His Baby Bonus. Laura Marie Altom

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.