The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (14 page)

Finally, he let them into the house, working the alarm code with the ease of long familiarity. By the time he turned away from the keypad, Sloane was halfway up the stairs. He longed to follow her, but he knew that he could not. Until he found the right words, he had to let her go.

 

Sloane slumped against the bedroom door as soon as she had closed it.

She didn't want to be this woman. She didn't want to be so angry. So scared. So alone.

That was it. Loneliness. The loneliness of the child who had feared Angry Mother. The girl who had befriended a goose rather than figure out how to interact with human companions. The woman who had made herself so busy with school, with work, that she had never bonded to close friends. Loneliness—that was the emotion beneath all the turmoil, beneath everything else that was swirling through her head.

She shook her head and stepped out of her sensible sandals. She stripped off her dress, left it draped over the chair in front of the vanity. She added her panties, her bra. Suddenly, she was exhausted. Too tired to dig in her dresser drawers for a nightgown. Too tired to do
anything but snap off the overhead light, cross the room, worm her way beneath the sheets.

As she lay naked in the darkness, she cupped her hand over her baby bump. The swell was real. She was going to have this child.

Alone.

She twisted at her engagement ring. She couldn't keep that lie on her finger. An engagement ring was a sign of trust, of promise. Ethan didn't trust her. He didn't think of her as an equal. He certainly didn't love her—he'd never come close to saying anything about love.

She couldn't wear his ring.

The stupid thing was caught on her finger. Her hands must be swollen, from the pregnancy, from standing in the heat all night. Nevertheless, she tugged harder, suddenly consumed with the notion that she had to get the platinum band off her hand. Her heart started pounding in her ears. She closed her eyes, trying to force herself to calm down.

She remembered the last time she had felt this helpless, when the reporters had confronted her on the doorstep of her sweet little apartment, the apartment that was long gone. After she left Ethan tomorrow, she would have nowhere to retreat, no place to escape to. Her lungs constricted, and her breath started to come in short, sharp pants.

It wasn't just her personal life that was ruined, either. Her professional life was going to be a wreck. She'd already lost one job because of Ethan, the AFAA. How could she move ahead with the Hope Project now? With the gossip from the past month smeared all over the internet, any potential investors would think that she was just another in a long trail of women who had ridden on Ethan's coattails, who had thrown herself into a short
lived relationship for a good time and the thrill of reading her name in the tabloids. She'd never launch Hope, never grow the website from a dream to reality.

Her heart squeezed tight, sending a spear through her chest.

Her hands curled into fists. She was having a heart attack. Here. Now. With the baby inside her, innocent and helpless. Sloane scrambled for the telephone on her nightstand. Zero. That was the only number that she needed to press. James would answer. He would help her. Save her. Her and the baby.

Her hand swung wide, knocking the bedside lamp to the floor with a crash of shattered glass. Sobbing, she fumbled for the phone again, found it, dropped it, tried to pick it up one more time.

 

Ethan heard the clatter from the hallway. Unable to bear the thought of exiling himself to his bedroom, he had slumped against the guest suite door. In the darkness, he'd replayed the entire disastrous night. “Make this right,” Grandmother had said. Just how did she expect him to do that? How could he admit to Sloane a truth that he was nearly afraid to admit to himself?

Ethan was launching Round 731 of how his grandmother had made his life miserable when he heard the crash. Adrenaline spiked through his veins as he recognized the sound of glass breaking, the jangle of a phone smashing against the floor.

He sprang to his feet and slammed his hand against the doorknob, hurtling into the room.

His eyes were dazzled by the moonlight streaming through the window, so much more light than he'd had in the hallway. As if Sloane were illuminated from within, he could see her reaching for the nightstand, clutching
her fingers over empty air. She was choking, gasping for breath, kicking against her sheets. Even as he flew across the carpet, she worked one foot free, then the other. Flailing, she cast her legs over the side of the bed, toward the sprawling phone. Toward the shattered glass.

“Sloane!” he cried, leaping onto the bed. She flowed through his arms like water, drifting away. He adjusted his grip, closed his fingers around her waist.

She fought him, her voice rising in a terrible, wordless moan. He could hear her breath stutter from her lungs, feel the heat rising off her as she writhed in panic. Flattening his palms against her hips, he pulled her back onto the bed, onto him. He folded his arms around her, pinning her hands to her sides, wrapping his legs around her, enveloping her in the fortress of his body.

“You're all right,” he said. “Sloane, you're all right. Listen to me. Breathe. You're all right.”

