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The Mogul's Maybe Marriage
Mindy Klasky


His grandmother’s ultimatum was that he marry, not become a dad.So when physician Ethan Hartwell proposes to the one woman he’s never forgotten, he gets a two-for-one deal – Sloane’s pregnant with his child! Now Ethan has to tell Sloane his darkest secret…and turn her ‘maybe’ into a ‘yes’!










“How far along are you?” Ethan asked, his tone deceptively mild.

“Ten weeks.” Sloane 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.




About the Author


MINDY KLASKY learned to read when her parents shoved a book in her hands and told her that she could travel anywhere in the world through stories. She never forgot that advice. These days, Mindy works and plays in a suburb of Washington, DC, where she lives with her family. In her spare time, Mindy knits, cooks and tries to tame the endless to-be-read shelf in her home library. You can visit Mindy at her website, www.mindyklasky. com.




The Mogul’s

Maybe Marriage


Mindy Klasky








www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my fellow Arent Fox summer associates—

who laughed with me as Sloane was born




Chapter One


Ethan Hartwell was not accustomed to waiting.

He glanced over in annoyance, not bothering to hide the action from the sour-faced assistant who guarded the inner office. His BlackBerry buzzed and he accepted another appointment for that afternoon. He forwarded a scheduling notice about his Seattle trip the following week.

Hartwell Genetics couldn’t afford to get left behind, not with domestic and international demand exploding for the company’s gene-based medicines.

If he was going to be kept waiting like a recalcitrant schoolboy outside the principal’s office, then he might as well get his homework done.

Another buzz. More email. Ethan cleared his throat to get the attention of the gray-haired Gorgon. “I’m going back to my office,” he said.

Before he could carry through on the threat, the door guard raised a talon to her ear. She nodded at whatever secret message she received, then leveled cold eyes toward Ethan before intoning, “You may go in now.”

Games. If he’d announced his decision to leave fifteen minutes earlier, then he would have been granted admittance that much sooner. He shoved his BlackBerry onto his hip and twitched the legs of his trousers into perfect place. For full effect, he shot the cuffs of his shirt, making sure that his wristwatch glinted in the overhead lights. He told himself that his deep breath was to complete the image, to cement the vision of Ethan Hartwell, M.D., MBA, third-generation president of Hartwell Genetics and the most eligible bachelor of Washington, D.C., for three years running.

In reality, he merely needed a moment to clear his head before he entered the inner sanctum.

The handle turned smoothly under his lean fingers, and the door glided open in silence. Ethan’s black wing-tips left deep impressions in the cream carpet as he crossed the room. He ignored the framed pictures on the wall, photographs taken with the President, with political and business leaders from throughout the civilized world. The United States Capitol was centered in the picture window behind the massive mahogany desk, as perfect as a movie backdrop. With the force of long habit, Ethan crossed behind that desk, approaching the imposing throne that housed the office’s lone occupant.

He bent at the waist and settled a faint kiss on a cheek that smelled of baby powder and lilacs. “Good morning, Grandmother,” Ethan said.

Margaret Hartwell’s eyes gleamed like agate chips as she waved him to one of her uncomfortable Louis XIV chairs. “Will you join me for a cup of tea?”

Ethan swallowed a sigh. It was faster to accept his grandmother’s hospitality than to argue with her. He poured with the ease of familiarity, placing a gleaming strainer across her china cup, dropping in two cubes of sugar, adding a generous dollop of milk. He took his own black, strong and bitter. Determined to conclude their conversation and get back to work, he said, “Grandmother—”

“I finished reading the newspaper this morning, before I came into the office,” she interrupted.

He, too, had skimmed the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times while his chauffeured car had been stuck in morning traffic. “The new treatment is performing well,” he said. “We should move on to stage-two trials next month.”

As if he needed to tell his grandmother about pharmaceutical development. As Hartwell Genetics’s former president and current chairman of the board, Margaret Hartwell chased down medical news like a ravenous greyhound. Maybe that was why she had the capacity to annoy him so much—they were too much alike: driven, determined and downright dogged about pursuing every last business lead.

“I’m not speaking about stage-two trials,” she said acerbically. “I was referring to the gossip page.”

Ethan raised one eyebrow. He and his grandmother might be united on the business front, but they were miles apart where his personal life was concerned. “Grandmother, we’ve had this discussion before. You know that I can’t control what the papers print.”

She settled her teacup in her saucer with a firm clink. “You can control the fodder you give those imbeciles. I’ve told you until I’m blue in the face—your actions have a direct effect on this company.”

