The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

by Mindy Klasky

  He couldn’t do that, though. He couldn’t make a promise that he wasn’t certain he could keep.

  He was spared the need to drum up small talk by a sharp knock on the door. Sloane jumped as much as he did before the door opened and Phillip Morton glided into the room.

  “Phil,” Ethan said, smoothly stepping forward and extending his hand.

  “Ethan.”

  Phil was an old business colleague. They had sat on advisory boards together, played more than a few rounds of golf. Ethan had chosen Phil because he knew the man had impeccable credentials and hands-on experience to match the sterling diplomas on his wall. More than that, though, Phil knew the Hartwell family history. He understood the science behind Ethan’s greatest fear.

  The obstetrician reached out to shake Sloane’s hand, offering her a professional smile, automatic reassurances. The nurse returned to assist with the procedure, and Ethan moved to the far side of the examining table, trying to stay out of the way.

  Sloane had grown stoic. Her nerves were more apparent now. She fiddled with that ridiculous paper gown, tracing her fingers back and forth along one edge. She answered Phil’s questions with as few words as possible, her voice pitched half an octave higher than usual. Several times, she took deep, isolated breaths, as if she were reminding herself to fill her lungs, to exhale her fear, to relax as best she could.

  Soon enough, she was reclining on the table. Her eyes widened in alarm as the nurse applied gel to her belly, preparing her for the ultrasound that would guide the doctor’s needle. Sloane swallowed, the sound clearly audible in the sterile room. For the first time, Ethan could see the gentle swell of her changed body, the soft curve that told him that there really was a baby, that there really was a new life that they’d created.

  He couldn’t do this for her, couldn’t place his own body on the table instead of hers. But he could help her. He could do his best to ease her fear.

  Snagging a chair with his wingtip-clad foot, he sat down close to her head. With one hand, he reached out to smooth a stray lock of hair from her cheek. With the other, he captured her own hand, twining his fingers between hers.

  She turned to look at him, tears filming the saturated blue of her eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispered, leaning down to place his lips against the shell of her ear. A rush of tenderness threatened to close his throat, and his voice grew rough as he said, “Everything is going to be fine.”

  The words were a prayer for him, an invocation for everything that was good and bright and kind within the universe to preserve him, to keep him from being a liar, now, when the words were the most important he’d ever uttered in his life. He passed his free palm over Sloane’s forehead, trying to soothe away the worried lines he found there. “Relax,” he said. “It’s almost over.”

  Phil nodded in approval as Ethan spoke. The doctor’s hands moved smoothly, with the ease of familiarity. He narrated his actions, letting Sloane prepare for the slight pinch as he inserted his needle, telling her that everything was going as expected, that everything was routine.

  Soon enough, they were done. Sloane heard Dr. Morton’s patter. She felt the nurse wipe away the ultrasound gel. She understood that she was supposed to wait for fifteen minutes, then sit up, get dressed, meet Dr. Morton in his office down the hall. The door to the examining room closed.

  “Ethan,” she whispered, turning her head to see him.

  “Thank you,” he responded in the same subdued tone. “I’m sorry.” He lifted her hand, the one that was still wrapped inside his stony fingers. His lips across its back were dry, nearly weightless, like a memory of autumn leaves.

  He lowered his head to her shoulder.

  Sloane wanted to stroke the golden strands of his hair, wanted to tell him that everything was going to be fine, that he had no reason to apologize, that he hadn’t done anything bad or evil or cruel. She knew he wouldn’t listen, though, knew he wouldn’t believe her. She stared up at the ceiling instead, reminding herself to take deep breaths, waiting until it was safe for her to stand, to get dressed, to carry on as if nothing whatsoever had happened.

  Dr. Morton was waiting for them in his office, a veritable forest of mahogany and brass, with deep leather chairs that looked like they belonged in an antique boardroom. “We’ll have results in ten days,” he said.

  Ethan cleared his throat. “Surely you can expedite this.”

