The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (4 page)

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 wom
anizing. 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.