The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (9 page)

Ethan stared at him for a long moment. Some silent communication passed between the men, an entire conversation, made easy by their obvious familiarity. Ethan finally said, “Sloane and I got engaged on Friday night.”

“Have you set a date yet?”

Sloane thought the question was a little odd, especially since it was directed at Ethan. Dates were something women asked about, girlfriends, excited about a wedding in the offing. She thought about her list. June 1—the earliest date that made any sense at all.

Before she could decide whether or not to say anything, Ethan replied, “Nothing certain.” His tone was terse.

Another glance passed between the two men, another flash of communication. Sloane wasn't certain what Ethan was saying, what the meaning was behind his words. That was silly, though. There wasn't any secret meaning. They
hadn't
decided on a date.

Zach just nodded, as if he'd expected the answer. “Don't worry,” he said. “I'll have my best man's toast ready, whatever date you choose.” His sudden smile brightened the entire room. “Just think of the stories I can finally make public…?.”

Ethan rolled his eyes as he said to Sloane, “Don't believe a word this guy tells you. He's the worst liar I've ever known.”

Zach only laughed. “Twenty-five years of being your best friend, and this is the way I'm treated?” He passed his mug to Ethan, waiting for a refill. “Besides, you
should be especially nice to me today. I brought you a present.”

“I can't wait,” Ethan said dryly.

Zach glanced toward the foyer. “James! You can bring her in!”

Her?

Afterward, Sloane couldn't have said what she had thought she would see. There was always the specter of Ethan's old girlfriends. Or his grandmother. Or even some business associate, waiting to steal him away for whatever was left of the weekend.

But Sloane had never expected a
puppy.
A fuzzy, black-and-white bundle of fur, with paws the size of dinner plates.

“What the—” Ethan exclaimed, even as Sloane knelt beside the excited dog.

“May I present Heritage Sacre Bleu Chevalier? Or, you can just call her Daisy.”

“What type of dog is she?” Sloane asked, as the puppy licked her fingers with unbridled enthusiasm.

“A purebred Old English sheepdog. Eight weeks old.” Zach laughed as Ethan swore under his breath. “You won the silent auction bid, and now she's all yours. I've got her official papers out in the car, along with a leash and some Puppy Chow. Congratulations.”

“You can take your official papers, and—”

“The Ballet Fund is truly grateful for your very generous gift, Mr. Hartwell.”

Zach sounded as pious as an altar boy. James chuckled from the doorway. Sloane caught her breath, waiting to see what Ethan would do, how he would react to the surprise.

For a moment, his face was dark, frustration twisting his features. But then, he looked at Sloane. She felt him
measure her smile. She saw him register her fingers already twined in the puppy's soft fur. She watched him turn to Zach, shaking his head. “You're going to owe me for this one, buddy. Owe me, big time.”

Daisy chose that moment to deliver one short bark, as if she understood every word of the mock threat. Sloane watched in amusement as Ethan Hartwell, M.D., MBA, president of Hartwell Genetics knelt down beside her, accepting a slobbery canine kiss from the newest member of his family.

T
hree nights later, Sloane plucked at her blouse, removing a glistening white strand of Daisy's fur from the aquamarine silk. Ethan grinned openly at the gesture; he had already fought his own good-natured battle against the puppy's long fur before they'd left the house. “I thought that Old English sheepdogs don't shed,” Sloane said.

“They don't lose their winter coats all at once in the spring, like some dogs. Instead, they drop hair all year round.”

Sloane raised her eyebrows. “It sounds like you've been doing some research.”

“What else would a responsible dog owner do?” Ethan shrugged as he helped himself to a generous bite of his duck à l'orange.

Sloane smiled at his offhand acceptance of the responsibility that Zach had thrust upon them. Ethan
might have grumbled about the puppy initially, but he'd certainly been in a great mood for the past three days.

His impromptu invitation to a Wednesday night dinner had come as a complete surprise. At first, Sloane had protested when he named the restaurant—the French country inn was known to be one of the most expensive places in the Washington area. Ethan had insisted, though, saying that he wanted her to try the white asparagus in one of the inn's famous appetizers.

He'd been right, of course. The food was incredible. Her scallops were divine, in their complicated sauce of shrimp, oranges and olives. “How is your duck?” she asked.

Before Ethan could answer, though, Sloane's cell phone rang. She wrinkled her nose in embarrassment, realizing she should have put the thing on vibrate before they even set foot inside the exclusive restaurant. The ringtone grew louder as she rifled through her handbag, taking some things out to speed her getting to the phone. A hand mirror jostled the spoon beside her plate, quickly followed by lipstick, a pen and a carefully folded piece of paper.

At last, she got to the phone, only to see the cheerful icon that told her she had missed a call. She glanced at the phone number and realized it started with 1-800—no one she actually knew at all.

