Mindy Klasky - The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

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.”