He shoved his teacup away. “I hardly think that my drinking champagne on a hotel rooftop is going to influence our second quarter earnings.”

“She’s a showgirl, Ethan.”

He laughed and rose to his feet. “There haven’t been showgirls since you were a debutante, Grandmother. Natasha is an actress. And don’t worry. She flew back to California this morning.”

“You will not walk out of my office while I am talking to you!”

He shouldn’t have been surprised by the iron in his grandmother’s voice. He knew that he brought out the worst in her, and vice versa, for that matter. All of a sudden, he was an abandoned little boy again, being chastised by the only relative who had stuck around to raise him. He was the sixteen-year-old who had been expelled from Washington’s finest private school—again—for playing tricks with the headmaster’s public address system. He was the twenty-year-old who had been thrown off the college tennis team for sneaking his girlfriend into the tournament locker room. He was the twenty-seven-year-old who had celebrated receiving his medical degree and his business degree on the same day, only to crash his Porsche into the Tidal Basin.

He was the thirty-three-year-old corporate executive, standing before his chairman of the board.

“Ethan, enough is enough. Your parties and your women are bringing down this company. They’re distracting you. And they’re not even making you happy.” His grandmother gave him the flinty stare that had sealed a thousand legendary business deals. “Ethan, I want you married by no later than my birthday.”

He laughed.

“This isn’t a joke.” She leaned forward across her desk. All of a sudden, Ethan became aware of the deep lines beside her mouth, the bags beneath her eyes. Her fingers were knotted as she laid them flat against her gold-scrolled leather blotter. Did they tremble because she was angry with him? Or was something more going on? He barely resisted the urge to reach across her desk, to fold his fingers around the pulse point in her wrist, to measure her heart rate. Was she keeping track of her medication? Was she managing the high blood pressure?

“Grandmother,” he said, purposely striving for a soothing tone. “I’m a grown man. I’ll decide when it’s time to marry.”

“I wish I believed that.” Her voice quaked, spiking his own blood with a touch of true concern. “I’ve tried to be patient, Ethan, but I’m terrified that I’ll die without knowing our family will continue.” She raised one trembling hand to silence his automatic protest. “I know that you’re afraid. But we can test now. We can be absolutely certain that any child you father is spared the genetic mutation.”

He had never seen his grandmother cry before. Not when two grandchildren had died—Ethan’s siblings. Not when Ethan’s mourning parents had incinerated their marriage. Not when Grandmother had been left with the responsibility of managing the company that the family had originally founded to research an end to their long-kept medical secret. Not when she had buried her beloved husband of fifty-one years.

But she was crying now.

“You have a responsibility, Ethan. To the Hartwell family and to this company. To yourself. It’s time for you to settle down.” She must have read the automatic rebellion in his expression. She sat up straighter, staring at him with the hazel eyes that were the more benign manifestation of his Hartwell heritage. “And if you’re not willing to do that, then I’ll have no choice but to step down from the board and transfer my shares in Hartwell Genetics.”

Her shares. Enough stock to influence every major corporate decision. If someone else owned Grandmother’s interest, Ethan would be forced to fight, to keep the secret of his own genetic heritage. He’d be bound to waste countless hours cajoling along new business colleagues, educating them about the corporation’s diverse pharmaceutical initiatives, all the while keeping secret its one dear mission. Ethan could kiss every one of his short-term goals goodbye while he adjusted to the change. And under a new regime, his long-term plans might never coalesce.

“You don’t mean that,” he said.

“I do. I need to know that I’ve built something that will last, Ethan, something that will outlive me.” He heard every one of her seventy-nine years in her voice. “Ethan, I need to know that you can step up to your obligations. That you will guide Hartwell Genetics through its next fifty years. If you can’t prove that to me—if you’re not married by January fifth—then I’m celebrating eight decades by transferring my entire estate to the American Foundation for the Advancement of the Arts.”

AFAA. His grandmother’s longtime pet charity.

This was even worse than he’d thought a moment ago. AFAA had no interest in medicine. They would view a massive infusion of corporate stock as a conservative investment. They would do their best to challenge every decision Ethan made to expand the corporate mission, to bring Hartwell Genetics into new markets. They’d argue for safety and security and preservation of their newfound wealth, at all costs.

Ethan sighed. He’d escorted Grandmother to the foundation’s annual charity auction only a couple of months before, at the luxurious Eastern Hotel, the one with the bar that overlooked the Washington Monument.

