The United States Marshals Service

Formed in 1789 by President George Washington, the United States Marshals Service is the oldest federal law enforcement agency—and in my mind, one of the most mysterious. They used to carry out death sentences, catch counterfeiters—even take the national census. According to their Web site, “At virtually every significant point over the years where Constitutional principles or the force of law have been challenged, the marshals were there—and they prevailed.” Now the agency primarily focuses on fugitive investigation, prisoner/alien transportation, prisoner management, court security and witness security.

No big mystery there, you say? When I started this series, I didn’t think so, either. Intending to nail the details, I marched down to my local marshals’ office for an afternoon that will stay with me forever.

After learning the agency’s history and being briefed on day-to-day operations, I was taken on a tour. I saw an impressive courtroom and a prisoner holding cell. Then we went to the garage to see vehicles and bulletproof vests and guns. Sure, I’m an author, but I’m primarily a mom and wife. I bake cookies and find hubby’s always-lost belt. Nothing made the U.S. Marshals Service spring to life for me more than seeing those weapons. And then I realized my tour guide wasn’t fictional. He used those guns, put his very life on the line protecting me and my family and the rest of this city, county and state. I had chills.

Things really got interesting when I started digging for information on the Witness Security Program. Deputy Marshal Rick ever so politely sidestepped my every question. I found out nothing! Not where the base of operations is located, not which marshals are assigned to the program, what size crews are used, how their shifts are rotated—nothing! After a while it got to be a game. One it was obvious I’d lose!

Honestly, all this mystery probably makes for better fiction. I don’t want to know what really happens. It’s probably not half as romantic as the images of these great protectors I’ve conjured in my mind. Oh—and another bonus to my tour—Deputy Marshal Rick was Harlequin American Romance–hero hot!

Laura Altom

Dear Reader,

In case you couldn’t already tell, I’m fascinated by the United States Marshals Service! Their Web site is wonderful, full of all sorts of interesting facts (www.usdoj.gov/marshals/index.html). Some of my favorite pages detail marshal-led sting operations. These guys are not only brave and strong, but funny!

One of the most elaborate stings involved free tickets to a Washington Redskins home football game against the Cincinnati Bengals. “The fugitives, wanted by authorities for a variety of criminal offenses, willingly gathered at the D.C. Convention Center in response to ‘invitations’ sent by the Marshals Service to the last known addresses of more than 3,000 wanted persons with more than 5,000 outstanding warrants.” There are some super pics on the site, one of which features a pair of fugitives hamming it up with, unbeknownst to them, a U.S. Marshal dressed in a chicken suit!

Hoping any contests you win are the real deal,

Laura Marie

P.S. You can reach me through my Web site at

www.lauramariealtom.com or write me at P.O. Box 2074, Tulsa, OK 74101.

His Baby Bonus

Laura Marie Altom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For United States Marshal Timothy D. Welch and Deputy U.S. Marshal Rick Holden. Thank you for the incredible tour of Tulsa’s marshals’ office, and for patiently answering my gazillion questions! Any technical errors are all mine!

And for sweet Edna Welch in the Nimitz Middle School Library, who so tirelessly helps me find all those spy, police and fairy-tale books.

Thank you for all your hugs and smiles!

Books by Laura Marie Altom

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

940—BLIND LUCK BRIDE

976—INHERITED: ONE BABY!

1028—BABIES AND BADGES

1043—SANTA BABY

1074—TEMPORARY DAD

1086—SAVING JOE*

1099—MARRYING THE MARSHAL*

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Bam!

The storage room door slammed shut, drowning Deputy U.S. Marshal Beauregard—Beau—Logue in inky blackness.

“Ms. Sherwood?” he called out, adrenaline pumping and body on full alert as a pathetically weak overhead bulb blinked on. “You all right?”

Nothing.

Not giving a damn what happened to the wine-glasses he’d been hauling for the petite, nearly eight months pregnant, proverbial Georgia peach, Beau dumped them clinking to his feet, then scrambled for the exit.

“Ms. Sherwood, talk to me!” Hand on the doorknob, shoulder bearing down on the door, Beau shoved with all his might, but it didn’t budge. Someone had to have deliberately blocked it. “Ms. Sherwood? Gracie?”

Still nothing.

Not even a frick-frackin’ mouse squeak.

And wouldn’t you know it, he’d left his handheld radio in the restaurant’s main dining room. Hadn’t even felt the need for his headset, seeing how the operation thus far had been smooth.

Now what?

Had Chef Gracie’s escapee ex-husband gotten to her? A couple of his hired guns? Was she sick? Passed out? She’d seemed fine just a second ago, but he knew from bitter experience pregnant women had issues.

Beau again rammed the door with his shoulder, but all he got for his efforts was crazy, red-hot pain.

“Okay, think, man. Think.” Hands braced on his hips, he’d kept his head for all of two seconds when he tried punching the door. The only thing that netted was hurt knuckles, so he switched to Plan B—which pretty much consisted of a helluva lot of hollering.

“Yo, Mason! Mulgrave! Wolcheck! Anyone out there?”

No response. He moved on to Plan C.

The building was in the heart of Fort McKenzie’s historic Gas Light District, meaning the restaurant occupied three older structures that used to be row houses in the trendy mountain town just an hour’s commute to Portland, Oregon. The result was a hodgepodge of too narrow rooms and passages that’d no doubt barely passed city inspections.

All closed up like the place was, the air on this uncharacteristically hot mid-August Tuesday morning was sticky. Smelled like the moldy sneakers he used for mowing his fixer-upper house’s lawn.

Eyeing a putty knife on a shelf lined with grimy tools, he used it to wedge up and under the door’s hinge pins. The top one popped right off. The second was rusty, but with teeth gritted, he worked that one free, as well. Beau managed to keep the heavy door steady long enough to lift it out of his way and lean it against the nearest shelves.

From his shoulder holster, he pulled his gun, readying it for whatever awaited behind the newly liberated door that, sure enough, someone had padlocked a steel bar in front of.

He ducked under it.

In the now dark hall, he wasn’t sure what to expect—sure as hell not a convenient bread crumb trail—but what he got was exactly squat. He made a quick sweep of the area but found not so much as a long, blond hair for a clue.