His words came to her as if she were awakening from a nightmare. She felt the iron bands of his arms holding her close against his chest. She was entwined in his legs, captured, stilled. She felt his strength against her back, his deep breaths that reminded her to take her own, to fill her lungs.

The arrow that had pierced her heart finally crumbled.

“Breathe,” he said again, and she followed his instruction. “Breathe.” Her chest remembered how to expand. “Breathe.” She forced herself to swallow, to hold one of those deep breaths, to stop. His hands moved from her waist. He stroked the hair off her face, smoothed it back, twisted it away from her neck. “Breathe,” he reminded her one last time.

“I—” she whispered, her voice broken. “I thought I was having a heart attack.”

He pitched his voice to match her own, so low that she had to calm herself more to hear it. “A panic attack, more likely.”

“My chest,” she said.

“Do you feel any pain now?” She barely shook her head. “Numbness?” Another shake. “Tingling in your arms?” Another one. “You're going to be fine,” he said.

She closed her eyes, feeling foolish. What was she doing, working herself up like that? It couldn't be good for the baby. Or for herself. And she certainly wasn't doing any favors for the bedroom. She winced. Had she really broken the lamp? And probably the phone? James was going to have a mess to deal with in the morning.

Ethan slid his arms closer around her, cradling her against his chest. Lying in the dark, listening to Sloane growing calm, Ethan knew that he had to do something, had to
say
something.
Make this right,
Grandmother had commanded.

He knew how to make business right. At Hartwell Genetics, in the office, at the helm of a Fortune 500 behemoth, Ethan knew that he had to keep information to himself. He needed to parcel out the truth, keep his employees on a need-to-know basis. He needed to outsmart his competitors, keep them in the dark about markets, about the future.

But Sloane wasn't his employee. She wasn't his competitor. She was the woman who was going to be his wife. He needed to share with Sloane. He needed to treat her as an equal.
Trust. Respect. Partnership.
She'd taught him the words weeks before, when she'd first shared her list with him.

“Sloane—” he started, but he had to stop, had to clear his throat. As much as he longed to confess everything to her, to admit his love, to tell her all the truth that he
now knew, he had to apologize first. He had to make it right. “Sloane, I am so sorry. I was wrong to pull away from Daisy, to ignore her. I acted out of fear, but that is no excuse. I blocked her out of my life, and you, too. I had no right to decide how you should handle the bad news, to even try to control you that way. I am so, so sorry.”

She grew absolutely still as he spoke. He felt her listening, absorbing every word. He waited for her to say something, anything.

But while he waited, his body betrayed him. His noble thoughts were cheapened by his body's realization that the most desirable woman in the world was lying, naked, in his arms. The sudden heat in his groin made him shift to relieve the pressure against the confining cloth of his trousers.

As long as he was shifting, he might as well leave the room altogether. He'd said everything that he could say. Done everything that he could do. Offered his best bid to
make it right.
She would never believe anymore words that he said, not when he'd been betrayed by a body that would never tire of Sloane's beauty.

Before he could leave the bed, though, her fingers clutched at his. Her hand folded around his, pulling him closer, keeping him near.

Sloane had felt his body stiffen; she recognized the heat of his desire, sudden and firm against her back. She knew that he was leaving in defeat, in shame.

But she also knew just how much his words had cost him, how deeply he'd been moved as he whispered to her in the darkness.

His confession hadn't come from the Ethan Hartwell of the boardroom. No. He'd spoken as the Ethan Hartwell that she'd first met in the Eastern Hotel, that she'd
recognized as some sort of kindred spirit within minutes of their first words at that fateful hotel bar. This was the Ethan Hartwell who had opened his life to her.

She'd heard the remorse in his voice, heard the devastating emotion behind his confession. He was doing the best that he could. He was admitting his own fear. He was sharing, reaching out to her.

She twisted, turning to her side, letting him roll with her so that they lay on the bed, face-to-face. “I'm strong enough to do this,” she said. “I'm strong enough to love Daisy. To love our baby. No matter what happens. You have to believe me. To trust me.”

He brushed the hair back from her face, his fingers impossibly gentle. “I do. I understand that now.” And then he knew that he could say the rest, that he
had
to say the rest, no matter how his flesh had tried to lead him astray before. “I trust you, Sloane, and I love you.”

He made the words sound new, fresh, as if they'd never been spoken by any human being in the entire history of the world. Sloane might have thought that she was dazed, that she was dreaming, if she hadn't seen his lips form the syllables. Those last three words filled her, capsized her, steadied her again. She held herself perfectly still as she whispered, “I love you, too.”