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He’d bought a drink for the auction coordinator that night. A drink, and then a hastily arranged suite on the penthouse level of the hotel.

Sloane. Sloane Davenport.

He could still see Sloane’s delicate, self-conscious smile as she admitted that she’d never done anything like that before, never gone off with a man she’d just met. He had silenced her confession with a kiss, not willing to admit to himself just how much her innocence attracted him, how much her shyness drew him in.

Since the auction, he’d picked up the phone to call her half a dozen times, but he’d never followed through. He hadn’t wanted to hear regret when he identified himself. Hadn’t wanted to think about the conversation they’d shared in the dark, the talk that had gone on, sleepy and comfortable, long after their bodies were sated. Hadn’t wanted to remember waking up alone, with just a memory of her honeysuckle scent on the pillow.

He cleared his throat and shifted his weight, ordering his body to relax, to forget the only night that stood out from the past year’s slideshow of one-night stands. “AFAA,” he finally forced himself to say.

His grandmother’s eyes glittered as she tapped a thick manila folder on her desk. “I have the papers here, Ethan. Zach drew them up.”

Zach Crosby. Ethan’s best friend. His grandmother’s personal attorney.

Ethan turned on his heel and left, ignoring his grandmother’s sharp remonstration, ignoring her secretary’s petulant frown, ignoring the buzz of his BlackBerry. Seven months to find a bride. And he had absolutely no doubt that his grandmother would follow through on her threat if he failed. He was certain of that. She loved him, and she would do whatever she thought best to save him. Even if he didn’t want to be saved.

Sloane Davenport gasped as her computer screen flickered, giving one heart-stopping moment of blue-screen warning before it died. Damn! That was the third time today. And she had no way of knowing if her email had been sent before the stupid machine crashed. No way of knowing if her résumé was heading out toward a prospective new employer. No way of knowing if she might finally be making her way out of the mess that enveloped her.

She stood slowly, bracing her palms against the kitchen table before she folded her fingers into fists and rubbed the small of her back. The dull, throbbing pain had returned. She grimaced and picked up a saltine from her chipped plate. Nausea swirled through her belly, but she forced herself to chew slowly, to swallow an entire glass of water when she was done.

Two and a half months. She should be past the morning sickness any day now. That’s what the book said, the dog-eared volume that she kept on her coffee table like a family Bible.

She shrugged and reached for the stack of papers beside her computer. Bills. Fortunately, she kept her checkbook on paper. No chance for her ancient computer to ruin them.

Not that the curling slips of paper offered any great comfort. At least she’d managed to send her rent check on time. She glanced at the air conditioner that chugged along in the kitchen window of her tiny basement apartment. Her landlord covered utilities. No need to worry about electricity or water.

Student loans, though, were another matter. She’d sent off a tiny payment, along with a note explaining that she’d send more, as soon as she was able.

Like that was going to happen anytime soon. Expenses related to the baby had barely begun, and Sloane was already overwhelmed. Soon, she was going to have to buy some new clothes. She wasn’t showing yet, but it was only a matter of weeks. Her jeans were already snug in the waistband, and she’d left the button unfastened as she worked at her kitchen table.

She’d have to get some decent groceries, too, as soon as she could keep down more than crackers and ramen noodles. For now, she had to hope that her expensive prenatal vitamins were doing their job. She glared at the white bottle on the counter.

And she’d have to scrape together money for a doctor.

She’d fit in her first prenatal visit just before her insurance ran out. Two months had gone by, though, two visits that she owed herself, owed her baby. She tried to believe that she could wait until she had a new job, until she was insured, but as every day passed without her landing a new position, she became more and more afraid.

She rubbed her fingers across the thin fabric of her T-shirt, letting them curl over the tiny life that lurked inside. Would she have handled things differently with AFAA, if she’d known that she was pregnant?

Her cheeks flushed as she remembered taking the subway home from the Eastern that morning after the auction. She had tottered down the steps to her apartment, her feet pinched in unaccustomed high heels. Despite her exhaustion, despite the awkwardness of slipping out of the hotel suite unseen and unheard, despite the heart-catching memories from the night before that kept drowning her, she’d caught herself with a goofy smile on her face. She had sung out loud in the shower as she got ready for work. Silly songs. Love songs.

Oh, she knew that Ethan Hartwell didn’t love her. He couldn’t love her. He was famous and rich and the toast of the gossiping town.

