The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

by Mindy Klasky

  If only Sloane still wanted him, after she learned the truth about his Hartwell genes. If only she kept her promise to marry him after the fourteenth week, after the testing that would disclose whether Ethan was as cursed as his own parents had been, twice. He couldn’t let himself think about that, though. Couldn’t think about losing Sloane.

  Better to play the role she was expecting. Better to pretend that he knew there would always be a happy ending. Better to give in to the passion that he could barely restrain when she was anywhere near.

  He raised her wrist to his mouth. His lips hovered above her trembling pulse, barely touching her throbbing flesh. He heard the moan that she caught at the back of her throat, and then he darted out his tongue to taste her. He clamped his fingers around her arm when she jumped away in surprise, and he used the motion to pull her close to his chest.

  “You’ll change your mind,” he said. “After a few weeks? Months? How long do you think it will take to plan a wedding?” He leaned down and whispered against her lips, “I promise. You will change your mind.”

  She shook her head, her eyes gone round. “I won’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

  “You will,” he said. “You already have. And when you admit that, you’ll have to tell me. You’ll have to ask for what you truly want.”

  She shook her head, her throat working, but no words rose to the surface.

  He pulled back, settling for planting one last kiss in the palm of her hand. “Remember this,” he said. “Remember now. You will.”

  Chapter Three

  When Sloane awoke, her bedroom was dark, even though the clock said 9:27 a.m. She sighed and rolled onto her back. It must be raining outside. She usually got some glimmer of light from the front room.

  She flicked on the bedside lamp, and her gaze was snagged by the ring on her finger. Collapsing against her pillow, she turned her wrist in the wan yellow light. It was real, then. Not some fevered dream.

  Ethan had proposed to her. And she had accepted.

  It had seemed like magic the night before, edged in fog, lost in impossibility. Following Ethan’s smooth certainty that she would keep their relationship physical, that she would yield to the powerful temptation he provided every time he was within a hundred yards, Sloane had insisted on returning home alone. She’d needed to make that point. Needed to prove something to him. To herself.

  With a tolerant smile, Ethan had acquiesced, instructing his driver to ferry her through the city streets. She supposed that he’d taken a cab to his own home. Sloane had walked from the dark Town Car to her front door, certain that she was going to wake up at any moment, positive that she was going to discover this was all some strange dream. But the ring was still on her finger, even in the gloomy light of a rainy summer morning. She was engaged to be married. Sloane Hartwell.

  Mrs. Ethan Hartwell.

  She tested the names against the brittle edge of her emotions. Getting engaged was supposed to be one of the highlights of her life. She was supposed to call her mother, her girlfriends. Well, no mother to call, that was for sure. And no real girlfriends, either. Unless she wanted to count the librarian who helped out with the public access computers. As a child, she had never brought friends home to her foster families; life had been too chaotic. As an adult, she had been focused on juggling college and work, on fighting for the Hope Project to become a reality. While Sloane had plenty of acquaintances, she was poorer than she liked to admit when it came to true friends.

  She sighed and settled her ringed hand on her belly. “Well, little one. We’ll just have to be happy for each other, won’t we?”

  As if in answer, her stomach rumbled, reminding Sloane that she’d been too nervous to eat dinner the night before. She threw her feet over the side of her bed and tugged on her ratty terry-cloth bathrobe. The fabric had rubbed completely bare across the elbows, but there was never anyone around to notice, so she hadn’t bothered to replace it.

  Stumbling into the kitchen, Sloane filled the teakettle and put it on the stove. It took three tries before the burner lit; she’d have to call her landlord to have him fix the silly thing. Again. She glanced at the minute patch of window left visible beside the hulking air conditioner. She’d been right—it was raining, the steady tropical downpour that often hit D.C. in the summer.

