Laura Altom - His Baby Bonus

“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.