The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

by Mindy Klasky

  “Home?”

  He gestured out the window, across the spacious yard. “I live in the carriage house, out back.”

  “I thought—” She’d just assumed that James lived in the house. He clearly was responsible for every aspect of the mansion’s smooth operation. Sloane had already come to count on his presence. She’d even considered that James would be a sort of chaperone as she got used to living with the man she was going to marry.

  “This works out better for everyone,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “A little privacy can go a long way. Every phone in the main building has a direct line to the carriage house. Just press zero if you need me, and it will ring out there.”

  Sloane nodded, but she couldn’t imagine having a property large enough to sport a carriage house. And she certainly couldn’t imagine having a—what? A butler? A housekeeper? A friend?—at her beck and call. “Thank you,” she said a little belatedly. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

  “It’s not often that we have such a lovely visitor in the guest suite.” James winked and left her to her own devices.

  Lovely visitor. Ha. Ethan Hartwell had plenty of lovely visitors. Sloane wasn’t about to forget that.

  But James had no doubt chosen his words carefully. In the guest suite he’d said. Ethan’s usual “lovely visitors” must not stay in the suite. Ethan probably sent them home in the dark of night, before they could get any ideas about settling in for a long stay.

  Sloane closed her eyes, letting her memories catapult her back to the terrace at the Kennedy Center. She remembered the shock of electricity that had jolted through her as Ethan kissed her palm, the liquid heat that had tempted her to change her mind then and there, to dismiss the promise that he had just made, the promise to curb the need that shimmered between them like a physical thing.

  No. She was right to insist on that restraint. She had to prove to Ethan that there was something more between them, something deeper than the pure physical attraction that sparked whenever they were in the same room. She needed to be certain—for herself, and for the baby.

  Sloane closed the laptop, making sure that it was firmly latched. She’d grab a book and head upstairs to her room. There was no telling when Ethan was coming home, and she certainly wasn’t going to wait up for him like an overeager puppy. Or a mistress. Heading over to the shelves that she’d studied so many times that day, she picked up Cannery Row. She’d never read the Steinbeck classic, and it looked light. Enjoyable.

  James had left a trail of lights on, guiding her from the library to her suite of rooms. Stepping over the threshold, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of roses. A riot of three-dozen long-stemmed beauties overflowed a cut-crystal vase on the dresser. White, pink, yellow and peach. Someone had studiously avoided sending any message with red.

  Had Ethan ordered the flowers? Or had James taken care of the detail, just another one of his homey services? Were not-red roses the standing order of the day where “lovely visitors” were concerned?

  She could see that James had turned down the sheets on the king-size bed. She half expected to find a mint left on her pillow. Shaking her head, she turned to unpack her suitcase. She’d been lazy all afternoon; she should have hung up her clothes before now. Well, better late than never.

  Except that her suitcase was nowhere to be found.

  She looked on either side of the bed. Under the massive wooden frame. Behind the bedroom door.

  At last, realization dawned on her. She crossed to the large closet that James had indicated when he’d first shown her around the house. Opening the door, she discovered a room that was nearly as large as the entire apartment she’d left behind.

  And there, huddling like refugees in a border camp, were her clothes. A quick check of the bathroom confirmed that her drugstore toiletries were displayed on the counter like crown jewels, looking sad amid luxurious towels and gleaming fixtures. Sloane shook her head. This was too much. It was all too much.

  After finishing in the bathroom, she sighed deeply as she climbed into the bed. The mattress was twice the size of the beaten-up old bed in her apartment. The peach-and-honey-colored sheets were crisp and cool, even on this muggy June night. A featherweight comforter settled over her body with a whisper.

  She lay back on the pillow and forced herself to take a dozen deep breaths. She imagined the picture she would draw if she could fire up her computer, if she could use the Hope Project’s specialized software. There’d be a mommy and a daddy and a baby, all standing on Ethan’s front lawn, all happy and healthy and together.

  The wind picked up outside, and a tree’s wooden fingers scraped against her window, shattering the bright image she was painting inside her mind. It was going to be a long, long night.

  Ethan paused outside the door of the guest suite. He glanced at his watch. A few minutes past two. Well, no reason that he should expect to see a glint of light under the door, was there?

  He sighed in frustration. This wasn’t the way he’d planned on having Sloane arrive at his home. Oh, it certainly seemed that things had gone smoothly once Daniel had gotten her out of that godforsaken apartment. He hoped that she wasn’t going to insist on bringing along any of her furniture; none of it deserved even a brief afterlife in some college dorm room.

  James had reported that Sloane had settled in well. With the nonstop rain, she shouldn’t have minded being cooped up in the house. Too much.

  But Ethan regretted having spent the entire day at the office. The Swiss production problem should never have taken so long to resolve. At least everything would be back online by Monday morning.

  In fact, he’d managed to turn the Zurich fiasco into a good thing. Grandmother had insisted on heading over there to monitor the new quality assurance process for a few days. The quick trip would be a win-win. His grandmother could exercise her iron will over the Swiss plant, and the foreign engineers would learn just how serious Hartwell Genetics was about its demands. At first, Ethan had worried about the strain of travel, but that concern faded after he managed to convince Grandmother to spend a few weeks in her Paris apartment before she came home.

