The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (20 page)

She'd thought that she could not find release again, not so soon after the utter dissolution of her body. He worked his magic, though, as if he'd known her flesh forever; he tightened the muscles of her belly, of her thighs. He filled her inner channel, drawing her closer, deeper, further inside an aching tunnel of need. One long stroke, deeper than any before. Another. One last thrust, and she was shuddering, toppling over a cliff of pure, rolling sensation, clenching every muscle in her body before opening up in blinding release.

He saw the wonder in her eyes as she reached her cliff, saw the moment just before he let her go, saw the instant that her body was flooded with exquisite freedom. He rode out the storm beneath him, giving her every last instant of pleasure, willing himself to hold back, to deliver more, to share every heartbeat that he could.

When the storm was finally fading, though, she shifted her hips, jolting him to a new level of awareness. He had restrained himself for so long that only the slightest movement was necessary to hurtle him toward his own edge. Catching a single ragged breath, he pulled back, nearly deserting the heaven of her ready
core. Then, he plunged deep inside her, one last thrust unlocking all of his reserve, freeing him to fill her.

He nearly broke his own rule then, nearly closed his eyes, but the sparkling joy on Sloane's face kept him fully aware. He clutched her shoulders as his power pulsed out of him, drawing her closer, closer, never losing the lifeline of her gaze.

She held him until the end, overcome by the pure physicality of the life force that they shared. At last, he collapsed beside her, his breath as rapid as if he'd run a marathon. She kissed him, letting her lips tremble against his. She pulled his arm around her, relishing the weight, the power, the unbroken security.

She knew that they would be together now. They would follow through with the mechanics of marriage, with a license, with vows. But they had more than that. They had the power of true love, of shared destiny. They had kindled a new life, a new person, to symbolize their joined and perfect love.

Sighing, she burrowed close to his side. And then, they slept.

E
than watched with pride as Sloane adjusted Emma's blanket. The baby didn't stir, even though she was the centerpiece of attention.

“Ready, Gran?” he asked, turning to Margaret Hartwell.

“Ready,” she affirmed. The photographer swooped into action, moving in with his camera, directing the matriarch as no other man dared to do. He ordered the proud great-grandmother to turn her head, to tilt her chin, to gaze down at the infant in her arms.

Ethan stepped back, awed at how readily the old tyrant complied. Sloane was watching, a smile on her lips. He settled his arm around her waist, drawing her in close to his side. Sloane sighed and said, “I can't believe how good she's being.”

“Gran always did rise to the occasion,” he said, with purposeful misunderstanding.

“Ethan!” Sloane whirled toward him in disapproval, but settled for a quick kiss as reprimand.

Other photos had already been taken, one formal composition, with Ethan and Sloane together, looking down at their perfect child. Another, with Gran holding the baby, while Ethan and Sloane gazed down from behind her thronelike chair. A series of Sloane holding a wakeful Emma, maternal joy radiating with a purity so brilliant it had captured Ethan's breath and he'd needed to look away. A portrait of the entire family, including Daisy, who had sat at perfect canine attention, through a half-dozen camera flashes.

Sloane watched as the photographer turned Margaret to another angle, focused his soft floodlights to drive away shadows. She whispered to Ethan, “I can't believe how many he's taking! It's been hours!”

He smiled indulgently. “Not as long as he would have taken to capture our wedding, if you'd let me give you a real ceremony.”

She caught her lip between her teeth at his teasing tone. They'd never had this conversation; it hadn't seemed necessary at any point in the past four and a half months, since they'd emerged from the Eastern Hotel and gone directly to a justice of the peace in Virginia. “Do you really care? Did you really want a full wedding?”

He laughed, loudly enough that Daisy scurried to his side. The photographer cast a quick scowl in their direction, and Sloane meekly pulled them toward the back of the room, away from the busy work of capturing the perfect portrait. One quick hand command guaranteed that Daisy followed suit, staying out of the thick of things.

When they were safe in the privacy of the corner, Ethan slipped his hands around Sloane's waist, drew her
close with a firmness that promised more, that reminded her precisely how well they fit together, how perfect they were for each other. “The only thing that matters to me, Mrs. Hartwell, is that you agreed to marry me. That you signed the paper, in front of the justice of the peace and two legal witnesses. That you wear my ring. And that you rock our daughter to sleep at night, with me standing right beside you.”

She sighed and settled her cheek against his chest. She could hear his heart beating through the fabric of his shirt, a steady reminder of the power of his love. As if to horn in on the sweet domestic scene, though, Daisy raised a paw to scratch at Ethan's leg. At the same time, Sloane and Ethan both commanded, “Down!” The dog dropped to the floor immediately.

