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

by Marie Ferrarella

  “But,” Bowie went on to say, “it’s your body. So ultimately, the decision is yours.”

  That he was capable of that sort of thinking caught Marlowe totally off guard. Was she actually wrong about him?

  “Then you don’t care what I do about this baby?” Marlowe asked, trying to get a handle on how he really felt.

  “I didn’t say that,” Bowie pointed out. The fact of the matter was that he clearly did care. Cared a great deal, Bowie thought. “But I’m not the one who has to go through this.”

  Bowie meant the pregnancy and birthing part, but Marlowe immediately jumped on a different interpretation entirely.

  “You’re damn right you don’t.” She couldn’t begin to think about everything that was involved, the huge changes that she was going to have to make in her life. Her head began to swirl. “I don’t know the first thing about being a mother—” she began in exasperation.

  “Most first-time mothers don’t,” Bowie told her, staying way calmer about this than she could currently appreciate. “From what I hear, it’s a learning process that goes on indefinitely.” His eyes pinned her down. “You are aware of the fact that perfect mothers don’t just fall out of the sky, instantly doing the right thing, right?” he asked.

  Did he think she was an idiot, or was he just getting his jollies talking down to her? Marlowe fumed, instantly taking offense.

  “I’m a workaholic,” she reminded him. “How can I possibly juggle those two entirely different roles, being a mother and Colton Oil president, and not doing a horrible job of both?”

  Bowie opened his mouth, apparently to answer. Fired up, Marlowe just went on talking.

  “I’ve always been the best at everything,” she informed him, not boasting but just stating a fact. “But this...this is something I don’t know if I can pull off,” she admitted, and that really worried her more than she could express.

  Bowie was quick to jump in, making the most of the fact that she was taking a breath. In the handful of run-ins they’d had, he had never seen Marlowe anything but confident. That she was actually having doubts made her all too human in his eyes.

  And oddly enough, he liked this version of her. Liked the fact that she was being vulnerable.

  And cute as hell, he thought, his eyes once again skimming over what she was wearing.

  “Sure you can pull this off,” he told her. “You can do anything you set your mind to. Being a mother isn’t any different from being the president of Colton Oil—except that there aren’t any diaper changes involved in the latter.”

  “Very funny,” she commented, visibly trying very hard not to laugh at the scenario he’d just painted.

  His eyes held hers. “And I’ll help.”

  Marlowe suddenly fell silent. She looked at him as if he had just lapsed into a foreign language she was completely unfamiliar with.

  “You’ll help what?” she questioned.

  “With the baby. I’ll help,” he repeated. He slid in closer to her on the sofa. “We’ll do it together. If you decide to have this baby, then you can count on me being there for you and the baby every step of the way,” Bowie assured her, his tone completely serious.

  It took her several moments to finally get the words out. “You mean it?” she asked.

  Bowie smiled at her. It was a warm, comforting smile. “Cross my heart,” he said. And then to get his message across, he did just that. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Since when were you a Boy Scout?” she asked.

  But oddly enough, she wasn’t belittling him or even scoffing at his answer. She was, Marlowe realized, incredibly touched and unbelievably grateful for his offer.

  Bowie’s reaction to the news when she had told him had been a complete surprise. So many men would have immediately claimed that the baby wasn’t theirs, and yet he had taken the news, once the initial surprise had worn off, in stride.

  And unlike what so many partners, especially casual ones, would have said, his response was different. They would have said, “You’re on your own, honey.” Or just told her to “get rid of it,” washing their hands of the whole thing.

  But Bowie hadn’t. He wasn’t behaving at all the way she would have expected that he would. Instead, he was assuring her that he would be there for her, ready to hold her hand, to help in any way she needed. To do anything she asked of him.

  Marlowe felt tears filling her eyes. She immediately willed them away. There was nothing she hated more than women who broke down in tears.

  And she was strong, Marlowe silently insisted. She was.

  But strong or not, she felt so grateful for Bowie’s closeness, grateful beyond words to have someone to share this completely unexpected, overwhelming responsibility with.

  At that moment, she felt not only incredibly thankful to him, but, in addition, she felt closer to Bowie than she ever had to another living soul.

  Feeling utterly vulnerable, Marlowe rose to her feet. Bowie rose with her. They were standing inches apart.

  Less than inches.

  Bowie put his hands on the sides of her shoulders, drawing her closer still. They were all but in each other’s shadows.

  Marlowe could feel herself leaning into Bowie, and she felt that he was doing the same.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart rate suddenly launched into double time as she leaned in even closer to him than she’d been a second ago.

  He was going to kiss her, and she desperately wanted him to, she thought. There was absolutely no alcohol involved this time, and she still really, really wanted to kiss him.

  To have him kiss her.

  And then, without any warning, it happened.

  Just as their lips were a fraction away from meeting, a gunshot echoed as a bullet came crashing through her window. It shattered the glass and came so close to Bowie’s head that, for one awful, awful moment, she was convinced that he had been shot.

  That he had been killed.

  Time froze even as he fell on top of her, his body covering hers.

