The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (11 page)

Cold. Mechanical. Manageable.

He saw the way his tone was affecting Sloane. She curled into herself. She probably wasn't even aware that she spread her fingers across her belly again, as if she were protecting their child, shielding their baby from bad news about the puppy.

He should reach out to her. He should take her hand, offer whatever comfort he could. He should tell her that they'd make it through this, no matter what happened, no matter what the doctor said.

But he'd fought too hard to build a wall around himself, to protect himself from ever having to say words like that, to anyone, under any circumstances. Not after what he'd seen his parents go through. Not after losing first his sister, then his brother. He'd only been a child himself, but he still remembered the pain.

Damn Zach and his idiotic silent auction! Who gave away puppies in a ballet fundraiser, anyway? And what sort of breeder ended up with puppies this sick? He'd sue the breeder. File an action before sunset tonight. Make
Zach draw up the papers—otherwise, what good was it to have a lawyer for a best friend?

He reached for his phone, but he was distracted by Sloane taking a sip of her coffee. She set the cup down with absolute precision, as if moving carefully would earn her precious “good girl” points, something she could cash in for a miracle.

He sighed. He'd have time to sic Zach on the breeder later. For now, he owed it to Sloane to be present for her. To help her through whatever was going to happen. He forced his tone to be light as he asked, “Did you have any pets when you were growing up?”

Sloane heard the question, felt it pull her back from the whirlpool of despairing thoughts that threatened to carry her away.
Don't borrow trouble,
she reminded herself.
Just wait until you know what's actually going on.
She tried to picture some of the bright drawings in the Hope Project, the smiling suns and giant tempera flowers that children painted when they were happy. When they were safe.

“A few,” she answered Ethan, forcing herself to take a deep, steadying breath. “When I was in fourth grade, my foster family had a goose.”

“A goose!”

She'd surprised him with that. The thought made her smile, despite her worry about Daisy. “It lived in a screened-in porch, on the side of the house. It was huge—its beak came up to my chest, when it straightened its neck. It was better than any watchdog. It would make a racket if anyone even drove up the driveway.”

“What do you feed a goose? Goose chow?”

She laughed at his incredulous expression. “Cracked corn. Weeds from the garden. Some canned cat food,
for protein. The family had owned Gertrude since she was a gosling.”

“Gertrude? You're pulling my leg!”

“I'm not! Scout's honor!” She raised three fingers, as if she were taking some solemn vow. “I was terrified of her when I first got there. She would hiss whenever she got excited, and she'd flap her wings around. After a while, though, we sort of became friends. I'd talk to her every night. Tell her about my day at school, about all the cute boys I liked.”

“Cute boys, hmm?” He gave her a mock-ferocious glare. “Anyone I need to worry about?”

“I don't think Billy Burton is going to ask me to the school dance any time soon.”

“He might,” Ethan pushed.

“Last I heard, Billy was married to his high school sweetheart, and they had four children—two sets of twins.”

“Sounds like the man might want to get away from all that,” Ethan growled. “Maybe I should get a goose or two, to make sure he stays off my property.”

Sloane laughed despite herself. It felt good to hear Ethan teasing her. Good to hear his possessiveness. No one had ever fought for her before, not even in jest. “What about you?” she asked. “What pets did you have?”

His lips twisted into a wry smile. “Grandmother isn't exactly a ‘pet' type of woman.”

“What does that mean?”

“She wasn't about to let an animal track dirt into her home. It was bad enough having an unruly boy around. Besides—” he ratcheted his voice into a falsetto that was obviously supposed to represent his grandmother's
speech “—no housekeeper could possibly be expected to keep up with the fur a dog or cat would shed.”

“You poor thing,” Sloane said, reacting more to the child he had been than the man who sat across from her now.

His hazel eyes glinted as he took another sip of coffee. “You understand, then. I had no choice but to bring home a snake.”

“A snake!”

“It was harmless, an albino corn snake,” he said, and she could hear the remnants of the enthusiasm he must have felt as a boy. “I set it up in a terrarium, with a heat lamp and a rock. I fed it a live mouse once a week.”

“That's terrible!”