But there had been something in his eyes when he’d come to stand beside her at the bar, where she’d granted herself a well-deserved break after managing the most successful fundraising auction in AFAA history. There’d been something in the set of his jaw as he gestured for the bartender to make her another vodka gimlet. Something in the curve of his lips as they bantered, as she flirted.

As she flirted…

Sloane sighed, remembering how easily the words had come to her, as if she were blessed by some daring goddess of romance. For once in her life, it had been simple to talk to a man, to tease him, to taunt. A little amazed, she’d watched Ethan lean close to her. She’d lowered her voice, bit her lip, dipped her head. When he’d settled a finger on her chin, raising her face to his, she’d felt the promise radiating from his hand. She’d registered the heat that had cascaded over her body in a sudden, astonishing wave.

She’d tasted whiskey on his lips, smoky liquor that swirled through the clean citrus tang of her own drink. Without conscious thought, she’d drunk in more of the flavor of his cocktail, of him. The touch of his tongue on hers had sent an electric tingle down her spine, and she’d shuddered, grateful for his firm hand on the small of her back, steadying her, drawing her closer.

One hour, another drink and much banter later, he’d turned away to the bartender, said something that she couldn’t quite catch. She’d seen the flash of a silver credit card pass between the men, and minutes later, the exchange of a plastic room key.

Another kiss had sealed his invitation, that one rocketing across the tender velvet of her mouth, curling through her belly, trembling into the vulnerable flesh behind her knees. She’d found some witty words to reply, and then she was grateful for the fiery hand that he cupped against her nape, for the scorching iron of his body next to hers as he led the way across the bar, to the elevator, to the penthouse suite that he had so effortlessly secured.

His ease had given her the confidence to do all the things she wanted to do. She didn’t need to wonder if she should say this, if she should do that. Instead, she’d trusted herself. She’d trusted him. For one perfect night, she was more comfortable than she’d ever been with a man. It was more than just the sex, more than the amazing things he made her body feel. They had actually talked, hour after hour, lying next to each other in the dark, sharing stories of their very different pasts. Everything just felt…right.

In the morning, though, she’d snuck out before he was awake. That’s what women did—at least according to movies, according to the newspapers, to the tabloids that feasted on men like Bachelor of the Year Ethan Hart-well. She’d snuck out, gone home to shower, made it in to the office no more than thirty minutes late.

Thirty minutes that her boss had spent waiting for her. Thirty minutes that he’d spent building a furious argument.

Didn’t Sloane know that AFAA had an image to uphold? AFAA project coordinators could not fraternize with prominent playboy bachelors in public bars where donors—discerning donors, conservative donors—could see them. AFAA project coordinators certainly could not slink off with their conquests, leaving nothing to the imagination about their destination. AFAA project coordinators could never threaten the long-term success of an organization as traditional and staid and sedate as the foundation—not when offended donors threatened to rescind their pledged funds because of the immoral behavior of AFAA staff.

AFAA project coordinators could be replaced without a second’s hesitation.

Even now, weeks later, Sloane grimaced at the memory.

Before she could collect her notes and head to the library with its working computer terminal, her doorbell rang, making her jump in surprise. She never had visitors. When she looked through the peephole, she nearly sank to the floor in disbelief.

Ethan Hartwell. As if she had summoned him with her recollection of that one night.

That was absurd, though. She’d thought about that night almost nonstop since March. Mere thought had never brought Ethan to her door before.

Heart pounding, she ran her fingers through her hair. Thank goodness she’d taken a shower that morning, brushed her teeth, even remembered to floss. She glanced down at her trim navy T-shirt, took a second to fiddle with the button on her jeans, sucking in her breath to camouflage her incipient baby bump. He couldn’t tell, could he? Not yet. No one could, she reasoned with herself.

The doorbell rang again, long and insistent. She set her jaw against the demand. What did Ethan Hartwell want with her? Why had he come now? She thought about not answering, about letting him go away. He could phone her, if he really needed her. Her number was listed.

But then, she remembered his hazel eyes, the ones that had first snagged her attention at the Eastern. She remembered his rich voice, reverberating to the marrow of her bones. She remembered his broad palms, curving around her hips, pulling her closer… .

She threw open the double locks, just as he was raising his fist to knock.

“Ethan,” she said, proud that her voice was steady, bright, with just the perfect brush of surprise.

“Sloane.” He lowered his hand to his side. His eyes flared as he took in her face, as if he were confirming a memory. He licked his lips, and then he produced the same devastating smile that had completely sunk her back at the hotel. “May I come in?”

