The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

She’d lived in the apartment for nearly three years. In all that time, she’d never realized how small the space really was, how little air there was in the room. She watched his gaze dart toward the diminutive kitchen, to the tiny table with its mismatched pair of chairs, to the narrow counter. He glanced toward her bedroom, and she had a sudden vision of him literally sweeping her off her feet, carrying her through the doorway, easing her onto the double bed’s crumpled sheets.

She flexed her fingers and reminded herself to breathe. Gesturing at the living room, she said, “Not quite the Eastern, is it?”

He ignored her question. “You left the foundation.”

She bridled at his tone. “I didn’t think I needed your permission to change jobs.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “I tried to reach you there, yesterday morning. All they’d say was that you left a couple of months ago. I guess the auction was your last fling?”

She flushed. He had no way of knowing that the night they’d spent together was special to her. Precious, in a way that words could never make him understand. Her vulnerability rasped an undertone of challenge across her voice. “Why do you care? Why were you calling me, anyway?”

In the dim light, his hazel eyes looked black. “Your name came up in conversation. I wondered how you were doing.”

“My name came up,” she said, fighting a tangle of disbelief and excitement. “After two and half months? Just like that?” She hated the fact that her voice shook on the last word.

He closed the distance between them, settling a hand on her arm. She knew that she should pull away, keep a safe distance. But she didn’t entirely trust her suddenly trembling legs.

“Let’s try this again,” he said. “Sit down.” He must have heard the note of command beneath his words, because he inclined his head and gestured toward the sofa as if it were something elegant, something worthy of royalty. “Please.”

She took a seat, pretending that the action was her own idea, even as she was grateful for the support against her back. She longed to cradle one of the throw pillows in her lap, to hide behind the cushion. Instead, she folded her hands across her belly, trying to summon a calm that she could not feel past her pounding heart. As he sat beside her, she tried to think of something to say, anything, some everyday conversational gambit that would pass for normal between two consenting adults.

He spoke before she did, though, his tone deceptively mild. “How far along are you?”

She clutched at her T-shirt. “How did you know?”

“The vitamins.” He nodded toward her kitchen counter, toward the white plastic bottle that announced its contents in bright orange letters. “The book.” She blushed as his gaze fell on the coffee table. He insisted, “How many weeks?”

“Ten.” She watched him closely while he flashed through the math, waiting to see anger light his eyes, denial tighten his jaw. She didn’t see either of those emotions, though. Instead, there was something else, something she had no idea how to read.

He set his shoulders. “Is it mine?”

She nodded, suddenly unable to find words. Hormones, she thought as tears sprang to her eyes. Stupid pregnancy hormones.

Wonderful, Ethan thought. That made two women he’d driven to tears that week.

He hadn’t expected this. Not once, in all the times that he’d thought of Sloane, had he imagined that their one night together had led to a baby. A baby that was half Hartwell genes. Half a potential for such a disaster that his breath came short.

They’d used protection, of course. He wasn’t an idiot. But he was a doctor, and he knew the statistics. Condoms failed, three percent of the time. Three percent, and after a lifetime of luck, of practice, of protection, he’d just lost the lottery.

He had come to Sloane that morning with mixed emotions, determined to maintain his independence, even as he gave lip service to his grandmother’s edict. He had thought that he and Sloane could get to know each other better. After all, in the past year, she’d been the only woman he’d thought about once he’d left her bed. The only woman he’d ever wanted to confide something in, confide everything in. Which, of course, had made him vow never to contact her again.

Except now he needed a woman. He needed a wife. And Sloane had been the first person to cross his mind when Grandmother issued her ultimatum.

He had fooled himself, thinking that everything would be simple. They could go out on a few proper dates. Stay out of bed, difficult as that might prove to be. Even as Ethan had built his plan, he’d been wryly amused by the thought that Sloane worked at AFAA. If, after a month or two of testing the waters, he found that he and Sloane truly were compatible, then she would be the perfect ironic tool to rein in his grandmother’s plan. He would put a ring on Sloane’s finger, and AFAA would lose the potential for a controlling interest in Hartwell Genetics.

Except the stakes had just been raised. Astronomically. And Sloane didn’t have the least idea what was going on. She had no concept of what heartbreak her future might bear. Ethan set his jaw. There were tests, as his grandmother had reminded him. Tests that could be run as soon as Sloane reached her fourteenth week.

He’d let the silence stretch out too long between them. He had to know. “You’re alone here?”

Again, she nodded. He tried to identify the emotions that swirled into his relief at that saving grace: pleasure, coupled with a surprisingly fierce possessiveness. She was alone. Unattached, he knew they both meant.

“Good,” he growled.

