Laura Marie - His Baby Bonus

Formed in 1789 by President George Washington, the United States Marshals Service is the oldest federal law enforcement agency—and in my mind, one of the most mysterious. They used to carry out death sentences, catch counterfeiters—even take the national census. According to their Web site, “At virtually every significant point over the years where Constitutional principles or the force of law have been challenged, the marshals were there—and they prevailed.” Now the agency primarily focuses on fugitive investigation, prisoner/alien transportation, prisoner management, court security and witness security.

No big mystery there, you say? When I started this series, I didn’t think so, either. Intending to nail the details, I marched down to my local marshals’ office for an afternoon that will stay with me forever.

After learning the agency’s history and being briefed on day-to-day operations, I was taken on a tour. I saw an impressive courtroom and a prisoner holding cell. Then we went to the garage to see vehicles and bulletproof vests and guns. Sure, I’m an author, but I’m primarily a mom and wife. I bake cookies and find hubby’s always-lost belt. Nothing made the U.S. Marshals Service spring to life for me more than seeing those weapons. And then I realized my tour guide wasn’t fictional. He used those guns, put his very life on the line protecting me and my family and the rest of this city, county and state. I had chills.

Things really got interesting when I started digging for information on the Witness Security Program. Deputy Marshal Rick ever so politely sidestepped my every question. I found out nothing! Not where the base of operations is located, not which marshals are assigned to the program, what size crews are used, how their shifts are rotated—nothing! After a while it got to be a game. One it was obvious I’d lose!

Honestly, all this mystery probably makes for better fiction. I don’t want to know what really happens. It’s probably not half as romantic as the images of these great protectors I’ve conjured in my mind. Oh—and another bonus to my tour—Deputy Marshal Rick was Harlequin American Romance–hero hot!

Laura Altom

Dear Reader,

In case you couldn’t already tell, I’m fascinated by the United States Marshals Service! Their Web site is wonderful, full of all sorts of interesting facts (www.usdoj.gov/marshals/index.html). Some of my favorite pages detail marshal-led sting operations. These guys are not only brave and strong, but funny!

One of the most elaborate stings involved free tickets to a Washington Redskins home football game against the Cincinnati Bengals. “The fugitives, wanted by authorities for a variety of criminal offenses, willingly gathered at the D.C. Convention Center in response to ‘invitations’ sent by the Marshals Service to the last known addresses of more than 3,000 wanted persons with more than 5,000 outstanding warrants.” There are some super pics on the site, one of which features a pair of fugitives hamming it up with, unbeknownst to them, a U.S. Marshal dressed in a chicken suit!

Hoping any contests you win are the real deal,

Laura Marie

P.S. You can reach me through my Web site at

www.lauramariealtom.comor write me at P.O. Box 2074, Tulsa, OK 74101.

His Baby Bonus

Laura Marie Altom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For United States Marshal Timothy D. Welch and Deputy U.S. Marshal Rick Holden. Thank you for the incredible tour of Tulsa’s marshals’ office, and for patiently answering my gazillion questions! Any technical errors are all mine!

And for sweet Edna Welch in the Nimitz Middle School Library, who so tirelessly helps me find all those spy, police and fairy-tale books.

Thank you for all your hugs and smiles!

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

940—BLIND LUCK BRIDE

976—INHERITED: ONE BABY!

1028—BABIES AND BADGES

1043—SANTA BABY

1074—TEMPORARY DAD

1086—SAVING JOE*

1099—MARRYING THE MARSHAL*

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

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.