The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

by Mindy Klasky

  “Ethan!” a voice called out. Sloane turned around to find Zach Crosby approaching. The two men shook hands, and Zach leaned in to settle a quick kiss on Sloane’s cheek. “I’m glad that both of you could make it,” Zach said, directing a concerned glance at Sloane. “Ethan said you weren’t feeling well earlier this week?”

  She resisted the urge to settle a protective hand over her belly. Instead, she smiled at the honest worry on the man’s face. No reason to fill him in on the amnio test, on the nerve-jangling wait for results. “I’m fine, now.”

  “Ethan told me about Daisy. I was so sorry to hear about her condition. I certainly never intended to cause any problems for you.”

  Sloane made herself smile again, hoping to ease the earnest frown on Zach’s face. “You didn’t cause the problems. Sometimes these things just happen. No one’s to blame.” She glanced at Ethan, hoping that he’d say something to smooth things over. He didn’t oblige, and she fought the urge to chide him.

  At least Zach seemed to miss the momentary tension between them. “Thanks for your understanding,” he said. “Hey, did Ethan tell you about the Fourth of July when we brought firecrackers on board the No Comment? We were thirteen, and we thought we were in charge of the universe.”

  She laughed at the energy in Zach’s voice, at the image of two mischievous boys, wreaking havoc on the boat’s deck. “I think he forgot to mention that one.”

  “Zach—” Ethan warned, but there was no deterring his best friend.

  “Ethan bought them in the first place, but it was my idea to bring them on board.”

  “I don’t think Sloane wants to hear—” Ethan started to complain, but there was resigned laughter behind his words.

  “Oh, no,” Sloane protested. “I’m very interested in this. Go on, Zach. Tell me more.”

  “Ethan figured out how to rig them under the starboard railing. He wanted to see what would happen if all the guests ran to one side of the boat at the same time.”

  “It was a study in physics,” Ethan said piously. “Newton’s third law. Every action causes an equal and opposite reaction.”

  “That’s not what your grandmother said when she caught us.”

  “My grandmother didn’t appreciate the finer points of the scientific method.”

  Zach’s eyes sparkled. “She appreciated free labor, in any case. It took us three whole days of summer vacation to scrub down the deck after the party. The worst part, though, was that she insisted on checking our pockets for the next three years, whenever we got anywhere near the boat.”

  Sloane was pleased to hear Ethan laugh at the memory. To hear him talk about his childhood, there had been so much that was dark, so much pain. It was a revelation to discover that Ethan actually had some good memories.

  “What do you think of Margaret?” Zach asked Sloane.

  “Actually, I haven’t really met her yet. Just shaken her hand at the AFAA gala and thanked her for coming. I’m sure she doesn’t remember me at all.”

  Ethan said, “We were just heading below.”

  Zach nodded, directing a warning to Sloane. “Don’t believe everything he tells you. Margaret Hartwell isn’t really a tyrant. It’s been years since she had anyone flogged on board the No Comment.”

  “Enough!” Ethan exclaimed in mock exasperation, and then he said to Sloane, “Shall we?” He settled a hand on her hip and pulled her away with a tantalizing hint of possession.

  He glanced quickly at Sloane before he led the way down the stairs. She’d had the good sense to wear flat sandals—no chance that she’d lose her footing on the narrow steps. Nevertheless, he felt anxious each time she settled her feet. He wished that he could gather her into his arms, that he could carry her through the passage ahead. Of course, if his hands were anywhere near her bare flesh, he and Sloane might not make it as far as Grandmother’s sitting room. He just might wander into one of the bedrooms, by “mistake.”

  The stairs negotiated, Sloane came to stand beside him. They entered the dragon’s lair together.

  As he had expected, Margaret Hartwell was sitting on her favorite throne, the massive armchair that faced the doorway of the elegantly appointed room. She must have come fresh from the hairdresser that morning; he could still smell the hairspray that held her white aura in place. She wore a classic summer suit, all in navy. Her fingernails were painted the same orange-red that she’d worn forever, perfectly applied and a single shade too bright.

