The Mogul's Maybe Marriage. Mindy L. Klasky
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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 womanizing. 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