For all practical purposes, Gracie Sherwood had vanished.

Not only did that tick Beau off because he took his job of protecting witnesses very seriously, but also he’d taken an instant liking to Ms. Sherwood. She was sweet, brave, defenseless. Reminded him of his good friend and fellow marshal Chance Mulgrave’s wife who’d had it rough when her first husband had been killed right about the time she’d discovered she was pregnant.

With slumped shoulders, Beau made the long walk out to join the rest of his crew, radioing for the two guys patrolling the building’s side and rear to come up front.

“Don’t suppose any of you have seen Ms. Sherwood?” he asked once all were assembled.

Villetti chuckled. “You’re kidding, right?”

Jaw clenched, Beau sighed. “It look like I’m kidding? Mason, Wolcheck, do me a favor and check the garage down the street for her car.”

Five minutes later, the two guys were back.

Gracie Sherwood’s car wasn’t there.

What did it mean? Someone took her in her own vehicle?

Beau’s stomach clenched.

Sure, it was possible, but more likely, for whatever oddball reason, he’d been duped. She’d used her Southern charm and curls to lure him into the storage closet. She’d locked him in, then taken off. But why? What did she know that he didn’t that had her running? Was she joining her husband? Or running scared from him and thinking she’d be safer on her own?

“So what happened?” his younger brother Adam asked. “Hear signs of a struggle?”

“Not a peep.”

“What’re you gonna do?” Bug, Adam’s best bud and the only woman on the team, asked. “This was a mighty high profile case for the boss. He finds out you’re the one who misplaced her, well—” She finished her sentence with a low whistle that pretty much said it all.

No matter the cost, no matter where the hunt took him, Beau had to get Gracie Sherwood back—now. Not just for her, but himself. He’d already lost one pregnant woman. No way would he lose another.

FIFTEEN MINUTES after making her big escape, Gracie Sherwood—she’d long ago ditched her married name of Delgado in favor of her maiden surname—pulled her whale of a vintage pink Caddie convertible up to a convenience store gas pump. While her car guzzled gas, she counted money—or rather, her lack thereof: $184.32.

Not good, especially considering the cost of this one fill-up. Still, the $150 in the restaurant safe had been all she could get her hands on. The $34.32 all that was left of Vicente’s now frozen assets. Not that she’d even want to spend a dime more of his money, but in this case, it would’ve at least been nice to have the option.

Inside, she made a quick trek to the ladies’ room, paid for the fuel, a pack of mini powdered-sugar doughnuts, a banana and jug of OJ, then climbed back behind the wheel.

She tried finding a decent radio station, but this far out of Portland, got nothing but static. A week earlier, some punk had broken her car’s antennae. The final nail in the coffin of a particularly rotten year.

Finding out the sophisticated, articulate, Harvard-educated Bolivian she’d fallen wildly in love with had in fact been up to his neck in the kinds of dirty dealing she couldn’t even begin to comprehend had been hard to take. What’d happened after that nearly destroyed her.

Muggy, hot summer wind in her hair, she focused on the winding mountain road. Gracie ignored the latest lump in her throat and tightened her grip on the wheel.

With Vicente behind bars, she’d thought she’d been safe—at least until a month from now when her testimony would’ve forced her to face him at the trial. Lucky for her, she’d been the one to find his business log, onto the pages of which he’d meticulously recorded each illegitimate business dealing he’d been involved in. Everything from drug dealing to illegal importing to murder. All carefully documented in the event he’d ever needed to blackmail one of his associates. His ego was the size of Vermont, so knowing Vicente, he’d never even imagined it being found—let alone, used against him.

Although she was a week shy of eight months pregnant, she was now on her way to the Culinary Arts Invitational, held in just under two weeks in San Francisco. After she won the competition, Gracie planned on heading to her parents’ home in Deerwood, Georgia.

As a master chef, she’d worked her whole life for this. Before finding out about Vicente, the hundred grand in prize money would’ve merely been icing on the cake of what she’d mistakenly believed had been her already fantastic life. Now that the restaurant she’d nurtured into a lucrative business had been closed due to nonexistent profits, since news about Vicente’s dirty dealings had become public, the prize represented a second chance for her and her baby.

When she’d gotten the news Vicente had escaped, and that word on the street—according to Portland police—was that he was coming for her, at first she hadn’t believed it.

But then, why not? she thought with a bitter laugh. The man had already committed an unspeakable crime against her. Why not finish her off?

After narrowly avoiding being abducted at gunpoint one afternoon while walking her neighborhood park, Gracie had gone back to the police, who’d turned her over to the U.S. Marshals’ Witness Security Program.

She’d tried explaining to police about the competition soon to be held in San Francisco, how she had to be there, that it was the only way she’d ever get enough cash to start a new restaurant and life. But they’d said simply, no. She was too valuable a witness to let go.

A witness.

That’s all she was to these guys.

They didn’t see the pain she’d been through. The pain she was still working through. They didn’t see the innocent baby girl she’d have to diaper with newspapers if she didn’t win the top CAI prize. Yes, her parents would help best they could, but seeing how they were retired, it wasn’t like they had a money tree shading their backyard.

Lucky for Gracie, the marshals who’d been sent to protect her had been even more chauvinistic, and thus easier to escape, than her husband’s thugs.

She was sorry for having locked the nice one in the storage closet, but really, what else could she have done? From here on out, the nice marshal—along with the rest of his crew—were the enemy in the most important battle she’d ever fight.

The battle to regain her life. Her normalcy.

For many women, she supposed discovering their husband was a murdering psycho would probably ruin them. What happened after that…

No. It was in the past. Never to be spoken or thought of again. What was done was done, and she wasn’t willing to become a slave to one horrific night.

Gracie had wanted to be a mother since she was three years old, playing with her Burp and Boo Betty doll. She’d dreamed of winning CAI’s competition ever since her graduation from the prestigious Western Culinary Institute. With two such cherished goals on the line, no one—especially not some clueless marshal—was going to bring her down.

From here on out, she would take nice, deep breaths. Dream of holding her baby girl in her arms in the kitchen of the new restaurant the prize money would help start. In short, life would finally get back to normal.