  Dr. Morton shook his head. “Some tests take time to run, Ethan. We can’t rush nature.” There was a mild sharpness to the doctor’s tone, a hint of rebuke. That sting, though, was gone when Dr. Morton returned his gaze to Sloane. “Take it easy for the rest of the day. Stay off your feet as much as possible. Drink plenty of fluids. No sex for twenty-four hours.”

  Sloane studiously avoided looking at Ethan. No sex for a lot longer than that. Not until after they were truly married.

  Dr. Morton shook their hands as they stood to leave. He spared a grave smile for Sloane. “Ms. Davenport, please don’t hesitate to phone me if you have any questions. Any questions at all.”

  “Thank you,” she said, liking his solemn sincerity. Ethan had been right. Transferring her care to Dr. Morton was a good thing. It was a tremendous comfort to know that she could schedule her monthly appointments, that she could follow through on everything that was good for the baby.

  Ethan held the door for her as they left the office. He wished that he could do more, that he could make the next ten days disappear, that he could write a check, empty a bank account, open a vein to guarantee the results he craved.

  Instead, he was reduced to idiotic, everyday tasks. He insisted on pulling the car around to the elevator lobby so that Sloane wouldn’t have to walk even the short distance through the parking lot. He opened the door for her and hovered a protective hand above her head as she gracefully eased herself onto the seat. He barely resisted the urge to lean across, to tug at her seat belt to make sure that she had secured it properly.

  Once he was back in the driver’s seat, he double-checked his mirrors. He made his way through the streets like a model citizen, observing every speed limit, gliding to a perfect stop at every red light. He felt as if he were making a bargain with heaven, that he was offering up his good behavior in exchange for his dreams.

  As he helped her out of the car, he caught a whiff of her scent, the honeysuckle freshness that always surrounded her. Unconsciously, he braced himself for the tug in his groin, for the hot lance of lust that she awakened in him without any effort at all. Instead, he felt a throbbing ache in his chest, a terrifying surge that nearly stopped his heart.

  She was so brave. So determined. So willing to sacrifice for him, for their child.

  He only hoped that he had not betrayed her, that his genes had not paved the path for the destruction of everything good that was growing between them.

  Inside the house, he trailed after her, up the stairs to the guest suite. Feeling like a stranger in his own home, he glided over to her bed. The comforter felt foreign beneath his fingers; he might never have seen it before. The sheets were crisp, clean, but they held no familiarity, no saucy temptation of heat, of memory, of passion. He folded them back as if he were completing a ritual, a prayer.

  Ethan’s navy suit was incongruous as he worked; he stood out like a preacher at a motel. A strangely luxurious motel, but a motel all the same. Only when he’d run out of things to do, when he’d finished all the business of seeing to her comfort did he actually meet her eyes.

  “Ten days,” she said, betraying the thought that had nagged at her all the way home.

  “And then we’ll know.” He raised his hand, settled his chilly palm against her cheek. A shudder crinkled down her spine, even as she turned her head to lean against his fingers. “Get some rest,” he whispered. “I’ll have James bring you some lunch.”

  “Ethan? Will you bring Daisy up here? I’d like to have her beside me while I sleep.”

  His shoulders stiffened, and she knew that he wanted to refus
e. He didn’t want anything to do with the puppy, with a living, breathing reminder that genetic mishaps did occur. She knew that she needed to talk to him, needed to tell him that he was wrong to ignore the dog. But she couldn’t. Not right then. Not when she was so tired that she could barely keep her eyes open.

  Ethan’s voice was gravely courteous as he said, “I’ll have James take care of that.”

  That. A living, breathing puppy was reduced to “that.” Sloane swallowed hard, and Ethan ducked out the door before she could make any verbal response.

  As soon as he was gone, Sloane slipped out of her summer sundress. She’d gone on the shopping spree that Ethan had recommended. New clothes hung in her closet, spanning the range from casual to formal. Her dresser drawers were filled with satin and lace; she had splurged on intriguing lingerie that had made her blush even as she imagined what Ethan would say when he finally saw it.

