The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (12 page)

She was so brave. So determined. So willing to sacrifice for him, for their child.

He only hoped that he had not betrayed her, that his genes had not paved the path for the destruction of everything good that was growing between them.

Inside the house, he trailed after her, up the stairs to the guest suite. Feeling like a stranger in his own home, he glided over to her bed. The comforter felt foreign beneath his fingers; he might never have seen it before. The sheets were crisp, clean, but they held no familiarity, no saucy temptation of heat, of memory, of passion. He folded them back as if he were completing a ritual, a prayer.

Ethan's navy suit was incongruous as he worked; he stood out like a preacher at a motel. A strangely luxurious motel, but a motel all the same. Only when he'd run out of things to do, when he'd finished all the business of seeing to her comfort did he actually meet her eyes.

“Ten days,” she said, betraying the thought that had nagged at her all the way home.

“And then we'll know.” He raised his hand, settled his chilly palm against her cheek. A shudder crinkled down her spine, even as she turned her head to lean against his fingers. “Get some rest,” he whispered. “I'll have James bring you some lunch.”

“Ethan? Will you bring Daisy up here? I'd like to have her beside me while I sleep.”

His shoulders stiffened, and she knew that he wanted to refuse. He didn't want anything to do with the puppy, with a living, breathing reminder that genetic mishaps did occur. She knew that she needed to talk to him, needed to tell him that he was wrong to ignore the dog.
But she couldn't. Not right then. Not when she was so tired that she could barely keep her eyes open.

Ethan's voice was gravely courteous as he said, “I'll have James take care of that.”

That.
A living, breathing puppy was reduced to “that.” Sloane swallowed hard, and Ethan ducked out the door before she could make any verbal response.

As soon as he was gone, Sloane slipped out of her summer sundress. She'd gone on the shopping spree that Ethan had recommended. New clothes hung in her closet, spanning the range from casual to formal. Her dresser drawers were filled with satin and lace; she had splurged on intriguing lingerie that had made her blush even as she imagined what Ethan would say when he finally saw it.

For now, though, she dug to the back of the drawer, shoving aside garments that still bore their price tags. Her fingers closed on her old cotton nightgown, and the softness of the fabric nearly brought tears to her eyes. She shrugged it over her bare shoulders, relishing the familiar feel. She yawned as she climbed into bed. The morning had been so emotionally fraught, so charged, that she felt as if she'd run a marathon. She was asleep before James arrived with his tray. His tray, and Daisy.

 

Once Ethan was certain that Sloane was sleeping soundly, he headed for his office. He knew that James would call him if anything went wrong, if there was anything at all that he could do back at the house.

Watching Sloane's grim determination that morning had made him realize that he was long overdue in attending to his own difficult matters. It was time to confront his grandmother, time to declare that he was marrying Sloane Davenport.

Of course, there was the usual rigmarole in the waiting area outside his grandmother's office suite. The grim-faced secretary waved him to a seat, treating him like he was some unwelcome petitioner. Well, Ethan wasn't going to put up with that. Not today. Not when he had such an important message to deliver.

Ignoring the squawk of professional outrage from the secretary, Ethan marched straight into the lion's den.

Grandmother was on the phone, nodding her head at something that was being said on the other end of the line. She took one look at Ethan's face, though, and she interrupted whoever was talking. “I'm sorry, Richard. Something has come up here. I'll call you back later.” She hung up the phone without waiting for a response, as if she were an actress in a movie. “Ethan,” she said levelly.

“Grandmother.”

The trip to Paris had not been as beneficial as he had hoped. Dark circles still stood out beneath the hazel eyes that matched his own. Grandmother's cheeks were still pale, and he couldn't help but dart a glance to her hands, taking quick measure of the tremor there. As if she knew exactly what he was doing, she folded her fingers into her palms, drawing herself up to her fullest height. “I tried to reach you in your office this morning,” she said. “I wanted to discuss the supply figures from Singapore.”

“I was out,” he said. “At Philip Morton's office.” He saw the flash of recognition in his grandmother's eyes, the instant that she registered the name of the prominent obstetrician.

“I assume from your tone that you had a personal reason for being there? Not some study you're asking him to conduct for the company?”

His tone. Ethan had been accused of using the wrong
tone ever since he was a child. Well, he was long past the age where he would roll his eyes and click his tongue in teenage exasperation. Instead, he harnessed all of his skills as a successful business executive, every lesson he'd ever learned about meaningful communication, about driving home his personal agenda in a dog-eat-dog world.

Because there was nothing more personal than his relationship with Sloane Davenport.

“Grandmother, you told me that you wanted me married by January. I'll meet your deadline, with a couple of months to spare.”

There. He'd caught her by surprise.

But it only took a moment for her to follow his words to their logical conclusion, from Philip Morton to her damnable birthday ultimatum. “So, you got a girl in the family way, and now you're going to marry her. Is she one of your actresses? Or is she a model?”

