The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (13 page)

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

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

“Her,”
Sloane said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why don't you come sit down?” She hadn't heard Ethan come up behind her. His voice was solicitous.

“I don't want to sit down,” she said. She realized that she was still angry with him. He had backed them into that impossible corner in Margaret's room, forced them into a conversation that should never have been started on board the
No Comment.

“Come below,” he whispered. “We can have some privacy there, in one of the bedrooms.”

“I will
not
go into a bedroom with you!” Her voice was louder than she'd planned. She darted a look around but, mercifully, no one seemed to have heard.

Ethan sighed and shifted his weight, resting his forearms on the railing. He couldn't say anything right. He would just have to wait for Sloane to change her mind. Wait for her to get over the peak of her anger.

The guests swirled in little pockets behind them, exclaiming as they found each other in the growing twilight. Waiters passed trays of bite-size desserts, along with after-dinner drinks. Grandmother finally made her appearance, raising a round of applause and carefully orchestrated fawning by the partygoers.

Throughout it all, Ethan stood beside Sloane, locked
into her silence, riveted by her fury. The worst part of it was that she looked so beautiful. Her profile was stark against the night sky. She held her chin high. A breeze caught a few stray tendrils of her hair.

Each breath carried her unique scent to him, the combination of her delicate skin and whatever soap or perfume or fragrance she wore. In the past month, he thought he'd grown accustomed to the gentle aroma, but now he found that it awoke his own senses, heated the pads of his fingers, scratched across the back of his throat. He longed to pull her close to him, to crush the crisp fabric of her dress beneath his needy hands, to absorb her essence through his palms.

The first fireworks startled her. A quick explosion, and a spatter of crimson and white, high in the sky above them. Sloane caught a yelp at the back of her throat, even as she realized what was happening. Even as she felt Ethan tense beside her.

A dozen more blasts followed in quick succession. The concussions were nearly deafening over the river, the sound echoing back toward the shower of light. Scarlet and silver, cobalt and emerald. The guests oohed and aahed over each display, catching their collective breath in astonishment at the beauty.

Sloane tilted her head back for a better view. Her eyes filled as she watched. It was so beautiful. The entire evening could have been so beautiful, everything about it. Instead, it had all been ruined by a stupid fight. Stupid, but necessary. Because Sloane knew that she was right.

A tear snaked from the corner of her eye, trailing into her hair. She wiped at it with her palm, hurried, embarrassed. Another followed, though, and another—she couldn't stop herself from crying.

“Sloane,” Ethan breathed, but she shook her head furiously.

Finally, with a grand finale that left her half-deaf, the fireworks display was over. The other guests cheered and clapped. Someone launched a chorus of “She's a Jolly Good Fellow,” and Margaret made a little speech, thanking them all for joining her, exclaiming that she could never ask for more than an enjoyable night with friends and loved ones. The boat's engine finally thrummed to life, and they made their slow way back to the marina, to the dock. To freedom.

Of course, Margaret was waiting at the head of the gangplank, bidding farewell to each guest. Sloane longed to slip past her, to huddle off the boat anonymously, lost in a group of strangers. Margaret, though, made a special point of reaching for her hand, of closing her aged, knotted fingers over the sparkling diamond that had given Sloane so much pleasure only a few hours before.

“I'm sorry that we didn't have a chance to chat more, dear,” Margaret said. Her voice was kind, and she waited for Sloane to meet her gaze. “I'm so glad that you came this evening.”

“It was lovely,” Sloane said mechanically. She was positive that Margaret was studying the remnant tracks of her tears.

Margaret reached out for her grandson's shoulders, pulling Ethan close in an awkward embrace. Sloane couldn't hear what the woman murmured, but she caught the urgency behind the words.

Ethan was astonished when his grandmother hissed, “Make this right.”

“I—” he started to protest, barely remembering to keep his voice down. How could he ever have worried
about Grandmother's health? She was as sturdy as an ox, pinning him with her agate eyes.

“Now,” she ordered. “Make this right.”

He shrugged and pulled away. Certainly Grandmother could issue her edicts. She'd been doing it her entire life. But Sloane wasn't some merger or acquisition. Sloane wasn't a government review board to be convinced about the safety and efficacy of a new treatment. Sloane wasn't an investor to be charmed into parting with millions of dollars.

Sloane was the woman he loved.

As soon as he thought the words, he knew that they were true. He should have realized it weeks before, when they had spoken together, laughed together, shared stories of their torn and tangled pasts.

It had taken arguing with her in front of Grandmother, though, hurting her in a way that he'd never intended. It had taken watching her standing at the boat's railing, pretending that she was fine, that their fight hadn't driven her to real tears…?.

Ethan had felt his own heart shred at her pain. They weren't playing some game, acting out some parts for Grandmother's benefit, for the investors and business partners invited to the party. This was reality. This mattered. This was life.

Sloane Davenport was the mother of his child, the woman that he loved. The woman he had hurt. And he didn't have the first clue about how to fix things.

The car was waiting for them at the end of the dock. Ordinarily, he would have been grateful for his driver, for the luxury of someone else to deal with the crowded streets, with the throng of other fireworks-viewers, everyone returning home after a long, hot summer evening. Tonight, though, Ethan regretted that he couldn't
get behind the wheel of the car himself. At least driving would have given him an excuse for the unending silence between them, the jagged stillness that sucked up oxygen like a dying fire.

Why was this so difficult? Why couldn't he just talk to Sloane? After all the words they'd shared, all the conversations they'd had, why was he struck mute now?

But he knew the reason. It kept repeating inside his skull. He loved Sloane. And he had no idea how to prove that to her.