The single word sparked a fire beneath Sloane’s heart. Sure, she’d dreamed about sharing her news with him. She’d written silly scenes inside her head, of Ethan finding her a few years from now, after she had built a career, had proved to herself and the rest of the world that she was strong and independent. She had let herself fill in the impossible details—she would be playing in the park with their baby, their happy and carefree and perfect child, when Ethan just happened to walk by, taking a stroll on a brilliant spring morning.

But in her heart of hearts, she had known that could never happen. Ethan would never be there for her, would never share this baby with her. They’d only spent one night together, and they’d taken every precaution to make sure that she would never end up in this precise condition.

Besides, she’d done her research after the night they’d spent together, following up on all the gossip that she had vaguely recalled when she saw him at the Eastern bar. She had forced herself to read the articles about his playboy lifestyle, the stream of women in his life, the flirtations that splashed across the society page.

Sloane’s daydreams had to be impossible. Right?

“Sloane,” he said, breaking into her swirling thoughts. “I should have been in touch before. I know this sounds sudden, but I’ve been thinking about you since that night. A lot. When I woke and you had left, I figured that I would accept what you obviously wanted.”

He reached out and settled his broad hand across her belly. The tips of his fingers ignited tiny fires beneath her shirt, and she caught her breath in pleasure and surprise. He flexed his wrist, using the motion to glide near, to close the distance between them. “But everything is different now.”

His mouth on hers was unexpected. She felt the power within him, a coil of energy. Her body reacted before her mind could parcel out a well-reasoned response. She leaned toward him, drawn to his touch like a starving woman to a feast. His tongue traced the line between her lips, and she yielded without any conscious decision. Her fingers fluttered from the shelter of her lap, tangled in his hair, pulled him closer to her.

The motion of her hands seemed to free his own; his fingers were suddenly hot as they slipped beneath her T-shirt, searing as they danced across her still-flat belly. He cupped one sensitive breast with his hand, rasping the lace of her bra against her flesh. Her body had never been so responsive, and she gasped in surprise. She folded her fingers over his. “Just a moment.”

Ethan dropped his head to her shoulder, cradling his cheek against the pulse that pounded by her ear.

This was madness. He’d come here, planning on being the perfect gentleman. He’d intended to wind back the clock, to give them both time to get to know each other, space to explore their true potential together. He’d meant to build on the amazing foundation they’d established back at the Eastern, that endless night of talking and loving and talking some more.

He couldn’t help himself, though. Even knowing that she was carrying his baby. Especially knowing that.

He tensed his arms and pushed himself away just enough that he could look into her eyes, into a blue so deep that he felt like he was drowning. He spoke before he even knew that he was going to say the words. “Sloane. Marry me.”

“What?” Sloane couldn’t believe that she had heard him right. He reached out to trace a finger along her lips, but she turned her head aside. How could he have read her daydreams? How could he have known the secret stories that she told herself, just as she was drifting off to sleep?

“Marry me,” he said again, as if those two words made all the sense in the world.

He couldn’t mean it.

Sure, she’d imagined him proposing, once he found out the truth about their single night together. She’d pictured red roses and dry champagne, a sparkling diamond ring fresh out of some teenager’s fantasy.

But in her dreams, they had known each other for longer before he proposed. They had indulged in a thousand conversations, countless discoveries of every last thing they had in common. They had filled days —and nights—with laughter, with secrets. They had built a flawless base for their future. He had left behind his reputation for womanizing, finally content to stay with one true…love?

That was all a wonderful dream. But dreams never did come true. Certainly not her dreams, not the dreams of a foster kid who’d spent a lifetime being shifted from unloving home to unloving home. Her old defensiveness kicked in just in time to save her, to remind her that she had to protect herself and her baby, that no one else would ever do that as well as she could. She tugged her shirt back into place, willing her flesh to stop tingling. Roughening her voice, she demanded, “Are you insane?”

His eyes flashed as he drew himself to his feet, and she tried to read the expression on his face. Guilt. Or embarrassment. “I’m trying to do the right thing,” he said, his voice strained.

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to think that this could really be happening to her. But seriously. Ethan Hartwell? Hartwell Genetics billionaire? Bachelor of the Year?

Her silence seemed to feed something within him, something angry and hard. His jaw tightened. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a sleek wallet. Two fingers scissored out a business card, a perfect white rectangle. He crossed to her kitchen table, and she tried to read what he was thinking from the tense lines of his back.

His eyes were hooded when he turned around to face her. “Think about it, Sloane. I want to do what’s right. A paternity test, and then a proper wedding. You won’t get a better offer.” He didn’t wait for her to reply. Instead, he let himself out the door, closing it with a crisp finality.

He truly must be nuts. One minute, he was the astonishing, charming man she’d met at the Eastern, the man who had convinced her to spend the night with him, all because of his easy smile, because of the instant kinship that had sparked between them.