Silently, she stepped to the side. She caught his scent as he strode past her, something like pine needles under moonlight, something utterly, completely male. She waited for a familiar twist of nausea to leap up at the aroma, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that her belly remained calm.

Not that her body didn’t react to him. Her lips tingled as she sucked in a steadying breath. Her heart raced enough that she half expected him to turn around, to glare at her chest, disturbed by the noise. The thought of his eyes on her chest only stirred her more. She bit her lip as her nipples tightened into pearls, and she crossed her arms over the navy jersey of her shirt.

Faking a tiny cough, she asked, “Can I get you something to drink?” She couldn’t make him coffee. She didn’t trust her rebellious stomach around the smell as it brewed. “Some tea?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m fine.” He strode to her couch as if he owned the place.

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?

Her stomach growled as she read Ethan’s note again. For the first time in days, she was actually hungry. A burger with cheese and bacon sounded wonderful. And for once, she didn’t have to worry about whether she could afford an extra large order of fries.

Ethan forbade himself to check the time once again. Either she would show up or she wouldn’t, and staring at his watch wasn’t going to change anything.

The musicians were warming up in the orchestra pit. Violins chased each other in discordant flurries. Horns blared repeated trills of notes. Ethan tapped his program against the arm of his chair, wishing that the theater box was large enough for him to pace.

Opting for the best alternative under the circumstances, he stood. He shot his cuffs and glanced at his wrist again, before he remembered that he wasn’t going to check the time.

And then the door to the box opened. For one moment, he could only see the dark shadows of the antechamber. Then, a tentative hand reached out, creamy flesh with perfect crimson nails that sent a reflexive shiver down his spine. Sloane followed the promise of that hand, gliding into the light, a dizzying contrast of sophisticated innocence, of steely vulnerability, all enfolded in a demure, floor-length cobalt gown.

He murmured her name, unable to manage more.

She glanced at the half-dozen chairs arrayed in the box, and the shadow of a frown darted across her lips. “Who else is coming?”

“No one,” he said. “I wanted to make sure we had some privacy. The box is ours for tonight.”

She blushed and looked away from him, obviously nervous. That surprised him. She’d chosen to come here, to accept his peace offering. And she certainly knew what he was capable of, what they were capable of together. He could recall perfectly how she had responded to his touch, how she had trembled when he traced the line of her collarbone with the tip of his tongue. He could remember the instant that she shifted her hips beneath him, that she matched her thighs to his. He could see the arch of her throat as her breathing quickened, as he guided them closer to the edge of their first delicious peak.

And yet there was more to discover with this woman. More to learn about her. About him with her. That notion was strangely arousing. Hoping to put her at ease, he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

And he was.

Her hair was piled on top of her head in a simple twist, held in place by some invisible woman’s magic. The sleek lines made the column of her neck impossibly long. Impossibly vulnerable. His fingers itched to follow the path of the chaste fabric V across her chest. Instead, he settled for gesturing toward her chair, offering her the best seat in the box.

As she stepped forward, he saw that the modest front of her dress lied. The back was cut low, swooping to bare the twin wings of her shoulder blades, the polished marble of her spine. Awareness of that body, of that perfect flesh, shot through him like an electric wire. She took her seat gracefully, apparently unaware of the havoc she was wreaking inside him, the sudden blow she had dealt his composure.

Sloane had known that Ethan would be in a tuxedo. Nevertheless, the formal suit tugged at her memories, catapulted her back to that night at the Eastern. All too easily, she could see his bow tie stripped loose at his throat. She could picture the tiny onyx studs sprung open down his chest, his cuff links freed to reveal the tight muscles of his forearms.

With perfect recall, she could see those satin-striped trousers pooled on the floor, as if he’d just shed them.

But that wasn’t what this night was about. That wasn’t why she’d agreed to meet Ethan Hartwell here, at the Kennedy Center. She needed to remember her focus. She needed to remember her goal. She needed to remember that her baby deserved medical care and protection, safety and security, things that she could not afford to provide.

Sloane was grateful she’d taken the time to pin up her hair and paint her nails. And she was thrilled that she could still fit into the improbably perfect dress that she’d found years before, at Goodwill, in Chicago.

She’d never been to the Kennedy Center before, had only seen it on television. The rich crimson of the carpet made her feel like a princess. The gold accents on the light fixtures picked out the blond in Ethan’s hair, highlighting the unruly strands that made him look like a slightly naughty boy. She blinked, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she pictured him balanced over her, nothing at all like a boy, supporting himself on his wiry fingers as he whispered her name.

