Colton Baby Conspiracy (The Coltons 0f Mustang Valley Book 1)

by Marie Ferrarella

  “Maybe I can help,” Bowie offered.

  Marlowe turned toward him, stunned. “You?” she questioned.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” he said with a laugh, appearing to take no offense.

  Since she was being honest, she told him, “I admit that I am a little.” Maybe he had misunderstood her. “This is the dark web I’m talking about.” His expression didn’t change. Marlowe began to entertain hope. She had to ask, “Do you know your way around the dark web?”

  Bowie laughed softly under his breath. “Let’s just say that I know people who know people who might be able to help out in this case.”

  “You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Marlowe marveled.

  “I’d like to think so. In the meantime, it looks like we’ve arrived at your designated castle, Your Highness, safe and sound,” he added, looking in his rearview mirror for the umpteenth time.

  “Time to play house,” she said flippantly. The next moment, she realized what that had to sound like. “I mean—” Her voice failed her as she turned a rather bright shade of scarlet.

  “I know what you meant,” Bowie told her, gallantly taking her off the hook. “You go inside. I’ll get your bag,” he said.

  “I can carry my own bag,” she informed him, following him to the trunk of his car.

  He popped open the trunk and pulled out the suitcase before she could reach for it. “Will you relax and stop seeing everything as a challenge to your authority, or position or whatever?” he said. “Learning how to accept help is every bit as important as offering help to someone else.”

  She rolled her eyes impatiently. “You know, you really should start writing down all these golden gems of yours, Robertson. Maybe even put them all into a gift book.”

  Taking the suitcase, he went toward the cabin. “Please relax a bit, Marlowe. You could probably use the rest. I know I certainly could.”

  Her eyebrows drew together as she fisted one of her hands at her waist. “Is that an insult?” she asked, her back already going up.

  “That’s just an observation,” Bowie informed her calmly. “I promise you’ll know if I’m insulting you. For now, all I’m trying to do is get a truce going—between us, and then, hopefully, between our two families.” Opening the front door, he deposited her suitcase just inside the cabin. His mouth curved into a grin. “How’m I doing so far?”

  Marlowe sighed. Maybe she was being too touchy. “Apparently a lot better than I am,” she answered honestly.

  Bowie stood in the doorway, facing out. She could see the cabin was elevated enough to give him a decent panoramic view of the immediate area surrounding it. “I’d say that it’s safe to assume nobody followed us,” he told her.

  Clearly satisfied, he stepped back inside, then closed the door and secured the locks.

  “Just in case,” he explained, then proceeded to tell her why he had made sure that all the locks were in place.

  “Now what?” she asked, looking around the spacious cabin. From where she stood, she could see the entire living space all at once, except for a bedroom that was in the back. But the way she felt right now, having had that bullet come so close to Bowie and to her, Marlowe sincerely doubted that she would be able to ever sleep again.

  Bowie had a different take on the situation, however. “Now you do what your brother suggested you do,” he told her. Bowie evidently knew better than to use the phrase “told you to do.”

  “Easy for him to say,” she commented.

  “No, I really doubt that,” Bowie contradicted. “I think he knows that asking you to do something is far from easy and far from a guarantee that you would actually do it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Just what are you saying?” she demanded.

  “Only what we both know to be true,” he answered. “You’re a very strong-willed woman who isn’t about to obediently comply with something unless she really wants to.”

  Marlowe pursed her lips. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you, Robertson?”

  “Maybe,” he allowed. He raised his brows as he asked, “You buying any of it?”

  He suddenly looked so boyish as he asked her that question that Marlowe found she was having a problem keeping a straight face.

  “Maybe,” she answered, parroting the word he’d used back to him. It suddenly felt as if it was getting warm in here, she thought. Marlowe changed the subject. “How long do you think we’re going to have to be here?”

  “Spoken like a prisoner who’s ready to fly the coop at any second,” he commented.

  She raised her chin. “I just like to know what I’m in for and what’s ahead of me.”

  “Maybe what your brother had in mind,” Bowie suggested delicately, “is for you just to kick back for a bit and let things unfold naturally.”

  She shook her head. “Nope, that doesn’t sound like Callum,” she answered.

  “All right, then, how does a couple of days sound to you?” Bowie asked, his eyes on hers.

  “Today counts as one day, right?” Marlowe asked.

  Bowie glanced at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock in the evening. “If you think that two hours compose a day, then yes,” he answered, “today counts as one of those days.”

  “Good,” she pronounced, looking satisfied that she had won.

  Chapter 9

  “Well, at least we won’t be starving anytime soon,” Bowie announced, looking into the surprisingly large modern refrigerator in the kitchen. “Looks like it’s been restocked recently.” He looked over his shoulder toward Marlowe. “There’s a pretty good selection of steaks, eggs, a few fruits and some vegetables just waiting to be turned into a home-cooked meal.”

  He closed the refrigerator door and crossed back to her. “I know it’s kind of late, but you probably haven’t had anything to eat for hours. Can I interest you in some dinner?”