The next minute, though, he was a cold professional. A doctor and a businessman, driving a hard corporate bargain. Demanding a paternity test! He didn’t believe her. He thought that someone else could be the father, that she made a habit of picking up random men in hotel bars.

She’d show him. She’d take that business card and tear it into a hundred pieces. She’d flush it down the toilet. She’d grind it up in the garbage disposal. She stormed into the tiny kitchen.

Her tirade was cut short, though, drowned by the sight that met her astonished eyes.

Ethan’s business card was centered on her dead laptop. Beneath it were five crisp hundred-dollar bills.

Five hundred dollars. More money than she’d seen since AFAA had kicked her out the door. Money that Ethan had no obligation to leave. Money that he could have made conditional, could have held out to demand her submission.

In one heartbeat, Sloane’s anger turned to shame. Really, what reason did Ethan have to believe her, about paternity or anything else?

Sure, they’d shared the most intimate night two people could share. She was carrying a baby as proof. But had she found the courage to contact him in the intervening ten weeks? Had she summoned the internal strength to reach out to her baby’s father, to tell him the truth? What if Ethan hadn’t come to her that morning? How much longer would he have gone on, not knowing? Weeks? Months? Years?

All things considered, Ethan had actually reacted quite well.

What had he just said? He wanted to do what was right. Even after she had shut him out. Even after she had kept him from learning the truth. His first instinct had been to take care of her. To take care of their baby. He’d acted nothing like the playboy she’d read about, nothing like the man-about-town who was splashed across the gossip sheets.

Tenderness blossomed inside Sloane’s chest, unfolding like a snow-white rosebud. There was something between them, some emotion stronger than all the halftruths, deeper than all the avoidance and uncertainty.

The corners of her lips turned up as she heard his earnest tone. Marry me.

Could he really mean it? Did she dare say yes?

She didn’t have any model in her past for marriage. She hadn’t grown up with a happy mother and father, with the sort of easy family life that she dreamed about after watching movies, after reading books. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to trust someone enough to want to spend the rest of her life with him.

To love someone that much.

Oh, it was far too soon to say that she loved Ethan. She knew that. But she could say that she was powerfully drawn to him. That he made her feel safe. Protected. And, more than that, he made her feel desirable. Desired. He made her feel more alive than she ever had before.

Biting her lip, Sloane picked up the five crisp bills and folded them lengthwise, creasing them between her thumb and index finger. The sleek business card continued to glint its challenge from the table’s surface.

Did she have the courage to make the phone call? Did she have the strength to reach out to Ethan, to tell him what she was thinking? After a lifetime of tamping down any strong emotion, of shutting down her feelings to protect herself, could she possibly take the next step?

Chapter Two

He’d made a complete mess of that.

From the instant that Ethan settled into the back of his chauffeured Town Car, he knew that he’d made a horrible mistake.

But something about Sloane made him lose his famous business composure, softened his infinitely sharp entrepreneurial edge. “Marry me.” Where the hell had that come from? The words had been out of his mouth before he could think how abrupt they would sound to Sloane. He’d been filled with the thought of Sloane carrying his child. He’d been captivated by the notion that all of this was meant to be—the one incredible night they’d spent together, the pregnancy that had resulted. His grandmother’s ultimatum.

Fresh from his grandmother’s office the day before, Ethan had phoned AFAA, only to find that Sloane had left the organization. His next call had been to his private investigator. In less than twenty-four hours, Ethan knew that Sloane had been fired. At least he had her home address. And a credit report that told him she was in dire need of assistance. Only one piece of data had been missing—the pregnancy…

Ethan’s plan had made so much sense. Tweak his grandmother and her ridiculous notions of marital propriety, at the same time that he figured out if there really was something there with Sloane.

But all those calculations had flown out the window when he’d actually seen Sloane standing in the doorway. When he’d looked into those ocean eyes, acknowledged the flash of surprise as she greeted him. The hint of uncertainty. The sudden flicker of arousal that beckoned to his own scarcely banked flames. He’d watched the blush paint her cheeks when he stepped inside the apartment, when she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide her body’s blatant response to him.

And that was before he’d realized that she was pregnant.

Marry me. He’d said it, just like that. Out of the blue, without any prelude, any explanation whatsoever. He hadn’t even taken the time to tell her that she wasn’t just one of his flings, that she was different. He hadn’t told her that they had connected on some level that he’d always thought was imaginary. Their midnight conversation had been the sort of thing that women read about in their pink-and-lace books, watched in their silly damp-handkerchief movies. It couldn’t be real.

But it was.

Even now, he could remember every word they’d shared. He’d told her about Hartwell Genetics, about how he wanted the company to continue growing, to change the world. How he longed to help millions with the cures his empire was developing. How he loved the challenge, the struggle, the fierce competition in the often-ruthless business world.

