuts and high kicks while bouncing and shifting his weight from left to right foot. A prospective client would be arriving in a few minutes—his only client in more than three months. The stricter anti-stalking laws in the state of Florida were growing teeth. He felt like a soldier in the final days of war—bored. The more battles his side won, the more obsolete he became.

He craved a useful existence—and something else, too. He just hadn’t figured out what that something else was.

In a gesture to rid himself of the gloomy thoughts, he shook his head and again conjured the image of his bull’s eye. He drew back his arm, joints loose, wrist relaxed, the crimson sweet spot glowing like a beacon. And jabbed his fist into the bag as he did his little foot work around the bag.

A high-pitched shriek shattered the silence. Without hesitation or realization, his foot went flying.

There she stood, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The bottom of his foot quivered in the doorjamb, inches from her face.

The face of an angel with wide Caribbean blue eyes and a full, soft mouth. Soft looking gold highlighted curls fell in waves around her shoulders. A wine-red tank top didn’t leave much to the imagination, nor did the hip hugger white slacks that rested below her narrow waistline. Visions of opponents and emotional uneasiness shrank and disappeared, replaced by the image of this goddess rising naked from the sea, riding a seashell, while cherubs…

“Are you nuts?” She looked between him and the punching bag. “You almost put my eye out.”

Her voice, though sharp, vibrated within his heart. David tried to hide his embarrassment behind a smile. A glance at his watch showed him five o’clock on the dot. The goddess must have accepted the “Please Come In” invitation posted on the office door.

“Most people think so,” he said and wiped his hand on his shirt before extending it. “You must be Laura.” She was so stunning, he had to keep checking to make sure her perfection wasn’t an illusion.

A little frown furrowed between her eyebrows. “Yes, I’m Ms. Madison.”

He rolled a hand, gesturing for her to move forward. 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 pushed his leather boxing gloves off the desk and into the drawer. The squeak in the drawer assured him he was awake and she was for real.  “I’m David Jennings.”

She eyed the smudge in the woodwork warily.

He moved around the desk and held a chair for her.

"Forgive me for staring, but you are one hell of a knockout.”

“Pardon?”

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.

“You’re beautiful. But I bet you hear that all the time.” He closed the office door and offered her coffee.

She lifted that perfect chin. “I did not come here to be judged like a show dog, Mr. Jennings.” She frowned at the punching back hanging from the ceiling. “Or to have my eyeballs punched out.”

Her voice, though sharp, vibrated within his heart. David tried to hide his embarrassment behind a smile. A glance at his watch showed him five o’clock on the dot. The goddess must have accepted the “Please Come In” invitation posted on the office door.

“Most people think so,” he said and wiped his hand on his shirt before extending it. “You must be Laura.” She was so stunning, he had to keep checking to make sure her perfection wasn’t an illusion.

A little frown furrowed between her eyebrows. “Yes, I’m Ms. Madison.”

He rolled a hand, gesturing for her to move forward. 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 noise assured him he was awake and she was for real.

“I’m David Jennings.”

She eyed the smudge in the doorjamb warily.

He moved around the desk and held a chair for her.

“Forgive me for staring, but you are one hell of a knockout.”

“Pardon?”

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.

“You’re beautiful. But I bet you hear that all the time.” He closed the office door and offered her coffee.

She lifted that perfect chin. “I did not come here to be judged like a show dog, Mr. Jennings.” She frowned at the dartboard hanging from the back of the door.  “Or to have my eyeballs skewered.”

“Sorry about that. Sure you don’t want some coffee? Special blend, made fresh.  Tea? Soda?” My heart, bank accounts, car?

“No, thank you.” She set her purse down on the floor by her feet. “I’d like to discuss business. Did you get my voice message about my. . .problem?” 

“It was a little scrambled. I only understood that you did have one.”

“I need confidentiality. This is a personal problem. I want it solved without involving the resort or all of the Florida Keys.”

“Confidentiality is my specialty.” He leaned back on the black leather swivel 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 an array of loose odds and ends 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. Staring straight into her eyes. “Go on.”

She looked around the office. The room was spacious, but cluttered with diving equipment and two computers.

The frown line appeared between her eyebrows again.