Normal. The word had such a melodic sound. In a life led in Normalville, husbands didn’t do what hers had. They didn’t go to prison and then escape. They didn’t want to kill pregnant wives.

Mmm…Gracie liked Normalville. Much preferred to her past locale of Chaosville. So she raised her face to the sun, pasted on a bright smile and reveled in the first unhurried, carefree moments of her and her baby’s new lives.

“YOU SEEN HER?” Beau asked the clerk at the third convenience store he’d stopped at along Highway 26, the only route leading east or west out of Fort McKenzie. Other deputy marshals covered less traveled roads. He’d chosen this one for himself because if by chance Ms. Sherwood had gotten it in that pretty head of hers that she’d wanted to go for a nice drive home to Georgia—without her security detail—then by God, he’d be the one to give her a good talking to. The woman wasn’t only putting her life at risk, but her baby’s.

People who crossed Vicente Delgado died.

It was that simple.

His gut told him Gracie was too smart to have gone back to hubby, which, after a quick look at her file, only left a couple other options. There was some cooking thing she’d told Portland PD she wanted to compete in, but after having been shot at, surely even she’d seen how attending such a well-publicized event was a bad idea. She had family in Georgia. But why would she want to drive all that way? No doubt it had something to do with her pregnancy. Best he could remember, women about to pop weren’t supposed to fly, right?

The paunchy, graying Caucasian male manning the convenience store counter took the photo, eyed it a good fifteen seconds, then tapped it. “You know, I think I have seen her. Maybe an hour ago she got gas, then bought OJ and those little powdered sugar doughnuts. I remember ’cause the combination would’ve sent me to the ER with heartburn.”

“Excellent,” Beau said, snatching back the picture. “You see which way she went?”

“She definitely turned that pink tank of hers west.”

West? Beau rubbed his throbbing forehead. Sighed.

Had she decided to go to that cooking thing after all? And if so, why? What didn’t the woman get about psycho exes and crowds being a bad combination?

Well, soon as he caught up with her, he’d give her an education in both. Lucky for her, bad news exes were his specialty.

Climbing back in his SUV, grabbing Ray-Ban Aviators from the dash and slipping them on, he couldn’t help but wonder what was it with him and women?

When it came to judging guys, he could sniff a whack job from eighty miles back. Throw in a hot female, and his radar went haywire. Not that preggers Gracie Sherwood was either a whack job or hot—at least not in the conventional sense. But she was cute. And Lord knew, as in the case of his cheating ex-wife, cute had its own set of pitfalls.

Initially, when Gracie had first split, he’d been a little out of his mind. There. He’d admitted it. But he was stronger now. Her taking off wasn’t anything like what had happened with Ingrid. Not even remotely. It was job stress making him crazy, linking everything into one big jumbo mess in his head. Time was all he needed to work through it. Everyone he knew agreed.

Now, all he had to do was convince himself.

“MA’AM?” Beau said to the waitress who’d just set a juicy double cheeseburger and fries on Gracie’s table. Gracie was in the rest room. It was lunchtime at I-5, exit 282—about thirty minutes south of sweltering, traffic-clogged Portland. And while Beau was thrilled about having spotted Gracie’s pink whale in the truck stop lot, then blocking her car in with his SUV, he was more thrilled about landing a burger. “Mind bringing me the same?”

“Sure,” she said, giving him a funny look while he slid into the turquoise vinyl booth.

“Extra mayo and grilled onions, please.”

“You got it.”

In the meantime, Beau helped himself to Gracie’s fries. Lucky for him, she’d chosen a lonely corner, away from the obnoxious pop blaring on the jukebox, out of the line of sight of anyone walking through the front door or on their way back from the john. Expecting Gracie to pounce the second she caught sight of him, Beau continued downing her fries, but remained on alert.

A few minutes later, she rounded the corner and gasped. “What’re you—”

By the time Gracie had even realized what’d happened, a marshal—that nice one—stood, nudged her into the booth, then sat beside her, pinning her in. “Howdy,” he said in his best Southern twang. “How y’all doin’?”

“Let me go,” she snarled from between clenched teeth. “Or so help me, I’ll scream so loud every redneck in this joint’ll tear you to pieces.”

“Good,” Beau said, helping himself to another fry. “Then after that, they’ll no doubt be happy to tackle the other guys after you.”

“What other guys?”

“Four goons your hubby hired. Yesterday afternoon, a friend of mine from Portland PD gave me a tip. We found out that with the bulk of his pals still behind bars, your ex assembled a new crew to take you out. Which is why my boss feels a sense of urgency about getting you back under our protection.”

“Right,” Gracie said, snatching her plate from him, then wolfing down a fry. Oh, personal experience taught her Vicente was a man to be feared, but he wasn’t superhuman. She wasn’t using a credit card or cell phone, so as far as she knew, she couldn’t be traced. As for how this marshal ended up finding her, she’d chalk that up to pure, dumb luck. She’d told police her plans to compete in San Francisco, and he no doubt assumed she’d be on I-5—the most direct route.

Mistake Number One.

From here on out, she’d stick solely to back roads.

After all, this close to obtaining her most cherished dreams of becoming a mother and winning the world renowned CAI competition, she wasn’t about to do something stupid like put her life at risk.

Yes, Vicente no doubt knew that she would attend the Culinary Olympics, but come on, the man was a prison escapee. He was also brilliant. Meaning, he wouldn’t risk freedom by showing up at one of the most publicized events in the culinary world.

Wishing for her own wafer-thin, home cooked potato chips accompanied by a nice, mellow dill dip, a turkey burger and side of pasta salad, Gracie instead made lemonade from the lemons of her life by grabbing for the ketchup bottle. But it was new, and the lid wouldn’t budge.

The marshal calmly took the bottle from her, easily twisting off the top. It made a cheerful little pop.

Glaring at him, choosing to ignore the supercharged hum that’d passed between them when their hands brushed, Gracie took the bottle back, giving it a good, hard shake. She was just about to reach for her knife to stick it inside, when he took the bottle again, thumping the side and bottom with the heel of his hand.

Once a thick, red river of ketchup pooled on her plate, he calmly put the lid on the bottle, then reached past her to set it alongside a squeeze mustard bottle, sugar and napkins.

