The Mogul's Maybe Marriage. Mindy L. Klasky
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the apartment, when she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide her body’s blatant response to him.
And that was before he’d realized that she was pregnant.
Marry me. He’d said it, just like that. Out of the blue, without any prelude, any explanation whatsoever. He hadn’t even taken the time to tell her that she wasn’t just one of his flings, that she was different. He hadn’t told her that they had connected on some level that he’d always thought was imaginary. Their midnight conversation had been the sort of thing that women read about in their pink-and-lace books, watched in their silly damp-handkerchief movies. It couldn’t be real.
But it was.
Even now, he could remember every word they’d shared. He’d told her about Hartwell Genetics, about how he wanted the company to continue growing, to change the world. How he longed to help millions with the cures his empire was developing. How he loved the challenge, the struggle, the fierce competition in the often-ruthless business world.
And she’d told him her own dreams. What did she call it? The Hope Project, the website she wanted to build. Art therapy. Foster kids. He’d been truly touched by her unwavering determination, by her certainty that she could make a difference.
He couldn’t go back now and reduce all that to nothing. He couldn’t admit that his grandmother had ordered him to take a wife. And he definitely couldn’t tell her the real reason for his demand, for the so-called paternity test. He’d never told anyone about the family curse, about the brother and sister who had each died before their third birthday.
No. He’d proposed, and then he’d left his ugly cash lying on the table. As if he could buy her. As if he could make Sloane do whatever he wanted her to do.
He swore, wondering how a man who was a proven genius in the business world could make such a spectacular mess out of his personal life. There had to be a way to make Sloane understand. A way to take everything back. To start over again.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a steadying breath. If this were a business deal going sour, he’d figure out a way to reset the discussions, to return to square one. He would offer up an olive branch. He pushed a single button on his BlackBerry, summoning his assistant.
He already had the beginnings of a plan… .
The package was leaning against the door when Sloane got back from the library. She had forced herself to get out of the apartment, to take a break from the jumble of hope and confusion that she felt every time she glanced at Ethan’s business card. The last time she had acted rashly where he was concerned; now, she was determined to think, to make decisions with her brain, instead of with her heart.
That was the plan she’d made as she had stared at the library’s public access terminal, resisting the urge to call up articles about Ethan, his company, his philanthropic efforts. His hard-partying ways.
As much as she wanted to tell Ethan everything she was thinking, everything she was feeling, she needed to slow things down. Think things through. She needed to remember that she wasn’t making decisions just for herself anymore. There was the baby to think about. There was a reason—the best reason—not to be impulsive.
She had to be certain that Ethan was truly more than the socializing playboy she had read about in the paper. She had to know that he had shared more with her than he had with the other women whose names were tied to his in the newspaper. She had to force herself to look past her—admit it!—infatuation, her utter physical attraction to him.
Returning home, she spotted the envelope immediately. She recognized the Hartwell Genetics logo on the address label. Her heart started pounding, but she forced herself to unlock her front door, to pour herself a drink of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator and sit down at the kitchen table. She thought about returning the envelope unopened. She could just write “return to sender” and drop it in the mailbox, couldn’t she?
Except that he hadn’t sent it through the mail. There wasn’t a postmark. He’d had it hand-delivered.
Taking a fortifying breath, she slid her fingers beneath the flap.
“Sloane,” the note said. Even though she’d never seen his writing before, she could picture his fingers curled around a pen, slashing out the letters on the heavy white paper. “Give me another chance? E.” A ticket was nestled inside the folds of paper.
Swan Lake, the Bolshoi Ballet, opening gala for the dance season at the Kennedy Center. Friday night.
She sank back in the hard chair. What was she getting herself into?
But that wasn’t really the question, was it? The question was what had she gotten herself into? Two and a half months before, when she’d given in to the magnetic power of the man she’d met at the Eastern, when she’d let herself be drawn into the thrumming, driving force that had risen between them like a river overflowing its banks.
She laid her hand across her belly, across the child that grew inside her.
Sure, she could tell him that she had other plans for Friday night. She could send back the ticket. After all, she was healthy and happy, and she already loved her baby with a sharp fierceness.
But what, exactly, was she going to do, long-term? How was she going to raise this child?
Marry me.
Independence was important to her. It was the one thing that she had always carried with her, the one certainty she had clung to, no matter what had happened in her turbulent childhood, in her confused adolescence. She had built a life for herself, built a dream. Selfreliance had made her the woman that she was today.
Marry me.
She’d scoured job sites every day since leaving the foundation, but there weren’t a lot of paying opportunities for psychologists focusing on art therapy for foster kids. That was why she’d ended up at AFAA as a project coordinator in the first place. How much longer would it take for her to find something? How much longer would her meager savings hold out?
Even if she spent the five hundred dollars that he’d left, even if she accepted the money as a gift and not an insult.
Marry me.
He couldn’t mean it. He had to have spoken out of surprise, the shock at discovering he was going to be a father. Shock. But why hadn’t Sloane told him? What had she been proving to herself? To him? That she didn’t need him? That she didn’t need anyone? Once again, she saw the earnest look in his eyes as he proposed to her, his solemn hazel gaze as he turned his own life upside down. He had not hesitated an instant. He had reached out to her with all his strength, all the certainty that had sparked off him at the Eastern during that fateful night. She could learn to depend on that strength. She could learn to bask in it.
Marry me.
She was crazy to even consider it. Crazier than he’d been to offer. But what better option did she have for her baby? How else could she give her child the comfort, stability and security it deserved?
She stared at the gleaming ticket. What could it hurt, going to the ballet? What did she have to lose?
Her stomach growled as she read Ethan’s note again. For the first time in days, she was actually hungry. A burger with cheese and bacon sounded wonderful. And for once, she didn’t have to worry about whether she could afford an extra large order of fries.
Ethan forbade himself to check the time once again. Either she would show up or she wouldn’t, and staring at his watch wasn’t going to change anything.
The musicians were warming up in the orchestra pit. Violins chased each other in discordant flurries. Horns blared repeated trills of notes. Ethan tapped his program against the arm of his chair, wishing that the theater box was large enough for him to pace.
Opting for the best alternative under the circumstances, he stood. He shot his cuffs and glanced at his wrist again, before he remembered that he wasn’t