David tried to guess her age. Her complexion was smooth, flawless. From what he could see, she didn’t sag or bag anywhere. Late twenties, early thirties, he guessed. No wedding ring.

“What exactly do you do, Mr. Jennings?” Karen, a friend of hers had referred her to David without offering much in the way of his exact profession.

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 the martial arts studio in Key Largo. My buddy, Eddie Cameron runs it. His wife, Karen, is a friend of yours, right?”

“Yes.” The frown line deepened. “I haven’t been in an abusive relationship. A man at the resort 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 or not.”

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 had one.”

Interest brightened her eyes, and her shoulders relaxed. She leaned forward.  “It started when I won the Florida lottery.”

Those elegant eyebrows rose like wings.

“Do you buy lotto tickets, Ms. Madison?”

“No.”

“Don’t start. Imagining being a winner is a hoot, but actually doing it is a royal pain in the ass. I hit a five week rollover for thirty-six million.” He paused; he never tired of seeing people’s reaction when the number sank in.
Laura’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 a bad 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 kick-boxing class at the YMCA in Homestead. 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 erotic. It’s a delusion about being in love.”

Laura lowered her gaze to her purse on the floor. She twisted a strand of hair around her fingers.

“Strike a nerve?”

“He insists what we have is true soul mate love.”

David 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, accessed my computers, and then started stalking me through emails. 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 further south, settled here in the Keys, but it only took her two months to find me. She intercepted my mail. She threatened the women I dated. I tried being nice. I tried to 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,” Laura whispered.

He blew a long breath in a vain attempt to erase the sourness of old horrors from the back of his throat. “She shot herself off my bedroom balcony.” He forcibly relaxed his hands. “That totally, completely sucked. I still have nightmares. But one good thing came out of it. I found my life’s calling. I don’t want anybody going through what I went through. I stop stalkers any way I can.”

Her slender throat worked, and the hair twisting increased. He recognized fear.  Perfect hair, makeup and clothing aside, this woman suffered, and his heart went out to her.

“Before we continue with your problem, I want you to understand something about me. I fight dirty.”

She stopped twisting her hair. Her eyebrows lifted. He could spend a lifetime studying her incredible face. He’d give his left leg to see her smile.

“People who stalk are not reasonable. Some of them have serious personality disorders. Some are mentally ill. All of them are obsessed. Florida has strict anti-stalking statues. But, be that as it may, the stalkers somehow seem to go through the court system coming out feeling stronger for the experience. So I fight dirty.”

“You use violence?”

“On occasion. Most of the stalkers I deal with are angry men. Bullies who beat up women and children. I’m a tenth degree black belt, and I’m qualified with weapons you’ve probably never heard of.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Bullies don’t like the taste of their own medicine.”

“My stalker isn’t violent.”

“Stalking is violence. You must realize that on some level.”

Her slender throat worked with a hard swallow.

“Being nice does not work. Being polite but firm does not work. I have discovered, in many cases that the judicious use of mayhem does work.”

“I see.” The softly hesitant words held volumes of skepticism.

“Have you gone to the police?”

“No.”

“Have you confronted your stalker?”

“I haven’t a clue as to who he is.”

He straightened in his chair, and the wheels squeaked. He’d wanted a challenge, and a doozy landed in his lap. He’d never dealt with an anonymous stalker before. They usually targeted celebrities and politicians.

“I don’t want anyone killed, Mr. Jennings.”

“I haven’t killed anybody.” He curled the corners of his mouth in a tight smile.  “Yet.”

She lowered her gaze to her purse as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Perhaps it did. “He’s threatened my employees, my family, other campers,” she said quietly. “I want him stopped.” She stroked the bag. Her hands were slim with long fingers. Clear polish on her nails had been buffed to a high shine.

Her vanity intrigued him. She knew damned well how gorgeous she was. He felt a connection. He was as vain as hell, too.

“I’m at a loss. If I knew who he was, I’d talk to him. But he could walk into this room right now, and I wouldn’t have a clue as to his identity.”

“Anonymous stalkers need control as much as they need love. Anonymity helps maintain the control. You can’t reject him if you don’t know who he is. How do you know he’s from your campground? And how has he threatened those you mentioned?”

