Читать книгу The Mogul's Maybe Marriage - Mindy L. Klasky - Страница 8

He’d made a complete mess of that.

From the instant that Ethan settled into the back of his chauffeured Town Car, he knew that he’d made a horrible mistake.

But something about Sloane made him lose his famous business composure, softened his infinitely sharp entrepreneurial edge. “Marry me.” Where the hell had that come from? The words had been out of his mouth before he could think how abrupt they would sound to Sloane. He’d been filled with the thought of Sloane carrying his child. He’d been captivated by the notion that all of this was meant to be—the one incredible night they’d spent together, the pregnancy that had resulted. His grandmother’s ultimatum.

Fresh from his grandmother’s office the day before, Ethan had phoned AFAA, only to find that Sloane had left the organization. His next call had been to his private investigator. In less than twenty-four hours, Ethan knew that Sloane had been fired. At least he had her home address. And a credit report that told him she was in dire need of assistance. Only one piece of data had been missing—the pregnancy…

Ethan’s plan had made so much sense. Tweak his grandmother and her ridiculous notions of marital propriety, at the same time that he figured out if there really was something there with Sloane.

But all those calculations had flown out the window when he’d actually seen Sloane standing in the doorway. When he’d looked into those ocean eyes, acknowledged the flash of surprise as she greeted him. The hint of uncertainty. The sudden flicker of arousal that beckoned to his own scarcely banked flames. He’d watched the blush paint her cheeks when he stepped inside 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 going to check the time.

And then the door to the box opened. For one moment, he could only see the dark shadows of the antechamber. Then, a tentative hand reached out, creamy flesh with perfect crimson nails that sent a reflexive shiver down his spine. Sloane followed the promise of that hand, gliding into the light, a dizzying contrast of sophisticated innocence, of steely vulnerability, all enfolded in a demure, floor-length cobalt gown.

He murmured her name, unable to manage more.

She glanced at the half-dozen chairs arrayed in the box, and the shadow of a frown darted across her lips. “Who else is coming?”

“No one,” he said. “I wanted to make sure we had some privacy. The box is ours for tonight.”

She blushed and looked away from him, obviously nervous. That surprised him. She’d chosen to come here, to accept his peace offering. And she certainly knew what he was capable of, what they were capable of together. He could recall perfectly how she had responded to his touch, how she had trembled when he traced the line of her collarbone with the tip of his tongue. He could remember the instant that she shifted her hips beneath him, that she matched her thighs to his. He could see the arch of her throat as her breathing quickened, as he guided them closer to the edge of their first delicious peak.

And yet there was more to discover with this woman. More to learn about her. About him with her. That notion was strangely arousing. Hoping to put her at ease, he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

And he was.

Her hair was piled on top of her head in a simple twist, held in place by some invisible woman’s magic. The sleek lines made the column of her neck impossibly long. Impossibly vulnerable. His fingers itched to follow the path of the chaste fabric V across her chest. Instead, he settled for gesturing toward her chair, offering her the best seat in the box.

As she stepped forward, he saw that the modest front of her dress lied. The back was cut low, swooping to bare the twin wings of her shoulder blades, the polished marble of her spine. Awareness of that body, of that perfect flesh, shot through him like an electric wire. She took her seat gracefully, apparently unaware of the havoc she was wreaking inside him, the sudden blow she had dealt his composure.

Sloane had known that Ethan would be in a tuxedo. Nevertheless, the formal suit tugged at her memories, catapulted her back to that night at the Eastern. All too easily, she could see his bow tie stripped loose at his throat. She could picture the tiny onyx studs sprung open down his chest, his cuff links freed to reveal the tight muscles of his forearms.

With perfect recall, she could see those satin-striped trousers pooled on the floor, as if he’d just shed them.

But that wasn’t what this night was about. That wasn’t why she’d agreed to meet Ethan Hartwell here, at the Kennedy Center. She needed to remember her focus. She needed to remember her goal. She needed to remember that her baby deserved medical care and protection, safety and security, things that she could not afford to provide.

Sloane was grateful she’d taken the time to pin up her hair and paint her nails. And she was thrilled that she could still fit into the improbably perfect dress that she’d found years before, at Goodwill, in Chicago.

She’d never been to the Kennedy Center before, had only seen it on television. The rich crimson of the carpet made her feel like a princess. The gold accents on the light fixtures picked out the blond in Ethan’s hair, highlighting the unruly strands that made him look like a slightly naughty boy. She blinked, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she pictured him balanced over her, nothing at all like a boy, supporting himself on his wiry fingers as he whispered her name.

Sudden longing clutched at her belly. Fortunately, the lights dimmed at that very moment, and she was spared the need to say something, to explain. Instead, she filled her lungs with cool, calming air. She leaned back in her chair as the music began to play. She ordered herself to forget about the man who sat beside her, the monumental force that radiated awareness at her side.

The curtain rose.

The music and the dance carried her away, transformed her. She ached with longing as Prince Siegfried rebelled against his forced marriage, as he fell in love with his forbidden princess. She laughed as the swans frolicked, boastfully completing their duets and trios. She shivered as the evil Odile appeared, as the lovers’ eternal happiness was threatened.

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 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 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.

But a diamond ring was different. A diamond ring, offered to her here under the stars, meant that he’d thought this whole thing through. He meant it.

If she passed the paternity test, a nasty voice whispered at the back of her mind. But of course she would pass it. And he’d be a fool to take her word that the baby was his, without medical proof. She’d already seen the swarm of women waiting for his attention back there in the gallery. He had to protect himself.