  For now, though, she dug to the back of the drawer, shoving aside garments that still bore their price tags. Her fingers closed on her old cotton nightgown, and the softness of the fabric nearly brought tears to her eyes. She shrugged it over her bare shoulders, relishing the familiar feel. She yawned as she climbed into bed. The morning had been so emotionally fraught, so charged, that she felt as if she’d run a marathon. She was asleep before James arrived with his tray. His tray, and Daisy.

  Once Ethan was certain that Sloane was sleeping soundly, he headed for his office. He knew that James would call him if anything went wrong, if there was anything at all that he could do back at the house.

  Watching Sloane’s grim determination that morning had made him realize that he was long overdue in attending to his own difficult matters. It was time to confront his grandmother, time to declare that he was marrying Sloane Davenport.

  Of course, there was the usual rigmarole in the waiting area outside his grandmother’s office suite. The grim-faced secretary waved him to a seat, treating him like he was some unwelcome petitioner. Well, Ethan wasn’t going to put up with that. Not today. Not when he had such an important message to deliver.

  Ignoring the squawk of professional outrage from the secretary, Ethan marched straight into the lion’s den.

  Grandmother was on the phone, nodding her head at something that was being said on the other end of the line. She took one look at Ethan’s face, though, and she interrupted whoever was talking. “I’m sorry, Richard. Something has come up here. I’ll call you back later.” She hung up the phone without waiting for a response, as if she were an actress in a movie. “Ethan,” she said levelly.

  “Grandmother.”

  The trip to Paris had not been as beneficial as he had hoped. Dark circles still stood out beneath the hazel eyes that matched his own. Grandmother’s cheeks were still pale, and he couldn’t help but dart a glance to her hands, taking quick measure of the tremor there. As if she knew exactly what he was doing, she folded her fingers into her palms, drawing herself up to her fullest height. “I tried to reach you in your office this morning,” she said. “I wanted to discuss the supply figures from Singapore.”

  “I was out,” he said. “At Philip Morton’s office.” He saw the flash of recognition in his grandmother’s eyes, the instant that she registered the name of the prominent obstetrician.

  “I assume from your tone that you had a personal reason for being there? Not some study you’re asking him to conduct for the company?”

  His tone. Ethan had been accused of using the wrong tone ever since he was a child. Well, he was long past the age where he would roll his eyes and click his tongue in teenage exasperation. Instead, he harnessed all of his skills as a successful business executive, every lesson he’d ever learned about meaningful communication, about driving home his personal agenda in a dog-eat-dog world.

  Because there was nothing more personal than his relationship with Sloane Davenport.

  “Grandmother, you told me that you wanted me married by January. I’ll meet your deadline, with a couple of months to spare.”

  There. He’d caught her by surprise.

  But it only took a moment for her to follow his words to their logical conclusion, from Philip Morton to her damnable birthday ultimatum. “So, you got a girl in the family way, and now you’re going to marry her. Is she one of your actresses? Or is she a model?”

  He shook his head, resisting the urge to protest the way she always thought the worst of him. Then again, he hadn’t given her a lot of reason to think otherwise, not where his personal life was concerned. “Her name is Sloane Davenport. We met at the AFAA auction. She used to work for the foundation.”

  “Used to? Where does she work now?”

  He hedged his answer, knowing precisely how his grandmother would interpret the unvarnished truth of Sloane’s unemployment. “She’s a freelancer, working in the area of child psychology.”

  “Ethan.” She turned his name into an essay of warning. “What do you really know about this woman?”

  He bristled at the implied accusation. “I know that she’s no gold digger, Grandmother. She’s not staying with me because she expects a share of the Hartwell fortune, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “And the baby?” Grandmother sounded like a particularly troublesome shareholder in the midst of an annual meeting. “Does she know about the risk?”

  What kind of man did his grandmother think he was? “Of course she knows. That’s why we were at Phil’s office this morning. We’ll have the test results in ten days.”

  “And will she stick around if the results are bad?”