Only then could she lean forward to kiss him. At first, she merely brushed her lips against his. The instant that their mouths met, though, passion leaped high inside her. She parted her lips, yielded to the velvet of his tongue.

She arched her back as he ran his hand down her arm; she shivered at the heat he spread all the way to her fingertips. He raised her wrist to his lips, drank deeply of the pulse point that pounded there. “Sloane,” he breathed after teasing her with the tip of his tongue. She heard
her name catch in his throat. “I love you,” he said, as if he were discovering the words all over again.

She laughed, a little breathlessly. “And I love you.”

His teeth teased the pad of her thumb. “Say it,” he growled. “Admit that you've changed your mind.”

Suddenly, she was standing back on the balcony of the Kennedy Center. She was enchanted by moonlight, by the magnetic power of the man beside her. She was determined to stand fast, to be absolutely, positively, one hundred percent certain that she was doing what was best for her child. Not necessarily for her. Not for her body that sparked and sighed, that longed for pure, physical release.

Not yet. He loved her, and she loved him. But she had made a promise outside of their relationship, beyond the magic that bound them together. She had made a vow for their child. She would not, could not, give in to her driving need until she was well and truly married.

She sagged back against the mattress, fighting to catch her breath.

Of course, Ethan understood her decision. She heard his own ragged sigh as he released her wrist. She recognized his muffled groan as he pulled away from her, as he eased up the sheets from the foot of the bed, as he covered her with all the chaste care of a nursemaid.

But then he lay down beside her. With crisp cotton between them, he gathered her hair to her nape, smoothing it down her back. He folded an arm around her, spreading his fingers across her shielded belly. He whispered for her to relax. To trust him. To sleep.

And she did.

F
ive days later, Sloane sat on the flagstone patio at the back of Ethan's home, trying to convince herself that she was enjoying the book she was reading. The day was unseasonably mild, absent of D.C.'s legendary humidity. Sloane had staked out one of Ethan's chaise longues, settling in with a tall glass of decaffeinated iced tea, a poor substitute for the double espresso she craved.

Her attention wandered from her book, and she gazed out at the brilliant emerald lawn, at the black-and-white patch that was Daisy, sleeping in the shade beneath a crape myrtle tree. The puppy had insisted on a long game of fetch, repeatedly chasing after a tennis ball that Sloane had obediently thrown, over and over and over, thrilled that the animal's heart murmur wasn't inhibiting her play. For now. Finally exhausted, Daisy was snoozing, something that Sloane wished she was able to do.
She hadn't slept at all the night before, and not much for the entire week before that.

She had set her cell phone on the table beside her chair, its ringer turned to maximum volume. She had no idea whether Dr. Morton was going to phone her or Ethan, but she didn't want to risk missing the call.

The days of waiting for amnio results had crept by, stretching and contorting, drumming on her nerves until she'd thought that she would go mad. Every morning, she had stared at her new computer, telling herself that it was time to dig into the Hope Project, to finish the website. Every afternoon, she had glanced at her electronic files, tried to concentrate. Every evening, she had given up, telling herself that there was plenty of time, that she could work on Hope later.

Matters weren't helped by Ethan's near-total absence from the house. After their reconciliation on the Fourth of July, he had practically disappeared from her life. She knew that he didn't regret telling her that he loved her. He wasn't punishing her for her decision to stand by her vow. He sent messages through James, and he'd found time for a few bantering emails. It was just that he had to work late one night, and then he got called out of town to Mexico on an emergency production matter. That trip merged into a long-scheduled conference in San Francisco, another two nights of absence.

Sloane knew that Ethan had returned to Washington the night before. She'd heard him walk down the hallway after midnight, pause outside her door. She'd waited for him to turn the knob, to look in on her, to say something, anything. But he'd walked away without disturbing her. He'd been gone by the time she rose for breakfast, and she'd eaten yet another egg-white omelet, with only James for company.

Five days. Five days of loneliness, of uncertainty, of desperate, aching worry about the child inside her. Was this what her entire married life would be like?

Sighing as her tension ratcheted even tighter, she climbed to her feet and walked to the edge of the patio. To her left, she could see a patch of bright green grass, the sod that the gardeners had laid down once they'd rooted out the dead oak tree. The edges of the new grass were already starting to blur, to melt into the flawless expanse of the rest of the lawn.

She heard the door to the house open behind her, but she didn't bother to turn around. It was certain to be James, coming to ask her what she wanted for lunch. She appreciated his kindness, but she wasn't sure that she could stand another hour facing his patient smile, another meal sharing meaningless stories. Maybe she would just take Daisy for a walk, a long, meandering exploration of the neighborhood.