  “Ethan, dear,” she said, tilting her face for him to kiss. He was pleased to see some color in her face, and she looked a little less fatigued than she had earlier in the week.

  “Grandmother.” He brushed his lips against her cheek. “May I present Sloane Davenport? Sloane, this is my grandmother, Margaret Hartwell.”

  He brought Sloane forward, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his grandmother’s formality, at her turning a simple meeting into an audience with a queen.

  For one insane moment, Sloane wondered if she was supposed to curtsy. There was something about the awkward way Ethan was holding himself, the stiffness that jammed his spine, that turned him into a man she’d never seen before.

  Margaret, though, offered her hand and a smile, the very image of a perfect hostess. “Sloane, dear. How very nice to meet you. I must say, you look very familiar to me…”

  Sloane hoped that her own fingers weren’t trembling too much as she shook hands. “We’ve met before, very briefly. At the AFAA Spring Gala.”

  “Of course!” Mrs. Hartwell exclaimed. “Ethan told me that you are no longer with the foundation. He said that you’re doing something related to…child psychology?”

  Sloane flashed an uncertain glance at Ethan. How much had he told Mrs. Hartwell about Sloane’s ignominious dismissal from the woman’s pet charity? She tried to sound confident as she said, “I’m developing a computerized art therapy system, to help children adjust to foster care.”

  Margaret nodded with something that looked like approval. “That sounds quite complicated.”

  “It is,” Sloane said, “but there’s a real need out there.”

  “I would love to hear more about your work. Have you looked into market distribution, anything like that?”

  Ethan finally stepped forward, shattering his own awkward stance with an exasperated sigh. “Grandmother, we didn’t come here expecting to be grilled by a venture capitalist.”

  “I don’t mind—” Sloane started to say, but Mrs. Hartwell cut her off.

  “You’re quite right, Ethan. We shouldn’t mix business with pleasure. Could you be a dear and get me a drink? A gin and tonic with—”

  “Extra ice and three limes.” Sloane heard the bored familiarity in Ethan’s tone, and she expected him to smile indulgently. His face was grim, though, and he hesitated before heading over to the stairs. Sloane nodded at him, trying to convey that she would be fine, that she could handle further chat with the woman who was going to be her…grandmother-in-law?

  As soon as Ethan was out of sight, Margaret patted the chair beside her. “Please, dear. Sit down. I imagine you’re still getting tired easily? I assumed that you were well past morning sickness, or I’d never have suggested that Ethan bring you onto the No Comment.”

  Sloane tried not to look surprised. She parsed the tone of the old woman’s words, fearful that she’d hear disdain or disapproval. Neither was present, though. Just good old-fashioned solicitude for a guest. “I—thank you,” she said, sitting down. “I’ve felt much better the past few weeks.”

  “I trust that my grandson is taking good care of you?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Hartwell.”

  The old woman tsked. “Now doesn’t that sound stuffy. And ‘Grandmother’ sounds like something out of a British drama, even coming from Ethan. Why don’t we try ‘Margaret.’”

  “Margaret,” Sloane said, smiling. “Yes, Margaret, Ethan has been quite kind to me.”

  “Kind.” Margaret tilted her head to one side, like a magpie ev
aluating a particularly sparkly treasure. “I see that he bought you a lovely ring.”

  Self-conscious, Sloane extended her hand. Margaret grasped her fingers lightly, turning her wrist to get a better view. “It was such a surprise,” Sloane confided. “I never expected anything so beautiful.” She stopped, realizing that Margaret might interpret her words as a criticism of Ethan. “I mean, Ethan has wonderful taste. Of course, he’d choose a beautiful ring. I just meant…”

  She trailed off. What was she going to say? Her engagement to Ethan had been a business arrangement? A way for both of them to provide for the well-being of their child, the baby that neither of them had anticipated on that breath-stealing night at the Eastern?

  No. Margaret definitely did not need to know anything about the Eastern.

