Mindy Klasky - The Mogul's Maybe Marriage

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.