The Mogul's Maybe Marriage. Mindy Klasky
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.”
Chapter Three
When Sloane awoke, her bedroom was dark, even though the clock said 9:27 a.m. She sighed and rolled onto her back. It must be raining outside. She usually got some glimmer of light from the front room.
She flicked on the bedside lamp, and her gaze was snagged by the ring on her finger. Collapsing against her pillow, she turned her wrist in the wan yellow light. It was real, then. Not some fevered dream.
Ethan had proposed to her. And she had accepted.
It had seemed like magic the night before, edged in fog, lost in impossibility. Following Ethan’s smooth certainty that she would keep their relationship physical, that she would yield to the powerful temptation he provided every time he was within a hundred yards, Sloane had insisted on returning home alone. She’d needed to make that point. Needed to prove something to him. To herself.
With a tolerant smile, Ethan had acquiesced, instructing his driver to ferry her through the city streets. She supposed that he’d taken a cab to his own home. Sloane had walked from the dark Town Car to her front door, certain that she was going to wake up at any moment, positive that she was going to discover this was all some strange dream. But the ring was still on her finger, even in the gloomy light of a rainy summer morning. She was engaged to be married.
Sloane Hartwell.
Mrs. Ethan Hartwell.
She tested the names against the brittle edge of her emotions. Getting engaged was supposed to be one of the highlights of her life. She was supposed to call her mother, her girlfriends. Well, no mother to call, that was for sure. And no real girlfriends, either. Unless she wanted to count the librarian who helped out with the public access computers. As a child, she had never brought friends home to her foster families; life had been too chaotic. As an adult, she had been focused on juggling college and work, on fighting for the Hope Project to become a reality. While Sloane had plenty of acquaintances, she was poorer than she liked to admit when it came to true friends.
She sighed and settled her ringed hand on her belly. “Well, little one. We’ll just have to be happy for each other, won’t we?”
As if in answer, her stomach rumbled, reminding Sloane that she’d been too nervous to eat dinner the night before. She threw her feet over the side of her bed and tugged on her ratty terry-cloth bathrobe. The fabric had rubbed completely bare across the elbows, but there was never anyone around to notice, so she hadn’t bothered to replace it.
Stumbling into the kitchen, Sloane filled the teakettle and put it on the stove. It took three tries before the burner lit; she’d have to call her landlord to have him fix the silly thing. Again. She glanced at the minute patch of window left visible beside the hulking air conditioner. She’d been right—it was raining, the steady tropical downpour that often hit D.C. in the summer.
As she waited for the water to boil, she heard a rustle outside her front door. Her landlord’s cat had probably gotten trapped in the alcove, driven to seek a dry corner in the midst of the torrential rain. The sweet calico had sought refuge from summer storms before. Sloane could let her nap on the couch until the storm passed. Sloane braced herself to get her feet wet as she completed Operation Cat Rescue.
“Sloane!”
“Ms. Davenport!”
“Sloane Davenport!”
The alcove was filled with people, with the flash of cameras, with a half-dozen microphones. Sloane stared at them, slack jawed. Where had they come from? And what could they possibly want with her?
One voice soared above the others, as harsh as pumice. “Sloane, show us your ring! Tell us how you caught the most eligible guy in town!”
Reflexively, she clutched at her robe, pulling it across her belly. Even as she glanced down, frantic to make sure that she was covered, that no one could see her faded pink nightgown, she realized that she might be sending some sort of signal to the press, telegraphing the presence of the baby. She dropped the terry, as if it had burned her fingers.
All the while, cameras continued to flash, and the crowd jostled for position on the three narrow steps. Sloane’s throat started to close; she couldn’t draw a full breath. She didn’t want these people here, didn’t want them anywhere near her.
A terrific flash of lightning, brighter even than the cameras in her face, made her squeeze her eyes closed. Instinct made her hunch her shoulders close to her ears, waiting for the inevitable boom of thunder. When it came, it drowned out the reporters’ chatter. All of a sudden, she remembered the way Ethan had handled the photographer the night before. She took a deep breath, determined to make her voice as steely as possible. “No comment,” she said.
She closed the door before anyone could protest, before someone could tell her that she didn’t have the right to refuse to talk. The teakettle chose that moment to reach its boiling point, the shriek of its whistle sounding like a train racing toward her. She rescued the kettle before it could deafen her permanently, setting it onto a cold burner before she crept back to the front door.
Leaning against the wooden panels, she could hear the horde shifting outside. They called her name a half-dozen times, as if she might change her mind and come back out to play. There was only one thing to do. It took her a couple of minutes to find Ethan’s business card. She had stashed it in the folder with her working papers for the Hope Project. Her fingers were trembling by the time she punched in the ten digits.
“Ethan Hartwell’s office,” a woman answered on the first ring.
Sloane gritted her teeth. Given the fact that it was a Saturday morning, she had hoped Ethan might answer his own phone. Feeling absurd, she said, “This is Sloane Davenport, calling for Mr. Hartwell.” What sort of woman called her fiancé Mr. Anything?
“I’ll see if Mr. Hartwell is in his office.” The secretary didn’t give the faintest hint of recognizing her name. Classical music filled the silence, and Sloane fought the urge to hang up.
“Sloane.” Ethan’s voice was warm as honey. “Good morning.” He managed to make the standard greeting sound seductive.
That unspoken promise in his tone shattered her taut emotions. “Ethan!” His name turned into a sob.
“What’s wrong?” His demand was immediate. “Sloane, are you all right? Is it the baby?”
“No,” she gasped, shocked into realizing what a fright she was giving him. “No, I’m sorry. I…it’s just the people. Paparazzi. They’re outside. I heard them out there, thought it was my landlord’s cat. I shouldn’t have opened the door. They won’t leave me alone!”
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