The Pregnancy Promise. Barbara McMahon

      She knew he had a subscription to the symphony and ballet, as he often gave away tickets when business intruded.

      She looked out the window, hearing her sister’s voice echo—you’re too involved with Tray. She wasn’t, not in that sense. They worked together—closely. But it was strictly business.

      Not that she’d have a problem picturing them kissing. Or doing more.

      She banged her head against the glass. She’d never thought of her boss in that way—but only because it would prove too dangerous. She’d felt a pull of attraction at their first meeting. Getting started in her career had been too important to her to fantasize about a personal relationship. Over the years she’d become used to hearing snippets about his women friends from others. She couldn’t compete. And she didn’t want to. She loved her job, relished being considered a colleague, having her opinion sought and listened to. She especially liked the nights when they worked late—sharing dinner, solving impossible scenarios.

      She wasn’t some empty airhead who thought looks more important that brains. Those were the kind of women he liked to take out.

      But there was a hint of pleasure in remembering he’d called her pretty at the cottage.

      She folded the paper and stuffed it into her pocket. Grabbing her purse and jacket, she left the office. She was not going to get ideas about her boss. He was so far off-limits she should not even think of him and a baby in the same frame.

      Yet every other man she’d seen recently paled in comparison. Was that the problem—Tray set the standard the others failed to meet?

      Lianne spent the rest of Sunday wishing she had not gone into the office. She had thrown away the paper and fished it out of the trash twice. Finally she stuffed it in the bottom drawer in her dresser beneath a stack of sweaters. But out of sight did not mean out of mind. Was he interested?

      If so he was too direct not to say something.

      At least she believed so.

      “Oh, God, what if he did say something?” she exclaimed, horrified and thrilled by the idea.

      She started to call her sister, but decided against it. Getting into her car just before dark to head to the beach was her way of coping. She reached the cottage long after nightfall. The sound of the waves soothed her as she turned into the driveway and stopped by the dark house.

      If nothing else, the rest of the night would be spent putting Tray out of her mind and trying to figure out a way to find the perfect father for her baby.

      Monday morning Lianne arrived at work confident she could handle anything Tray threw her way. She turned on her computer. Jenny came to the doorway.

      “Lianne, something’s wrong with Tray,” she said, looking half frightened.

      “What do you mean?” She couldn’t imagine anything going wrong for the man.

      “I took him the printout he’d requested at the end of work on Friday. Instead of telling me he expected it days ago, he didn’t open the door to his office but told me to go away. He’s never told me to go away.”

      “Where’s Emily?” Lianne asked of Tray’s secretary.

      “She wasn’t at her desk.”

      Lianne rose. She’d never heard of such a thing. “Give me the printout, I’ll see he gets it,” she said. In only seconds she was outside Tray’s office. Sure enough Emily was not at her desk. What was going on?

      She knocked. “Tray, I have the Sanderson’s printout.”

      “Go away,” he replied.

      She blinked. Opening the door, she stuck her head in, peering around to see him standing by the window, one arm raised and leaning against the casing.

      He heard her and turned, glaring at her.

      “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

      Instead Lianne stepped inside and closed the door. She crossed to the desk and laid the printout on the messy surface. “There’s definitely something wrong. What it is?”

      He frowned at her for a long moment, then the look turned to one of pain. Lianne’s eyes widened slightly. She’d never seen Tray like this.

      “My uncle died unexpectedly this morning. I just learned of it.” He turned and faced out the window. “We spoke on the phone just a few days ago. Nothing was wrong. At least nothing he told me. God, the man was only fifty-nine. Too young to die.”