  The old woman released her hand. “My grandson seems quite taken with you, dear. I hope that you won’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen him with any number of women over the years, squiring them around town. He’s never been quite as…attentive as he is to you. And, of course, he never actually proposed to any of the others.”

  Sloane heard the unspoken questions behind Margaret’s statements. The older woman was honestly perplexed to find her grandson engaged. She was fishing for details. Sloane obliged by saying, “He proposed to me on the balcony of the Kennedy Center.”

  That wasn’t quite the truth. Ethan had first proposed in the living room of her ratty basement apartment. But the proposal that mattered, the proposal that she’d accepted, had been at the famous landmark.

  “I trust my grandson had the good sense to treat you to some romantic show first.”

  Sloane blushed, as if she were speaking with a girlfriend. “It was the ballet gala,” she said shyly.

  Margaret nodded, as if she were seeing the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle coalesce into a single coherent design. “That was Zach’s event?” Sloane nodded, and Margaret said, “Poor Zach told me about the silent auction. He feels absolutely terrible about your puppy.”

  “He shouldn’t,” Sloane insisted. “Daisy is adorable, and she’s doing fine, for now. We’ll have some hard times ahead, but doesn’t every pet owner?”

  Margaret raised her eyebrows, as if Sloane had just imparted brilliant words of wisdom. “I suspect that Ethan doesn’t feel quite the same way.”

  Before Sloane could reply, Ethan’s voice came from the foot of the stairs. “Feel the same way about what?”

  Ethan forced himself to keep his voice light, but he was annoyed. There’d been three people in front of him at the bar upstairs, and there hadn’t been any polite way to force himself to the front of the line. He’d hated leaving Sloane alone here, hated subjecting her to one of his grandmother’s famous inquisition sessions.

  “Nothing, darling,” Grandmother said. “We were just talking about your new puppy.”

  Every muscle in his body tightened. That creature was the last thing he wanted to talk about in front of Grandmother. Well, he amended, suddenly flashing on the memory of Sloane submitting to the amnio test in Philip Morton’s office, the second to last thing. “What about it?” he asked flatly.

  “Her,” Sloane said.

  “Excuse me?” He glanced between the two women, wondering what he was missing. “What about her,” Sloane said. “Daisy isn’t an it, she’s a her.”

  The intensity in Sloane’s voice astonished him. He’d heard that tone before—when she spoke about the Hope Project—but he couldn’t fathom what made her feel so strongly about the damned animal.

  He glanced at Grandmother to see if she understood where Sloane’s argument was coming from, and he immediately recognized the expression on her face. It was a small, wry grin, a raised-eyebrow expression that had always made him feel like he was being called on the carpet. She’d used it when he was a boy, when he was forced to face the consequences of some misbehavior, demerits or detention or some more drastic punishment. She still brought it out in business meetings, when she thought that a competitor was getting the better of him. She had leveled it against him in personal discussions, when one of his past indiscretions came home to roost.

  He hated that look. And, even more, he hated the fact that Sloane was seeing it now.

  He harnessed all the dispassion of his medical degree, all the cool logic that he’d learned in business school, and he said, “Her. If that’s what you prefer.”

  Sloane bristled at the concession. Still, she might have let everything drop, if she hadn’t caught the glance that Margaret shot at her. Ethan’s grandmother was actually inviting Sloane to challenge him. Practically demanding it. And Sloane had to admit, it felt good to say, “You haven’t touched that puppy since we got the diagnosis.”

  Ethan glared at Margaret, as if he were aware that she was some sort of instigator in this conversation. Sloane didn’t care, though. This confrontation had been weeks in coming. “You think I’m an idiot for getting attached to her.”

  “I don’t think you’re an idiot!” His voice shook with some emotion. “And I don’t think that we should be having this conversation here. Now.” He sparked a meaningful glance toward Grandmother.

  “Don’t mind me,” the meddlesome old woman said. Had the two of them worked this out, in the little time that he’d been upstairs? Had they banded together to force him into this?