“Sloane.”

Ethan's voice. Her name on his lips jolted through her like an electric wire. She whirled to face him as he closed the distance between them, holding out a single sheet of paper like an invitation to the prom.

She could see the energy lighting up his face, read the excitement that sparked his hazel eyes. The sunshine caught the gold in his hair, spinning back to her like confetti. Her fingers trembled, even though she knew what was written on that paper, even though she understood that it had to carry good news, given Ethan's reaction.

He watched as Sloane took the medical report from him. He saw her glance at the heading, acknowledge her name on the appropriate line, his name beneath. She barely paused when she got to the baby's gender, to the unequivocal statement that they were having a daughter.
It took her longer to parse the dense medical jargon of the next paragraph, the complicated confirmation that their little girl was healthy. No Hartwell genetic curse. No problems at all.

Sloane looked at him, her blue eyes wide, her chin tilted to a defiant angle. “Just as I said,” she declared.

Even as she teased him, Sloane's exhaustion crumbled away. She felt as if she were awakening from a long, dream-torn sleep, like she was blooming in the fresh light of dawn. She laughed as Ethan closed the distance between them. His lips slanted over hers with a new urgency. It seemed as if he was kissing her for the first time, building new bonds, tying her closer than she'd ever been to any man.

A lifetime later, he finally broke away. Her knees trembled at the sensations he'd raised within her, and he gathered her close, folding her into his rock-solid arms. One confident hand spread across the back of her head, soothing, supporting. She buried her face against the white broadcloth of his shirt and breathed in the woodsy smell that was uniquely his.

She was comforted by his gesture, reassured. Ethan truly understood her need for there to be a complete emotional bond between them, something greater, something deeper than the constant thrum of physical excitement that beat inside her anytime he was near.

He laughed as he gathered her close. Certainly it had not been his first instinct to break off that kiss. He longed to let his hands roam, to ease beneath her green blouse, to tweak the pebbled nipples that he knew stood out against her bra. But fair was fair. He had promised.

And that promise had led to a miracle. A healthy baby girl.
His
healthy baby girl.

For the first time since he had learned that Sloane was
pregnant, Ethan actually let himself enjoy the thought. He allowed himself to picture a future, a life shared for decades. He finally let himself think beyond the mock marriage he'd stumbled into, the pretend commitment that he'd told himself he could walk away from if his worst fears had been confirmed. This was Sloane he was thinking about, the woman that he loved. The woman who, impossibly, had said that she loved him back. He couldn't leave her. Not now. Not ever.

He only had one more hurdle: meeting Grandmother's January deadline. Now that he and Sloane were united in their happiness, there should be no problem defeating that absurd ultimatum. He wasn't a fool, though. He wasn't going to tell Sloane about Grandmother's ridiculous requirement. There was no reason to disturb her with facts that had absolutely no shred of meaning.

Instead, he murmured against her hair, “That just leaves one small thing.”

“Hmm?” Sloane murmured, unwilling to break the perfect moment, to topple the steady, comforting balance that had settled over them.

“We need to set a date for the wedding. I've been thinking about September sixth.”

She started to laugh, thinking that he must be joking. When she pulled away enough to see his face, though, she knew that he was completely serious. “September sixth? Why?”

“It's the Sunday of Labor Day weekend. Our guests will have time to travel here, time to return home on Monday.”

“But it's less than two months away!” She caught his hand and guided him back to the chaise longue. They sat at the same time, as if they were beginning a formal business negotiation.

He shrugged at her protest. “We can get everything done between now and then. I was thinking that we'd get married here at the house. That limits access for the press, and we don't have to worry about securing a facility on relatively short notice. It won't be a problem to line up caterers, of course. That's just a financial transaction.”

Just a financial transaction. Sloane settled a hand over her waist. Over her
daughter.
“I'll be as big as a house by September!” She'd never considered herself a vain woman, never thought that she would care about appearances like that. But she was only getting married once in her life. Only building a family once in her life. A part of her wanted everything about that experience to be absolutely perfect. “I assumed that we'd wait until after the baby is here. Get through the first few months of chaos with a newborn, and then get married in June.”