Sloane laughed before she looked up at Ethan. “You know,” she said. “I have a confession to make.”

His smile was easy. “I can't wait to hear this.”

“It's about Daisy. When we first got her, when she was just a puppy, I hired a trainer to come out to the house. I wanted Daisy to be perfect, so that you'd fall in love with her as much as I had.” She was startled by the volume of Ethan's laugh. “Wait!” she exclaimed. “It wasn't
that
funny. I mean, I did a decent job, didn't I?”

“A decent job,” he finally said, but he shook his head as if he didn't believe her.

“What? She sits when we tell her to. And she knows
come
and
stay
and
down.
”

Ethan looked fondly at the dog. Daisy, for her part, was cocking her head at an angle, glancing between her two humans as if they were creatures of great mystery. Ethan said, “But she's not much good at
heel.
”

Sloane frowned. “We tried. The trainer and I just couldn't get her motivated to stay by my side.”

“I didn't have any better luck myself.”

“What?” Sloane took a step away, even as Ethan started to laugh again.

“I hired my own trainer. I worked on the same commands. I wanted to show you that I believed in Daisy. That I understood she had a future with us.”

The dog chose that moment to spring to her feet, overcome by the obvious good cheer of her master and mistress. Sloane said in disbelief, “Then she managed to wrangle double treats from us, to master the exact same tricks.”

“She's smarter than we ever thought, isn't she?”

Before Sloane could respond, her cell phone rang. She jumped at the intrusion but quickly plucked it out of her bag. One glance at the number, and she shook her head.

“Take it,” Ethan said.

“This is family time! It's Margaret's birthday.”

“Take it,” he said again, and she complied, her smile letting him know just how eager she was to answer the call.

“Sloane Hartwell,” she said, after pushing the button that completed the connection.

Ethan watched as Sloane nodded. She found her handbag, fished out a pad of paper, a pen. Bright spots of color accented her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled as she mustered her arguments. “No,” she said, stepping out to the hallway. “If the foundation is serious about implementing the Hope Project, it's going to have to…” Her voice trailed away as she closed the door behind her.

At last, the photographer finished with his grandmother. Ethan stepped forward to take the baby, marveling at the way a month-old child could sleep through any
disturbance. “There, Gran,” he said. “You've had your way, once again. You've got your pictures of Emma.”

The old woman spared a fond smile for the baby before she leveled her hazel eyes on him. The determination there was utterly familiar; he'd seen it in his own mirror, every day of his life. “I think that family photos were a perfectly reasonable request for a birthday present. It's not every day that someone turns eighty, after all. Besides, you know I only do what I think is best for those I love.”

Ethan heard the familiar acerbic note beneath her words. “Of course, Gran. Everything you do is good for someone else.”

“You can't complain about the rules I set for you.” Her gaze was a direct challenge.

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her that she'd been headstrong, unreasonable. He wanted to say that she'd had no business interfering with his personal life, setting deadlines, tying him to an arbitrary timetable.

But when he looked down at his daughter, he knew that such a complaint was meaningless. He couldn't be happier with the way things had turned out. He wouldn't change a thing.

Nevertheless, he couldn't let Gran think that he was growing soft. “You had no right—”

“No right to make you sit up and pay attention?” She cut him off, and he could see now that she had planned this confrontation. She knew precisely what she wanted to say.

“You treated me like a business venture,” he protested.

“One that needed a tight rein,” she said sourly. “One that had to be brought into line.” Emma chose that moment to squirm in her blanket, to stretch out her arms
before settling back to sleep. Ethan was surprised at the stark love that he found on his grandmother's face. He was even more startled by her words. “I knew that you needed this, darling. I knew that you were too afraid to step forward on your own. You needed me to push you.”

“Over a cliff,” he said wryly.

“Into the arms of a good woman,” she retorted.

“Who is going into whose arms?” Sloane asked, gliding in from the hallway.

Margaret looked at her, those hazel Hartwell eyes bright with mischief. “I was just telling my boneheaded grandson that his grandmother is a wise and wonderful woman.”

Sloane looked at Ethan. She could see echoes of disagreement on his face, hints of some argument that he'd planned on voicing. Now, though, he merely shook his head, his lips curling up in a resigned smile. When he gazed down at his daughter, that expression transformed, became a look of wonder, of sheer fascination. “Listen to her, Emma,” he said. “One day all that Hartwell wisdom will be yours.”

Still cradling the baby, he held out one hand to Sloane. As she laced her fingers between his and drew close to look at their daughter, she knew that her life could never be more perfect. “Listen to your father, little Emma,” she said, brushing a fingertip against the infant's cheek. “Listen to the entire family who loves you so much.” Daisy gave one sharp bark of agreement, as if she understood every single human word.