  It was the pounding beat of his heart that alerted her he was still alive.

  Bowie was apparently trying to shield her with his body the second he’d heard the gun discharge.

  The weight of his body on hers had knocked the wind right out of her.

  Terror had done the rest.

  Bowie stayed exactly where he was, immobile except when he evidently raised his head to conduct an up close inventory of her condition.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

  “Other than having all this heavy weight on my body, I think I’m fine,” she told him, struggling to remain positive. But that immediately gave way to fear. “Someone just shot at you,” she cried.

  “I know,” he told her. “I was there. Except that I think it was at us. Or at you.” But they could sort that out later. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  “I will be as soon as you get off me,” Marlowe told him. “You really are heavy.”

  Unlike when they had made love and he had taken care to balance his weight on his elbows, she remembered. Today, he’d been too concerned with protecting Marlowe from the shooter to take any other precautions.

  “Sorry about that.”

  Bowie quickly drew himself up to a sitting position. They were both behind the sofa where he had dived, taking her with him.

  They were still there, taking care to remain out of range of whoever had done the shooting.

  A thought suddenly occurred to him as he looked at her, horrified. “I didn’t hurt the baby, did I?”

  Despite the situation, she found his concern incredibly sweet. “From what I remember from my high school science class, the baby is currently the size of a pea, if even that big, so I’m guessing she or he is all right.”

  Bowie blew out a long b
reath. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  Since there were no more shots, Marlowe ventured out from behind the sofa before he could stop her. “Are you out of your mind?” he demanded, making a grab for her.

  “Shooting’s stopped,” she told him. “I guess he quit while we were ahead,” she quipped. Marlowe looked up toward where the bullet had shattered the glass. “Where did that shot come from? It couldn’t have been the street,” she guessed. The angle was all wrong.

  Bowie rose cautiously to his feet. Marlowe was right. Whoever had shot at them was gone.

  He took a closer look at the hole the bullet had made. “My guess is that it came from the building across the way.”

  Marlowe said the first word that came to her mind. “A sniper?”

  “As good a term as any for now,” Bowie answered. He looked at her again. This time, he frowned. “You sure you’re all right?” he asked. “You’re shaking.”

  Embarrassed that he had noticed, Marlowe did what she always did. She took refuge in anger. “Someone just took a shot at one of us. Of course I’m not all right. I want to fillet that SOB.”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Bowie couldn’t help laughing. “You really are one tough woman, aren’t you?”

  “I have to be,” she admitted, being more honest with him than she had intended to be. “Otherwise, I’m going to fall all to pieces.” Marlowe realized that he had taken out his cell phone and was calling someone. “Who are you calling?” she asked.

  Heaven help her, her suspicions about Bowie were back. Was he calling whoever had fired at them to tell the hired gun that he’d missed his target—her?

  “The police,” Bowie answered. “Someone just took a shot at one or both of us. Who should I be calling?” he asked her.

  But before she could attempt to answer him with an offhanded remark, Bowie held up his hand and put the phone on speaker. Someone picked up on the other end of the line.

  “911. What is your emergency?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Someone just took a shot at us through the window. Could you send police officers to Ms. Marlowe Colton’s residence? No,” he told the dispatcher who told him she was taking down the information, “not to the family residence. This happened in her condo right here in town. Yes, that’s right,” he said, “that’s the address.” He verified the address that was already registered with the police. “Thank you.” Closing his phone, he told Marlowe, “They’ll be here in five minutes.”

  “I really wish you hadn’t done that,” she told Bowie, less than happy that he had taken this initiative.

  “Why?”

  “Because now the police are going to notify my father,” she told him. “And all hell is going to break loose.”

  Chapter 7

  “Wait, let me understand this,” Bowie said, putting his cell phone back into his pocket. “You’re Payne’s daughter. Wouldn’t he want you to be safe?”

  “I’m his daughter,” Marlowe agreed. Bowie had gotten that much right, but not the rest of it. “That means that, if at all possible, he’d expect me to handle this situation on my own. Quietly.”

  Bowie shook his head.

  “Your father’s as bullheaded as mine is,” he commented, surprised at how alike two men who professed to be sworn enemies could actually be.

  Blowing out a breath, she said, “I guess you’re right.”

  She’d no sooner said that than there was a knock on the door. Marlowe audibly caught her breath as she exchanged looks with Bowie.

  “I really doubt that a hit man would knock on the door,” he told Marlowe. Still, he knew it didn’t hurt to be cautious. Moving her behind him, Bowie made his way to the door. “Who is it?” he asked, one hand on the doorknob.

  “It’s Chief Barco,” the gruff voice on the other side of the door answered. “I just got a 911 alert transmitted to my radio. Are you all right, Ms. Colton?”

  Marlowe moved Bowie out of her way and opened the door. A sense of relief went through her as she looked up at the tall, slightly paunchy but commanding fifty-two-year-old police chief. She’d never been so happy to see the bald-headed man before in her life.

