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