Sudden longing clutched at her belly. Fortunately, the lights dimmed at that very moment, and she was spared the need to say something, to explain. Instead, she filled her lungs with cool, calming air. She leaned back in her chair as the music began to play. She ordered herself to forget about the man who sat beside her, the monumental force that radiated awareness at her side.

The curtain rose.

The music and the dance carried her away, transformed her. She ached with longing as Prince Siegfried rebelled against his forced marriage, as he fell in love with his forbidden princess. She laughed as the swans frolicked, boastfully completing their duets and trios. She shivered as the evil Odile appeared, as the lovers’ eternal happiness was threatened.

And when it was over, when the curtain fell, Sloane leaped to her feet. The audience joined her, roaring its approval, calling for the dancers again and again. A giant spotlight flooded the center of the stage, and the main dancers stepped out from behind the curtain, sinking into graceful bows, collapsing into flawless curtsies.

“Ethan,” she said, when the house lights finally came up. “That was incredible!”

She was incredible.

Ethan had stood with the rest of the audience, and he’d added his applause for the dancers. The entire time, though, he was watching Sloane. His gaze had settled on her waist. There was no sign yet of the child that she carried. His child.

He wanted that baby to be healthy. He needed it to be healthy.

He brushed his fingers against his breast pocket, reassuring himself that the velvet box was still safely hidden away. He could follow through on this. He had to follow through. The stakes had gone up exponentially back in Sloane’s grimy little apartment. This was no longer a sparring match with his grandmother. This was something more. So much more.

Sloane was biting her lip as she turned her back on the now-curtained stage. He was startled to see tear tracks on her cheeks, silver trails that glistened in the theater’s golden light.

He closed the distance between them, settling a hand just beneath her elbow. “What’s wrong?”

Sloane raised her hand to her cheek and was somehow surprised when her fingers came away wet. “I—” she started to say, but her emotions were still perilously close to the surface.

Ethan produced a flawless handkerchief from his pocket, scarcely taking a moment to shake it out before he handed it to her. She smiled her thanks, not ready to trust words yet, and she dabbed the cloth beneath her eyes, careful not to touch her mascara. Thank heavens she’d splurged on the waterproof stuff.

Her emotions had been jangled ever since that night at the Eastern. She slammed her mind closed to the memories that cascaded over her, to the image of sheets as white as the handkerchief she now clutched.

“I thought that we could head up to the roof terrace,” Ethan said, smoothly filling the silence, as if she’d been conversing like a normal human being. “The breeze is always nice in June.”

He waited until she nodded, and then he gestured to the door, settling one hand against the small of her back. She could feel the heat of his touch through her dress. Somehow, his presence calmed her, gave her strength.

The audience had dispersed, eager to find their way to the garage, to their cars, to their homes. Ethan, though, led her to a deserted bank of elevators. He punched the call button with authority, as if he owned the place. The doors opened immediately, and Sloane imagined that the car had been waiting just for them.

Upstairs, in the rooftop lounge, a kaleidoscope of people spun through a huge white gallery. Waiters hovered with trays of champagne and miniature desserts, ready with a constant supply of napkins. The gala, Sloane remembered belatedly. These people must be donors to the Kennedy Center, to the Bolshoi dance company. Wealthy donors, like the ones who had been so offended by her going off with Ethan after the AFAA auction.

Clearly unaware of her flash of guilty memory, Ethan guided her through the crowd with silent determination. A handful of men glanced at them, nodding like solemn butlers. A half-dozen women were more aggressive, flocking toward Ethan like exotic butterflies, turning from chattering conversation to raise glasses of sparkling wine, to smile open invitations.

One dared to separate herself from the crowd, slinking forward in a crimson dress that looked like woven sin. “Ethan,” she cooed, stepping directly in front of him and spreading her talons across his chest. “You promised that you’d call after Chase’s party last week. You still owe me dessert.” She licked her pouty lips, making it clear exactly what she intended to eat.

Sloane’s fingers tightened around the handkerchief she still held. Here it was. The moment when everything changed. The moment when Ethan went back to his playboy ways, to the behavior that made him the darling of every gossip columnist this side of the Rockies.

Ethan, though, merely slid his hand around Sloane’s waist, pulling her close in a way that left no doubt about his intent. “I’m sorry, Elaine,” he said. “I’ve been busy.”

