The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (6 page)

Taking a deep breath, she clicked on the button that
launched a word processor. Half an hour later, she was still staring at an empty document. What, exactly, did she want from Ethan? What did she expect to get out of their marriage? And why was she so afraid to commit anything to a silly computer file?

Ethan Hartwell,
she finally typed across the top of the screen. To delay a little more, she retyped his name, in all capitals. She made the font bold, and she underscored the two words, hitting the enter key twice to place the cursor at the beginning of a new line.

Unable to delay further, she typed a new word.
Trust.
She needed to trust Ethan. Needed to believe that he would always be there for her and the baby, that his days of playboy escapades were over forever.

Respect,
she added. She needed Ethan to respect her. To appreciate what was important to her—the Hope Project, for example—even if he never fully embraced it himself.

Friendship,
she typed. She stared at the cursor blinking after the word. What did she mean by friendship? She didn't have enough practice to understand the concept herself. Shaking her head, she backspaced carefully.

Partnership,
she wrote instead. She and Ethan needed to be equals. They needed to talk, to share, to accept each other on level ground.

Trust. Respect. Partnership.

That sounded more like a formula for a business arrangement than for a marriage. But what else could she type? “True love”? How could she demand that? How could Ethan promise it? True love was something that either happened or it didn't; it couldn't be subject to negotiation.

Sloane sighed, and then she typed something else, at
the bottom of her list. A date—a deadline for their wedding. The baby was due at the end of December. Add three months to get back in shape. Another three months to actually plan the wedding. June 1 of next year. That was the earliest that they could get married, the first possible date that made any sense at all.

Sloane leaned back against her rich leather chair. Here it was: a foundation for her entire relationship with Ethan. She glanced at the broad desk situated beneath the mullioned windows. A wireless printer waited to do her bidding. A flurry of keystrokes, and she had a crisp sheet of paper in hand. She read over her words one last time before she folded the document into thirds and tucked it into her purse.

Just as she was beginning to get hungry, James appeared with a chicken sandwich on a tray. He seemed to understand that Sloane needed time alone though, time to process the changes in her life. He left her in the mahogany-and-leather library until nearly sunset, when he carried in another tray, this one sporting a lightly dressed shrimp salad. “Sloane,” he said, interrupting her as she checked her email. “I'll be heading home for the evening.”

“Home?”

He gestured out the window, across the spacious yard. “I live in the carriage house, out back.”

“I thought—” She'd just assumed that James lived in the house. He clearly was responsible for every aspect of the mansion's smooth operation. Sloane had already come to count on his presence. She'd even considered that James would be a sort of chaperone as she got used to living with the man she was going to marry.

“This works out better for everyone,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “A little privacy can go a long way.
Every phone in the main building has a direct line to the carriage house. Just press zero if you need me, and it will ring out there.”

Sloane nodded, but she couldn't imagine having a property large enough to sport a carriage house. And she certainly couldn't imagine having a—what? A butler? A housekeeper? A
friend?
—at her beck and call. “Thank you,” she said a little belatedly. “I appreciate everything you've done for me.”

“It's not often that we have such a lovely visitor in the guest suite.” James winked and left her to her own devices.

Lovely visitor. Ha. Ethan Hartwell had plenty of lovely visitors. Sloane wasn't about to forget that.

But James had no doubt chosen his words carefully.
In the guest suite
he'd said. Ethan's usual “lovely visitors” must not stay in the suite. Ethan probably sent them home in the dark of night, before they could get any ideas about settling in for a long stay.

Sloane closed her eyes, letting her memories catapult her back to the terrace at the Kennedy Center. She remembered the shock of electricity that had jolted through her as Ethan kissed her palm, the liquid heat that had tempted her to change her mind then and there, to dismiss the promise that he had just made, the promise to curb the need that shimmered between them like a physical thing.