He shook his head, resisting the urge to protest the way she always thought the worst of him. Then again, he hadn't given her a lot of reason to think otherwise, not where his personal life was concerned. “Her name is Sloane Davenport. We met at the AFAA auction. She used to work for the foundation.”

“Used to? Where does she work now?”

He hedged his answer, knowing precisely how his grandmother would interpret the unvarnished truth of Sloane's unemployment. “She's a freelancer, working in the area of child psychology.”

“Ethan.” She turned his name into an essay of warning. “What do you really know about this woman?”

He bristled at the implied accusation. “I know that she's no gold digger, Grandmother. She's not staying
with me because she expects a share of the Hartwell fortune, if that's what you're worried about.”

“And the baby?” Grandmother sounded like a particularly troublesome shareholder in the midst of an annual meeting. “Does she know about the risk?”

What kind of man did his grandmother think he was? “Of course she knows. That's why we were at Phil's office this morning. We'll have the test results in ten days.”

“And will she stick around if the results are bad?”

“Grandmother—”

“I'm just asking, Ethan. You're talking about spending the rest of your life with this woman, and I want to know if she has what it takes to handle bad news. The worst.”

His own parents hadn't. They'd abandoned him when the going got tough. Sloane was different, though. She was more determined than Ethan was himself. He knew that, even though it frightened him to admit it. “She'll stay with me, Grandmother. No matter what the test shows.”

“Very well,” Grandmother said after a long pause. She nodded as if they'd just decided to change the color of their corporate logo. “You'll bring her to the
No Comment,
on Independence Day?”

Grandmother's yacht. Site of her annual Fourth of July party, where scores of friends and business associates would gather for the finest catered foods and the best view of fireworks over the Potomac River.

“Of course,” he said. “There's nothing we'd like more.”

She didn't bother to call him on the lie. Instead, she let him turn on his heel, let him cross all the way to the office door. As he settled his hand on the knob, though, she called out his name. “Ethan, I have to warn you. If
I find this girl wanting, if I think that she's only trying to use you for your name or your money, I'll follow through on my original plan. I can still step down from the board and donate all my shares to AFAA.”

He turned back to meet her gaze, hazel eyes to hazel. “Of course you can, Grandmother. You'll do whatever you have to do. Sloane and I will see you on the Fourth.”

He left before she could get in the last word.

E
than told himself that he didn't need to worry. He'd attended Independence Day celebrations on the
No Comment
for years. He was used to his grandmother's sly power plays, to the barbed comments she made, all in the name of family love. This year wouldn't be any different.

Except it was. This year, Sloane was with him.

She looked stunning as she stood at the boat's railing, the picture of health in a bright blue sundress. He had no idea what sort of fabric that thing was, or how a designer would describe the cut. All he could say was that the color set off the glow of her eyes, made her hair seem even darker in the brilliant late-afternoon sun. He came up beside her, handing over a glass of sparkling water before he leaned against the railing. “Compliments of the
No Comment,
” he said.

She flashed a smile at him. “I've never been on a boat large enough to have a ‘below.'”

“I'm sure Grandmother would love to show you around. Just brace yourself to answer a thousand questions in payment for the privilege.”

She gave him a concerned look. “Maybe we shouldn't have come, if you feel so strongly about her.”

He just shook his head. There was a lot that Sloane had to learn about the Hartwell family. A lot that he should tell her. But not yet. Not now. Not while they were still waiting for news about the amnio, about the baby's health. There'd be time enough to give her the full background on Grandmother and the old woman's ridiculous, controlling demands.

He smiled to ease the frown that was starting to settle onto Sloane's lips. “You need to meet each other, and there's no time like the present. I just wish that we didn't have to stay on this boat until the fireworks display ends. There are better ways to spend a summer evening.”

She quickly took a swallow of her drink in a fruitless attempt to tame the blush that leaped to her cheeks. Over the past month, Ethan had scrupulously honored their agreement; he'd never come close to pushing her beyond her comfort zone, sexually. He certainly wasted no time, though, teasing her, alluding to the things that he would do once her ban on bedroom play was lifted. Even now, he stared at her with an amused hazel gaze, taking careful note of the way she settled her ice-filled glass against the hot pulse point in her wrist. “Let's go downstairs,” he said. When she raised her chin in surprise at his proposal, he laughed. “Grandmother is down there. She'll hold court in the air-conditioning, until the sun sets.”

“Well,” she said, trying to muster the composure that she knew he could destroy with a single wicked glance. “I wouldn't want her to think I was afraid of her.”

“Oh, she'll never think that,” Ethan said.