She reached into her purse and rustled amongst papers. She brought out a folded sheet of stenographer’s paper and placed it on the desk. “This was left under the door to my office the day before yesterday. It is when I first mentioned something to Karen and she referred me to you.”

“You did right in mentioning it. Stalkers do not go away by themselves.” He shook the folded paper. The letter consisted of three short paragraphs. The first two paragraphs extolled Laura’s virtue. The third paragraph chilled his blood.

It isn’t fair for your family, all these campers to keep us apart. They work you to death, taking up all your time, and now they are ruining the most romantic day of the year! Valentine’s Day is our day. I’ll help you, my love. These fellow campers, your ungrateful employees, your parents—they’re all dictators.  Death to all dictators! I will make them all go away. Then you and I can live together on a Catamaran, sailing forever and beyond.

It was signed, “Your eternal love and soul mate, Slippery.”

“Am I paranoid?” she asked. “Or is he amongst the campers and threatening a wide vast of individuals connected to me?”

“Sounds like definite threats to me. I always take threats seriously. And yes, it appears somewhere amongst the hundreds of campers you accommodate and cater to, one of them may be your stalker. Could also be an employee.”

Color drained from her cheeks.

“What’s the deal with Valentine’s day?”

“It’s when we hold the biggest and most romantic evening of the season. Did Karen or Eddie tell you anything about Big Pine Key RV Resort?”

“Only that you’re the general manager and that your Dad owns it. I tried to take a drive through, tight security you have. I didn’t pursue the visit. I looked it up on the Internet. Nice web site. Did you create it?”

A trace of pride shone in her eyes. “Yes. Actually, I do all the online marketing and advertising as well.”

“I’m impressed. Now, back to your problem. When did the stalking begin?”

She lifted her purse to the desk and gestured for him to look inside. “A year and a half ago my assistant, Stephanie and I were planning the activities for the upcoming season. Slippery had stolen my Palm Pilot.”

He peeked inside the purse. It contained post it notes of various colors, stenographer’s paper, cassette tapes, and little gifts of endearment. “An impressive collection for only eighteen months. I take it you’re the kind of lady who carries her life in her purse?”

Her eyes narrowed and her full lips thinned. Her expressiveness startled him, enchanted him. No glamour magazine cutout was she, but a living, breathing mortal.

“No offense intended. But some people are organizers and some aren’t. What was on the Palm?”

“Everything.” A faint blush blossomed on her cheeks.

David suppressed a sigh.

“Names, addresses, schedule of events. And I like to write so I had some short stories and outlines for books. The first note appeared about a week later. He sent a box of chocolates, too. I threw them away. The letters and gifts kept coming. When I realized he wouldn’t stop, I began saving them. I keep looking for clues. He knows all about me, but I know nothing about him.”

“What about the cassette tapes? You taping phone calls?”

She twisted her hair again around her fingers. “He’s never called me. The tapes are recordings of love songs, poems, and just a jumble of nonsense. I don’t know why he sends them.”

“Maybe he’s hearing messages from you. He’s letting you know he’s receiving them.”

“Puh…leese…”

“I’m serious. One stalker was convinced his victim sent him daily messages through Oprah Winfrey. He spent hours transcribing every word so he didn’t miss any messages.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s delusion at work."

She rolled her eyes. “At first I was angry because I was certain he stole my Palm. Then I thought he would grow bored and give up. But the letters have grown increasingly personal. It’s as if he knows everything about my life. He knows everything I do.” She closed her eyes for a moment and sat perfectly still. When she looked at him, her expression held a tremulous plea that touched him deeply.  “Very little frightens me, but Slippery scares me to death. I don’t like it. I won’t tolerate it. Can you help me, Mr. Jennings?”

“I’ll do my best.” He began emptying the bag, sorting the contents into stacks of letters, post-it’s, gifts and cassette tapes. “Besides Karen, you haven’t told anyone about Slippery? Other campers? Friends? Family?”

“No, and I have no intention of doing so. My parents are in their seventies.  They don’t need the stress. I want this problem solved with the least amount of fuss as possible.”