“Only for the mouse,” he said, pinching his fingers together as if he held a tiny rodent. He shook the make-believe creature in front of her, and she couldn't help but cringe, laughing all the while. He dropped the imaginary mouse, twisting his fingers to grab her wrist, to pull her closer to him. His lips were surprisingly soft against hers, and she found herself leaning closer, wanting more, needing some solid reassurance as she was capsized by another wave of worry about Daisy. He cupped her cheek with his palm, and she leaned against his smooth skin, closing her eyes to take a steadying breath.

“Ethan,” she said, back to asking herself the questions she knew he wouldn't answer.

He said, “We're great caretakers for a puppy, aren't we? With only a goose and a snake between us, for past experience?”

“We can learn,” she said. Suddenly, her response seemed unbearably important, much more relevant than any single thought about any single little dog. “We can always learn.”

His eyes darkened, but he didn't have a chance to respond because his phone rang. She leaped back in her chair, as if she'd been bitten by his harmless albino corn snake.

Ethan answered before the ring was complete. “Hartwell,” he snapped. “Yes. Fine. We'll be right there.” He terminated the call and started to collect their cups, not meeting her eyes.

“Ethan?” she asked.

“Let's go.”

He held the doors for her, the one leading out of the coffee shop, the one going into the vet's office. But she felt him pull away emotionally. She knew that if she reached for his hand, it wouldn't be there. Her fingers would twine around empty air.

Dr. Johnson was waiting for them in the examining room. She'd clipped X-rays onto a light box, and she'd spread out an array of papers on the table—medical charts, spiky test results that clearly detailed heart function.

Daisy was overjoyed to see Sloane and Ethan. The puppy yipped a greeting, then danced onto her hind paws, begging to be cuddled. Sloane gathered up the animal automatically, burying her face in the dog's black-and-white curls. She heard Ethan demand a full report, and Dr. Johnson responded like a battlefield medic.

Stage 5 heart murmur. Cardiomyopathy. Breed prone to the disease. Medication. Shortened life expectancy.

The words flowed over Sloane, sweeping her aside like eddies on a dangerous river. She caught a sob at the back of her throat, managing a strangled hiccup that made Daisy tilt her head to one side in adorable confusion. Sloane scratched the sweet dog's neck and cut off
some technical question that Ethan was posing, some request for obscure medical details. “Is she in any pain?”

The vet turned to her with a sympathetic smile. “No. She'll get fatigued earlier than a healthy dog would. She may develop a cough. Of course, you won't be able to breed her.”

“But it isn't cruel to keep her with us? To keep her alive?” Sloane's voice broke on the last word, but she forced herself to look directly in the doctor's eyes.

“Not at all. You should have a few good years with her, given proper medication, and adapting to her needs for a relatively quiet life.”

That was all Sloane needed to hear. She let Ethan ask his questions, then, technical things about the chambers of the heart, blood tests, biochemical profiles. She heard the answers, understood them, but they didn't matter. Not for now. Not when she knew that she could have some real time to enjoy Daisy's companionship.

Ethan nodded as the doctor finished her explanation. He requested a complete copy of the medical file, including the X-rays. He'd have everything reviewed by one of his own veterinarians, by one of his trusted Hartwell Genetics staff, but he had no reason to doubt what Dr. Johnson was saying.

He shook the vet's hand, thanking her for giving them so much of her time. He watched Sloane gather up the puppy, cuddling the thing against her chest as they headed out. He produced his credit card without thinking, signed the receipt automatically. It was second nature to hold the door for Sloane, to open the back of the SUV, to work the latch on the dog's crate.

The animal turned three instinctive circles before she collapsed on the soft bedding, sighing as if she'd had a thoroughly satisfying outing. Sloane laughed and
chucked the dog under her chin, and then Ethan secured the latch, tugging twice to make sure the animal was safe. He opened Sloane's door, waited for her to settle, closed the door and headed for the driver's seat.

He was already composing an email to Zach. If Ethan were able to act alone, he would insist on the breeder taking back the damaged animal. Let someone else be responsible for the rest of this miserable story. But one look at Sloane made him certain that she would never accept that action.

He was stuck with a creature that was doomed to die well before its rightful time. And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all. Except refuse to be taken in. Refuse to get attached. Refuse to get anymore involved than he already was.