  Those would be a few weeks that Ethan could spend getting his own life in order, getting past the all-important genetic testing with Sloane. He carefully hid his true concerns, convincing his grandmother that he only wanted Pierre and Jeanette to pamper her in her luxurious Seventh Arrondissement home. Looking out at the Eiffel Tower, she could get all the rest that she deserved.

  Rest. He could use some himself. He should go to bed, get some sleep, wait to see Sloane in the morning. But he couldn’t resist opening her door.

  The sight inside made him catch his breath.

  Sloane had kicked the summer comforter onto the floor where it huddled at the foot of her bed like a lumpy ghost. Her sheets were tangled, nearly tied into knots. Even in the silvery moonlight, he could see that her feet were caught in the twisted mess. Her hair was splayed across her pillow, like seaweed trailing on a beach. Somewhere in her sleep, she must have heard his soft grunt of amazement. She rolled from her side to her back, her arms lashing out in the darkness. “No,” she moaned, rubbing at her face. “Please. No.”

  He stepped into the room before he was consciously aware of moving. As if she could sense his presence, Sloane grew more agitated. Her breath caught in a sob, and she pushed away the confining chains of her sheets. Her fingers snagged in the colorless cotton of her nightgown, and she struggled like a desperate child.

  The scent of roses filled the room. He saw the flowers that he’d ordered, faded to gray in the moonlight. He thought he’d been so clever, choosing chaste flowers. He had thought it would be their joke, their secret, a floral memory of the silly, brave promise she’d extracted from him the night before. Now, though, the roses looked like rotten rags and their perfume reminded him of a funeral parlor.

  The dead oak tree outside the window swayed in a sudden breeze, scraping its branches
against the window. The sound grated like fingers on a chalkboard, and it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The screech must have penetrated Sloane’s nightmare, because she started sobbing in earnest, her words drowned in hopeless, helpless sorrow.

  He was beside the bed before he could think.

  “Hush,” he whispered, settling his palm against her cheek.

  She fought like a wild thing, thrashing against the sheets, flinging herself away from him. “Sloane,” he murmured, trying to wake her gently, to ease her out of her nightmare. He gathered up the sheets that bound her, shoving them toward the foot of the bed. Her feet were still tangled, and he edged his hands past her thighs, along her calves, fighting to free her ankles. “Sloane,” he said again, sitting on the edge of the bed, folding his arms around her, gathering her close to his chest. “I’m here. It’s all right. You were having a bad dream.”

  She shook her head, still dazed, obviously confused. He tightened his grip, pulling her onto his lap. Her head rested on his shoulder; her fingers clutched at the crisp broadcloth of his shirt. “Hush,” he said again. “I’m here. You’re fine.”

  The oak fingers scraped against the window again, and she tensed in his arms. He fought the urge to swear out loud. The damned tree had been struck by lightning the summer before. James had hoped that it would recover, but Ethan would have it cut down in the morning.

  “It’s just a tree,” he said. “Just a dream.” He started rocking her, gently easing his hand down the trembling plane of her back. He was relieved when her sobs quieted, when her breathing started to slow.

  Sloane forced her fingers to loosen their death grip on Ethan’s shirt. What had she been thinking? How had she gotten so lost inside her dream? Even now, the nightmare was fading; she could scarcely remember the horror that she’d been fighting. She was awake enough to feel foolish, absolutely idiotic as she sat on Ethan’s lap, clutching him as if she were a child, listening to him whisper meaningless phrases.

  She didn’t feel like a child, though. Ethan’s fingers were firm. His right hand gripped her steadily, keeping her anchored, secure. His left palm stroked her back with a soothing pressure.

  No. Not soothing. There was more than that.

  His flesh spoke to hers. He had dragged her back from the brink of a nightmare, his steady hands returning her to her body. He had brought her to wakefulness, and then to something more.

  Another stroke. Her spine quivered, eager to meet his touch. Heat leached through her body and she sighed, releasing the last tendrils of her dream. She melted beneath his ministrations, soaking into him. She shifted, trying to put her arms around his neck.

  He froze. His fingers gripped her tight, tattooing the flesh above her hips. She heard him catch his breath, felt every muscle of his body harden into iron.

  Ethan grimaced in the dark. One minute, he’d been offering chaste comfort, trying to ease a frightened soul. The next, that frightened soul had sprung to full, sensual life beneath his fingertips, arching to meet his hand, reflexively seeking the pleasure they’d shared in the past.

  The last thing Sloane needed now, though, was to realize just how much pleasure he longed to give her. The last thing she needed was to discover how completely she’d aroused him, how hard he was, just beneath her warm, supple flesh, with only a few layers of fabric between them. “Sloane,” he breathed, as she pulled back enough to look into his eyes.

  “Please,” she said, her voice still faintly blurred from sleep. “Kiss me.”

  The trust in her moonlit gaze nearly made him lose control. It would be so easy to shift her. So easy to fall back on the mattress beside her. So easy to rip away that cotton thing she was wearing, to see her body, ready and ripe, waiting for him, eager for him.