  “Grandmother—”

  “I’m just asking, Ethan. You’re talking about spending the rest of your life with this woman, and I want to know if she has what it takes to handle bad news. The worst.”

  His own parents hadn’t. They’d abandoned him when the going got tough. Sloane was different, though. She was more determined than Ethan was himself. He knew that, even though it frightened him to admit it. “She’ll stay with me, Grandmother. No matter what the test shows.”

  “Very well,” Grandmother said after a long pause. She nodded as if they’d just decided to change the color of their corporate logo. “You’ll bring her to the No Comment, on Independence Day?”

  Grandmother’s yacht. Site of her annual Fourth of July party, where scores of friends and business associates would gather for the finest catered foods and the best view of fireworks over the Potomac River.

  “Of course,” he said. “There’s nothing we’d like more.”

  She didn’t bother to call him on the lie. Instead, she let him turn on his heel, let him cross all the way to the office door. As he settled his hand on the knob, though, she called out his name. “Ethan, I have to warn you. If I find this girl wanting, if I think that she’s only trying to use you for your name or your money, I’ll follow through on my original plan. I can still step down from the board and donate all my shares to AFAA.”

  He turned back to meet her gaze, hazel eyes to hazel. “Of course you can, Grandmother. You’ll do whatever you have to do. Sloane and I will see you on the Fourth.”

  He left before she could get in the last word.

  Chapter Seven

  Ethan told himself that he didn’t need to worry. He’d attended Independence Day celebrations on the No Comment for years. He was used to his grandmother’s sly power plays, to the barbed comments she made, all in the name of family love. This year wouldn’t be any different.

  Except it was. This year, Sloane was with him.

  She looked stunning as she stood at the boat’s railing, the picture of health in a bright blue sundress. He had no idea what sort of fabric that thing was, or how a designer would describe the cut. All he could say was that the color set off the glow of her eyes, made her hair seem even darker in the brilliant late-afternoon sun. He came up beside her, handing over a glass of sparkling water before he leaned against the railing. “Compliments of the No Comment,” he said.

  She flashed a smil
e at him. “I’ve never been on a boat large enough to have a ‘below.’”

  “I’m sure Grandmother would love to show you around. Just brace yourself to answer a thousand questions in payment for the privilege.”

  She gave him a concerned look. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come, if you feel so strongly about her.”

  He just shook his head. There was a lot that Sloane had to learn about the Hartwell family. A lot that he should tell her. But not yet. Not now. Not while they were still waiting for news about the amnio, about the baby’s health. There’d be time enough to give her the full background on Grandmother and the old woman’s ridiculous, controlling demands.

  He smiled to ease the frown that was starting to settle onto Sloane’s lips. “You need to meet each other, and there’s no time like the present. I just wish that we didn’t have to stay on this boat until the fireworks display ends. There are better ways to spend a summer evening.”

  She quickly took a swallow of her drink in a fruitless attempt to tame the blush that leaped to her cheeks. Over the past month, Ethan had scrupulously honored their agreement; he’d never come close to pushing her beyond her comfort zone, sexually. He certainly wasted no time, though, teasing her, alluding to the things that he would do once her ban on bedroom play was lifted. Even now, he stared at her with an amused hazel gaze, taking careful note of the way she settled her ice-filled glass against the hot pulse point in her wrist. “Let’s go downstairs,” he said. When she raised her chin in surprise at his proposal, he laughed. “Grandmother is down there. She’ll hold court in the air-conditioning, until the sun sets.”

  “Well,” she said, trying to muster the composure that she knew he could destroy with a single wicked glance. “I wouldn’t want her to think I was afraid of her.”

  “Oh, she’ll never think that,” Ethan said.

  He slipped his fingers between hers easily, holding her hand as if they’d known each other for years. Sloane looked around, surprised to realize that so many people had joined them on the yacht’s deck. There must be thirty altogether, gathered in clusters of three and four. Sloane tilted her head back to look at the raised deck, where the captain was just beginning to maneuver the No Comment out of the marina.