Ethan turned the key in the ignition, closing his ears to Sloane's crooning as she comforted her puppy on the short drive home.

T
wo and a half weeks later, Sloane sat in another medical office, glancing uneasily at the clock. Dr. Phillip Morton was running late—half an hour so far. Of course, he was an obstetrician, and he couldn't control emergencies that came up among his pregnant patients.

Sloane glanced down at the forms she had completed, the endless pages that asked for shockingly personal information. It always bothered her to fill out medical documents. She had so little information about her parents, no real family history to include. Most doctors looked at her with suspicion when they saw how many questions she left blank. She never got used to that pause before she could explain, before she could say, “I didn't know my father, and I only have limited information about my mother.”

At least Ethan had taken over for some of the forms. He had filled in all the blanks that related to insurance,
to money, to the cost of the medical care she was about to receive. He completed his own profile as well, dashing off information about his personal health, diseases that ran in his family. He filled in the box labeled “other,” recording details about the genetic anomaly that underlay this entire office visit.

She'd half expected him to leave as soon as the paperwork was complete. He had delivered his insurance card to the front desk, though, and then he'd sat beside her. His keys jangled in his pocket as he settled into his chair. He'd insisted on driving them to the doctor's office, powering his own luxury car through the crowded city streets and giving his driver the morning off.

Sloane was just grateful that they hadn't taken the SUV. She would always associate that vehicle with Dr. Johnson, with Daisy, with the sad news about the puppy's cardiomyopathy. Not that the little dog seemed to understand anything about her illness. The Old English sheepdog had taken to jumping up on Sloane's lap whenever she could, curling up as if she were a lapdog. Daisy was putting on weight every day. Between the puppy's size and Sloane's own expanding waistline, the practice couldn't continue, but it was certainly fun while it lasted.

Not that Ethan had even noticed. He now ignored Daisy whenever he could, acting as if the sweet little animal was invisible. He no longer scratched behind her ears, and he'd stopped taking her for walks. Come to think of it, Sloane couldn't even remember the last time he'd referred to the dog by name.

Sloane wasn't a fool. She knew what he was doing. He was protecting himself, keeping his heart safe from future pain. But he was also missing out on all the fun
and joy that Daisy could give them—potential years of canine love and affection.

Sloane glanced at Ethan, wondering if she dared raise the issue while they waited. He was stunning in his navy suit, the fabric offset with the faintest pinstripe. His shirt was bright white, almost blinding across his chest, at his wrists. He wore a conservative burgundy tie, perfectly knotted, as if he were expecting to be photographed at any minute.

Which, if the press ever found out what they were doing that morning, would certainly be the case.

Her belly churned with anxiety. She wanted to stand up, to pace across the room, to work off some of the nervous energy that sparked through her body. Instead, she recrossed her legs. There was nothing to do but wait.

She clenched her hands in her lap, rubbing her right thumb against her left palm. She'd never imagined that she'd be sitting here in the office of one of the world's foremost obstetricians, waiting for a test that could dictate the entire future of her life.

Not that anything would change. She was going to keep this baby no matter what the test results showed, even if they confirmed the worst possible news, the strongest form of the Hartwell genetic curse.

She almost wished that she was innocent again, that she still believed that the amnio was only necessary to prove that Ethan was the father of her child. Then she could have believed that everything would work out perfectly. One quick medical confirmation of a fact she knew could never be in doubt, and all would be settled.

But in reality, everything was tangled. Everything was confused. Three weeks ago, at Ethan's insistence, Sloane had phoned her landlord and told him that she was breaking her lease. She'd agreed to have her furni
ture donated; she didn't even know where it had been sent. James had taken care of that. James had taken care of everything, dispatching movers to collect one more suitcase of clothes, her favorite coffee mug, a handful of trinkets.

Two medium-size boxes. That was all she owned. If today's test came back with devastating news, and she took the stand she knew she had to take, Ethan might very well throw her out of his house. She could put all of her belongings into the trunk of a taxi. But where would she tell the driver to take her?

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. She was just nervous about the procedure. Everything was going to be fine. Even if the amnio revealed Ethan's worst fears, he wasn't going to kick her out. She had to believe that.

