The Mogul's Maybe Marriage. Mindy L. KlaskyЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 her head, of Ethan finding her a few years from now, after she had built a career, had proved to herself and the rest of the world that she was strong and independent. She had let herself fill in the impossible details—she would be playing in the park with their baby, their happy and carefree and perfect child, when Ethan just happened to walk by, taking a stroll on a brilliant spring morning.
But in her heart of hearts, she had known that could never happen. Ethan would never be there for her, would never share this baby with her. They’d only spent one night together, and they’d taken every precaution to make sure that she would never end up in this precise condition.
Besides, she’d done her research after the night they’d spent together, following up on all the gossip that she had vaguely recalled when she saw him at the Eastern bar. She had forced herself to read the articles about his playboy lifestyle, the stream of women in his life, the flirtations that splashed across the society page.
Sloane’s daydreams had to be impossible. Right?
“Sloane,” he said, breaking into her swirling thoughts. “I should have been in touch before. I know this sounds sudden, but I’ve been thinking about you since that night. A lot. When I woke and you had left, I figured that I would accept what you obviously wanted.”
He reached out and settled his broad hand across her belly. The tips of his fingers ignited tiny fires beneath her shirt, and she caught her breath in pleasure and surprise. He flexed his wrist, using the motion to glide near, to close the distance between them. “But everything is different now.”
His mouth on hers was unexpected. She felt the power within him, a coil of energy. Her body reacted before her mind could parcel out a well-reasoned response. She leaned toward him, drawn to his touch like a starving woman to a feast. His tongue traced the line between her lips, and she yielded without any conscious decision. Her fingers fluttered from the shelter of her lap, tangled in his hair, pulled him closer to her.
The motion of her hands seemed to free his own; his fingers were suddenly hot as they slipped beneath her T-shirt, searing as they danced across her still-flat belly. He cupped one sensitive breast with his hand, rasping the lace of her bra against her flesh. Her body had never been so responsive, and she gasped in surprise. She folded her fingers over his. “Just a moment.”
Ethan dropped his head to her shoulder, cradling his cheek against the pulse that pounded by her ear.
This was madness. He’d come here, planning on being the perfect gentleman. He’d intended to wind back the clock, to give them both time to get to know each other, space to explore their true potential together. He’d meant to build on the amazing foundation