The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

by Mindy Klasky

  He barely smothered his sigh of frustration when she trailed off. “Before what?”

  “Before my computer died.” She looked away, as if she were confessing infidelity. “I’ve been going down to the public library, though. Everything I’ve experienced with this pregnancy has been textbook perfect. They could write a book about me.”

  He heard a suspicious brightness behind her tone, and he wondered if she was trying to convince him, or just herself.

  He had a choice. He could push her about the doctor visits, about the limited care that she’d provided for their child. He could lambaste her for managing her life so poorly that she had nothing in reserve, no savings to fall back on. He could vent some of the fierce possessiveness that clenched his fists, the driving need to keep her safe, to protect her, to ease her way. He could take out on her all of his fear about the Hartwell genetic curse, all of his anxiety about the unknown state of their baby.

  Or he could let it go.

  There wasn’t any way to change the past. No way to pick up the missing appointments. Besides, who was he to say that she had been irresponsible? She’d managed to keep a roof over her head for nearly three months, without a job. She’d done the best she could under challenging circumstances. He exhaled slowly and forced himself to release the tension that torqued his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. And then, because she was sitting there, obviously nervous and clearly still processing the bombshell he had dropped in the middle of their Sunday brunch, he asked, “Did you bring your computer from your apartment?”

  She nodded. “It’s upstairs.”

  “I’ll take it into the office tomorrow. Someone in the computer department should be able to fix it. At the very least, they can transfer everything from your hard drive to a new machine.”

  He made the offer so casually. Just as he’d presented her with the cell phone, with the credit card. Sloane had spent weeks worrying about her failing computer; she’d wasted hours wondering what she was going to do when the thing finally refused to turn on at all. She was so close to launching the Hope Project…?.

  And just like that, he could give her back all the tools she needed. He could make things right.

  If only their visit to Dr. Morton resolved problems as easily… “Ethan,” she said, but then she realized that she didn’t know what she wanted to ask. She smoothed her blouse over her belly, wishing that the pregnancy was already further along, wishing that she could feel the reassuring flutter of a new life inside her.

  He settled his hand over hers. Strength flowed through his fingers. Strength and an iron-firm resolve. “Ask me any questions, Sloane. I’ll tell you the truth, as best I can.”

  She wanted numbers. She wanted absolutes. She wanted guarantees. But she knew that he could never give her those. “We’ll know the test results in three weeks?”

  He shook his head. “Phil will do the amnio then. It takes time for the cells to be cultured, for results to come in. Probably another ten days.”

  She had to ask the next question, even though she dreaded the answer. “And if we get bad news?”

  A nerve twitched beneath his right eye. She saw him withdraw, disappear into his memories, into the past of a family torn apart by bad news. When he answered, his voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t do it, Sloane. I’m not strong enough to be a father for that kind of child. A child that we know we’re going to lose, probably much sooner rather than later.”

  She knew she should be grateful that he was answering her honestly. She should welcome the unvarnished truth, even though it hurt him to say the words, even though her heart pounded in her chest when she realized what he meant. She had to answer him, though. She had to tell him how she felt. “Ethan, I am never giving up this baby.”

  “Sloane, you don’t understand. You can’t imagine what it’s like—”

  She wasn’t angry with him. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t even overwhelmed by sorrow. She just knew that she was determined, that she was absolutely, one hundred percent certain. “No, Ethan. That isn’t a possibility.”

  He ran his hand through his hair, making the golden strands stand on end. “Let’s wait and see. Let’s wait until we have all the facts.”

  She didn’t need anymore facts.

  Before she could drive home the point, though, the doorbell rang. Sloane heard James greet someone in the foyer. There was easy laughter, comfortable familiarity. She glanced at Ethan, saw his face brighten. He shot Sloane a quick glance, and she shrugged. They could finish their conversation another time. Not that there was anything left to say. Not before they had test results in hand.

  “Zach!” Ethan exclaimed, as a man walked into the kitchen. The newcomer was Ethan’s opposite in every way. His hair was dark where Ethan’s was light; his eyes were ordinary brown instead of Ethan’s complicated hazel. Zach was short, and he could easily stand to lose twenty pounds. His T-shirt was wrinkled, as if he’d pulled it out of a laundry hamper, and his jeans slouched around his hips.

  “Zachary Crosby, this is Sloane Davenport. Sloane, Zach.” Zach’s hand was soft in hers, but he smiled as he said hello. As Zach reached for a coffee cup, Ethan said wryly, “Make yourself at home.” The newcomer was clearly familiar with the Hartwell kitchen; he wasted no time collecting a plate and a fork, cutting himself a generous slice of the cardamom coffee cake.

  He downed a huge bite, chasing it with a hefty swallow of coffee. He might act like a starved teenager, but Sloane quickly realized that there was more to the man than met the casual eye. His glance darted to the cell phone that still sat on the center island, to the silver credit card beside it. He scarcely missed a beat before zeroing in on her left hand, on the diamond ring that glinted in the morning light.

  “Then the rumors are true. I take it congratulations are in order,” he said, shifting his gaze from Sloane to Ethan.

  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? O
r, 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.

  Chapter Five

  Three 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?”