  “I’m fine, Chief. But the bullet came really close to Bowie over here.” Saying that, she turned toward Bowie, and for the first time since the incident occurred, she saw that there was blood at the very top of his ear. He had been grazed. “Your ear,” she cried, her eyes widening. “You’re bleeding.”

  Bowie ran his finger along the region where she seemed to be looking. There was just the slightest trace of red on his fingertips. He shrugged as if this was no big deal.

  “I’ve done worse shaving,” he assured her.

  “You shave with bullets?” she asked Bowie sarcastically, attempting to cover up her initial horrified reaction.

  “Let me get this straight,” the chief said, slightly confused. “You two were together when this shooting happened?”

  Like everyone else in Mustang Valley, the chief knew the Coltons and the Robertsons to be sworn enemies. Finding them together must have seemed rather odd.

  “Yes,” Marlowe answered for the both of them. “I’ll show you where the bullet came from.” She led the chief to the window.

  The chief studied the shattered glass closely. He frowned at the hole and looked around the area for signs of more damage. But for now, the window seemed to be the only casualty.

  Barco turned toward Bowie. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to see you dead, Mr. Robertson?” he asked him.

  Marlowe spoke up, interrupting the two men. “Robertson seems to think that I was the target.”

  The chief’s frown deepened. This surely did not fall under the heading of “good news” in his book. “And why is that?” he asked.

  “Well, for one thing, it’s her condo,” Bowie answered before Marlowe could say anything further.

  “You do have a point,” the chief allowed. “Any other reason for you to suspect that Ms. Colton was the intended target?”

  Bowie was forced to shrug, at least for now. “Fresh out of ideas, I’m afraid,” he said.

  When the chief looked toward her for her input, Marlowe shrugged her shoulders, as well. “Other than the usual crazies who resent my family, I haven’t a clue,” she confessed.

  The chief made a few notes in his battered notebook, then closed it, tucking it back into his jacket pocket.

  “I’ll have my people ask around, see if anyone saw or heard anything unusual,” he told Marlowe. “I can post one of the officers outside your door if that would make you feel safer, Ms. Colton,” he offered.

  Marlowe smiled. “Thanks for the offer, Chief, but doing that would be cutting down your force by a third,” she told him.

  The entire Mustang Valley police force was small, but then, considering how quiet the town usually was, only a few law enforcement officers were more than adequate to keep the peace.

  As if to contradict the thought, just then the front door, which Marlowe hadn’t bothered locking when the chief came in, flew open, rattling the beveled glass in the upper portion of the door so hard, for a moment it seemed in danger of breaking, as well.

  “Marlowe, are you all right?” her father demanded as he came storming into the condo. He was closely followed by Callum, his son and Marlowe’s twin.

  “Are you hurt?” her brother asked at almost the same time.

  “I’m fine, really,” Marlowe assured both her father and her twin.

  Both men stopped dead the next moment as they realized that Marlowe had more than just the chief with her and that the other man standing next to her was not part of the police force.

  Payne suddenly looked as if thunderbolts were about to come shooting out of his eyes. “What the hell is Franklin’s whelp doing here?” the senior Colton demanded, glaring at Bowie. “Is he the one who tried to sho
ot you?” Payne shouted, pulling himself up to his full height.

  “Now, calm down, Mr. Colton,” Barco began in a soothing tone. His words had absolutely no effect on the oil baron.

  Marlowe moved in between her father and Bowie, predominantly to keep her father from doing something that they would all wind up regretting rather than to protect Bowie.

  Even at sixty-eight, Payne Colton was no one’s idea of an old man. On the contrary, her father was still a force to be reckoned with and exceedingly imposing in his own right.

  “No, Dad,” she insisted, “Bowie didn’t try to shoot me.”

  “Then what the hell is he doing here?” Payne demanded. “Are you spying on us, boy? Doing some recon for your old man because he’s just too weak and afraid to do it himself?” With each word, Payne only succeeded in working himself up more and more.

  She could tell Bowie was having trouble holding on to his own temper, but losing it would only make a bad situation worse.

  “No, sir—” Bowie answered politely, only to have Payne cut him short.

  “Well, you can tell that coward who sired you he knows what he can do with his precious company, and I’ll thank him not to send his boy sniffing around my daughter, if he knows what’s good for him.” Drawing back his shoulders, the senior Colton gave the illusion of towering over Bowie, even though they were actually about the same height. “Because if he crosses me, your father’s going to get a hell of a lot more than he ever bargained for, you hear me?” Payne demanded, all but shouting the question in Bowie’s face.

  This was going to turn into a really bad situation faster than she had ever bargained on, Marlowe thought. Chief Barco was a nice man, but he was basically afraid of her father. It was up to her to put a stop to it before it got really ugly, Marlowe observed.

  “Dad,” she said, raising her voice. But her father either didn’t hear her or didn’t want to hear her, because he went on shouting and threatening Bowie.

  “Now you get your sorry butt out of here, boy, if you know what’s good for you.” Bushy silver eyebrows drew together in an angry wave. “I am not going to ask you nicely again,” Payne warned in a menacing tone.