by Mindy Klasky
The next minute, though, he was a cold professional. A doctor and a businessman, driving a hard corporate bargain. Demanding a paternity test! He didn’t believe her. He thought that someone else could be the father, that she made a habit of picking up random men in hotel bars.
She’d show him. She’d take that business card and tear it into a hundred pieces. She’d flush it down the toilet. She’d grind it up in the garbage disposal. She stormed into the tiny kitchen.
Her tirade was cut short, though, drowned by the sight that met her astonished eyes.
Ethan’s business card was centered on her dead laptop. Beneath it were five crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Five hundred dollars. More money than she’d seen since AFAA had kicked her out the door. Money that Ethan had no obligation to leave. Money that he could have made conditional, could have held out to demand her submission.
In one heartbeat, Sloane’s anger turned to shame. Really, what reason did Ethan have to believe her, about paternity or anything else?
Sure, they’d shared the most intimate night two people could share. She was carrying a baby as proof. But had she found the courage to contact him in the intervening ten weeks? Had she summoned the internal strength to reach out to her baby’s father, to tell him the truth? What if Ethan hadn’t come to her that morning? How much longer would he have gone on, not knowing? Weeks? Months? Years?
All things considered, Ethan had actually reacted quite well.
What had he just said? He wanted to do what was right. Even after she had shut him out. Even after she had kept him from learning the truth. His first instinct had been to take care of her. To take care of their baby. He’d acted nothing like the playboy she’d read about, nothing like the man-about-town who was splashed across the gossip sheets.
Tenderness blossomed inside Sloane’s chest, unfolding like a snow-white rosebud. There was something between them, some emotion stronger than all the halftruths, deeper than all the avoidance and uncertainty.
The corners of her lips turned up as she heard his earnest tone. Marry me.
Could he really mean it? Did she dare say yes?
She didn’t have any model in her past for marriage. She hadn’t grown up with a happy mother and father, with the sort of easy family life that she dreamed about after watching movies, after reading books. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to trust someone enough to want to spend the rest of her life with him.
To love someone that much.
Oh, it was far too soon to say that she loved Ethan. She knew that. But she could say that she was powerfully drawn to him. That he made her feel safe. Protected. And, more than that, he made her feel desirable. Desired. He made her feel more alive than she ever had before.
Biting her lip, Sloane picked up the five crisp bills and folded them lengthwise, creasing them between her thumb and index finger. The sleek business card continued to glint its challenge from the table’s surface.
Did she have the courage to make the phone call? Did she have the strength to reach out to Ethan, to tell him what she was thinking? After a lifetime of tamping down any strong emotion, of shutting down her feelings to protect herself, could she possibly take the next step?
Chapter Two
He’d made a complete mess of that.
From the instant that Ethan settled into the back of his chauffeured Town Car, he knew that he’d made a horrible mistake.
But something about Sloane made him lose his famous business composure, softened his infinitely sharp entrepreneurial edge. “Marry me.” Where the hell had that come from? The words had been out of his mouth before he could think how abrupt they would sound to Sloane. He’d been filled with the thought of Sloane carrying his child. He’d been captivated by the notion that all of this was meant to be—the one incredible night they’d spent together, the pregnancy that had resulted. His grandmother’s ultimatum.
Fresh from his grandmother’s office the day before, Ethan had phoned AFAA, only to find that Sloane had left the organization. His next call had been to his private investigator. In less than twenty-four hours, Ethan knew that Sloane had been fired. At least he had her home address. And a credit report that told him she was in dire need of assistance. Only one piece of data had been missing—the pregnancy…
Ethan’s plan had made so much sense. Tweak his grandmother and her ridiculous notions of marital propriety, at the same time that he figured out if there really was something there with Sloane.
But all those calculations had flown out the window when he’d actually seen Sloane standing in the doorway. When he’d looked into those ocean eyes, acknowledged the flash of surprise as she greeted him. The hint of uncertainty. The sudden flicker of arousal that beckoned to his own scarcely banked flames. He’d watched the blush paint her cheeks when he stepped inside the apartment, when she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide her body’s blatant response to him.
And that was before he’d realized that she was pregnant.
Marry me. He’d said it, just like that. Out of the blue, without any prelude, any explanation whatsoever. He hadn’t even taken the time to tell her that she wasn’t just one of his flings, that she was different. He hadn’t told her that they had connected on some level that he’d always thought was imaginary. Their midnight conversation had been the sort of thing that women read about in their pink-and-lace books, watched in their silly damp-handkerchief movies. It couldn’t be real.
But it was.
Even now, he could remember every word they’d shared. He’d told her about Hartwell Genetics, about how he wanted the company to continue growing, to change the world. How he longed to help millions with the cures his empire was developing. How he loved the challenge, the struggle, the fierce competition in the often-ruthless business world.
And she’d told him her own dreams. What did she call it? The Hope Project, the website she wanted to build. Art therapy. Foster kids. He’d been truly touched by her unwavering determination, by her certainty that she could make a difference.
