The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

by Mindy Klasky

  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.

  Chapter Eight

  Five 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 seri
ous. “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.

  Retreating from the jangle of phones, Sloane closed the door to the library. It was comforting there in the dark, wood-paneled room, surrounded by books and the heft of heavy leather furniture. She curled up on the dark green couch with her laptop, grateful for the chance finally to dig back into the Hope Project.

  She made the mistake of checking her favorite news site before she began her work. Her engagement was splashed all over the page. It turned out that a lot of people had an interest in Ethan Hartwell and his matrimonial plans. The financial pages all discussed the likely impact on Hartwell Genetics. The health care reporters speculated on whether any new products would be brought to market in the fourth quarter. The gossip pages continued to report their usual mash of confused halftruths, focusing on Sloane’s mysterious background. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed that she was painted as a conniving fortune hunter by one publication, an innocent victim of Ethan’s playboy ways by another and a business partner in disguise by yet a third.

  As she shook her head in disbelief, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the Caller ID. Ethan.

  “Surviving the storm?” he asked. She could hear the smile in his voice, picture the curve of his lips as he formed the question. Immediately, she pictured those l
ips put to better use, and she had to shake her head, to return her concentration to the matter at hand.

  “I had no idea that so many people would care about what we do with our personal lives!”

  “Just imagine what would happen if they knew the truly personal details I could share with them.” His growl ignited a blush that tingled from the roots of her hair to her toes. “Where are you now?” he asked.

  “In the library.” She made her voice as prim and proper as she could. If she gave in to the invitation barely hidden behind his words she would never get any work done that afternoon.

  “What are you wearing?” he whispered.

  “A white blouse buttoned up to my neck, a black skirt with a bustle that hangs to my ankles and tiny boots that pinch my feet,” she said, smoothing her hand over her T-shirt and shorts.

  “Are the boots made out of leather?”

  She couldn’t help but laugh at the hopeful note in his voice. “How’s work?” she asked. “Are you able to get anything done, with everyone digging for more information? James has been fielding calls here nonstop.”

  “I’ve issued my ‘no comments.’ I’ve also accepted a half-dozen invitations.”

  “Invitations?”

  “Drinks here. Dinners there. I’m only saying yes to the ones I absolutely can’t afford for us to skip. Do you hate me?”

  She laughed at the worried note in his voice. “How could I hate you? Just make sure I end up with all the dates in my calendar.”

  “The most important one is in a month. Grandmother is throwing a cocktail party in our honor. At her apartment, downtown.”

  “Her apartment? Fine. I assume there will only be a handful of guests?”

  “You haven’t seen Grandmother’s apartment. She has the entire top floor of the Waverly.”

  Sloane’s enthusiasm flagged, but she knew that they’d both be happier if she kept a positive attitude. “A cocktail party for a hundred of our closest friends. Sounds grand. It’ll cost you, though. I’ll need something appropriate to wear.”