He slipped his fingers between hers easily, holding her hand as if they'd known each other for years. Sloane looked around, surprised to realize that so many people had joined them on the yacht's deck. There must be thirty altogether, gathered in clusters of three and four. Sloane tilted her head back to look at the raised deck, where the captain was just beginning to maneuver the
No Comment
out of the marina.

“Ethan!” a voice called out. Sloane turned around to find Zach Crosby approaching. The two men shook hands, and Zach leaned in to settle a quick kiss on Sloane's cheek. “I'm glad that both of you could make it,” Zach said, directing a concerned glance at Sloane. “Ethan said you weren't feeling well earlier this week?”

She resisted the urge to settle a protective hand over her belly. Instead, she smiled at the honest worry on the man's face. No reason to fill him in on the amnio test, on the nerve-jangling wait for results. “I'm fine, now.”

“Ethan told me about Daisy. I was so sorry to hear about her condition. I certainly never intended to cause any problems for you.”

Sloane made herself smile again, hoping to ease the earnest frown on Zach's face. “
You
didn't cause the problems. Sometimes these things just happen. No one's to blame.” She glanced at Ethan, hoping that he'd say something to smooth things over. He didn't oblige, and she fought the urge to chide him.

At least Zach seemed to miss the momentary tension between them. “Thanks for your understanding,” he said. “Hey, did Ethan tell you about the Fourth of July when we brought firecrackers on board the
No Comment?
We were thirteen, and we thought we were in charge of the universe.”

She laughed at the energy in Zach's voice, at the image of two mischievous boys, wreaking havoc on the boat's deck. “I think he forgot to mention that one.”

“Zach—” Ethan warned, but there was no deterring his best friend.

“Ethan bought them in the first place, but it was my idea to bring them on board.”

“I don't think Sloane wants to hear—” Ethan started to complain, but there was resigned laughter behind his words.

“Oh, no,” Sloane protested. “I'm very interested in this. Go on, Zach. Tell me more.”

“Ethan figured out how to rig them under the starboard railing. He wanted to see what would happen if all the guests ran to one side of the boat at the same time.”

“It was a study in physics,” Ethan said piously. “Newton's third law. Every action causes an equal and opposite reaction.”

“That's not what your grandmother said when she caught us.”

“My grandmother didn't appreciate the finer points of the scientific method.”

Zach's eyes sparkled. “She appreciated free labor, in any case. It took us three whole days of summer vacation to scrub down the deck after the party. The worst part, though, was that she insisted on checking our pockets for the next three years, whenever we got anywhere near the boat.”

Sloane was pleased to hear Ethan laugh at the memory. To hear him talk about his childhood, there had been so much that was dark, so much pain. It was a revelation to discover that Ethan actually had some good memories.

“What do you think of Margaret?” Zach asked Sloane.

“Actually, I haven't really met her yet. Just shaken her hand at the AFAA gala and thanked her for coming. I'm sure she doesn't remember me at all.”

Ethan said, “We were just heading below.”

Zach nodded, directing a warning to Sloane. “Don't believe everything he tells you. Margaret Hartwell isn't really a tyrant. It's been years since she had anyone flogged on board the
No Comment.
”

“Enough!” Ethan exclaimed in mock exasperation, and then he said to Sloane, “Shall we?” He settled a hand on her hip and pulled her away with a tantalizing hint of possession.

He glanced quickly at Sloane before he led the way down the stairs. She'd had the good sense to wear flat sandals—no chance that she'd lose her footing on the narrow steps. Nevertheless, he felt anxious each time she settled her feet. He wished that he could gather her into his arms, that he could carry her through the passage ahead. Of course, if his hands were anywhere near her bare flesh, he and Sloane might not make it as far as Grandmother's sitting room. He just might wander into one of the bedrooms, by “mistake.”

The stairs negotiated, Sloane came to stand beside him. They entered the dragon's lair together.

As he had expected, Margaret Hartwell was sitting on her favorite throne, the massive armchair that faced the doorway of the elegantly appointed room. She must have come fresh from the hairdresser that morning; he could still smell the hairspray that held her white aura in place. She wore a classic summer suit, all in navy. Her fingernails were painted the same orange-red that
she'd worn forever, perfectly applied and a single shade too bright.

“Ethan, dear,” she said, tilting her face for him to kiss. He was pleased to see some color in her face, and she looked a little less fatigued than she had earlier in the week.

“Grandmother.” He brushed his lips against her cheek. “May I present Sloane Davenport? Sloane, this is my grandmother, Margaret Hartwell.”

He brought Sloane forward, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his grandmother's formality, at her turning a simple meeting into an audience with a queen.

For one insane moment, Sloane wondered if she was supposed to curtsy. There was something about the awkward way Ethan was holding himself, the stiffness that jammed his spine, that turned him into a man she'd never seen before.

Margaret, though, offered her hand and a smile, the very image of a perfect hostess. “Sloane, dear. How very nice to meet you. I must say, you look very familiar to me…”

Sloane hoped that her own fingers weren't trembling too much as she shook hands. “We've met before, very briefly. At the AFAA Spring Gala.”