The woman’s face twisted from seduction to cold anger. “Ellen,” she spat. “My name is Ellen.”

Ethan shrugged, using the motion to pull Sloane even closer. “Ellen,” he repeated, as if he were accepting some minor point of clarification in a business meeting. The woman spluttered, obviously lost for words, and then Ethan nodded. “Good evening,” he said, concluding the conversation with perfect courtesy.

Three steps farther on, a photographer materialized from nowhere. “Mr. Hartwell,” he said. “Something for the Washington Banner?”

“No comment,” Ethan snarled, striding forward with a long enough gait that Sloane had to skip three short steps to catch up.

The photographer looked surprised, then angry. He scurried in front of them and took a half-dozen photos, letting his flash spawn a dizzying array of bright white spots. Ethan stepped forward, his shoulders squaring, but the photographer hopped off before the situation could escalate.

Sloane grabbed for Ethan’s arm, as much for support while her vision cleared as to calm him down. No one else approached them before they reached the twin glass doors that led to the outdoor terrace. “Something to drink?” he asked, before they could escape.

Sloane nodded.

“Go ahead, then. I’ll be out in a moment.” He stalked toward the bar before she could change her mind, before she could beg him to stay beside her.

She stepped onto the terrace alone. The June night was balmy, and she stared at the moonlit landscape. This was the beautiful Washington, the vibrant one. Her basement apartment, with its dim light and clunky TV, was a lifetime away from this grace and elegance. She relaxed a bit, watching the golden lights of a boat moving silently up the Potomac River, toward the wealthy enclave of Georgetown. Everything was golden here—lights and laughter and endless, glowing potential.

The doors opened behind her, releasing a clamor from the party within. Sloane tensed at the noise, or at the presence of the man who glided up to her side. Ethan didn’t speak as he passed her a glass, a champagne flute. She caught a hint of lime amid the tiny bubbles, and a single sip confirmed that he’d brought her sparkling water. She was grateful that he’d thought of the baby.

He kept a highball glass for himself. His wrist tensed, and he swirled ice cubes in some amber liquor. Scotch, she remembered from the Eastern. The finest single malt the bar could serve. She remembered the smoky echo on his tongue, and her breath caught at the back of her throat.

“Thank you,” he said, staring across the water.

“For what?” She was astonished.

“For coming here tonight. For trusting me that much.”

She’d trusted him a lot more, back at the Eastern. She’d trusted him the way she’d never trusted another man. But in the past three days, as she’d thought about his offer, about their future, she’d realized that she needed to give him more than just her body. As crazy as it seemed, she needed to give him her future. The future of their child.

She held her glass against the pulse point in her right wrist. She wished that she had the courage to reach for his drink, for the ice cubes that she longed to sacrifice against the fever he lit inside her blood. She wasn’t going to acknowledge that heat. She couldn’t. This conversation wasn’t about that sort of satisfaction.

So far, so good, Ethan thought.

She wasn’t running away from him. She hadn’t been frightened off by that bird-brained idiot, Elaine.

And Ethan hadn’t wasted too much time back inside. Stepping away from the bar, he’d been cornered by Zach Crosby, who had raised an eyebrow at Ethan’s two glasses. “You work fast, my man. Who’s tonight’s lucky lady?”

“Who’s asking? My best friend? Or my grandmother’s attorney?”

A frown had clouded Zach’s face. “You know I can’t talk to you about that. I can tell you that I advised her against drawing up the papers, though. No hard feelings?”

Ethan had sighed. Zach had been placed in an impossible position. Margaret Hartwell was his biggest client, by far. Besides, the men’s friendship had survived a lot worse, from elementary school escapades to college pranks. “No hard feelings,” he’d said grudgingly.

“So you’ll introduce me to the woman of the hour? Give me a chance to warn her about you?”

“Absolutely not.” Ethan had smiled, but he’d continued walking toward the door, toward the balcony where Sloane waited.

“Hey!” Zach had called after him. “What about the silent auction?”

Damn. Zach was in charge of the ballet fundraiser. Ethan had already promised to place a bid, to make a sizable donation. “Put me down for something. You know my limit.”

Zach had laughed, and Ethan had escaped to the terrace.

Now, he watched Sloane sip from her champagne flute. Her throat barely rippled as she swallowed. He wanted to trace the liquid with his tongue, to edge aside the dark V that shielded her breasts.

She felt his attention on her. She’d never had any man so aware of her, so focused on her every move. It made her feel…treasured. Protected. Bold enough to say, “What’s this all about, Ethan?”