“I could’ve done that,” she said, blocking his all-male scent of leather and cars and some other intriguing something she couldn’t begin to identify, but had the craziest urge to explore. “I’m a chef. I have my own ketchup trick.”

“Did I say you couldn’t have done it?”

“No, but your tone implied it.”

“What tone?”

“That one,” she said, plucking pickles from her burger. “You used it just now. It plainly said you think I’m incompetent, and that I need a big, strong man to look after me and make my ketchup come out. But you know what? I made it this far on my own, and—” Startled, she jumped.

“Here you go,” the waitress said, having caught Gracie off guard when she’d abruptly rounded the corner. She set a plate loaded with another burger and fries on the table. “Need anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Gracie said. Why, oh why, when she’d flinched, hadn’t she headed for the wall instead of her assigned marshal? Who actually, now that she’d gotten a better look at him, was disturbingly hot. The whole right side of her body still tingled.

But there were no tingles in Normalville! Especially when she had no want nor need for any men in her life—let alone hot ones!

“Actually,” the marshal said to the waitress, “I wouldn’t mind a Coke when you get a second.”

“Be right back.” On her return trip to the kitchen, the rail-thin redhead sang along with the jukebox.

“Mind passing the ketchup?” the marshal asked.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Gracie said, careful to set the stupid bottle in front of him, rather than risk another touching encounter by passing it directly into his waiting hand. “How if I’m skitterish enough to jump when a waitress comes around, that I must be a real head case. But I’ll have you know I didn’t flinch just a second ago because I was scared or nervous or anything. Flinching is a natural reaction often encountered during the latter stages of a woman’s third trimester.”

“Uh-huh,” he said before taking a bite of his burger.

“You don’t believe me?”

He just sat there chewing.

She cut her burger in half, then took a bite, only to wince before swallowing. “I can’t eat this,” she said.

“Why?”

“It’s cold. I don’t usually eat foods like…” Making a face, she waved at the offensive burger. “Plus, I have a texture issue about cold grease. Feels funny on my tongue.”

“Take mine,” he said, switching plates. “It’s still good and hot.”

“I couldn’t,” she said.

“Afraid I’ve got cooties? Want me to cut off the part where I bit?”

“Of course not,” she said. And to prove it, she took a bite right beside his, only to then wish she’d have just stuck with her own cold burger.

The slow grin he cast her way made a mess of her earlier assumption that the man was her enemy. How long had it been since someone was truly nice to her? Sacrifice-his-own-hot-burger nice? A while. But that didn’t mean now she should suddenly go soft.

If she let this marshal take her back to Portland, she’d be stuck in some so-called safe house for who knew how long before Vicente’s case went to trial. Seeing how now that he’d vanished, he couldn’t exactly be put on the stand. Her chance for winning the CAI’s prize would be gone, along with her and her baby girl’s future.

Keeping this in mind, she concentrated on finishing her marshal’s burger and planning a new escape. She’d tried living in Chaosville and found it not to her liking.

“Hate to interrupt you,” she said while he downed the last of her burger. “But I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

“Again?” He sighed.

“Sorry.” She flashed him her brightest smile. “Another pregnancy thing.”

“It’s okay,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “But just in case you’re thinking of trying anything, I’m going with you. Not only are you a key witness, but whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you’re in danger.”

“That’s just plain silly,” she said, thickening her accent. “Vicente would nevuh really hurt me. And now that you’ve found me, where could I possibly go? Now, be a good boy and please hand me my purse.”

He cautiously did as she’d asked.

“Thank you. I won’t be but a second.”

“That’s mighty considerate of you, darlin’, but just in case you get a hankering to take another drive, how about leaving me your keys?”

“Y-you can’t be serious,” she said. “After hearing about those other men trailing me, you honestly think I’d willingly leave your side?”

“Keys.” He held out his hand, wagged his fingers.

With a huffy sigh, she dug through her purse, handing them to him.

“Thanks.”

“You’re not welcome.”

While Gracie headed for the ladies’ room, Beau sat on the opposite side of the booth so he could have a better view. He chuckled to recall the expression on her face when he’d asked for her keys. Boy, he’d really caught her off guard with that one. Of course she’d been planning another escape. Running straight for that cooking thing.

Seeing her, being near her, brought to mind memories of how things had been with Ingrid. The luminescence of pending motherhood. The luster of her hair. The rattler-type snap when coming between her and her food. How long had it been since he’d recalled happy memories about that time?

Still grinning, Beau shook his head.

The waitress approached. “Need any pie?”

“You know,” Beau said, “that’d really hit the spot. Got anything chocolate?”

“Chocolate cream guaranteed to curl your toes.”

“In that case,” he said with a wink. “Better get two. My friend doesn’t like to share.”

She laughed. “When it comes to pie, I don’t blame her.”

The pie came, and in Beau’s case, went. The waitress had been right—it was damned good.

He eyed the bathroom. Gracie had been in there awhile. Should he call the waitress back over and ask her to check on his Southern belle?

He did just that.

And when the redhead returned with a funny look, telling him the ladies’ room was empty, if Beau had had three legs he would’ve kicked himself all the way back to Portland. How could he be so gullible?

How could Ms. Sherwood be so dumb?

He had her keys, so that left her sneaking away sometime during the thirty seconds in which he’d wolfed down his pie, then hitching a ride with a stranger. Surely he came across as more trustworthy than some of the scary-looking characters around here?

Leaving a twenty and ten on the table, Beau headed outside, shading his eyes against blinding sun.

Heat hovered in undulating waves above the blacktop. Not the best weather for a pregnant lady to be out hitching a ride.

The lot looked quiet. Three semis. Two off, one with the engine idling, stinking up the place with diesel exhaust. An assortment of eleven passenger cars lined the restaurant’s front. Two more passenger cars were filling up at covered gas tanks. On the access road running alongside I-5, a silver minivan whizzed by.

Beau looked to his own vehicle, to the big, pink Caddie, he’d blocked—

What the?

Gracie’s car was gone. The bushes in front of it flattened. His SUV’s grill all busted to hell. She’d even stabbed his driver’s side front tire. He knew it had been her because of the pink-handled metal nail file still stuck in the rubber.