His eyes darkened, as if she'd suggested something impossible. For just a moment, she saw him consider some argument, contemplate words that he discarded with a tense shrug, with a quick bite of his lip. Instead, he settled his fingers over hers, rippling a fresh wave of energy through her. “I don't care if you're the size of the Taj Mahal. Sloane, I made a promise to you, back at the Kennedy Center, and you know that I'll keep it. But I'm not going to lie to you. I want you. Now, here, on this patio, on the grass, in my bed.” He cupped her face with his free hand, snagging her gaze with an intensity that rocked her to her core. “Don't make me wait until next summer. Don't do that to me, love. To us.”

Her skin was on fire where he touched her; every nerve ending sparked with energy. She was catapulted back to their night at the Eastern, the night that had created their daughter. Everything had been simple then.
She had listened to her body, trusted its desires. Trusted Ethan.

He shifted the hand that spread across her belly, raising his fingers to her neck. Seemingly without effort, he found pressure points above her nape, tiny anchors of tension. He kneaded away stress that she hadn't realized she was carrying, caressing her with all the care he had shown her as a lover. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, let her body luxuriate in the attention.

Floating on a sea of warmth, she knew that she wanted more. She wanted to feel his skin against every inch of her, wanted to press herself against his broad chest, twine her legs between his. She was melting beside him, longing transforming her into a mindless puddle.

September. She pulled her thoughts together enough to focus on September. She could wait until then. Just.

She settled her ready mouth on his, shuddering at the unexpected sensation as his teeth closed on her lower lip for a single, fleeting moment. She barely managed to pull away from the reeling kiss. Somehow, though, she found the wherewithal to say, “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Hartwell.”

His rough laugh against her throat nearly made her demand an overnight elopement. “You'll do it, then? We can marry in September?”

“September,” she said, the three syllables getting lost in a sigh of pleasure. Ethan folded his arms around her, leaning her back against the chaise longue, cushioning her body as his embrace became even more enthusiastic.

Sloane nearly lost herself in the waves of sensation washing over her body. Before she could summon the
will to pull away, though, before she could restore them both to the promise they had made, she was startled by a chorus of hysterical yapping. Daisy.

The puppy had awakened from her nap. Seeing Ethan, she had galloped toward the patio. Now, she was bouncing up and down as if her legs were spring-loaded. She acted as if she hadn't seen her beloved master for years.

Ethan collapsed his head against Sloane's shoulder. “Quite a little chaperone you have there, Ms. Davenport.”

Sloane laughed a bit unsteadily. “She has our best interest at heart.”

Heart. The word should have made them both cringe, should have reminded them of the illness that would eventually steal Daisy away from them. That future, though, was far away on this sunny July afternoon, on the day when they had discovered that their daughter was going to be healthy, was going to be born with a complete life ahead of her. No cloud could spoil the joy of the letter that Ethan had delivered from the doctor's office.

“Sit,” Sloane said to Daisy, adding a hand signal to emphasize the command. The puppy was too excited, though, to mind. “Sit!” Sloane repeated.

Ethan smiled indulgently as the silly little dog kept up her barking. He pushed himself off Sloane carefully, taking care not to harm her in any way. When he turned to the bouncing Daisy, he pushed authority into his voice, “Sit, Daisy,” he commanded. The dog dropped to her haunches as if she'd been trained in the circus.

Sloane laughed. “Well, I guess we know who she thinks is the pushover, don't we? There's no reason for her to listen to me.”

Ethan ruffled the puppy's ears, telling her that she was a good dog. The words came to him automatically, easily, but his mind was already drifting elsewhere. Sloane had agreed to the September date. He would meet Grandmother's deadline, with months to spare. He couldn't imagine being a happier man.

 

The following Monday, Hartwell Genetics released a formal engagement announcement, officially confirming all the gossip of the past several weeks, declaring to the entire world that Sloane and Ethan were getting married on September sixth. Sloane still felt they were rushing things, but she understood, and even appreciated, Ethan's reasons for moving forward. He certainly reinforced their decision often enough—cornering her in the kitchen with a few well-placed kisses, passing her in the hallway with a knowing caress that turned her knees to jelly, and often, oh, so often, repeating the words that made her heart soar: I love you.

By noon on Monday, Hartwell Genetics's marketing department had already secured the finest caterer in town, booked a band and arranged for a photographer. Ethan's wealth made so many things easy.

It also, though, made things complicated. By midafternoon, the phone calls started at the house. These were contacts from the legitimate press—the business papers and magazines that would never have stooped to report the earlier gossip. James handled them all, answering with a reserved “No comment,” politely but firmly refusing to provide any additional information about where Mr. Hartwell had met Ms. Davenport, about where Ms. Davenport was currently residing, about rumors that a baby might be on the way, rushing the date of the nuptials.