“What do you mean?” A caged wariness flashed into his hazel eyes.

She set her champagne flute on the ground at her feet, as if she could distance herself from the perfect night, from the old dreams that had spun awake as the dancers twirled upon the stage. “I mean, the view is beautiful, and the ballet was gorgeous, and I really appreciate your bringing me here.” She let the brightness fade from her voice. “But why do you want to marry me? You’re not exactly the type to settle down. We spent one night together.”

“It was a damned good night,” he growled.

The heat behind his words kindled a slow fire inside her, and she had to concentrate to say, “I’ve read about you, Ethan, over and over again, in all the papers. You’ve had nights like that before. You’ve been with lots of other women, but I’ve never heard of you proposing to one of them.”

The simple truth was that not one of those other women had been anything like Sloane. Ethan had thought long and hard since leaving her apartment three days before. Something had broken through his usual reserve to make him say those terrifying two words. Something had driven him to speak out. Marry me.

He’d tried to shrug it off, to tell himself that he was merely overreacting to his grandmother’s absurd demand. His grandmother was being manipulative. She was pushing his buttons. She was overstepping her bounds.

But he had a lifetime of practice ignoring his grandmother.

Besides, only a fool would completely ignore a trusted confidante. And as infuriating as Grandmother could be, she had raised him. She knew him better than any person in the entire world, better even than Zach. Ethan had seen the honest concern on his grandmother’s face; he had recognized the heartsick worry that had softened her to tears when she spoke her mind about his womanizing. If she truly believed that his spending mindless time with a shifting parade of women made him a weaker businessman—a lesser man—then he had to give some credence to what she said. He had to accept the business argument.

And who better to settle down with than the woman who stood beside him? Sloane was real. She had true dreams, actual goals. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel her nestled beside him in bed at the Eastern, her body as spent as his but her mind still restless, still intent on sharing, on telling him what she wanted to build, how she wanted to make the world a better place.

Not one of them has been like you. He longed to emphasize his words with a touch. He could see the vulnerable curve of Sloane’s jaw. Just trace it with a finger…turn her toward him, tilt her head, slant her lips beneath his own.

But he couldn’t touch her now. This had to be about more than simply the lust of his body for hers.

He forced himself to swallow a raw mouthful of Scotch, to substitute one heat with another.

Sloane filled the silence that had stretched out for far too long, making herself say the painful words, the difficult admission that she’d thought about for three straight days. “We had a single night, Ethan. I’m no different than those other women are. I’m not going to hold you to some promise that you made on the spur of the moment. I’m not going to use our baby to force you to do anything you don’t really want to do.” There. She’d said it. She’d voiced her greatest fear. Whatever Ethan said now, she would know that she had been true to herself. True to her child.

As if in answer, he set his glass next to hers before reaching inside the pocket of his jacket. In the darkness of the terrace, it took a moment to decipher what he took out. The black velvet nearly disappeared into the night. He offered it to her on his open palm, his fingers extended as if he were trying to gentle a wild animal.

She plucked the box from his hand before she was fully aware of what it was. The hinge was stiff; one curious touch threw the box open to the moonlight and the stars. She caught her breath as she saw the most stunning diamond ring she’d ever imagined. An emerald cut, perfect in its simplicity. A platinum band. Two carats, at least.

“Ethan,” she breathed, half-afraid that the ring would disappear as she broke its magic spell.

When he’d blurted out his proposal on Tuesday, she hadn’t really believed him. She couldn’t. Things like that didn’t happen to her, had never happened to her.

But a diamond ring was different. A diamond ring, offered to her here under the stars, meant that he’d thought this whole thing through. He meant it.

If she passed the paternity test, a nasty voice whispered at the back of her mind. But of course she would pass it. And he’d be a fool to take her word that the baby was his, without medical proof. She’d already seen the swarm of women waiting for his attention back there in the gallery. He had to protect himself.

The negative thought, though, fed her other insecurities. How could she be certain that he would stay with her? Sure, he said that she was different, that the night they’d shared was special. And, in a way, it was. It had resulted in a child. But the baby was one truth, placed in a balance against all the other truths she had learned, all the articles she’d forced herself to read. Ethan Hartwell was not the kind of man who settled down. He wasn’t the kind of man who married.

But he was the kind of man who could pay for visits to an obstetrician. And for a pediatrician, after that. And for all the other things that Sloane desired for her baby. For Ethan’s baby. For their child together.

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!”




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