When had she given him the slip? While he’d ordered pie? Common sense told him the bathroom’s location meant it was an interior room with only one exit. How was it a chirpy blonde who had tongue issues with cold grease had so effortlessly gotten away from him not once, but twice?

And how long was it going to take for him to get his tire patched so he could once and for all teach Gracie Sherwood who was boss?

More importantly, how long until he finally got it through his head that just because Gracie was pregnant, that didn’t mean he owed her special favors. He’d bent over backward trying to be kind to his wife, and look where that’d left him. He still hadn’t been able to right the wrong between them. The even sadder truth was that even if he’d wanted to, there was nothing he could’ve done.

Chapter Two

“Listen up,” Beau said to Gracie through a still chain-locked door, six frick-frackin’ hours later, standing on the covered porch of a kitschy, roadside motel just south of Oregon’s Bandon State Park. Surrounded by a brooding fir forest, the brown and gray strip motel with plywood castle towers on either end and a moat-shaped pool with more moss than water looked like some Brothers Grimm fairy tale gone wrong.

It was only seven at night, yet in the shadows, felt more like midnight.

Gracie had parked her pink Caddie in front of her room.

Odds were, Beau never would’ve found her without a tip from a local cop who’d spotted her car. The man had offered his assistance in bringing Gracie in, but after her latest slip, for Beau anyway, this case had gotten personal. Or maybe it had always been personal, he thought, swiping his fingers through his hair.

Seeing how the rest of the crew was scattered at least a hundred miles in all different directions, looked like he had the good fortune to be bringing Ms. Sherwood in all by himself. “It’s time you learned who’s leading this mission. There are a lot of things I’ll put up with, but this hide-and-seek game’s getting old, and—” What was that funny noise?

Was she crying?

Oh, man, if his momma had still been alive to see this, she’d thump him upside his head. His dad still could, for making this little bitty pregnant thing sob.

Ingrid never once cried. Not during the entirety of her cruelly sterile speech.

“T-that’s so—wait,” Gracie said, noisily unhooking the chain. “I can’t even speak.” Whatever kind of girly cry she had going, it grew steadily worse until Beau felt two inches tall. On his list of things he didn’t do, making women cry was at the top. “Oh my gosh, you’re funny. Thanks. I haven’t had a belly laugh like that in—well, since never. At least not in the recent past.”

Funny? She called that donkey braying laughter? At his expense?

Door open, he brushed past her and stormed into the room, wanting for some unfathomable reason to be put off by peeling, smoke-stained wallpaper and the busted-tile bathroom usually indicative of this sort of hole-in-the-wall establishment. What he got was a scene from Southern Living—MTV style.

She’d draped silky-looking scarves over lamps, lending the place an exotic glow. The germy motel bedspread had been replaced with faux fur. Mink? On top of that were a half-dozen pillows, all embroidered with quirky sayings like, Woman cannot live on chocolate alone…She needs shopping, too!

As if all of that wasn’t enough, the smell was…fantastic? Some heavenly concoction simmering on a two-burner kitchenette stove sent his ravenous stomach into a growling fit. Too bad he was here to drag her back to Portland and not to eat!

“You haul all of this stuff around with you?” he asked.

Stepping inside, Gracie shut the door. His one question turned her smile upside down. “This stuff, my cooking gear and a few clothes were all I brought into my marriage, so that’s all I took when it was over.”

“Sure,” he said with a nod.

“Sure?” She shook her head. “I tell you my life is over, and that’s all you have to say?”

She’d paraded spicy-smelling candles across the top of the TV, and he sliced his finger through the flames. “Sorry. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re returning to Portland with me. Now.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m exhausted. I’ve been driving all day. I still have a couple more sauce variations to try tonight. If you insist on dragging me back, I’ll go peaceably—but in the morning.”

“Fair enough,” he said, but was he a fool for taking her at her word?

Suddenly, standing there, looking at her, there wasn’t enough air in the room. Her candles and the rich sauce were eating it all.

The size of her stomach and glow of her skin were similar to Ingrid’s, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Ingrid had been out for Ingrid. Period. But Gracie, this drive of hers to win a contest was all for the sake of her baby—so that he or she could live a better life. A safer life. Beau admired the hell out of her. And wanted to know more about her than the bland fare found in her file.

“If you have to stay,” she said, “you might as well make yourself at home.” She was back in the tiny yet workable kitchen, dumping pasta she’d had bubbling on the back burner into a colander she’d already set in the sink. “The TV only gets five channels, but I guess that’s better than nothing.”

He shrugged.

Had she always been so pretty? Had so many curls? She’d cupped her hands to her big belly, cast him a half grin that lit her whole face. He wanted to stay mad at her, but she was like a too cute kitten—only she wasn’t a cat, but a woman. Had she been a cat, he would’ve just played with her. Stroked her fur and scratched behind her ears. Just thinking about what Gracie would do to him if he tried either of those activities made him smile.

His ex had been hard as nails. No petting allowed.

“Mind letting me in on the joke?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder while giving her brew a stir.

“Nah. But thanks for asking.” He winked.

She frowned. “Fine. Don’t tell me.” Back to stirring, she hummed a soft, nonsensical tune.

“I won’t.”

“Why do you have to be so obstinate?” she asked, wiping her hands on an industrial-type white apron, then crossing the room to switch on the TV with a remote.

“Wasn’t aware I was being anything.”

“You’re obviously uptight,” she said, switching past news, Wheel of Fortune and an infomercial, finally landing on a black and white movie. “What you need is a good meal. A nice bottle of wine. You’re all cranked up inside.”

“Cranked up?”

“Yeah, you know, stressed out. Uptight. At the very least, have a seat, or else it’s going to be a very long night.”

“Already has been,” he said, turning his back on her to peer behind curtains. All quiet save for his erratic pulse. If they were staying the night, he’d feel better if the cars were parked in back, out of casual sight. Odds were Vicente’s goons were miles from here, but better safe than sorry.

“Anything exciting going on?” she asked from her perch on the foot of the bed. “Parades? A tailgate party?”

“Give me your keys,” he said. “This time, your car keys.”

“Oops,” she said with a big, cheesy grin. “I’m bad.”

“Yes, you are,” he said. “So give me both sets.”