  As she waited for the water to boil, she heard a rustle outside her front door. Her landlord’s cat had probably gotten trapped in the alcove, driven to seek a dry corner in the midst of the torrential rain. The sweet calico had sought refuge from summer storms before. Sloane could let her nap on the couch until the storm passed. Sloane braced herself to get her feet wet as she completed Operation Cat Rescue.

  “Sloane!”

  “Ms. Davenport!”

  “Sloane Davenport!”

  The alcove was filled with people, with the flash of cameras, with a half-dozen microphones. Sloane stared at them, slack jawed. Where had they come from? And what could they possibly want with her?

  One voice soared above the others, as harsh as pumice. “Sloane, show us your ring! Tell us how you caught the most eligible guy in town!”

  Reflexively, she clutched at her robe, pulling it across her belly. Even as she glanced down, frantic to make sure that she was covered, that no one could see her faded pink nightgown, she realized that she might be sending some sort of signal to the press, telegraphing the presence of the baby. She dropped the terry, as if it had burned her fingers.

  All the while, cameras continued to flash, and the crowd jostled for position on the three narrow steps. Sloane’s throat started to close; she couldn’t draw a full breath. She didn’t want these people here, didn’t want them anywhere near her.

  A terrific flash of lightning, brighter even than the cameras in her face, made her squeeze her eyes closed. Instinct made her hunch her shoulders close to her ears, waiting for the inevitable boom of thunder. When it came, it drowned out the reporters’ chatter. All of a sudden, she remembered the way Ethan had handled the photographer the night before. She took a deep breath, determined to make her voice as steely as possible. “No comment,” she said.

  She closed the door before anyone could protest, before someone could tell her that she didn’t have the right to refuse to talk. The teakettle chose that moment to reach its boiling point, the shriek of its whistle sounding like a train racing toward her. She rescued the kettle before it could deafen her permanently, setting it onto a cold burner before she crept back to the front door.

  Leaning against the wooden panels, she could hear the horde shifting outside. They called her name a half-dozen times, as if she might change her mind and come back out to play. There was only one thing to do. It took her a couple of minutes to find Ethan’s business card. She had stashed it in the folder with her working papers for the Hope Project. Her fingers were trembling by the time she punched in the ten digits.

  “Ethan Hartwell’s office,” a woman answered on the first ring.

  Sloane gritted her teeth. Given the fact that it was a Saturday morning, she had hoped Ethan might answer his own phone. Feeling absurd, she said, “This is Sloane Davenport, calling for Mr. Hartwell.” What sort of woman called her fiancé Mr. Anything?

  “I’ll see if Mr. Hartwell is in his office.” The secretary didn’t give the faintest hint of recognizing her name. Classical music filled the silence, and Sloane fought the urge to hang up.

  “Sloane.” Ethan’s voice was warm as honey. “Good morning.” He managed to make the standard greeting sound seductive.

  That unspoken promise in his tone shattered her taut emotions. “Ethan!” His name turned into a sob.

  “What’s wrong?” His demand was immediate. “Sloane, are you all right? Is it the baby?”

  “No,” she gasped, shocked into realizing what a fright she was giving him. “No, I’m sorry. I…it’s just the people. Paparazzi. They’re outside. I heard them out there, thought it was my landlord’s cat. I shouldn’t have opened the door. Th
ey won’t leave me alone!”

  Ethan swore, the words low and fluid and unerringly precise.

  “I don’t know how they found out about us,” Sloane cried. “I don’t know what I did!”

  Even as anger flashed crimson behind Ethan’s eyes, he consciously gentled his voice. “You didn’t do anything, Sloane. This isn’t your fault.”

  “But how…” She trailed off, and he could hear her gasping for a full breath, struggling to regain control.

  “This isn’t your fault,” he repeated. But he knew whose fault it was. He knew that his driver last night was new, had only been hired two weeks before. The man had been cleared by Hartwell Genetics’s security team, and he’d possessed all the required credentials, up to and including U.S. Marines evasive driving training. But that didn’t mean the guy was above selling information—especially valuable gossip, like a Hartwell date going home with a diamond ring on her left hand.