And she’d told him her own dreams. What did she call it? The Hope Project, the website she wanted to build. Art therapy. Foster kids. He’d been truly touched by her unwavering determination, by her certainty that she could make a difference.

He couldn’t go back now and reduce all that to nothing. He couldn’t admit that his grandmother had ordered him to take a wife. And he definitely couldn’t tell her the real reason for his demand, for the so-called paternity test. He’d never told anyone about the family curse, about the brother and sister who had each died before their third birthday.

No. He’d proposed, and then he’d left his ugly cash lying on the table. As if he could buy her. As if he could make Sloane do whatever he wanted her to do.

He swore, wondering how a man who was a proven genius in the business world could make such a spectacular mess out of his personal life. There had to be a way to make Sloane understand. A way to take everything back. To start over again.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a steadying breath. If this were a business deal going sour, he’d figure out a way to reset the discussions, to return to square one. He would offer up an olive branch. He pushed a single button on his BlackBerry, summoning his assistant.

He already had the beginnings of a plan… .

The package was leaning against the door when Sloane got back from the library. She had forced herself to get out of the apartment, to take a break from the jumble of hope and confusion that she felt every time she glanced at Ethan’s business card. The last time she had acted rashly where he was concerned; now, she was determined to think, to make decisions with her brain, instead of with her heart.

That was the plan she’d made as she had stared at the library’s public access terminal, resisting the urge to call up articles about Ethan, his company, his philanthropic efforts. His hard-partying ways.

As much as she wanted to tell Ethan everything she was thinking, everything she was feeling, she needed to slow things down. Think things through. She needed to remember that she wasn’t making decisions just for herself anymore. There was the baby to think about. There was a reason—the best reason—not to be impulsive.

She had to be certain that Ethan was truly more than the socializing playboy she had read about in the paper. She had to know that he had shared more with her than he had with the other women whose names were tied to his in the newspaper. She had to force herself to look past her—admit it!—infatuation, her utter physical attraction to him.

Returning home, she spotted the envelope immediately. She recognized the Hartwell Genetics logo on the address label. Her heart started pounding, but she forced herself to unlock her front door, to pour herself a drink of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator and sit down at the kitchen table. She thought about returning the envelope unopened. She could just write “return to sender” and drop it in the mailbox, couldn’t she?

Except that he hadn’t sent it through the mail. There wasn’t a postmark. He’d had it hand-delivered.

Taking a fortifying breath, she slid her fingers beneath the flap.

“Sloane,” the note said. Even though she’d never seen his writing before, she could picture his fingers curled around a pen, slashing out the letters on the heavy white paper. “Give me another chance? E.” A ticket was nestled inside the folds of paper.

Swan Lake, the Bolshoi Ballet, opening gala for the dance season at the Kennedy Center. Friday night.

She sank back in the hard chair. What was she getting herself into?

But that wasn’t really the question, was it? The question was what had she gotten herself into? Two and a half months before, when she’d given in to the magnetic power of the man she’d met at the Eastern, when she’d let herself be drawn into the thrumming, driving force that had risen between them like a river overflowing its banks.

She laid her hand across her belly, across the child that grew inside her.

Sure, she could tell him that she had other plans for Friday night. She could send back the ticket. After all, she was healthy and happy, and she already loved her baby with a sharp fierceness.

But what, exactly, was she going to do, long-term? How was she going to raise this child?

Marry me.

Independence was important to her. It was the one thing that she had always carried with her, the one certainty she had clung to, no matter what had happened in her turbulent childhood, in her confused adolescence. She had built a life for herself, built a dream. Selfreliance had made her the woman that she was today.

Marry me.

She’d scoured job sites every day since leaving the foundation, but there weren’t a lot of paying opportunities for psychologists focusing on art therapy for foster kids. That was why she’d ended up at AFAA as a project coordinator in the first place. How much longer would it take for her to find something? How much longer would her meager savings hold out?

Even if she spent the five hundred dollars that he’d left, even if she accepted the money as a gift and not an insult.

Marry me.

He couldn’t mean it. He had to have spoken out of surprise, the shock at discovering he was going to be a father. Shock. But why hadn’t Sloane told him? What had she been proving to herself? To him? That she didn’t need him? That she didn’t need anyone? Once again, she saw the earnest look in his eyes as he proposed to her, his solemn hazel gaze as he turned his own life upside down. He had not hesitated an instant. He had reached out to her with all his strength, all the certainty that had sparked off him at the Eastern during that fateful night. She could learn to depend on that strength. She could learn to bask in it.

Marry me.

She was crazy to even consider it. Crazier than he’d been to offer. But what better option did she have for her baby? How else could she give her child the comfort, stability and security it deserved?

She stared at the gleaming ticket. What could it hurt, going to the ballet? What did she have to lose?