“I’d be happy to if you’d be so kind as to hand me my purse.”

He did, and she took her time fishing through the jangling contents, eventually catching two sets of keys, just as he’d requested.

“Here you go.” She dangled them.

Finally some cooperation out of the woman.

“Just one more thing,” he said. “Hate doing this, but in your case, it has to be.”

From his jeans’ back pocket, he withdrew cuffs.

“Oh, no,” she said, scrambling back into the pillow pile. “No way you’re cuffing me. I have to keep stirring my sauce. And anyway, I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Are you kidding me? You’ve done everything wrong.” Before she escaped again, he cuffed her left wrist, then secured the free cuff to the wall-mounted lamp. He hated doing this, hated using such a flimsy hold. Had she been a man—hell, if she hadn’t been so pregnant and vulnerable looking—he wouldn’t have thought twice about forcing her under the open kitchen sink counter to secure her to the pipes.

“I have every intention of testifying at my ex-husband’s trial,” she said. “But until then, I’ve got things to do. All I did in running from you was fight for my right to live life on my own terms. Is that so bad?”

“It is when you’re putting that life at risk. Now, sit tight for about three minutes, then I’ll free you. Look,” he said, turning for the stove. “To prove I’m a nice guy, I’ll even turn off the burner so whatever you’re cooking doesn’t burn.”

“Lucky me,” she said with a wag of her cuffed wrist. “Here I don’t even know your name and you’re already handy in the kitchen and getting kinky in bed.”

“For the record,” he said at the door, “I can get a lot kinkier than this. And the name is Beauregard Logue. Friends call me Beau.”

“That mean we’re friends?” she asked with a hopeful smile.

“You can call me, Mister Logue.”

“No,” Gracie said under her breath not five seconds after the beast strolled out the door. “I’ll call you out of my life.”

Easing upright, she used her free hand to turn off the lamp, unscrew the finial and remove the shade.

Ouch! The bulb was hot—took forever to get out seeing how she had to keep stopping for wince breaks. After yanking out the harp, freeing herself was a simple matter of lifting her arm eight inches.

Peering through the door’s peephole, she watched Marshal Beau drive around back.

Once he was out of sight, she flew into action. Running out the front door to her car, then grabbing the spare key from the magnetic box she kept under the driver’s side wheel well—she was awful about locking her keys in the car.

Now came the tricky part. Sure, she could head right back out on the road, but she’d be caught faster than she got gas after eating broccoli.

No, this time, she’d have to be more creative. And so instead of turning south on the highway, she turned north, pulling her car into an abandoned junkyard, camouflaging the pink in a sea of rust and primer gray. Thick, conifer-scented woods circled the cars, and in midday, she was sure the place had a quaint feel, but at the moment, she had a major case of the creeps.

She waited an hour in muggy dusk, the whole time swatting at whiny bugs until her entire body felt coated with grit and mosquito bites. Until dust and dirt ground between her teeth and she tasted it on her tongue. Only then, in rapidly fading daylight, did she figure it was safe to return to the motel for her stuff. Certainly Marshal Beau was long gone.

Everything that meant anything to her was in that room. Photos and diaries and recipes. Pricey pans and accoutrements. A few pieces of jewelry she hoped to pawn for the cash she’d need to get her the rest of the way to San Francisco. From there, her hotel room was prepaid, and with luck, she’d have the prize money to get her home.

She parked around back, trudged up to the front desk for another key, explaining to the clerk that she’d locked the first one in the room.

By the time she slipped the key into the lock, Gracie was beyond tired. Her feet were swollen, her lower back aching, and she could really have gone for a Caesar chicken salad and French onion soup. As for her cream sauce experiments, all she could do at this point was toss it all and start fresh wherever she stopped tomorrow.

In the room, she headed straight for the bathroom sink. It would take ten days to scrub all the junkyard grime from her face. She brushed her teeth, too. She needed a shower, but the mere thought seemed too energetic.

After securing her long mess of naturally curly hair in a scrunchie, she slipped off her shoes and headed for bed. Surely she’d feel better after a nice, long snooze?

Only after turning around and getting her first good look at the bed, she found that not only was her fuzzy faux-mink spread missing, but also the scarves she’d put over the lamps and her pillows and—she stormed to the bathroom. He’d even taken her ultra-fluffy pink towels and no, even he wouldn’t have sunk that low…

Running for the suitcase she’d stashed in a small closet, she yanked open the door and couldn’t have felt lower if the man had socked her in the stomach.

Shoulders sagging, the tears she’d been too stubborn to shed since the start of this whole ordeal finally spilled.

Her recipes.

The creep had taken her recipes—not only that, but also all of her cooking gear.

The CAI contest was unique in that you couldn’t fully prepare before arrival. There were one hundred and ninety-three chefs, each representing the globe’s countries—unlike the U.S., the CAI recognized Taiwan. In each of five rounds, the ethnic theme of her meals was determined by luck of the draw. She could draw Ethiopia. India. Greenland. In her recipe journal was years of research. Without it, she might as well not even go to San Francisco. What was the point when she didn’t have a prayer of winning?

Jeez, her back hurt. And now, her head and heart.

Why had Marshal Beau done this?

How could he be so cruel?

She sat hard on the foot of the bed, cradling her forehead in her hands.

Who was she trying to kid? Vicente’s capture had been big news. His spectacular prison break even bigger. As his ex-wife, the woman carrying his baby, Gracie had been in the news right along with him. For all she knew, the world-renowned Culinary Arts Institute might have rescinded her invitation without even letting her know. Hers was a type of publicity they didn’t want.

On the flip side, she owed it to this tiny life growing inside to at least try.

Freeing her hands to rub her bulging tummy, she looked up toward the dresser and TV. Sitting beneath her favorite bottle of perfume—the only non-essential item left in the room—was a note written on a yellow legal pad.

Want your stuff? Let’s make a deal.

Meet me at the Fish Tale Motel

in Orick, California. Noon tomorrow.

—Your Fave Marshal.

Instead of the customary signature at the bottom of his note, he’d drawn a smiling stick guy bearing a star-shaped badge on his chest. Of all the nerve…

He’d stolen everything she owned and thought she’d be happy about it? Oh—she’d meet him all right, but if he thought for one second she’d peaceably return to Portland with him, he had about as much brain power as his stupid, smiling stick man!