  The second Bowie mentioned food, Marlowe felt her stomach lurching. She pressed her palm against the swirling area, praying she wasn’t going to throw up.

  “I don’t think so,” she told him. “The idea of eating anything right now...” Her voice trailed off. The next second, her eyes widened as she drew in her breath. “Oh no, it can’t be.”

  “Can’t be what?” Bowie asked, concerned. The horrified note in her voice had gotten his complete attention.

  Marlowe didn’t answer. Her stomach was letting her know just how unhappy it was. She could feel herself beginning to perspire, despite the cold temperature outside.

  She looked around frantically. She hadn’t been here for so long that she’d forgotten where the bathroom was located.

  Bowie immediately knew without being told what she was looking for. He had noticed the bathroom while checking out the Colton cabin to make sure no one was already there.

  “This way,” he said, quickly leading the way to the rear of the cabin. To make sure she was following him, Bowie took hold of her elbow, guiding her in the right direction.

  The moment Marlowe sighted the door, she yanked away her elbow and pushed past Bowie, barely slamming the door behind her just in time.

  Bowie leaned against the door frame. “Anything I can do to help, Marlowe?” he offered. “Hold your hair out of the way, give you moral support?” he asked, saying the first things that came to his mind because he was worried about her. He thought that she’d looked positively green just as she’d slammed the door.

  Marlowe didn’t answer him, but he was fairly certain he detected a subdued retching noise coming from the bathroom. Looking at the closed door, Bowie shook his head. Marlowe Colton had to be the only woman he knew who would deliberately try to keep the sounds of her physical misery a secret.

  Feeling bad for her, Bowie decided to remain where he was, waiting for her to pull herself together and come out. He was ready to offer assistance any way he could should Ma
rlowe realize that she wanted it.

  Or needed it.

  When he no longer heard anything coming from inside the bathroom, Bowie put his ear against the door, straining to make out any sound coming from the other side. By no means did he want to invade her privacy, but at the same time he found himself worrying about Marlowe—and the baby she was carrying.

  His baby.

  Yes, it was early days as far as that was concerned. He’d known about this for only a number of short hours, but being pregnant was obviously creating havoc for Marlowe, and he felt protective toward her and their child.

  “Marlowe?” he called to her, knocking on the bathroom door. “Are you all right in there?” When there was no answer, he decided that he had been considerate of her sensibilities long enough. Coddling her wasn’t getting him anywhere.

  His hand on the doorknob, he turned it. “Marlowe, I’m coming in there,” he announced. But as he began to open the door, it was suddenly opened from within and Marlowe emerged, her face slightly damp from what he assumed was the water she had splashed herself with, most likely trying to freshen up.

  “What are you getting so excited about?” she asked indignantly. “I’m fine.”

  He looked at her more closely. “You have morning sickness.”

  “You have your time confused,” she informed him coldly. “It’s nighttime, not morning.”

  “And morning sickness is just a term to describe the nausea that being pregnant sometimes ushers in,” he countered, refusing to be baited and get annoyed.

  “And you’re an expert on that, I take it,” she retorted.

  It occurred to her, completely out of left field, that she didn’t even know if Bowie had a wife stashed away somewhere, or maybe a fiancée. For all she knew, the man had mistresses tucked away everywhere. She knew absolutely nothing about Bowie’s private life, nor had she wanted to—until just now.

  What if she’d gone to bed with a married man? Or with someone who was just interested in nothing more than a one-night stand?

  If it turned out to be the latter, it almost seemed like poetic justice, seeing as how, at the time it had happened, she hadn’t exactly been interested in establishing a permanent relationship, either. She had wound up going upstairs with him strictly for pleasure—something she wouldn’t have allowed herself to indulge usually.

  But there was something about mixing champagne with equal doses of Bowie that had blurred all the lines for her. It had made her behave like someone she didn’t even begin to recognize.

  “I read a lot,” he said in response to her snide question about his being up on the symptoms of morning sickness. “I also read that crackers and soda water sometimes help you feel better.”

  Marlowe was really skeptical about that. Right now she was feeling miserable, and all she wanted was to retreat and pray that exhaustion would just take over and blanket her.

  Bowie answered her glibly, “But the article did say that the prospective mother might react badly to attempts to help her and behave like an angry wet hen.”

  “A wet hen?” Marlowe echoed indignantly.

  “An angry wet hen,” he deliberately corrected.

  For some reason, the fact that they were having this discussion about the condition of a hypothetical chicken managed to hit her funny bone and she began to laugh.

  The sound of her laughter coaxed laughter out of Bowie. His laughter fed hers and vice versa. They laughed until her sides literally ached and she couldn’t laugh anymore.

  When she stopped laughing, allowing an exhausted sigh to escape, she looked at Bowie, feeling contrite.

  “I suppose I should apologize for being so short-tempered,” she told him.

  “You can if you want to, or we could just forget about it and you could go to bed.” He clearly had already surmised that she was having a hard time of it, and he apparently wasn’t interested in any apologies.