No. She was right to insist on that restraint. She had to prove to Ethan that there was something more between them, something deeper than the pure physical attraction that sparked whenever they were in the same room. She needed to be certain—for herself, and for the baby.

Sloane closed the laptop, making sure that it was
firmly latched. She'd grab a book and head upstairs to her room. There was no telling when Ethan was coming home, and she certainly wasn't going to wait up for him like an overeager puppy. Or a mistress. Heading over to the shelves that she'd studied so many times that day, she picked up
Cannery Row.
She'd never read the Steinbeck classic, and it looked light. Enjoyable.

James had left a trail of lights on, guiding her from the library to her suite of rooms. Stepping over the threshold, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of roses. A riot of three-dozen long-stemmed beauties overflowed a cut-crystal vase on the dresser. White, pink, yellow and peach. Someone had studiously avoided sending any message with red.

Had Ethan ordered the flowers? Or had James taken care of the detail, just another one of his homey services? Were not-red roses the standing order of the day where “lovely visitors” were concerned?

She could see that James had turned down the sheets on the king-size bed. She half expected to find a mint left on her pillow. Shaking her head, she turned to unpack her suitcase. She'd been lazy all afternoon; she should have hung up her clothes before now. Well, better late than never.

Except that her suitcase was nowhere to be found.

She looked on either side of the bed. Under the massive wooden frame. Behind the bedroom door.

At last, realization dawned on her. She crossed to the large closet that James had indicated when he'd first shown her around the house. Opening the door, she discovered a room that was nearly as large as the entire apartment she'd left behind.

And there, huddling like refugees in a border camp, were her clothes. A quick check of the bathroom con
firmed that her drugstore toiletries were displayed on the counter like crown jewels, looking sad amid luxurious towels and gleaming fixtures. Sloane shook her head. This was too much. It was all too much.

After finishing in the bathroom, she sighed deeply as she climbed into the bed. The mattress was twice the size of the beaten-up old bed in her apartment. The peach-and-honey-colored sheets were crisp and cool, even on this muggy June night. A featherweight comforter settled over her body with a whisper.

She lay back on the pillow and forced herself to take a dozen deep breaths. She imagined the picture she would draw if she could fire up her computer, if she could use the Hope Project's specialized software. There'd be a mommy and a daddy and a baby, all standing on Ethan's front lawn, all happy and healthy and together.

The wind picked up outside, and a tree's wooden fingers scraped against her window, shattering the bright image she was painting inside her mind. It was going to be a long, long night.

 

Ethan paused outside the door of the guest suite. He glanced at his watch. A few minutes past two. Well, no reason that he
should
expect to see a glint of light under the door, was there?

He sighed in frustration. This wasn't the way he'd planned on having Sloane arrive at his home. Oh, it certainly seemed that things had gone smoothly once Daniel had gotten her out of that godforsaken apartment. He hoped that she wasn't going to insist on bringing along any of her furniture; none of it deserved even a brief afterlife in some college dorm room.

James had reported that Sloane had settled in well.
With the nonstop rain, she shouldn't have minded being cooped up in the house. Too much.

But Ethan regretted having spent the entire day at the office. The Swiss production problem should never have taken so long to resolve. At least everything would be back online by Monday morning.

In fact, he'd managed to turn the Zurich fiasco into a good thing. Grandmother had insisted on heading over there to monitor the new quality assurance process for a few days. The quick trip would be a win-win. His grandmother could exercise her iron will over the Swiss plant, and the foreign engineers would learn just how serious Hartwell Genetics was about its demands. At first, Ethan had worried about the strain of travel, but that concern faded after he managed to convince Grandmother to spend a few weeks in her Paris apartment before she came home.

Those would be a few weeks that Ethan could spend getting his own life in order, getting past the all-important genetic testing with Sloane. He carefully hid his true concerns, convincing his grandmother that he only wanted Pierre and Jeanette to pamper her in her luxurious Seventh Arrondissement home. Looking out at the Eiffel Tower, she could get all the rest that she deserved.