  Ethan scowled at Margaret, barely wiping the expression from his face before he turned back to Sloane. “I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he repeated. “I just don’t want you to be hurt.”

  “You don’t get to decide that! Besides, I can’t be hurt by loving something that loves me back, the way that Daisy does!”

  Ethan raised his hands in a placating gesture. “You don’t understand what I’m saying.”

  Sloane’s fingers clutched at the crisp cotton that covered her belly. She raised her chin and chilled her voice until it met the temperature of Margaret’s gin and tonic. “Ethan Hartwell, I understand every single word that you’re saying.”

  It was all there. She knew that Daisy frightened him because they were ultimately going to lose her. She knew that the baby terrified him even more. The baby, and the decision that they might have to make. The decision that she would never, ever accept.

  Ethan’s throat worked. He started to reply to Sloane’s indignant protest, seemed to decide that it was actually impossible to continue talking in front of Margaret. He stopped. Tried another approach. Stopped again. It was the first time she’d ever seen him without an easy answer, without some glib reply. At last, he gave up speaking to her at all. Instead, he glared at Margaret and said, “I hope you’re happy now, Grandmother.”

  The old woman sighed. “No, darling. I’m not happy at all.” Sloane heard the endless sorrow beneath her words—disappointment at the current situation certainly, but more than that. Sloane could only imagine how many fights there had been between the two of them, how many disagreements when a headstrong boy, now an iron-willed man, had vented his frustrations with life’s unfairness.

  Ethan snorted in disgust. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”

  Sloane cut him off. “Don’t you dare take this out on her!”

  “She—”

  “She asked a simple question,” Sloane said, feeling the fragile hold she had on her own emotions start to fray. “She asked about the night you proposed to me. About the gala, and Daisy. Good things, Ethan. Nothing that hurt.”

  Ethan stared at her, hearing the frustration that she dumped on the last word. And suddenly, he realized that he should have trusted her more. He should have believed that Sloane could devote herself to Daisy, that she would be able to cope with the puppy’s ultimate demise. Sloane was stronger than he’d ever given her credit for, infinitely more resilient.

  “—so pleased to have made your acquaintance,” she was saying, extending her hand to his grandmother. “I’m afraid I need some fresh air.”

  “Dear,” Grandmother started to say, but Sloane was already halfway across the ro
om. Ethan started after her, only coming to a stop at the sword-sharp note in his grandmother’s voice, calling his name.

  He took his time turning around, using the pause to freeze his voice. “Yes, Grandmother.”

  “What were you thinking?” she said. “All these years, chasing after anything in a skirt, and you haven’t learned the first thing about how a woman’s mind works?”

  “Sloane has nothing to do with my past, Grandmother!”

  “And if you’re not careful, she’ll have nothing to do with your future. It’s the Fourth of July, Ethan. You have six months to be married. Don’t make anymore mistakes.”

  He started to tell her that he knew the date. He started to tell her that he hadn’t made a mistake, that he’d acted in Sloane’s best interest. He started to tell her that he was through with manipulation, with games.

  But he couldn’t waste the time. He had to find Sloane.

  She had found a space on the railing, toward the back of the boat. The other guests had swarmed the luxurious buffet tables, taking advantage of the festive red, white and blue plates that encouraged everyone to indulge in gourmet picnic food. Apparently, everyone was accustomed to the notion that Margaret didn’t attend her own party. Or at least that she arrived late.

  Sloane didn’t really care. The only thing she wanted was to get off the boat. She glanced up at the sky. The color was deepening to indigo in the east. Another fifteen minutes, maybe, before the sun actually set. An hour after that, before the fireworks were over. And yet another hour to get back to the dock.

  As if she knew what she was going to do then. She certainly couldn’t face going home with Ethan. Not when she had finally dared to call him on his greatest fear. Not when she had challenged him in front of his grandmother.

  Maybe she could rent a hotel room downtown. As if anything would be available over the holiday weekend. She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair, suddenly feeling wilted by the July heat.