He couldn’t go back now and reduce all that to nothing. He couldn’t admit that his grandmother had ordered him to take a wife. And he definitely couldn’t tell her the real reason for his demand, for the so-called paternity test. He’d never told anyone about the family curse, about the brother and sister who had each died before their third birthday.
No. He’d proposed, and then he’d left his ugly cash lying on the table. As if he could buy her. As if he could make Sloane do whatever he wanted her to do.
He swore, wondering how a man who was a proven genius in the business world could make such a spectacular mess out of his personal life. There had to be a way to make Sloane understand. A way to take everything back. To start over again.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a steadying breath. If this were a business deal going sour, he’d figure out a way to reset the discussions, to return to square one. He would offer up an olive branch. He pushed a single button on his BlackBerry, summoning his assistant.
He already had the beginnings of a plan…?.
The package was leaning against the door when Sloane got back from the library. She had forced herself to get out of the apartment, to take a break from the jumble of hope and confusion that she felt every time she glanced at Ethan’s business card. The last time she had acted rashly where he was concerned; now, she was determined to think, to make decisions with her brain, instead of with her heart.
That was the plan she’d made as she had stared at the library’s public access terminal, resisting the urge to call up articles about Ethan, his company, his philanthropic efforts. His hard-partying ways.
As much as she wanted to tell Ethan everything she was thinking, everything she was feeling, she needed to slow things down. Think things through. She needed to remember that she wasn’t making decisions just for herself anymore. There was the baby to think about. There was a reason—the best reason—not to be impulsive.
She had to be certain that Ethan was truly more than the socializing playboy she had read about in the paper. She had to know that he had shared more with her than he had with the other women whose names were tied to his in the newspaper. She had to force herself to look past her—admit it!—infatuation, her utter physical attraction to him.
Returning home, she spotted the envelope immediately. She recognized the Hartwell Genetics logo on the address label. Her heart started pounding, but she forced herself to unlock her front door, to pour herself a drink of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator and sit down at the kitchen table. She thought about returning the envelope unopened. She could just write “return to sender” and drop it in the mailbox, couldn’t she?
Except that he hadn’t sent it through the mail. There wasn’t a postmark. He’d had it hand-delivered.
Taking a fortifying breath, she slid her fingers beneath the flap.
“Sloane,” the note said. Even though she’d never seen his writing before, she could picture his fingers curled around a pen, slashing out the letters on the heavy white paper. “Give me another chance? E.” A ticket was nestled inside the folds of paper.
Swan Lake, the Bolshoi Ballet, opening gala for the dance season at the Kennedy Center. Friday night.
She sank back in the hard chair. What was she getting herself into?
But that wasn’t really the question, was it? The question was what had she gotten herself into? Two and a half months before, when she’d given in to the magnetic power of the man she’d met at the Eastern, when she’d let herself be drawn into the thrumming, driving force that had risen between them like a river overflowing its banks.
She laid her hand across her belly, across the child that grew inside her.
Sure, she could tell him that she had other plans for Friday night. She could send back the ticket. After all, she was healthy and happy, and she already loved her baby with a sharp fierceness.
But what, exactly, was she going to do, long-term? How was she going to raise this child?
Marry me.
Independence was important to her. It was the one thing that she had always carried with her, the one certainty she had clung to, no matter what had happened in her turbulent childhood, in her confused adolescence. She had built a life for herself, built a dream. Self-reliance had made her the woman that she was today.
Marry me.
She’d scoured job sites every day since leaving the foundation, but there weren’t a lot of paying opportunities for psychologists focusing on art therapy for foster kids. That was why she’d ended up at AFAA as a project coordinator in the first place. How much longer would it take for her to find something? How much longer would her meager savings hold out?
Even if she spent the five hundred dollars that he’d left, even if she accepted the money as a gift and not an insult.
Marry me.
He couldn’t mean it. He had to have spoken out of surprise, the shock at discovering he was going to be a father. Shock. But why hadn’t Sloane told him? What had she been proving to herself? To him? That she didn’t need him? That she didn’t need anyone? Once again, she saw the earnest look in his eyes as he proposed to her, his solemn hazel gaze as he turned his own life upside down. He had not hesitated an instant. He had reached out to her with all his strength, all the certainty that had sparked off him at the Eastern during that fateful night. She could learn to depend on that strength. She could learn to bask in it.
Marry me.
She was crazy to even consider it. Crazier than he’d been to offer. But what better option did she have for her baby? How else could she give her child the comfort, stability and security it deserved?
She stared at the gleaming ticket. What could it hurt, going to the ballet? What did she have to lose?
Her stomach growled as she read Ethan’s note again. For the first time in days, she was actually hungry. A burger with cheese and bacon sounded wonderful. And for once, she didn’t have to worry about whether she could afford an extra large order of fries.
Ethan forbade himself to check the time once again. Either she would show up or she wouldn’t, and staring at his watch wasn’t going to change anything.
