The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (2 page)

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 Hartwell. 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.