“Of course!” Mrs. Hartwell exclaimed. “Ethan told me that you are no longer with the foundation. He said that you're doing something related to…child psychology?”

Sloane flashed an uncertain glance at Ethan. How much had he told Mrs. Hartwell about Sloane's ignominious dismissal from the woman's pet charity? She tried to sound confident as she said, “I'm developing a computerized art therapy system, to help children adjust to foster care.”

Margaret nodded with something that looked like approval. “That sounds quite complicated.”

“It is,” Sloane said, “but there's a real need out there.”

“I would love to hear more about your work. Have you looked into market distribution, anything like that?”

Ethan finally stepped forward, shattering his own awkward stance with an exasperated sigh. “Grandmother, we didn't come here expecting to be grilled by a venture capitalist.”

“I don't mind—” Sloane started to say, but Mrs. Hartwell cut her off.

“You're quite right, Ethan. We shouldn't mix business with pleasure. Could you be a dear and get me a drink? A gin and tonic with—”

“Extra ice and three limes.” Sloane heard the bored familiarity in Ethan's tone, and she expected him to smile indulgently. His face was grim, though, and he hesitated before heading over to the stairs. Sloane nodded at him, trying to convey that she would be fine, that she could handle further chat with the woman who was going to be her…grandmother-in-law?

As soon as Ethan was out of sight, Margaret patted the chair beside her. “Please, dear. Sit down. I imagine you're still getting tired easily? I assumed that you were well past morning sickness, or I'd never have suggested that Ethan bring you onto the
No Comment.
”

Sloane tried not to look surprised. She parsed the tone of the old woman's words, fearful that she'd hear disdain or disapproval. Neither was present, though. Just good old-fashioned solicitude for a guest. “I—thank you,” she said, sitting down. “I've felt much better the past few weeks.”

“I trust that my grandson is taking good care of you?”

“Of course, Mrs. Hartwell.”

The old woman tsked. “Now doesn't
that
sound stuffy. And ‘Grandmother' sounds like something out of a British drama, even coming from Ethan. Why don't we try ‘Margaret.'”

“Margaret,” Sloane said, smiling. “Yes, Margaret, Ethan has been quite kind to me.”

“Kind.” Margaret tilted her head to one side, like a magpie evaluating a particularly sparkly treasure. “I see that he bought you a lovely ring.”

Self-conscious, Sloane extended her hand. Margaret grasped her fingers lightly, turning her wrist to get a better view. “It was such a surprise,” Sloane confided. “I never expected anything so beautiful.” She stopped, realizing that Margaret might interpret her words as a criticism of Ethan. “I mean, Ethan has wonderful taste. Of course, he'd choose a beautiful ring. I just meant…”

She trailed off. What was she going to say? Her engagement to Ethan had been a business arrangement? A way for both of them to provide for the well-being of their child, the baby that neither of them had anticipated on that breath-stealing night at the Eastern?

No. Margaret definitely did
not
need to know anything about the Eastern.

The old woman released her hand. “My grandson seems quite taken with you, dear. I hope that you won't take this the wrong way, but I've seen him with any number of women over the years, squiring them around town. He's never been quite as…attentive as he is to you. And, of course, he never actually proposed to any of the others.”

Sloane heard the unspoken questions behind Margaret's statements. The older woman was honestly perplexed to find her grandson engaged. She was fishing
for details. Sloane obliged by saying, “He proposed to me on the balcony of the Kennedy Center.”

That wasn't quite the truth. Ethan had first proposed in the living room of her ratty basement apartment. But the proposal that mattered, the proposal that she'd
accepted,
had been at the famous landmark.

“I trust my grandson had the good sense to treat you to some romantic show first.”

Sloane blushed, as if she were speaking with a girlfriend. “It was the ballet gala,” she said shyly.

Margaret nodded, as if she were seeing the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle coalesce into a single coherent design. “That was Zach's event?” Sloane nodded, and Margaret said, “Poor Zach told me about the silent auction. He feels absolutely terrible about your puppy.”

“He shouldn't,” Sloane insisted. “Daisy is adorable, and she's doing fine, for now. We'll have some hard times ahead, but doesn't every pet owner?”

Margaret raised her eyebrows, as if Sloane had just imparted brilliant words of wisdom. “I suspect that Ethan doesn't feel quite the same way.”

Before Sloane could reply, Ethan's voice came from the foot of the stairs. “Feel the same way about what?”

Ethan forced himself to keep his voice light, but he was annoyed. There'd been three people in front of him at the bar upstairs, and there hadn't been any polite way to force himself to the front of the line. He'd hated leaving Sloane alone here, hated subjecting her to one of his grandmother's famous inquisition sessions.