Читать книгу His Baby Bonus - Laura Marie Altom - Страница 9

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.