  Ethan wondered how much the driver had gotten from the rabid press corps. Not enough. The man would never work in D.C. again.

  But none of that mattered. Not now. Not with Sloane sobbing on the other end of the line.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d have more time.”

  “More time?” There. That was more like it. She was already getting herself under control. Just as well—she wasn’t going to like the rest of this conversation.

  “You saw the photographer at the gala last night. Now that your name is out there, it’ll be like blood in the water. The sharks won’t back off until they’ve fed.”

  “Ethan, why do they care about me? I’m no one!”

  “You’re someone to me,” he said. He thought about adding a smooth line, something to make her blush. He was certain that he’d be able to tell that she was flustered, even over the phone. But this wasn’t the time. He might as well rip off this Band-Aid. It was going to be the first of many. “I’m sending over a man, Daniel Alton. He’s the head of corporate security here.”

  “Ethan, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “I do.” He wasn’t in any mood to listen to arguments. Not when he knew he’d win them all in the long run. “Daniel will canvass your apartment. His assessment will help the movers.”

  “Movers?” He heard the shock in her voice, but he steeled himself against her protest.

  “Pack a suitcase now, whatever you need for the next twenty-four hours. Daniel will bring you to my home this morning. The rest of your belongings will be transferred tomorrow.”

  Sloane glanced at the telephone handset. He had to be kidding. Pack an overnight bag and leave her entire life behind? “Ethan, I can’t do that.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You can.”

  She could picture him now, standing behind whatever massive table passed for a desk in his office. He would have taken off his suit jacket when he arrived at work. His stark white sleeves were rolled up, revealing the dusting of golden hair on his forearms.

  Forget about his forearms!

  Sloane swallowed a strangled noise. She tested her voice inside her head before she spoke, and when she delivered her words they were measured. Even. “I agreed to marry you, Ethan. I didn’t agree to let you run my life. And I certainly didn’t agree to enter a prison.”

  She expected him to argue with her. She expected him to thread steel into his voice. She expected him to respond with the utter control, the absolute mastery she’d already seen him exercise in other aspects of his life.

  She was unprepared for the catch in his throat as he said, “I know you didn’t, Sloane.” Quickly, though, his words grew urgent, intense. “I need to keep you safe, though. I want to keep you away from those reporters, from people who will take away your freedom. Our freedom. Trust me on this. Move into my house. Let me protect you. You and the baby.” The baby.

  That was the key, wasn’t it? If Sloane were alone, she could do whatever she wanted.

  But she wasn’t making decisions just for herself anymore. She couldn’t act blindly. She’d lost that ability when she’d chosen to follow Ethan to his hotel suite, when she’d given in to the fiery compulsion, to the impossible certainty that he was the man she wanted to be with, needed to be with.

  When she’d said that she would marry him.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Ethan exhaled slowly, all of a sudden aware that he’d been holding his breath. “Thank you, Sloane.” He shuddered and shifted back to professional mode. “Daniel will be there in an hour. He’ll call from his cell when he’s outside your door.”

  By the time Ethan hung up the phone, he was already reviewing everything that needed to be done. One call to Daniel, dispatching him to Sloane’s apartment. Another call to the house, telling James to prepare the guest suite. He paused, then, his fingers poised over the speed-dial button, as he weighed making a third call.

  By now, Grandmother had to know that Sloane existed. There was certainly some notice on the newspaper gossip page, probably a picture from that obnoxious photographer at the gala. But Grandmother was used to reading about his liaisons, used to discounting them. She wouldn’t believe that Ethan had actually chosen a wife until he told her, himself. And she would never imagine that her long-awaited great-grandchild was truly on the way.

  Sloane had enough on her plate for now, without meeting the Hartwell matriarch. Ethan could give his fiancée a reprieve, and so he would. Just like with the genetic testing.