  The unbearably rough fabric of his silk boxers taunted him. The feel of her across his lap was almost enough to spring him, to release him from the delicious tension that threatened all his logic, all his higher senses.

  Sure, he had told her that she was the one in control. He had said that she must ask him before he’d give in to his temptation. And he’d heard her words, just a heartbeat before, heard her beg him to touch his lips to hers.

  But this wasn’t right. This wasn’t how he’d envisioned her coming to him. Inviting him, giving up her silly, stubborn rules. She was still dazed, confused by her dream. She wasn’t capable of making a true decision.

  Summoning the last vestige of his control, he lifted her from his lap. The motion brought him dangerously close to her throat, to the devastatingly smooth stretch of flesh that begged to be tasted, nibbled, nipped. Clenching his teeth, he settled her on the bed. Before she could register the change in their positions, before she could protest, he got to his feet, sucking in his breath against his body’s own complaint. He was actually in pain as he made himself move to the far side of the bed, as he gathered up her sheets, as he aired out the linen between them, using it as a shield.

  By the time the fabric had drifted on top of her, by the time it had billowed and collapsed and revealed her lithe form, he had enough control over himself that he could speak without groaning. “There’s a night-light in the bathroom. I’ll turn it on.” He matched action to narration, relieved to find that he could walk without betraying his arousal. With half the room between them, he dared to look back at her. She was propped up on her pillows, enthroned like some sort of devastating princess. He could just make out the blue of her eyes in the glow of the night-light from the marble room.

  “I’ll have James call someone about the tree tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and he could hear the confusion in her voice, the question that she was afraid to ask, the invitation that she wanted to issue again. The invitation that he could not accept honorably. Not that night. Not under those circumstances.

  “Good night, Sloane,” he said as he crossed to her bedroom door.

  “Good night,” she whispered.

  He closed the door behind him as softly as he could. A part of him longed to stand there, to listen until he heard her even breaths, to peek in once she was safely dreaming.

  Another part of him, though, knew that he would never be able to walk out of that room again. Not without claiming everything she had to offer. Not without taking away the promise he had given her the night that she had agreed to become his wife.

  He curled his hands into fists and made his way down the hall to his own lonely room.

  Chapter Four

  Sloane poured herself a cup of peppermint tea from the pot that James had set on the countertop. The man had greeted her cheerfully when she padded into the kitchen, her clothes cautiously chosen, hair carefully brushed. A cardamom coffee cake rested on the center island, fragrant as it cooled to eating temperature.

  “I hope that you slept well,” James said, gesturing for her to pull up one of the nearby bar stools.

  Sloane settled onto the comfortable chair and forced herself to take a soothing sip of tea. She wished she could have a healthy dose of caffeine, something to help her wake up after her long night of tossing and turning. She made some noncommittal noise, though. There was no reason to tell James about her strange dreams. No reason to mention Ethan’s late-night visit. Before she could weave a polite lie, though, Ethan’s unexpected voice sliced across the kitchen. “I want that oak tree down by nightfall, James.”

  Sloane’s gaze shot up from her stoneware mug. Her stomach flipped at the sight of Ethan, framed in the doorway to the kitchen. She’d seen him in a tuxedo, of course. Twice. And in a business suit. But this was the first time she’d seen him in casual clothes. His jeans were snug around his waist, just tight enough to suggest the muscles she knew stretched beneath them. His arms were akimbo, as if he expected to be challenged about the tree. She swallowed hard, trying not to think about the hard abs beneath his hunter-green shirt, the pecs that she had felt under her cheek the night before.

  “Of course,” James said, his voice calm and respectful. “I’ll mak
e the call now.”

  “It’s Sunday,” Sloane said. She couldn’t imagine what an emergency tree crew would charge on a weekend. “Surely it can wait until tomorrow.”

  “No,” Ethan contradicted. “It can’t.” He nodded to James, and the caretaker hurried away to solve the problem. Sloane drowned her discomfort in another sip of peppermint tea.

  Ethan took advantage of the uneasy silence to pick up the palm-size box on the corner of the center island, the one he had deposited there when he’d returned home from the office the night before. “Here,” he said, passing it across to Sloane. She looked up in surprise, peering at him over the rim of her mug. The pose made her look impish. Attractive, in a coltish way. Damn! What didn’t make her look attractive? For the hundredth time, he wondered where he’d found the willpower to walk away from her the night before, to honor his promise to stay chaste.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “A cell phone. One where the paparazzi can’t track you down. My private number is already programmed in.”

  She picked up the phone with an air of caution. “It’s Sunday morning. I just called you yesterday, and you worked until midnight. When did you have time to pick up a new phone?”

  He snorted. “That one came under the category of ‘security.’ Daniel took care of it when he got back to the office, after bringing you here.” He reached into his back pocket, taking out his sleek leather wallet. An extra credit card was nestled beside his own. “Now this took a little more doing.”

  He passed the silver card to her. Recognition dawned as she read her name in the raised letters across the bottom. “You can’t—” she started to protest.