“Sorry,” she said ruefully, thumbing the switch to set the phone to vibrate.

“No problem.” Ethan's smile was easy. She started to squirrel away her possessions, but he reached out to grab the sheet of paper. “What's this?”

Her stomach plummeted. “It's nothing,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

“It has my name on it.”

Of course it had his name on it. She'd typed his name when she'd made up the list, the catalog of what she wanted out of their relationship. She had kept the page in her purse, afraid to leave it anywhere that James or Ethan or anyone else could stumble upon it.

Just as Ethan had done now.

“Please,” she said. “It's nothing. It's just a stupid note I wrote to myself.”

His voice was gently teasing. “Should I be offended that my name is on a ‘stupid' note?”

She felt color flood her cheeks.
Respect.
That was on the list, wasn't it? She needed Ethan to respect her. Even when she did silly things like write up a list of traits she needed for their marriage to work. Well, this would be a great test.

She swallowed hard, and then she nodded toward the paper. “Go ahead, then. Read it.” She gulped at her sparkling water as he took his time absorbing the five words. Five words and a date.

His hazel eyes were serious as they met hers. “What does it mean?”

“It's what I want, Ethan. What I need. If we're ever going to make this work, really work, long term.”

“Trust?” he asked, and his voice was surprisingly, impossibly gentle.

If he'd taken any other tone, she would have challenged him. As it was, his tenderness made her feel shy. She stared down at her plate, as if she could make out some magic reply amid the seafood. “You frighten me,” she finally said.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him draw back, pull away as if she'd burned him. She glanced up just in time to catch the look of shock on his face, of something stronger—something she might even call horror.
“No!” she hastened to clarify. “Not frighten me, like I'm afraid you'll hurt me.” But then she had to explain some more. “Not hurt me physically. I know you would never do that. But Ethan, I know your reputation—the women, the parties, the constant social life. I knew it when I met you and I'm so afraid that nothing has changed. That nothing will ever change.”

His eyes softened as she fumbled for the words. “Sloane,” he said, reaching across the table to twine his fingers between hers. “There isn't anyone else. There hasn't been since you agreed to wear my ring. There won't be. Not ever. I promise.”

When she still hesitated, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, fished out his personal cell phone, the one that he used for private calls, separate and apart from Hartwell Genetics business. Still holding her gaze, he dropped it into the ice bucket beside their table, using her bright green bottle of sparkling water to push the electronic device to the bottom of its icy grave.

“Ethan!”

“If I kept an actual little black book, I would give it to you to burn.”

“Ethan, you didn't have to do that!” But she was laughing.

“That brings us to…” He looked back at her creased page. “Respect.”

Amusement died on her lips. “I'm never going to be famous like all those other women you've known. I need to know that you can respect what I am—a simple woman who wants to help people, help children. A woman who is never going to be an actress, or a model or anybody special.”

Anybody special.
Did Sloane have any idea what she was saying? Ethan saw the earnestness in her face, felt
her urgency like a palpable thing as she waited for him to respond.

His first instinct was to laugh. Of
course
he respected her. How could he not respect a woman who knew what she wanted in life and took the difficult steps to get there? She had paid her own way through college, through graduate school, all so that she had the credentials she needed to make her dream come true. She had taken a meaningless gofer job and turned it into a dynamic position at the foundation, a coordinator's post that had netted hundreds of thousands of dollars for the organization in a single night.

But laughter would destroy Sloane now. Laughter was the last thing that she needed from him. The last thing that he would ever give her. He leaned over the table, lowering his voice so that she needed to move closer as well, so that she met him partway.

“Sloane Davenport, I respect you. I respect you, and everything that you are trying to do. I respect your work on the Hope Project.”

He couldn't leave it at that, though. Because he did respect her mind, he did respect her drive, but she pulled an equally strong response from him in other ways. He roughened his tone until his words were almost a growl. “And I respect the fact that you got me to make a promise up there, on the Kennedy Center terrace. You got me to vow not to take you into my bed until after we marry. Any woman who can drive a bargain that…” He cleared his throat, making his meaning absolutely, perfectly, one hundred percent clear. “That…persuasively, gains my absolute, undying respect.”

She blinked hard at the innuendo behind his words. His tone, though, freed something inside her. Like a zipper easing down, metal foot by metal foot, she felt
tension flow from her shoulders. She had not realized how much she wanted to talk to him about her list, how much she had needed to share her needs. Her desires.

That sense of release gave her the courage to say, “That leaves us with the last thing. Partnership. I need to know we're equals in this.”

“Does that mean you're offering to walk Daisy when she gets up in the middle of the night?”

Her smile was fleeting. “I mean it, Ethan. We need to work together, to know each other well enough that we can stand side by side, through anything.”