  Grandmother might be unhappy when she learned the truth. But Sloane’s happiness was far more important to Ethan now. Grandmother would just have to wait.

  Sloane knew she should be grateful. Precisely as Ethan had described, Daniel retrieved her from her apartment, lifting her suitcase with one hand, firmly grasping her elbow with the other. He led her past the soaking-wet reporters, growling the “no comment” that she’d already come to understand was now her standard way of life. He settled her in the back of yet another Town Car, taking the driver’s seat himself.

  James greeted her at the house. Sloane had to smile. The older man looked like somebody’s uncle. He wore neat khakis and a polo shirt that barely managed to cover his potbelly. He took Sloane’s bag from Daniel, nodding an amiable dismissal, and then he ushered her into the kitchen. A cup of chamomile tea and a fresh-baked cinnamon roll later, Sloane was almost ready to believe that being transplanted to Ethan’s home was a good thing.

  She had the better part of the day to think about it, and the evening besides. Ethan sent a message through James. Some production matter had come up at the Swiss plant, and he was going to be late coming home.

  A production matter. On a Saturday.

  Sloane shivered in the aggressive air conditioning.

  What was she getting into? Who was this man she had agreed to marry? A workaholic who spent his entire life at the office? She needed better for their baby. She would fight for more.

  James showed Sloane into the library. He helped her log on to a laptop computer kept for the convenience of guests. She sighed at the springy touch of the keyboard, so unlike the brick that she’d rescued from her own apartment. She was eager to get back to work on the Hope Project. But tomorrow would be soon enough. She had even more important work to do. She needed to organize her thoughts.

  Taking a deep breath, she clicked on the button that launched a word processor. Half an hour later, she was still staring at an empty document. What, exactly, did she want from Ethan? What did she expect to get out of their marriage? And why was she so afraid to commit anything to a silly computer file?

  Ethan Hartwell, she finally typed across the top of the screen. To delay a little more, she retyped his name, in all capitals. She made the font bold, and she underscored the two words, hitting the enter key twice to place the cursor at the beginning of a new line.

  Unable to delay further, she typed a new word. Trust. She needed to trust Ethan. Needed to believe that he would always be there for her and the baby, that his days of playboy escapades were over for
ever.

  Respect, she added. She needed Ethan to respect her. To appreciate what was important to her—the Hope Project, for example—even if he never fully embraced it himself.

  Friendship, she typed. She stared at the cursor blinking after the word. What did she mean by friendship? She didn’t have enough practice to understand the concept herself. Shaking her head, she backspaced carefully.

  Partnership, she wrote instead. She and Ethan needed to be equals. They needed to talk, to share, to accept each other on level ground.

  Trust. Respect. Partnership.

  That sounded more like a formula for a business arrangement than for a marriage. But what else could she type? “True love”? How could she demand that? How could Ethan promise it? True love was something that either happened or it didn’t; it couldn’t be subject to negotiation.

  Sloane sighed, and then she typed something else, at the bottom of her list. A date—a deadline for their wedding. The baby was due at the end of December. Add three months to get back in shape. Another three months to actually plan the wedding. June 1 of next year. That was the earliest that they could get married, the first possible date that made any sense at all.

  Sloane leaned back against her rich leather chair. Here it was: a foundation for her entire relationship with Ethan. She glanced at the broad desk situated beneath the mullioned windows. A wireless printer waited to do her bidding. A flurry of keystrokes, and she had a crisp sheet of paper in hand. She read over her words one last time before she folded the document into thirds and tucked it into her purse.

  Just as she was beginning to get hungry, James appeared with a chicken sandwich on a tray. He seemed to understand that Sloane needed time alone though, time to process the changes in her life. He left her in the mahogany-and-leather library until nearly sunset, when he carried in another tray, this one sporting a lightly dressed shrimp salad. “Sloane,” he said, interrupting her as she checked her email. “I’ll be heading home for the evening.”