He suspected her need for privacy went much deeper than concern about her parent’s age. He’d talk with her about it later.

“The Valentine’s dance is very important to the campers. It’s one of those activities they look forward to every year. I can’t cancel it just to make Slippery happy. This year were combining the dance with an anniversary party for my parents. Their fortieth. And I have a lot of relatives I haven’t seen in years coming down. I can’t cancel it. I won’t cancel it.”

“You’re right about that. It would only encourage him. Let me sort through this mess. I’ll see what I can pick up, maybe come up with a profile about his character. Then we’ll discuss strategy.”

A trace of a smile curved her luscious mouth. She withdrew her leather-bound checkbook from her purse. “About your fee…”

“I don’t have a fee.”

“Pardon?”

He adored the way she said that. All snooty and refined, like a princess momentarily ruffled by the riffraff. “I have more money than I know what to do with.”

“I pay for whatever services I receive.”

“I don’t take cash from stalking victims.” He cocked his head, studying the gentle contours of her oval face and the sculpted lines of her cheekbones. He resisted examining her shoulders and breasts, but awareness of her alluring body heated his blood. He’d like to have her in his debt.

He’d really like to have her in his bed. Thaw the ice, rev her engine, goad her into calling him darling—and mean it. He pushed his tongue against his palate and kept his mouth shut. Now would definitely be a bad time to let her know what he was thinking. Especially since the frigid glare she gave him said she suspected exactly what he was thinking.

“How about a trade?”

She tilted her head to one side. “A trade?”

“I get rid of Slippery, you give me a honeymoon.”

“Pardon?” Her voice had risen slightly, and the corners of her mouth twitched.

Seeing her fight a smile convinced him that the heat pulsed beneath her icy veneer. “I heard all about the infamous Honeymoon Cottage you have hidden in the backwoods of the campground. Designed right out of the Poconos with an eight foot high hot tub in the shape of a champagne glass, room service, heart-shaped water bed, mirrored ceilings and walls, romance. I could really go for that. Can you set up the Honeymoon for me?”

“I could. . .” She relaxed—David nearly melted into a puddle beneath the desk.  “Are you engaged to be married?”

I’m going to marry you.

The thought shocked him. Still, the sheer rightness glowed in his being like a bright, white light. The last time intuition had struck so hard he’d impulsively purchased a lottery ticket which changed his life forever.

“Not yet.”

She lowered her gaze to the checkbook. “I’m going to have to think about this.  Perhaps I haven’t explored all my options.”

He touched the stack of notes and letters. He knew he could help her. He needed to help her. One way or another he had to see her again. “If you give me twenty-four hours to study Slippery, I can outline a plan of attack. Then you can decide if you want my help.”

“I’d be more comfortable if this were strictly business.”

“Barter is as good as cash. So what do you say?” He extended a hand over the desk.

“Well, Karen does highly recommend you.” She shook hands with him. Her skin was warm and silky. Luckily for David the desk was between them, or he’d have drawn her hand to place over his heart.

“I’ll buy you dinner, then. Tomorrow, seven-thirty.”

She cast him a cutting glance that might have cowed a lesser man. David was enchanted. Finding the key to unlock her heart might prove to be the most enjoyable challenge of his life.

“I doubt your girlfriend would approve.”

“Business, Ms. Madison, to discuss Slippery. How about we meet at Mangrove Mama’s?”

“Mile Marker 20, I know the place.” Her eyes acquired a gleam as she gave him a long, considering look. With unconscious grace she slid one hand along the edge of her throat. Those elegant fingers trailed tantalizingly over the tip of her cleavage. David’s heartbeat thudded heavily in his ears.

“Do you really think you can help me?”

“Yes, Laura, I do.”

“Very well,” she said. “Seven-thirty, Mangrove Mama’s. Don’t be late.” She passed a dart board hanging on the back of the door. “Do leave your toys at home.” She strolled out the door.

David stared at the enticing sway of her hips.

Pumped up by the prospect of becoming a hero in the enchanting goddess’s eyes, he tackled the contents that had been dumped on his desk from Laura’s purse. He didn’t know squat about anonymous stalkers, but he was a quick study.  He’d find a way to get rid of Slippery or die trying.