“’BOUT TIME y’all got here,” Marshal Beau said with a slow grin and that infuriating imitation of her accent. Granted, she’d poured it on thick the morning she’d locked him in that storage closet, but it hadn’t been that thick.

“Where’s my property?” she asked from behind the wheel, shading her eyes against blinding noon sun. Their appointed meeting spot was an even more tired establishment than the last one she’d stayed at.

The Fish Tale Motel was on the outskirts of the bustling tourist town of Ulmstead—located in the heart of redwood country. The towering redwood setting was spectacular, sweet-scented and warm; it was almost enough to make the giant log cabin, with its tattered green roof, charming. An abandoned mini-waterslide had been filled with pungent yellow marigolds.

“Get out,” Marshal Beau said, “then I’ll show you.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon you put it in my trunk.”

“And then you drive off into the sunset?”

She laughed. “It’s high noon. There’s a ways to go before nightfall.”

“You know what I mean.” He braced his hands on the side of her door. Strong hands, with long elegant fingers. His muscular forearms were tan, a few light hairs mixed among the dark, glinting in the sun.

Yes, she thought, licking her lips. A few seconds earlier she’d known exactly what he’d meant, but somewhere between his biceps and broad shoulders, she’d totally lost track of her thoughts.

“Get out,” he said. “Please.”

She sighed. “You, please, cut me some slack. I feel eighteen months pregnant, according to you, my husband’s trying to kill me and I haven’t had a decent meal in two days.”

“Wait just a sec,” Beau said, jogging the fifteen feet to his black SUV.

He soon headed back her way bearing a large grocery sack. “This is for you,” he said, “but only if you’ll at least get out long enough to talk to me.”

“I’m not stupid,” she said, thumping her forehead against the steering wheel. “I get out, you’ll slap cuffs on me. That’ll be it. My whole life instantly ruined.”

“Look—” he knelt, resting his forearms on her door “—I’ll level with you. You’re not going to like it, but for your own good, it has to be said.”

“What?” She made the mistake of raising her head to meet his eyes. They were amazing eyes. Deep walnut with flecks of mossy-green. Above all, they were kind, not the eyes of a man deadset on destroying her life.

“Gracie Sherwood, this isn’t a game. Your ex-husband wants to kill you—and your baby.”

“I have to get to that competition,” she said, refusing to let his words sink in. “And anyway, how would Vicente or his supposed hired thugs ever even find me?”

“I did. You’re a looker, driving a look-at-me car. Believe me, you’re not too hard to find.”

“Then why’d you have to steal my stuff to get me back?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “All I had to do was temporarily store your belongings in my car, then wait. I knew it was just a matter of time till you returned.”

“So all night and day you’ve been right behind me?”

“Pretty much.”

“Who else?”

He looked away.

“Tell me.”

“So far, one suspicious guy in a forest-green Hummer.”

“And?” she asked, looking toward the busy highway. “Where is he now?”

“He, ah, turned off around Fort Dick.”

“Uh-huh. Which only proves my point that Vicente’s no fool. He wants nothing more to do with me. What happened back in Portland was no doubt some last chance, desperation effort designed to scare me, which it did. I’ve left town—for all my ex knows, for good.”

Marshal Beau sighed. “Ever heard that saying about the calm before the storm? Right now, you happen to be in the sun—and I’m not complaining, but your ex isn’t known for being a warm, fuzzy kind of guy. If you come with me now, you’ll have a team of folks to keep you safe. If not…” He shrugged.

She bravely raised her chin. “I guess, seeing how I’m safe for the moment, I’ll pick, not.”

Chuckling, he said, “Actually it’s not up for negotiation. I was trying to be nice, but—”

Nice? Gracie didn’t have time for nice, so she grabbed for the bag bearing what she prayed were doughnuts, then gunned her engine. She might not get much of a lead, and hot Marshal Beau might still have her stuff, but the way she saw it, desperate times called for desperate measures. She had to get to San Francisco. Winning that contest was her and her baby’s only shot at a decent future.

BEAU PRESSED OFF his cell phone, sick after having to admit to the boss that he’d lost Gracie—again. Only this time, it really wasn’t his fault, but that of fierce tourist traffic. He’d kept up with her no problem for thirty miles, then at Steed Point, he’d been cut off by a gang of parading preschoolers on tricycles celebrating Clean Air Day.

From there on, it was slow going. Checking every dirt crossroad for rising dust, signaling she might’ve gone off the main path. In every town he approached, he checked every gas station, restaurant and motel for her car—as did the other marshals assigned to the case.

It was ten that night when he got the call from Adam that they’d found her in an inland motel. “Want me to cuff her and bring her in?”

Resting his forehead on the steering wheel, Beau sighed.

At this point, he wasn’t sure what to do.

God only knew why, but he had a soft spot for the woman. She’d proven herself to be a major pain in his derriere, but seeing how she was pregnant and all, he at least wanted her treated with kid gloves. She had a goal, which was way more than he could say for himself.

Sure, he had his career, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. For as long as he could remember, he’d wanted a real family. Like the one he’d grown up in only better, because his future wife, the mother of his children, wasn’t going to die like his own mom had.

In marrying Ingrid, he’d thought himself well on his way to making his every dream come true. Funny how that so-called dream had turned nightmare.

“Yeah,” he said to his brother, “I guess if it comes down to it, go ahead and cuff Gracie, but be gentle. I don’t want her or the baby getting hurt.”

“Duh,” Adam said. “When’s the last time I banged up a—” His brother’s sudden silence hit Beau hard. It was tough enough on Beau remembering what’d happened to the last woman Adam had been assigned. Beau couldn’t imagine how his brother must feel. Yeah, he had woman problems, but at least Ingrid was still alive.

“What happened to Angela wasn’t your fault,” he told Adam for the hundredth time. “Could’ve happened to any one of us. Now, with Gracie, just use common sense. She’s an itty-bitty thing. Crafty, but she doesn’t bite.”

“BRO,” Adam said an hour later just as Beau approached the miniscule town of Boynton where Gracie had finally been found. “You’re not gonna believe this, but she got away again.”