The negative thought, though, fed her other insecurities. How could she be certain that he would stay with her? Sure, he said that she was different, that the night they’d shared was special. And, in a way, it was. It had resulted in a child. But the baby was one truth, placed in a balance against all the other truths she had learned, all the articles she’d forced herself to read. Ethan Hartwell was not the kind of man who settled down. He wasn’t the kind of man who married.

But he was the kind of man who could pay for visits to an obstetrician. And for a pediatrician, after that. And for all the other things that Sloane desired for her baby. For Ethan’s baby. For their child together.

She looked down at the stunning engagement ring. Her hands started to shake, hard enough that she was afraid she would drop the velvet box. With a comforting smile, Ethan rescued the ring from its midnight bed. He snapped the box closed, then made it disappear in the pocket of his trousers. His burning fingers grasped hers, steadying her, pouring some iron behind her trembling knees. Carefully, like a surgeon performing a delicate operation, he slid the band onto the ring finger of her left hand.

It fit perfectly. The metal melted into her flesh, as if it had always been a piece of her. The diamond collected all the light in the heavens above, casting it back at her dazed eyes in a thousand tiny flashes.

Ethan thought that the ring looked even better on her hand than he had imagined when he’d selected it at the jewelers. Watching the wonder spread across her face, the wash of joy that echoed the pure physical bliss they’d shared at the Eastern, Ethan folded his hands around hers. She blinked as he covered the brilliance of the ring, almost as if he were breaking some spell. He stepped closer to her, tucking her captured hand against the pleated front of his shirt. He felt the flutter of her pleasure through his palm, measured the solid drumbeat of his own heart through her flesh.

“Sloane Davenport,” he said, his voice a husky whisper. “Will you be my wife?”

This time her tears remained unshed, glistening in the night. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I will.”

He folded his arms around her. Her bare back seared through his sleeves. He had to hold her, had to feel her, had to crush her against the entire length of his body, so that he could truly believe that this was happening, that she was real. His lips found hers, and he drank deeply, swallowing her incredulous laughter as his tongue demanded more. He closed his teeth against her lower lip with a surge of passion, barely heeding the internal rein that reminded him to be careful, to protect her, to spare the woman who bore his child.

“Ethan,” she gasped, finally tearing away from the pressure of his kiss. Her lips felt bruised, swollen, pulsing with the hot blood that he had sucked into them. For a dozen heartbeats, he fought to reclaim her mouth, pressed himself into her, seeking to slake his apparently never-ending thirst.

She couldn’t let him, though. She couldn’t let herself forget her decision, the why and the wherefore of it. She had to be strong, and true to her baby. “Ethan,” she said again, finally managing to lay her palm along his jaw. Her left palm. With the diamond ring winking beside his midnight stubble. “I’ll marry you, but there’s one condition.”

“Yes,” he said immediately, the single word a promise and a plea.

She bit back a smile. “No.” She shook her head. “You need to listen to me. You need to decide.”

His fingers clenched on her hips, but she held his gaze steadily. She had to say this. Had to make sure that her heart knew precisely what she was doing and why she was doing it. She had to make everything absolutely clear.

If she had learned nothing else working on the Hope Project, she had learned this: Children deserved to be with families that loved them. Families that functioned healthily, without parental angst, without adult trials and tribulations constantly undermining stability. All of the art projects in the world could never create what every baby should have from birth: a stable, loving home.

And Sloane couldn’t think of anything more likely to turn a relationship upside down than sex. Sex with Ethan had been wonderful, more fulfilling than she’d ever dreamed. But it had made her lose sight of her goals. Sleeping with Ethan had cost her a job. She wasn’t going to let a physical relationship take away more—not when her child was at risk.

“If I marry you, Ethan, it can’t be because of what happened at the Eastern. It can’t be because of…this.” She looked down, managing to convey both their bodies, the crumpled clothes between them. “It can’t be about…about sex. I won’t go to bed with you until after we’re married. We both need that break. That separation. We both need to be certain that we’re getting married for the right reason—for our baby.”

He understood what she was doing. Despite her finding the courage to meet him tonight, she was unnerved by their passion, by the animal need that had drawn them together, that hummed between them, even now, like the echo of a gong.

But that was why he’d been drawn to her in the first place, wasn’t it? The freshness of her innocence. The honesty that she’d brought to bed with her. That was what had intrigued him, made him realize that she was different from every other woman he’d ever had. It had been a pure bonus to discover that there was more to Sloane than a beautiful face, a gorgeous body. Her passion for her work had been like a decadent dessert after a sating meal—stunning because it was unnecessary. Unexpected.

If only Sloane still wanted him, after she learned the truth about his Hartwell genes. If only she kept her promise to marry him after the fourteenth week, after the testing that would disclose whether Ethan was as cursed as his own parents had been, twice. He couldn’t let himself think about that, though. Couldn’t think about losing Sloane.

Better to play the role she was expecting. Better to pretend that he knew there would always be a happy ending. Better to give in to the passion that he could barely restrain when she was anywhere near.

He raised her wrist to his mouth. His lips hovered above her trembling pulse, barely touching her throbbing flesh. He heard the moan that she caught at the back of her throat, and then he darted out his tongue to taste her. He clamped his fingers around her arm when she jumped away in surprise, and he used the motion to pull her close to his chest.

“You’ll change your mind,” he said. “After a few weeks? Months? How long do you think it will take to plan a wedding?” He leaned down and whispered against her lips, “I promise. You will change your mind.”

She shook her head, her eyes gone round. “I won’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

“You will,” he said. “You already have. And when you admit that, you’ll have to tell me. You’ll have to ask for what you truly want.”

She shook her head, her throat working, but no words rose to the surface.

He pulled back, settling for planting one last kiss in the palm of her hand. “Remember this,” he said. “Remember now. You will.”