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the occasional cyber stalker, and it fell off her lips as a matter of course these days.
    “You are the Sam Dalton from the Sam the Spaminator Web site?”
    Still feeling awkward about answering the door in sweats and slippers, she nodded hard. Her glasses slipped past the tip of her nose as she did so. Sam caught them as they bounced off, smudging the lenses with her tight fingers.
    Reminding herself that she didn’t care what the hot guy with the sexy jaw and rock-hard body thought of her looks, she asked, “Do you need me to sign for something?”
    He waved the leather wallet he’d been holding, which she hadn’t even noticed. It contained a badge. Sam immediately tensed.
    “I’m Special Agent Lambert of the FBI. This is Special Agent Stokes. May we come in?”
    She hadn’t even seen the woman. Sam nodded at her, saw the same emotionless expression, then let herself process the situation.
    It didn’t take long. “Did you say FBI?” she snapped.
    “Yes. We’d like to talk to you.”
    God, not again. “Look, I tell people how to avoid scams; I’m not running one myself.” She thrust a frustrated hand through her hair, her fingers tangling in the loose ponytail, knocking several long, blond strands down around her face. “I’m not a hacker and my site and book are not secret instruction manuals for criminals looking for new ways to steal people’s money.”
    She’d heard it all since she’d started her blog, and since she’d published her book, Don’t Get Tangled in the Web. Some legal types seemed to think she was helping the criminals more than hurting them. “Don’t you cyber crimes geeks have enough to do without harassing me?”
    The man’s shoulders unstiffened a fraction, but his partner didn’t look at all amused.
    “You’re not in any trouble, ma’am,” he said. “We’re actually here to ask for your assistance. We’re researching a crime, and have reason to think you were in contact with one of the people involved. We’re hoping you can help us figure out what happened.”
    She hesitated. When she wanted contact with the outside world, she sought it out herself. Sometimes. She did not invite it in when it showed up unannounced at her door.
    Nor did she seek out good-looking men. There had been a few who’d sought her out lately, including her own divorce attorney, who had made it clear that whenever she was ready to get back into the dating game, he wanted to be first in line.
    Sure. Like any woman wanted to go out with the man who’d seen her at the lowest point in her life. She had to hand it to him, though: Rick Young, the attorney in question, hadn’t given up, even though she’d kept saying no.
    “Mrs. Dalton?”
    Sam sighed, already knowing this agent would not take no for an answer. Stepping back, she gestured the pair in. “Fine.” She’d give them five minutes; then it was back to her column. And maybe a dinner break with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s—who had, until this very minute, been the only males inside her apartment in months.
    But before they’d taken a half dozen steps inside, the female agent glanced out Sam’s living room window, peering at the street one story below. “Oh, no, he is not !”
    Realizing what was happening, Sam suppressed a smile. Seemed the local police hadn’t gotten the memo that they should ignore illegally parked, unmarked cars driven by FBI agents.
    “Go,” the male agent said. He spoke to his partner’s retreating back. She had already stalked out the door, obviously planning to talk her way out of a ticket.
    “Yeah, good luck with that one,” Sam muttered, having had more than a few herself. She didn’t think God himself could talk his way out of a parking ticket once Baltimore’s finest had him in his sights. Cal Ripken, maybe. But nobody else.
    “I take it you’ve got some firsthand experience?” the agent said.
    “You have no idea. I’m on a first-name basis with the local beat cop. He waves at me and smiles as he