The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

скачать книгу бесплатно


She looked down at the stunning engagement ring. Her hands started to shake, hard enough that she was afraid she would drop the velvet box. With a comforting smile, Ethan rescued the ring from its midnight bed. He snapped the box closed, then made it disappear in the pocket of his trousers. His burning fingers grasped hers, steadying her, pouring some iron behind her trembling knees. Carefully, like a surgeon performing a delicate operation, he slid the band onto the ring finger of her left hand.

It fit perfectly. The metal melted into her flesh, as if it had always been a piece of her. The diamond collected all the light in the heavens above, casting it back at her dazed eyes in a thousand tiny flashes.

Ethan thought that the ring looked even better on her hand than he had imagined when he’d selected it at the jewelers. Watching the wonder spread across her face, the wash of joy that echoed the pure physical bliss they’d shared at the Eastern, Ethan folded his hands around hers. She blinked as he covered the brilliance of the ring, almost as if he were breaking some spell. He stepped closer to her, tucking her captured hand against the pleated front of his shirt. He felt the flutter of her pleasure through his palm, measured the solid drumbeat of his own heart through her flesh.

“Sloane Davenport,” he said, his voice a husky whisper. “Will you be my wife?”

This time her tears remained unshed, glistening in the night. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I will.”

He folded his arms around her. Her bare back seared through his sleeves. He had to hold her, had to feel her, had to crush her against the entire length of his body, so that he could truly believe that this was happening, that she was real. His lips found hers, and he drank deeply, swallowing her incredulous laughter as his tongue demanded more. He closed his teeth against her lower lip with a surge of passion, barely heeding the internal rein that reminded him to be careful, to protect her, to spare the woman who bore his child.

“Ethan,” she gasped, finally tearing away from the pressure of his kiss. Her lips felt bruised, swollen, pulsing with the hot blood that he had sucked into them. For a dozen heartbeats, he fought to reclaim her mouth, pressed himself into her, seeking to slake his apparently never-ending thirst.

She couldn’t let him, though. She couldn’t let herself forget her decision, the why and the wherefore of it. She had to be strong, and true to her baby. “Ethan,” she said again, finally managing to lay her palm along his jaw. Her left palm. With the diamond ring winking beside his midnight stubble. “I’ll marry you, but there’s one condition.”

“Yes,” he said immediately, the single word a promise and a plea.

She bit back a smile. “No.” She shook her head. “You need to listen to me. You need to decide.”

His fingers clenched on her hips, but she held his gaze steadily. She had to say this. Had to make sure that her heart knew precisely what she was doing and why she was doing it. She had to make everything absolutely clear.

If she had learned nothing else working on the Hope Project, she had learned this: Children deserved to be with families that loved them. Families that functioned healthily, without parental angst, without adult trials and tribulations constantly undermining stability. All of the art projects in the world could never create what every baby should have from birth: a stable, loving home.

And Sloane couldn’t think of anything more likely to turn a relationship upside down than sex. Sex with Ethan had been wonderful, more fulfilling than she’d ever dreamed. But it had made her lose sight of her goals. Sleeping with Ethan had cost her a job. She wasn’t going to let a physical relationship take away more—not when her child was at risk.

“If I marry you, Ethan, it can’t be because of what happened at the Eastern. It can’t be because of…this.” She looked down, managing to convey both their bodies, the crumpled clothes between them. “It can’t be about…about sex. I won’t go to bed with you until after we’re married. We both need that break. That separation. We both need to be certain that we’re getting married for the right reason—for our baby.”

He understood what she was doing. Despite her finding the courage to meet him tonight, she was unnerved by their passion, by the animal need that had drawn them together, that hummed between them, even now, like the echo of a gong.

But that was why he’d been drawn to her in the first place, wasn’t it? The freshness of her innocence. The honesty that she’d brought to bed with her. That was what had intrigued him, made him realize that she was different from every other woman he’d ever had. It had been a pure bonus to discover that there was more to Sloane than a beautiful face, a gorgeous body. Her passion for her work had been like a decadent dessert after a sating meal—stunning because it was unnecessary. Unexpected.

If only Sloane still wanted him, after she learned the truth about his Hartwell genes. If only she kept her promise to marry him after the fourteenth week, after the testing that would disclose whether Ethan was as cursed as his own parents had been, twice. He couldn’t let himself think about that, though. Couldn’t think about losing Sloane.

Better to play the role she was expecting. Better to pretend that he knew there would always be a happy ending. Better to give in to the passion that he could barely restrain when she was anywhere near.

He raised her wrist to his mouth. His lips hovered above her trembling pulse, barely touching her throbbing flesh. He heard the moan that she caught at the back of her throat, and then he darted out his tongue to taste her. He clamped his fingers around her arm when she jumped away in surprise, and he used the motion to pull her close to his chest.

“You’ll change your mind,” he said. “After a few weeks? Months? How long do you think it will take to plan a wedding?” He leaned down and whispered against her lips, “I promise. You will change your mind.”

She shook her head, her eyes gone round. “I won’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“You will,” he said. “You already have. And when you admit that, you’ll have to tell me. You’ll have to ask for what you truly want.”

She shook her head, her throat working, but no words rose to the surface.

He pulled back, settling for planting one last kiss in the palm of her hand. “Remember this,” he said. “Remember now. You will.”

Chapter Three

When Sloane awoke, her bedroom was dark, even though the clock said 9:27 a.m. She sighed and rolled onto her back. It must be raining outside. She usually got some glimmer of light from the front room.