He leaned back in his chair, shrugging and spreading his hands to either side. “Fine. Ask me anything. What do you want to know?”

There were a thousand things, of course. She started with the first thing that came to mind. “What was your favorite toy when you were growing up?”

“My chemistry set. After Grandmother got over the first three explosions.”

“What's your favorite book?”

“John Steinbeck's
East of Eden.
”

“Your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“Why didn't you have a vasectomy, years ago? Why did you ever take a chance at getting some woman pregnant, if you were so worried about passing along the genes?”

The question surprised her as much as it surprised him. She had been thinking it for days, though, ever since he had told her about the danger. Ever since he had sparked the constant gnawing uncertainty about the health of their baby, the niggling fear that would not be put to rest for several more weeks.

“I'm sorry,” she said, when she saw the stricken look on his face. “You don't have to answer that.”

“No.” He drew a deep breath, and then he took a healthy swallow of his burgundy. “I do.” He rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if the gesture would help him to collect his thoughts. “I never had the surgery because it would be permanent. It felt like giving up. Like admitting that we'll never find a cure.”

“After what? Fifty years?”

He heard what she was doing with her voice, the way she tried to be gentle with him. The way she tried to say that there might not ever be a cure. He appreciated the effort, even as he pushed away her specific question.

“In fifty years, Hartwell Genetics has brought hundreds of new pharmaceuticals to the market. We've found cures for a dozen different diseases. We've helped millions of people. We just haven't helped my family. Yet.”

“Yet,” she said, purposely hardening her voice to match his certainty.

He nodded, and then he rubbed his hands together, obviously closing the door on that part of their conversation.
For now,
he amended mentally. Until Sloane decided that she needed to talk about it again. He would answer any questions that she had, whenever she had them. He would do that for her.

“Your turn,” he said with a devilish smile. “What's your favorite dessert?”

“Chocolate mousse,” she said. “No, wait! Crème caramel!”

“Let's see what we can do about that then, shall we?” He raised his chin, claiming the attention of the waiter on the far side of the room.

Hours later, well after crème caramel and coffee
and several long, lingering kisses, Sloane was falling asleep in the privacy of the guest suite when she remembered the last thing on her list—the June wedding date. Oh, well, she thought, already slipping into the fuzzy warmth of a dream. There was plenty of time to set a date…months and months and months.

 

Sloane caught her tongue between her teeth, holding her breath as she pressed the enter key on her computer. A progress bar appeared on the screen, racing from left to right, and then a model of the Hope Project home page blinked into existence. Every photograph was in place. The fonts were correct. Three columns marched neatly across the screen.

“Yes!” she cried, pumping her fist in the air. She was startled to hear laughter from the doorway. “Ethan!” she exclaimed, looking up. “How long have you been standing there?”

He ignored her question. “I take it the Hope Project is going well?”

He looked perfectly relaxed in his broadcloth shirt and tailored trousers, as if he'd left the office hours before. She wondered what he was doing home in the middle of the day, on a Friday no less. Glancing back at her computer screen, she grinned. “I finally got the front page to look the way I want it to. It's taken about a hundred tries, but everything is finally falling into place.” Ethan started to walk across the library, but she shielded the screen with her palms. “No! You can't look at it yet. It's not ready for prime time.”

He held up his hands as if to prove that he was innocent. “The computer's working all right, then?”

“It's wonderful.” She couldn't help but caress the sleek silver edge of the casing. The new machine was
ten times faster than the wreck she'd brought from her apartment. Ethan had assured her that the computer was just something he'd had lying around the office, that it hadn't cost him a penny. Reluctantly, she'd accepted it, telling herself that she needed
something
to help her fill the long hours that he spent at the office. Speaking of which… “What are you doing home?”

“Don't we have Daisy's appointment this afternoon?”

The puppy's first visit to the veterinarian, a simple checkup to make sure she was in general good health. “I thought I was going to take her,” Sloane said. James had already told her that she could take the SUV from the garage. Sloane had looked up directions to the vet's office, telling herself that she would have no trouble navigating the unfamiliar streets. No trouble, that was, if Daisy behaved herself.

Ethan shrugged easily. “It didn't seem fair for me to stick you with the hard stuff. Partnership, right? We're in this together.”

If Ethan had harbored any doubts about coming home early, they were banished by Sloane's brilliant smile. He really
should
be back at the office, but there would always be time to schedule another meeting with the in-house trademark lawyers.

He watched Sloane's fingers fly over her keyboard, saving whatever she had just completed on her internet project. He was glad that the new machine was working out well. The technology guru back at the office had laughed when Ethan suggested repairing Sloane's old computer. “It'll cost more and take longer for me to order replacement parts for this ancient thing than for you to just buy something new, something top-of-the-line.” The guy had shaken his head as if he were studying some museum exhibit on the history of home computing.