  For the first time, she looked around the room and spotted the bed.

  She felt a wave of heat wash over her. Did Bowie intend to sleep in it with her, perhaps even have an encore of that night they had spent together six weeks ago?

  “What about you?” she heard herself asking nervously, although she tried her best not to show it.

  Bowie seemed rather unfazed by the question. He answered her as if it was already a given. “I’m going to take the couch.”

  She peered out of the bedroom, looking into the living area. “It’s not very comfortable,” she commented.

  “That’s okay,” he said, unconcerned. “I don’t intend to be very comfortable.”

  Marlowe looked at him, wrinkling her forehead in confusion. What was that supposed to mean? “I don’t understand.”

  “Well,” he told her matter-of-factly, “if I get comfortable, I just might wind up falling asleep on the couch.”

  “And you don’t want to?” she asked him, still confused.

  He laughed quietly. “It’s pretty hard to stand guard if I’m sleeping.”

  “Wait.” He wasn’t making any sense, she thought. “You said no one followed us.”

  “And from what I saw, they didn’t,” he agreed. “But even so, I don’t want to take any unnecessary chances, and I’ve always been a firm believer in being safe rather than sorry.”

  Marlowe sighed wearily. “More sayings for that book,” she said more to herself than to him.

  “Maybe,” he allowed with an engaging grin. “But that doesn’t make it any less applicable to the situation,” Bowie told her. And then he advised, “Get some rest.” Before she could protest, as she was so very capable of doing, he winked at her and said, “Remember, you’re sleeping for two.”

  Did he mean she was sleeping for him as well, because he couldn’t, or was he referring to the baby as part of that “two”?

  Marlowe stood in the bedroom after he closed the door behind him and sighed as she shook her head. She didn’t want to be beholden to Bowie, didn’t want him making any sacrifices for her.

  And yet...

  And yet the very fact that Bowie was doing all this created warm and fuzzy feelings inside her.

  Feelings she admitted to herself that she had never experienced before. Oh, she’d had her share of boyfriends, and she’d had flings. But none of those boyfriends or the flings could have been termed to be the least bit serious. They certainly never even once came before her job. That was a contest that had never taken place.

  None of her so-called relationships ever lasted, and she had never felt as if she was missing anything whenever those relationships had run their exceedingly short courses and quietly faded into history.

  She certainly had never, ever felt as if she was falling for someone...

  Marlowe blinked as the words startled her, popping up in her head completely unbidden—like a comet streaking across the sky.

  She wasn’t falling for him; she was just tired, Marlowe told herself.

  Tired and imagining things.

  Still, she had to admit that part of her stomach’s rebellious upheaval was due to something other than strictly this so-called morning sickness that Bowie claimed to be such an expert about.

  Falling for Bowie, she thought as she sank down on the bed.

  Her.

  With him.

  No way.

  That had to be some sort of a mistake, right? Of course right, she told herself.

  Even so, the very idea seemed to waft through her brain, teasing her, whispering insane words.

  Would it be so very wrong if you were right about that?

  “Damn it, Marlowe, you’re just overtired. Get some sleep!” she ordered herself.

  That turned out to be a great deal easier said than done.

  But somewhere along the line, with all that tossing and turning she did, she must have fallen asleep. Because sometime i
n the morning she found herself being teased awake by the scent of eggs frying and something she identified as bacon after a moment.

  For a split second, the scent was tempting.

  And then her stomach kicked in, rebelling and reminding her that food and she were not friends right now.

  Instead of going out to the kitchen, she found herself communing with the commode again.

  Finished being sick, she got back up on her shaky legs. That made twice in less than twelve hours, she thought wearily.

  Marlowe went out of the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the rumpled bed, waiting for her stomach to settle down.

  “We’re not off to an auspicious start, you and I, baby,” she murmured under her breath, addressing the tiny being within her body.

  And that was the moment she suddenly knew—knew that she was going to have this child, keep it and be a mother. As good a mother as humanly possible.

  Nothing else seemed remotely imaginable.

  Marlowe knew her decision would probably infuriate her father. He undoubtedly expected her to sweep what he viewed, at best, as an “unfortunate circumstance” out of her life. After all, this baby was half Robertson, and Coltons wanted to have nothing to do with Robertsons. Payne had said that so many times over the years that she had lost count.

  “Wrong, Dad. We do now,” she said, addressing her absent father.

  Preoccupied with her thoughts and with this decision she had just made to keep the baby, Marlowe jumped when she heard the knock on her bedroom door.

  “Marlowe, can I come in?” Bowie asked, waiting for her permission.

  Part of her would have expected Bowie to come barging in, the way he had into her office. That he didn’t surprised her—and, she had to admit, pleased her.

  Bracing herself, Marlowe said, “Okay. You can come on in.”

  Bowie opened the door, but rather than walk right in, he peered into the room, checking to see if she was alone. “You had me worried. I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

  She felt embarrassed that Bowie had overheard her. Rather than explain what she’d been doing, Marlowe said, “No, just to myself.”