Every time she returned to her rooms, she expected to see the message light blinking on her phone—a call from Jane or Jillian to find out if she’d finally done what she’d vowed to do.

But her friends didn’t call. Maybe they’d given up on her. She could hardly blame them if they had.

Sunday, she woke early, thinking, He’s due back today….

But she didn’t know what time.

And what did it matter what time? She wasn’t going to ask him for a private meeting until tomorrow, anyway.

She lasted until noon and then she called his rooms. His machine picked up. Quietly, stealthily—without leaving a message—she returned the phone to its cradle. Then she went to her computer, logged onto the company system, and used her employee code to look up his itinerary. It was unethical, really. Celia Tuttle, secretary/personal assistant didn’t need to know exactly when her boss would arrive back in town. But Celia Tuttle, woman hopelessly in love, did.

He was due in at eight that night. Which meant he wouldn’t get to his own rooms till nine or ten at the earliest.

It helped to know that. Made it marginally easier not to keep dialing his number and hanging up when his machine answered.

The day dragged by on lead feet. She read the Sunday paper, watched a movie on cable, her mind hardly registering what her eyes were seeing. In the afternoon, she called down to Touch of Gold, High Sierra’s full-service luxury spa, and booked the works—mud bath, massage and two-hour facial. Maybe it would help her relax.

It did, while she was down there. And it took up four hours she would have spent stewing. She didn’t return to her own rooms until after six.

The rest of the evening was downright unbearable. As eight and nine came and went, she wondered.

Where was he now?

Had he reached the hotel yet?

Was he already in his tower suite—or was he down in the casino somewhere, or in one of High Sierra’s luxurious bars or fine restaurants, maybe having a last drink with Tony Jarvis, or possibly courting some recently arrived high rollers?

There was no way to know.

And it didn’t even matter. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, she had no intention of tracking him down tonight, anyway.

She put on her pajamas and she got into bed.

But sleeping fell under the heading, as if.

She reached for the phone more than once. But she never picked it up. She knew that if he answered, the sound of his voice would send her into a mindless state of pure panic. She’d hang up without identifying herself—and he would know who it was, anyway. After all, there was such a thing as caller ID.

Which she should have considered earlier, before she’d made that first call.

Jane was so right, she thought, as the night wore on and sleep never came. Here I am, at the bare trestle table, clutching my sad, half-empty bowl of gruel, afraid to stand up and ask for more….

Not sleeping and worrying all night long did nothing for her appearance the next day. She troweled on the concealer to cover the dark pouches beneath her eyes and she put on her nicest suit, which was pale blue, of a particularly fine-gauge gabardine and usually looked very nice on her.

Today, well, nothing she could have worn would have made her look anything better than tired and washed out. Her hair, which was a color somewhere between blond and auburn, seemed flat and lusterless as a brown-paper bag. Her skin looked pasty.

Really, she couldn’t help thinking that maybe today just wasn’t the day. Maybe she should get to bed early tonight, get a good night’s sleep for a change. And then, tomorrow, when she felt fresh and didn’t look like the walking dead, she could—

“No!” She glared at her own pasty, pale face in the bathroom mirror. “No more excuses. So you look like hell. You’re telling him. Today.”

She was at her desk when he entered the office suite.

“Good morning, Celia.”

Her heart felt as it if had surged straight up into her throat. She swallowed it down and attempted a smile—one that never quite happened.

He was already past her, approaching the door to his private office. “Give me twenty minutes and we’ll go over the calendar.”

By then, her heart had dropped heavily into her chest again and begun beating so hard and loud she was certain any second she’d go into cardiac arrest. She stood.

“Aaron.”

He paused with his hand on the door and turned back to her. He looked puzzled.

Really, now she thought about it, he’d been looking puzzled way too much lately. Probably because she’d been acting so strangely, he couldn’t help but notice, even oblivious as he was to her as anything but a function most of the time.

He was waiting—waiting for her to tell him whatever it was she had stopped him to say.

“I…uh…” Her voice sounded awful. Tight. Squeaky.

“Yes?”

She coughed into her hand, to loosen her throat. And then, somehow, she was saying the words she’d been vowing she’d say. “I need to talk with you. Alone. It’s a personal matter. I wonder if you would mind stopping by my rooms this evening?” Suggest a time, the part of her mind still capable of rational thought instructed frantically. “Uh. About seven?”

He didn’t answer for a count of five, at least. He just stood there, looking at her through those blue eyes that really didn’t give away much of anything. Finally, he said, rather gently, “Celia. What’s this about?”

“I’d rather…wait. To speak with you alone.”

He gestured at the outer office, which was decorated in cool grays and midnight blues and was empty except for the two of them. “No one here but you and me. It’s as good a time as any to talk. Come on into my office now and we can—”

She put up a hand. “No. Really. I’m sorry, to be so vague about this. But I’d much rather we just kept it to business here in the office. I would honestly appreciate it if you’d just come to my rooms this evening. We’ll discuss it there.”

He looked at her for a long time. It was absolutely awful. What could he be thinking? Undoubtedly that she was inconveniencing him. Just possibly that he was going to have call down to human resources and get them to find him another PA.

Finally, he said in what seemed a half-hearted attempt at humor, “Well. Am I busy?”

She managed a pained smile. “Uh. No. Not at seven. Not as of now, anyway.”

“All right then,” he said. “Your rooms. At seven.” He turned from her and went through the door to his office, closing it quietly behind him.

O nce in his office, Aaron Bravo stood at the door for a moment, his hand on the doorknob, thinking, What the hell is up with Celia?

Then he smelled coffee.

She had it ready for him, as always, waiting on the credenza. He went over, poured himself a cup and drank it right there, staring out the glare-treated glass beyond his desk, not really seeing the city sprawled across the desert landscape below.

He still had Celia on his mind. She didn’t look well. Hadn’t for a week or two now.

So could she be ill? And if so, was it serious? Was she planning to tell him she needed some time off—or worse, that she’d have to give up her job?

Damn. She was young, too young to be dangerously ill. And he’d sure as hell hate to lose her. She was the next thing to a genius at what she did. Always there when he needed her—and yet never in the way.

Pregnant.

The word popped into his head. He frowned. No. Not Celia. Celia didn’t have time to get pregnant, not with the kind of demands he made on her. He kept her working hard—too hard, really. He knew that. He also paid her damn well. And he tried to remember to cut her a little slack now and then. Like this last weekend, when he’d let her off the hook for the trip back east, leaving instructions for her to take three days off.