Cut To The Chase. Julie Kistler

doubt. She relaxed, smiling up at him. Great smile. Bright, shiny, sincere. There had been no evidence of that in Bebe’s photos, but it was everything you could ask for in a smile.

      If he hadn’t been such a cynical man, Sean told himself he might’ve felt all warm and fuzzy after seeing her beaming at the boy.

      So she rooted around in a big tote bag, took out a few bucks, and handed them over, after which the boy said thank-you loud enough for the tour group all the way down at the other end of the Quad to hear. Then he leapt back on his bike and zoomed away, leaving Sean to conclude that the girl was either an easy touch or just a sap. Or that had been the best-disguised drug deal in the history of the universe.

      Sean cooled his heels, wishing he had a newspaper or something else to give him a little cover, but it didn’t seem to matter, since she didn’t look his way. Again, he was struck by her lousy survival skills. He’d been spying on her for a good half hour, and she was clueless.

      As he watched and waited, she removed the bandanna, rubbed a hand—left hand, no rings—over her forehead and then carefully tied the scarf back on again; she stared into space; she pulled out a book and dropped it in her lap without opening it; she leaned against the tree and tipped her head back as if she were dozing; she looked a little flushed and clapped her hand over her mouth and left it there for several seconds; she took off her sunglasses and wiped at her eyes with a tissue which he took to mean she either had allergies or she was crying; and she rooted around her bag and took out a package of saltine crackers, which she proceeded to eat, one by one, until she had demolished the whole package. Then she folded her trash back into the bag quite neatly, stood up, hoisted her bag, and began to walk away.

      So of course he followed.

      Disguise, crying, hungry enough to snarf lots of crackers, possibly a headache or something else physically wrong leading to the flush and the hand over the mouth… What did it all add up to? Sean contemplated some possibilities. Heat stroke from that silly coat? Mental illness but not taking her meds? Undercover or on the lam? Some kind of damsel in distress, emotional or otherwise?

      As he trailed her, he found himself with lots more questions, but not getting any closer to answers. If she was the right woman, and the physical resemblance plus how closely she matched Bebe’s description made him about eighty percent certain she was, then what had she been doing with his father on that park bench in Chicago, and what was she doing down here now? He was surprised to realize just how much he wanted to solve this riddle. Whether she was or wasn’t the “tootsie” his mom wanted him to find, this woman in the long coat and sunglasses, with her crackers and her tissues, she was hiding out in Champaign-Urbana, acting very strangely. And he needed to know why.

      Sean stayed about a block behind her as she cut down a quiet campus street and ducked into a coffeehouse. He saw her get a muffin and a carton of milk, slowly consume both at an outdoor table that was remarkably easy to keep under surveillance, and then once again take off walking. It took about ten or eleven blocks of her walking straight ahead, not noticing him skirting around trees behind her, before she walked up to the front door of a small home on a tree-lined side street just off-campus. She put a key in the door and disappeared inside.

      No car outside. Nothing in the front yard. No sign that anyone else was in the house.

      From the protective cover of a large evergreen outside an apartment building across the street, Sean considered his day’s work. Approximately four hours in Champaign-Urbana, and he’d already located his target, shadowed her, and found out where she was staying. Not bad. Not bad at all.

      BY THE THIRD DAY, Sean had her routine down cold. She would emerge from her house about nine or ten, ridiculously overdressed, carefully buttoned into that damn coat, with sunglasses and some sort of hat. She would walk to the Quad, sit under the same maple tree, eat an amazing number of crackers, stare into space, and look anxious or upset from time to time, with maybe a tear or two. She also fed a squirrel on one occasion, protected herself from an errant Frisbee on another, and twice stopped to read flyers taped to a kiosk.

      Nice profile, good nose, excellent smile, beautiful skin. Fondness for American League baseball, given the White Sox bag and the Orioles cap she had on today, and a major taste for saltines, grapes, cheese curls, pizza, McDonald’s French fries, muffins, and milk, given what he’d seen her pull out of the tote bag and consume on the Quad. Especially saltines.

      Man, he was in bad shape—slipping from surveillance ever closer to plain old stalking—if he was reduced to keeping track of every crumb she ate. At least he had a plan now, and a routine of his own that included a backpack, water bottle, very small camera, newspaper, and a book on college sports, just in case he needed cover if anyone saw him spying. So far, he’d left a few messages for his mother—purposely calling when he knew she wouldn’t be in so he didn’t have to talk to her—to let her know he was on the case. But other than that, he’d kept quiet about finding his target. Mostly biding his time, he’d managed to snap her picture from various angles to compare to the ones from Bebe, but that was about it. He figured he could watch and wait a little longer, at least until he saw whether she contacted anyone or anyone dropped by to visit her. Like his father.

      Even thinking about that made him grind his teeth and think unpleasant thoughts.

      “No way that girl is fooling around with my old man,” he said grimly from his vantage point behind the front doors of Lincoln Hall. Every instinct he had told him that much, anyway. If she was the one Bebe saw in the park and at the airport, there must be some other reason…

      But his analysis of the situation was interrupted when she suddenly bolted up from where she was sitting, abandoning her snacks and her tote bag, careening off toward a secluded area near the English Building and looking a little green around the gills while she did it. Without a second’s hesitation, Sean made tracks to follow.

      He caught up to her where she’d stopped to hang on to a tree trunk for dear life. She’d knocked off her sunglasses, her hat had fallen off a few feet away, and she was bent over at the waist, with one hand pressed into her stomach and the other firmly over her mouth.

      Pale, shaky, unsteady, she turned. Her gaze met Sean’s.

      Wow. He’d never seen her without the sunglasses. Her eyes were hazel. Even under these circumstances, they were beautiful and warm. Very warm. She paused, blinked, still focused on him, as if she were trying to place him and figure out what he was doing there. He had never felt so awkward and yet so instantly connected to anyone in his life.

      Unable to remain merely an onlooker, Sean found himself vaulting into a role as an active participant in this little drama whether he wanted to or not. She was staring at him intently, and he knew he should back off or walk on by before she really did decide he was a stalker. But he couldn’t.

      Sean edged nearer, picking up the baseball cap. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I don’t mean to intrude. But I could tell you were…”

      And that was when he finally put two and two together. The bulky clothes, the saltines, the sudden nausea…

      She was pregnant.

      Sean blinked, backing off a step. Pregnant?

      Of course. It all made sense. And yet…

      The woman who might be his father’s girlfriend was pregnant? He felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

      3

      “GO AWAY,” ABRA said flatly.

      The last thing she needed at this particular moment was some nosy stranger moving in on her and trying to interfere. He didn’t look dangerous, just way too cute for his own good, with light brown hair cut short and shoved carelessly to one side, and an intense, serious expression on his very fine face. Wearing a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans, with a backpack slung over one shoulder, he seemed like a regular guy. Or at least an extremely good-looking regular guy. Wide shoulders, nice muscles, lean hips… If he stripped off that shirt, she bet she’d find abs to die for. She had this thing about abs, a thing she had never