The Pregnant Colton Bride. Marie Ferrarella

earlier this morning which was an ash-gray theme and variation on how pale she’d appeared yesterday.

      As she approached, he saw his administrative assistant was wiping her forehead with the wadded up handkerchief she had in her hand.

      For a split second, he thought of just giving Mirabella her privacy and merely nodding as he passed, telling her that he was planning on being out of the office for the next hour or so.

      But, although Zane believed in allotting people their own space, he didn’t believe in avoiding situations—even if they were awkward—not if those situations needed to be dealt with.

      And this one, in his opinion, obviously did.

      So rather than keep on walking, Zane made a point of stopping directly in front of his administrative assistant, a six-foot-three-inch roadblock that was bent on keeping her from returning to her desk until he’d gotten a few answers.

      Placing his hands on either side of her shoulders, Zane looked directly into her eyes and voiced his concern without beating around the bush.

      “Tell me the truth, Belle. Were you just in there—” he nodded toward the ladies’ room “—being sick?”

      For a second, Mirabella stopped breathing. Oh Lord, did he suspect? She’d been so careful to keep her retching as quiet as possible, afraid anyone coming into the ladies’ room might overhear her and put two and two together. From there it was only a very short leap to the status of office gossip.

      Her mind raced to come up with a plausible response. Feeling weak and unsteady on her legs, not to mention feeling as if she’d thrown up the entire meager contents of her wretched stomach, going all the way back to yesterday’s breakfast, Mirabella did her best to look as if she had absolutely no idea what her boss was talking about.

      She assumed a mystified expression. “What do you mean by ‘sick’?”

      “Sick,” Zane repeated, as if saying the word with emphasis somehow made it clearer for her. “You know, feverish, under the weather, maybe even sweating.” He deliberately looked at the wadded-up handkerchief in her hand, then added, “And throwing up.”

      Her eyes instantly widened. “I haven’t been throwing up,” she denied so quickly he could almost feel the breeze created by her words.

      “Okay, I believe you,” he said in a calming voice, although, to be honest, he really didn’t believe her. “It’s just that while I really appreciate your dedication and having someone I can rely on, that someone isn’t going to do me any good if she’s going to wind up working herself into a hospital bed—or worse,” he told her. His eyes held Mirabella’s as he went on to ask, “Am I making myself understood?”

      Mirabella pressed her lips together, struggling to look as if everything was all right instead of in a state of almost complete upheaval. “Yes, sir.”

      She looked like the picture of innocence, but he had a feeling he really wasn’t getting through to her. He’d never met a redheaded woman yet who, politely or not, wasn’t stubborn beyond words.

      Still, he pressed on. “And if you need to go home and go to bed in order to get better, I want you to go do just that.”

      Going to bed was what got me into this situation to begin with, Mirabella couldn’t help thinking ruefully.

      Out loud, she told Zane, “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Colton, but I’m fine.”

      “Belle,” Zane began, hesitating for a moment before finally continuing, “forgive me for being blunt here, but you really don’t look fine.”

      She looked away and shrugged. “Bad hair day,” she murmured.

      “Your hair is beautiful as always,” Zane said like a man who had no idea he was paying a woman a compliment instead of just simply stating what to him was an obvious fact. “Your face, however looks really pale.”

      She became a tad defensive when she heard that. “I’m a redhead, it comes with the territory,” she said, wishing he would stop being so nice and just walk away like any normal, self-absorbed boss.

      But he wasn’t a normal, self-absorbed boss, which was why, despite her best efforts not to, she found herself being so strongly attracted to him.

      “I’m aware of that,” Zane replied patiently. “But you’re looking paler than usual.”

      Mirabella blinked, totally surprised. “You’ve noticed how pale I am?” she asked, not knowing whether to be pleased because what Zane had just said meant he was paying attention to her, or insulted because his assessment was less than flattering—even if it was undoubtedly true.

      Maybe he hadn’t worded that quite right, Zane realized. Still, it was out and he needed to do a little damage control.

      “You’re a difficult person to ignore, Belle,” he told her, sounding as formal as he could. “Now if you’re feeling sick, say so and go home. There’s nothing here that can’t wait for a few days.”

      This isn’t going to go away in a few days. It’s not going to go away for another six months, she told him silently.

      Stubbornly, Mirabella shook her head in response to his instructions. “I don’t need to go home. It’s just something I ate,” she assured him with as much feeling as she could feign. “I’m over the worst of it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to my desk. I have those notes of yours to input.”

      He looked at her dubiously. He knew she was lying about feeling better, but short of throwing her over his shoulder, carrying her to his car and driving her home, there wasn’t anything he could do. If he tried to force her to do what he’d just instructed her to do, it might even be viewed as harassment by some and the last thing he needed at a time like this was to get embroiled in a case involving acts of harassment.

      With no other option opened to him, Zane merely nodded and told her, “I’ll see you in about an hour.” He turned away, intent on heading toward the elevator banks.

      He took exactly three steps in that direction when he saw the elevator door on the far end opening and the sheriff emerging with one of his deputies, Charlie Kidwell, right behind him. Both men appeared to look rather grim—and they were both looking at him.

      Zane froze in place.

      The sheriff was paying him two visits in the space of two days. This couldn’t be good, he couldn’t help thinking.

      How did a man brace himself to hear news he didn’t want to hear?

      Zane had no answer for that. All he could do was fervently hope he was wrong about the sheriff’s reason for this second visit.

      “You’re back, Sheriff,” Zane said by way of a greeting to the older man. His voice sounded stilted to his own ears, but it was all he could come up with at the spur of the moment.

      “Looks like it,” Watkins acknowledged, his face devoid of any expression.

      Zane’s mouth felt like cotton.

      He was really trying to prolong this process, as though the message the sheriff was bringing would somehow change if he stalled long enough. “You were just here yesterday. Mind if I ask what you’re doing back here so soon?”

      “I don’t mind,” Watkins assured him.

      Zane had the distinct impression he was being toyed with and it helped him to rally. If the sheriff was toying with him, then the news couldn’t be bad, right? Or could it?

      “As a matter of fact,” the sheriff drawled, “I’m going to tell you right now what made me come back so soon. You see, while going over the outside of the crime scene earlier today, I found this here little thing in the bushes that the other fellas from the crime scene unit must have missed the first time around.”

      Zane had a strange, sinking feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer, but he had to ask. “What little