The musicians were warming up in the orchestra pit. Violins chased each other in discordant flurries. Horns blared repeated trills of notes. Ethan tapped his program against the arm of his chair, wishing that the theater box was large enough for him to pace.
Opting for the best alternative under the circumstances, he stood. He shot his cuffs and glanced at his wrist again, before he remembered that he wasn’t going to check the time.
And then the door to the box opened. For one moment, he could only see the dark shadows of the antechamber. Then, a tentative hand reached out, creamy flesh with perfect crimson nails that sent a reflexive shiver down his spine. Sloane followed the promise of that hand, gliding into the light, a dizzying contrast of sophisticated innocence, of steely vulnerability, all enfolded in a demure, floor-length cobalt gown.
He murmured her name, unable to manage more.
She glanced at the half-dozen chairs arrayed in the box, and the shadow of a frown darted across her lips. “Who else is coming?”
“No one,” he said. “I wanted to make sure we had some privacy. The box is ours for tonight.”
She blushed and looked away from him, obviously nervous. That surprised him. She’d chosen to come here, to accept his peace offering. And she certainly knew what he was capable of, what they were capable of together. He could recall perfectly how she had responded to his touch, how she had trembled when he traced the line of her collarbone with the tip of his tongue. He could remember the instant that she shifted her hips beneath him, that she matched her thighs to his. He could see the arch of her throat as her breathing quickened, as he guided them closer to the edge of their first delicious peak.
And yet there was more to discover with this woman. More to learn about her. About him with her. That notion was strangely arousing. Hoping to put her at ease, he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
And he was.
Her hair was piled on top of her head in a simple twist, held in place by some invisible woman’s magic. The sleek lines made the column of her neck impossibly long. Impossibly vulnerable. His fingers itched to follow the path of the chaste fabric V across her chest. Instead, he settled for gesturing toward her chair, offering her the best seat in the box.
As she stepped forward, he saw that the modest front of her dress lied. The back was cut low, swooping to bare the twin wings of her shoulder blades, the polished marble of her spine. Awareness of that body, of that perfect flesh, shot through him like an electric wire. She took her seat gracefully, apparently unaware of the havoc she was wreaking inside him, the sudden blow she had dealt his composure.
Sloane had known that Ethan would be in a tuxedo. Nevertheless, the formal suit tugged at her memories, catapulted her back to that night at the Eastern. All too easily, she could see his bow tie stripped loose at his throat. She could picture the tiny onyx studs sprung open down his chest, his cuff links freed to reveal the tight muscles of his forearms.
With perfect recall, she could see those satin-striped trousers pooled on the floor, as if he’d just shed them.
But that wasn’t what this night was about. That wasn’t why she’d agreed to meet Ethan Hartwell here, at the Kennedy Center. She needed to remember her focus. She needed to remember her goal. She needed to remember that her baby deserved medical care and protection, safety and security, things that she could not afford to provide.
Sloane was grateful she’d taken the time to pin up her hair and paint her nails. And she was thrilled that she could still fit into the improbably perfect dress that she’d found years before, at Goodwill, in Chicago.
She’d never been to the Kennedy Center before, had only seen it on television. The rich crimson of the carpet made her feel like a princess. The gold accents on the light fixtures picked out the blond in Ethan�
��s hair, highlighting the unruly strands that made him look like a slightly naughty boy. She blinked, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she pictured him balanced over her, nothing at all like a boy, supporting himself on his wiry fingers as he whispered her name.
Sudden longing clutched at her belly. Fortunately, the lights dimmed at that very moment, and she was spared the need to say something, to explain. Instead, she filled her lungs with cool, calming air. She leaned back in her chair as the music began to play. She ordered herself to forget about the man who sat beside her, the monumental force that radiated awareness at her side.
The curtain rose.
The music and the dance carried her away, transformed her. She ached with longing as Prince Siegfried rebelled against his forced marriage, as he fell in love with his forbidden princess. She laughed as the swans frolicked, boastfully completing their duets and trios. She shivered as the evil Odile appeared, as the lovers’ eternal happiness was threatened.
And when it was over, when the curtain fell, Sloane leaped to her feet. The audience joined her, roaring its approval, calling for the dancers again and again. A giant spotlight flooded the center of the stage, and the main dancers stepped out from behind the curtain, sinking into graceful bows, collapsing into flawless curtsies.
“Ethan,” she said, when the house lights finally came up. “That was incredible!”
She was incredible.
Ethan had stood with the rest of the audience, and he’d added his applause for the dancers. The entire time, though, he was watching Sloane. His gaze had settled on her waist. There was no sign yet of the child that she carried. His child.
He wanted that baby to be healthy. He needed it to be healthy.
He brushed his fingers against his breast pocket, reassuring himself that the velvet box was still safely hidden away. He could follow through on this. He had to follow through. The stakes had gone up exponentially back in Sloane’s grimy little apartment. This was no longer a sparring match with his grandmother. This was something more. So much more.