She flicked on the bedside lamp, and her gaze was snagged by the ring on her finger. Collapsing against her pillow, she turned her wrist in the wan yellow light. It was real, then. Not some fevered dream.

Ethan had proposed to her. And she had accepted.

It had seemed like magic the night before, edged in fog, lost in impossibility. Following Ethan’s smooth certainty that she would keep their relationship physical, that she would yield to the powerful temptation he provided every time he was within a hundred yards, Sloane had insisted on returning home alone. She’d needed to make that point. Needed to prove something to him. To herself.

With a tolerant smile, Ethan had acquiesced, instructing his driver to ferry her through the city streets. She supposed that he’d taken a cab to his own home. Sloane had walked from the dark Town Car to her front door, certain that she was going to wake up at any moment, positive that she was going to discover this was all some strange dream. But the ring was still on her finger, even in the gloomy light of a rainy summer morning. She was engaged to be married.

Sloane Hartwell.

Mrs. Ethan Hartwell.

She tested the names against the brittle edge of her emotions. Getting engaged was supposed to be one of the highlights of her life. She was supposed to call her mother, her girlfriends. Well, no mother to call, that was for sure. And no real girlfriends, either. Unless she wanted to count the librarian who helped out with the public access computers. As a child, she had never brought friends home to her foster families; life had been too chaotic. As an adult, she had been focused on juggling college and work, on fighting for the Hope Project to become a reality. While Sloane had plenty of acquaintances, she was poorer than she liked to admit when it came to true friends.

She sighed and settled her ringed hand on her belly. “Well, little one. We’ll just have to be happy for each other, won’t we?”

As if in answer, her stomach rumbled, reminding Sloane that she’d been too nervous to eat dinner the night before. She threw her feet over the side of her bed and tugged on her ratty terry-cloth bathrobe. The fabric had rubbed completely bare across the elbows, but there was never anyone around to notice, so she hadn’t bothered to replace it.

Stumbling into the kitchen, Sloane filled the teakettle and put it on the stove. It took three tries before the burner lit; she’d have to call her landlord to have him fix the silly thing. Again. She glanced at the minute patch of window left visible beside the hulking air conditioner. She’d been right—it was raining, the steady tropical downpour that often hit D.C. in the summer.

As she waited for the water to boil, she heard a rustle outside her front door. Her landlord’s cat had probably gotten trapped in the alcove, driven to seek a dry corner in the midst of the torrential rain. The sweet calico had sought refuge from summer storms before. Sloane could let her nap on the couch until the storm passed. Sloane braced herself to get her feet wet as she completed Operation Cat Rescue.

“Sloane!”

“Ms. Davenport!”

“Sloane Davenport!”

The alcove was filled with people, with the flash of cameras, with a half-dozen microphones. Sloane stared at them, slack jawed. Where had they come from? And what could they possibly want with her?

One voice soared above the others, as harsh as pumice. “Sloane, show us your ring! Tell us how you caught the most eligible guy in town!”

Reflexively, she clutched at her robe, pulling it across her belly. Even as she glanced down, frantic to make sure that she was covered, that no one could see her faded pink nightgown, she realized that she might be sending some sort of signal to the press, telegraphing the presence of the baby. She dropped the terry, as if it had burned her fingers.

All the while, cameras continued to flash, and the crowd jostled for position on the three narrow steps. Sloane’s throat started to close; she couldn’t draw a full breath. She didn’t want these people here, didn’t want them anywhere near her.

A terrific flash of lightning, brighter even than the cameras in her face, made her squeeze her eyes closed. Instinct made her hunch her shoulders close to her ears, waiting for the inevitable boom of thunder. When it came, it drowned out the reporters’ chatter. All of a sudden, she remembered the way Ethan had handled the photographer the night before. She took a deep breath, determined to make her voice as steely as possible. “No comment,” she said.

She closed the door before anyone could protest, before someone could tell her that she didn’t have the right to refuse to talk. The teakettle chose that moment to reach its boiling point, the shriek of its whistle sounding like a train racing toward her. She rescued the kettle before it could deafen her permanently, setting it onto a cold burner before she crept back to the front door.

Leaning against the wooden panels, she could hear the horde shifting outside. They called her name a half-dozen times, as if she might change her mind and come back out to play. There was only one thing to do. It took her a couple of minutes to find Ethan’s business card. She had stashed it in the folder with her working papers for the Hope Project. Her fingers were trembling by the time she punched in the ten digits.

“Ethan Hartwell’s office,” a woman answered on the first ring.

Sloane gritted her teeth. Given the fact that it was a Saturday morning, she had hoped Ethan might answer his own phone. Feeling absurd, she said, “This is Sloane Davenport, calling for Mr. Hartwell.” What sort of woman called her fiancé Mr. Anything?

“I’ll see if Mr. Hartwell is in his office.” The secretary didn’t give the faintest hint of recognizing her name. Classical music filled the silence, and Sloane fought the urge to hang up.

“Sloane.” Ethan’s voice was warm as honey. “Good morning.” He managed to make the standard greeting sound seductive.

That unspoken promise in his tone shattered her taut emotions. “Ethan!” His name turned into a sob.

“What’s wrong?” His demand was immediate. “Sloane, are you all right? Is it the baby?”

“No,” she gasped, shocked into realizing what a fright she was giving him. “No, I’m sorry. I…it’s just the people. Paparazzi. They’re outside. I heard them out there, thought it was my landlord’s cat. I shouldn’t have opened the door. They won’t leave me alone!”