“How?” Beau asked.

“I was just about to slap cuffs on her, when she bit me!”

AT FOUR in the morning, while everyone else on the team had long since pulled over for naps, Beau was still out looking. For sure, Vicente’s new crew wasn’t sleeping. If they got to Gracie before him, well…

Beau refused to think about it.

It was four thirty-seven by the digital clock on his dash when he pulled into the rear of a relic of a motel with individual cabins for rooms. On the outskirts of the Mendocino National Forest, the place was surrounded by more of the dark, eerie, dense forest that was starting to be a major pain in his ass when he spotted Gracie’s car behind the last unit.

He killed his lights and engine a few cabins back. Took his time getting out of his car, rolling his shoulders, trying to work out Gracie-induced kinks.

Every cabin save for one was dark, so he headed toward Cabin Eight with its bluish TV glow.

When she’d been little, and sick or upset from a bad day at school, his sister Gillian had liked to fall asleep in front of the living room TV.

Maybe Gracie was the same?

He peered through the inch or so between the curtain and wall. A lone man sat up in bed, sipping a Coors.

Great. Now what?

Beau yawned. Rubbed his eyes. Headed for the motel office.

Of course, at this time of the morning it was closed, but he wailed on the bell regardless.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” A wisp of an elderly woman who didn’t at all match her booming, gravelly voice flicked on lights in a shabby reception area. “You want me to open the door,” she shouted through thin glass, “show me you got money for a room.”

“How much?” Beau asked.

“Forty.”

He flashed two twenties.

She unlocked the door.

“I’ll need your license,” she said from behind a counter she could barely see over.

“Here’s the thing,” he said, setting the cash on the counter. “My wife is already here, so I’ll just need the number of her room.”

The clerk raised her eyebrows.

“She forgot to charge her cell, otherwise, I’d just call.”

Tapping a vintage black rotary-dial parked beside his left elbow, she said, “Here you go. Each cabin has its own line. Only one single gal girl staying with us tonight.” She wrote a number on a pad that said Alpine Lodge across the top.

Beau flashed his star, then smiled. “You know, I really hate waking her. How about you please tell me which cabin is hers.”

“How do I know that badge is real? For all I know, you bought it off the Web. You could be some serial killer.”

Beau sighed. “Never mind, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

He turned to leave.

“Take your money. I don’t deal with any of you late-night sickos.”

Tucking the money in his wallet, Beau headed back out into the night.

One by one, he knocked on cabin doors. “Housekeeping!”

“Get a life, bud!”

“Maintenance! I’ve gotta unplug your john!”

“Screw you!”

Five doors later, a cop pulled into the dirt lot, lights and siren blazing.

“Good girl,” Beau said under his breath about the desk clerk he’d apparently correctly pegged as the type to call the law on him.

“Freeze!” the cop said, gun and flashlight aimed at Beau as he emerged from his car. “Okay, now slowly raise those hands.”

Wincing from the blinding light, Beau did as he’d been told.

Glancing off to his left and right, out of the light’s glare, he saw that just as he’d hoped, lamps flicked on and draperies parted in all but cabins Three and Fifteen. The former had been the one Gracie’s tank was parked closest to, so Beau deduced Cabin Three was hers.

The cop asked, “Mind telling me what you’re doing out this hour of the night, knocking on sleeping citizens’ doors?”

Beau said, “I’m a deputy U.S. Marshal down from Portland.”

“Right.” Rolling his eyes, the cop said, “And I’m Santa. Let’s see some ID.”

Beau obliged, and five minutes later, after the officer made a few calls and found his story checked out, Beau was free to go.

“Ho, ho, ho,” the now jovial cop said. “Sorry to rain on your parade.”

“Not a problem,” Beau said.

Once he was again alone, and all those lamps had gone out, Beau trudged to Cabin Three.

He gave Gracie the benefit of a courtesy knock, then worked magic on the lock with equipment he didn’t officially have.

Inside, he quietly shut the door.

Gracie was sitting up in bed, hands curved around her bulging stomach, looking prettier, softer, more fragile than she ever had.

For an instant he looked away, hating to think himself the cause of her grim expression. If only she’d get it through that thick head of hers that he wasn’t the problem, but the solution.

“I’m so tired of this,” she said softly. And she did look tired. Even in the dim light leaking in from the Alpine Lodge’s blue neon sign, he saw circles under her eyes. “Can’t we just be friends?”

“I wasn’t aware we weren’t.”

She sighed. “Come on, Beau. Enough games.”

“We’re now on a first-name basis?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he said, drawing the room’s one chair up to the head of the bed. “I do.”

“So then this is it? You agree to let me go on to San Francisco? Alone?”

He laughed.

“This isn’t funny, damn you, it’s my life.”

“I’m not disputing that.”

“Then why are you acting this way? Like my wanting to take my hard-earned spot in a prestigious competition is wrong? I mean think about it, this is the Olympics for cooks. People kill for chances like…” As her words trailed off, she tucked her lower lip into her mouth.

“Oh man,” he said with a groan. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

“Maybe.” She looked up, slaying him with her baby blues. Only in this light, he couldn’t even really see them, just a shimmer. It was only in his mind those eyes could hurt him. And because he knew that, because he was savvy to her every trick, he pulled his cuffs from his back pocket and slapped one on her wrist.

This time, she laughed, only it wasn’t at all funny sounding, but laced with raspy tears. “I was trying to be serious. You know, open up. But it’s obvious you couldn’t care less how I feel. All you care about is getting your man.”

“Yeah, but you’re a woman,” he said. All woman. Which was why he had to stay strong.

“I’m not going to run again,” she said.

“I know.”

Her face brightened in a smile so hopeful, so lovely and pure that it clenched his gut with ridiculous desires. Silly stupid things like wanting to hold her and protect her and beat the crap out of anyone who dared ruin her pregnancy’s peace. “Does that mean you finally trust me? That you agree I should do the competition?”

“No.”

“Then what? It has to mean something that you finally believe I’m done running.”

“Oh.” He flashed her a slow grin. “It means something, all right.” He slapped his free cuff on his own wrist. “Means you can run all you want, but wherever you go, this time, I’ll be with you.”

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