Rest. He could use some himself. He should go to bed, get some sleep, wait to see Sloane in the morning. But he couldn't resist opening her door.

The sight inside made him catch his breath.

Sloane had kicked the summer comforter onto the floor where it huddled at the foot of her bed like a lumpy ghost. Her sheets were tangled, nearly tied into knots. Even in the silvery moonlight, he could see that her feet were caught in the twisted mess. Her hair was splayed
across her pillow, like seaweed trailing on a beach. Somewhere in her sleep, she must have heard his soft grunt of amazement. She rolled from her side to her back, her arms lashing out in the darkness. “No,” she moaned, rubbing at her face. “Please. No.”

He stepped into the room before he was consciously aware of moving. As if she could sense his presence, Sloane grew more agitated. Her breath caught in a sob, and she pushed away the confining chains of her sheets. Her fingers snagged in the colorless cotton of her nightgown, and she struggled like a desperate child.

The scent of roses filled the room. He saw the flowers that he'd ordered, faded to gray in the moonlight. He thought he'd been so clever, choosing chaste flowers. He had thought it would be their joke, their secret, a floral memory of the silly, brave promise she'd extracted from him the night before. Now, though, the roses looked like rotten rags and their perfume reminded him of a funeral parlor.

The dead oak tree outside the window swayed in a sudden breeze, scraping its branches against the window. The sound grated like fingers on a chalkboard, and it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The screech must have penetrated Sloane's nightmare, because she started sobbing in earnest, her words drowned in hopeless, helpless sorrow.

He was beside the bed before he could think.

“Hush,” he whispered, settling his palm against her cheek.

She fought like a wild thing, thrashing against the sheets, flinging herself away from him. “Sloane,” he murmured, trying to wake her gently, to ease her out of her nightmare. He gathered up the sheets that bound her, shoving them toward the foot of the bed. Her feet were
still tangled, and he edged his hands past her thighs, along her calves, fighting to free her ankles. “Sloane,” he said again, sitting on the edge of the bed, folding his arms around her, gathering her close to his chest. “I'm here. It's all right. You were having a bad dream.”

She shook her head, still dazed, obviously confused. He tightened his grip, pulling her onto his lap. Her head rested on his shoulder; her fingers clutched at the crisp broadcloth of his shirt. “Hush,” he said again. “I'm here. You're fine.”

The oak fingers scraped against the window again, and she tensed in his arms. He fought the urge to swear out loud. The damned tree had been struck by lightning the summer before. James had hoped that it would recover, but Ethan would have it cut down in the morning.

“It's just a tree,” he said. “Just a dream.” He started rocking her, gently easing his hand down the trembling plane of her back. He was relieved when her sobs quieted, when her breathing started to slow.

Sloane forced her fingers to loosen their death grip on Ethan's shirt. What had she been thinking? How had she gotten so lost inside her dream? Even now, the nightmare was fading; she could scarcely remember the horror that she'd been fighting. She was awake enough to feel foolish, absolutely idiotic as she sat on Ethan's lap, clutching him as if she were a child, listening to him whisper meaningless phrases.

She didn't feel like a child, though. Ethan's fingers were firm. His right hand gripped her steadily, keeping her anchored, secure. His left palm stroked her back with a soothing pressure.

No. Not soothing. There was more than that.

His flesh spoke to hers. He had dragged her back from the brink of a nightmare, his steady hands return
ing her to her body. He had brought her to wakefulness, and then to something more.

Another stroke. Her spine quivered, eager to meet his touch. Heat leached through her body and she sighed, releasing the last tendrils of her dream. She melted beneath his ministrations, soaking into him. She shifted, trying to put her arms around his neck.

He froze. His fingers gripped her tight, tattooing the flesh above her hips. She heard him catch his breath, felt every muscle of his body harden into iron.