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 $34.52 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 donuts, 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 tough. What'd happened after that nearly destroyed her.

Muggy, hot summer wind in her hair, as she focused on the winding mountain road, Gracie ignored the latest lump in her throat to tighten 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 against him 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.

A week shy of being eight months pregnant, right after the Culinary Arts Invitational being held in just under two weeks in San Francisco, Gracie had 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 prize money would've just 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 non-existent 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 gun point one afternoon while walking her neighborhood park, Gracie had gone back to the police, who'd then turned her over to the US 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 or boy 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 dreamt 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, husband's didn't do what hers had. They don't go to prison and then escape. They don't want to kill pregnant wives.

Mmm . . . Gracie liked Normalville. Much preferred it over 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 Ft. 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.

Gut feel told him Gracie was too smart to have gone back to hubby, which, after a quick look to her file, only left her 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, about to pop women 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 donuts. 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 a total whack job or hot--at least not in the conventional sense. But cute. And lord knew, as in the case of his cheating ex-wife, cute had it's 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'd 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 restroom. It was lunch time 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 mean time, 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 for 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 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. Word on the street has it 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. Having told police her plans to compete in San Francisco, 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 about her attending 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, 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 or 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 last trimester."

"Uh-huh," he said before taking a bite of his burger.

"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.