The Mogul's Maybe Marriage. Mindy L. Klasky

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      She threw open the double locks, just as he was raising his fist to knock.

      “Ethan,” she said, proud that her voice was steady, bright, with just the perfect brush of surprise.

      “Sloane.” He lowered his hand to his side. His eyes flared as he took in her face, as if he were confirming a memory. He licked his lips, and then he produced the same devastating smile that had completely sunk her back at the hotel. “May I come in?”

      Silently, she stepped to the side. She caught his scent as he strode past her, something like pine needles under moonlight, something utterly, completely male. She waited for a familiar twist of nausea to leap up at the aroma, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that her belly remained calm.

      Not that her body didn’t react to him. Her lips tingled as she sucked in a steadying breath. Her heart raced enough that she half expected him to turn around, to glare at her chest, disturbed by the noise. The thought of his eyes on her chest only stirred her more. She bit her lip as her nipples tightened into pearls, and she crossed her arms over the navy jersey of her shirt.

      Faking a tiny cough, she asked, “Can I get you something to drink?” She couldn’t make him coffee. She didn’t trust her rebellious stomach around the smell as it brewed. “Some tea?” she asked.

      He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m fine.” He strode to her couch as if he owned the place.

      She’d lived in the apartment for nearly three years. In all that time, she’d never realized how small the space really was, how little air there was in the room. She watched his gaze dart toward the diminutive kitchen, to the tiny table with its mismatched pair of chairs, to the narrow counter. He glanced toward her bedroom, and she had a sudden vision of him literally sweeping her off her feet, carrying her through the doorway, easing her onto the double bed’s crumpled sheets.

      She flexed her fingers and reminded herself to breathe. Gesturing at the living room, she said, “Not quite the Eastern, is it?”

      He ignored her question. “You left the foundation.”

      She bridled at his tone. “I didn’t think I needed your permission to change jobs.”

      He ignored her sarcasm. “I tried to reach you there, yesterday morning. All they’d say was that you left a couple of months ago. I guess the auction was your last fling?”

      She flushed. He had no way of knowing that the night they’d spent together was special to her. Precious, in a way that words could never make him understand. Her vulnerability rasped an undertone of challenge across her voice. “Why do you care? Why were you calling me, anyway?”

      In the dim light, his hazel eyes looked black. “Your name came up in conversation. I wondered how you were doing.”

      “My name came up,” she said, fighting a tangle of disbelief and excitement. “After two and half months? Just like that?” She hated the fact that her voice shook on the last word.

      He closed the distance between them, settling a hand on her arm. She knew that she should pull away, keep a safe distance. But she didn’t entirely trust her suddenly trembling legs.

      “Let’s try this again,” he said. “Sit down.” He must have heard the note of command beneath his words, because he inclined his head and gestured toward the sofa as if it were something elegant, something worthy of royalty. “Please.”

      She took a seat, pretending that the action was her own idea, even as she was grateful for the support against her back. She longed to cradle one of the throw pillows in her lap, to hide behind the cushion. Instead, she folded her hands across her belly, trying to summon a calm that she could not feel past her pounding heart. As he sat beside her, she tried to think of something to say, anything, some everyday conversational gambit that would pass for normal between two consenting adults.

      He spoke before she did, though, his tone deceptively mild. “How far along are you?”

      She clutched at her T-shirt. “How did you know?”

      “The vitamins.” He nodded toward her kitchen counter, toward the white plastic bottle that announced its contents in bright orange letters. “The book.” She blushed as his gaze fell on the coffee table. He insisted, “How many weeks?”

      “Ten.” She watched him closely while he flashed through the math, waiting to see anger light his eyes, denial tighten his jaw. She didn’t see either of those emotions, though. Instead, there was something else, something she had no idea how to read.

      He set his shoulders. “Is it mine?”

      She nodded, suddenly unable to find words. Hormones, she thought as tears sprang to her eyes. Stupid pregnancy hormones.

      Wonderful, Ethan thought. That made two women he’d driven to tears that week.

      He hadn’t expected this. Not once, in all the times that he’d thought of Sloane, had he imagined that their one night together had led to a baby. A baby that was half Hartwell genes. Half a potential for such a disaster that his breath came short.

      They’d used protection, of course. He wasn’t an idiot. But he was a doctor, and he knew the statistics. Condoms failed, three percent of the time. Three percent, and after a lifetime of luck, of practice, of protection, he’d just lost the lottery.

      He had come to Sloane that morning with mixed emotions, determined to maintain his independence, even as he gave lip service to his grandmother’s edict. He had thought that he and Sloane could get to know each other better. After all, in the past year, she’d been the only woman he’d thought about once he’d left her bed. The only woman he’d ever wanted to confide something in, confide everything in. Which, of course, had made him vow never to contact her again.

      Except now he needed a woman. He needed a wife. And Sloane had been the first person to cross his mind when Grandmother issued her ultimatum.

      He had fooled himself, thinking that everything would be simple. They could go out on a few proper dates. Stay out of bed, difficult as that might prove to be. Even as Ethan had built his plan, he’d been wryly amused by the thought that Sloane worked at AFAA. If, after a month or two of testing the waters, he found that he and Sloane truly were compatible, then she would be the perfect ironic tool to rein in his grandmother’s plan. He would put a ring on Sloane’s finger, and AFAA would lose the potential for a controlling interest in Hartwell Genetics.

      Except the stakes had just been raised. Astronomically. And Sloane didn’t have the least idea what was going on. She had no concept of what heartbreak her future might bear. Ethan set his jaw. There were tests, as his grandmother had reminded him. Tests that could be run as soon as Sloane reached her fourteenth week.

      He’d let the silence stretch out too long between them. He had to know. “You’re alone here?”

      Again, she nodded. He tried to identify the emotions that swirled into his relief at that saving grace: pleasure, coupled with a surprisingly fierce possessiveness. She was alone. Unattached, he knew they both meant.

      “Good,” he growled.

      The single word sparked a fire beneath Sloane’s heart. Sure, she’d dreamed about sharing her news with him. She’d written silly scenes inside СКАЧАТЬ