“Are you all right?” His voice was low, vibrating with an edge of concern she'd never heard before.

Her eyes fluttered open. “I'm fine. Just nervous.”

“The procedure isn't supposed to hurt.”

She managed a wry smile. “That's what all the fathers say.”

His face shuttered closed, and he shifted in his seat, increasing the gulf between them. Before she could think of something to tell him, something to smooth over the awkward silence, a nurse appeared across the waiting room. “Ms. Davenport?”

Sloane grabbed a deep breath and got to her feet. She took two steps before she turned back to Ethan, ready to tell him that he should feel free to take a walk, to get out of the waiting room, that he should just go into his office, and she would call a cab to take her home.

He was right behind her, so close, in fact, that he reached out a hand to steady her, to keep her from fall
ing backward. His fingers on her arm were cold, like granite.

“I—” she said, flustered.

“I'm coming with you.”

There was no way to argue with the grim determination on his face. She swallowed and turned back to the waiting nurse, trying to pretend that Ethan was always by her side, that he was always her companion. That she had no doubt they would stay that way for years and years to come.
Partnership,
she thought grimly. She was the one who had put the word on that damned piece of paper.

Ethan barely noticed the hall they walked down. The procedure room was the same as thousands he'd seen before, the same as all the other offices where Hartwell Genetics worked its magic. An examining table covered with fresh white paper. A chair. A hanger on the back of the door. An ultrasound machine, lights already blinking to show that it was ready to serve. The nurse delivered her standard patter, handing Sloane a paper gown, telling her to leave it open at the front, departing with an efficient swirl of papers.

All too soon, the two of them were alone, and Sloane had donned the flimsy paper garment.

He could see that she was terrified. She was putting on a brave face, pretending that nothing would go wrong, but he could read her tension in the set of her jaw, in the line of her lips as she swallowed noisily.

His palms itched. He wanted to close the distance between them. He wanted to kiss those pale lips, whisper against her cheek that everything was going to be fine, that he would be there for her, no matter what the tests revealed.

He couldn't do that, though. He couldn't make a promise that he wasn't certain he could keep.

He was spared the need to drum up small talk by a sharp knock on the door. Sloane jumped as much as he did before the door opened and Phillip Morton glided into the room.

“Phil,” Ethan said, smoothly stepping forward and extending his hand.

“Ethan.”

Phil was an old business colleague. They had sat on advisory boards together, played more than a few rounds of golf. Ethan had chosen Phil because he knew the man had impeccable credentials and hands-on experience to match the sterling diplomas on his wall. More than that, though, Phil knew the Hartwell family history. He understood the science behind Ethan's greatest fear.

The obstetrician reached out to shake Sloane's hand, offering her a professional smile, automatic reassurances. The nurse returned to assist with the procedure, and Ethan moved to the far side of the examining table, trying to stay out of the way.

Sloane had grown stoic. Her nerves were more apparent now. She fiddled with that ridiculous paper gown, tracing her fingers back and forth along one edge. She answered Phil's questions with as few words as possible, her voice pitched half an octave higher than usual. Several times, she took deep, isolated breaths, as if she were reminding herself to fill her lungs, to exhale her fear, to relax as best she could.

Soon enough, she was reclining on the table. Her eyes widened in alarm as the nurse applied gel to her belly, preparing her for the ultrasound that would guide the doctor's needle. Sloane swallowed, the sound clearly audible in the sterile room. For the first time, Ethan could
see the gentle swell of her changed body, the soft curve that told him that there really was a baby, that there really was a new life that they'd created.

He couldn't do this for her, couldn't place his own body on the table instead of hers. But he could help her. He could do his best to ease her fear.

Snagging a chair with his wingtip-clad foot, he sat down close to her head. With one hand, he reached out to smooth a stray lock of hair from her cheek. With the other, he captured her own hand, twining his fingers between hers.

She turned to look at him, tears filming the saturated blue of her eyes. “It's okay,” he whispered, leaning down to place his lips against the shell of her ear. A rush of tenderness threatened to close his throat, and his voice grew rough as he said, “Everything is going to be fine.”

The words were a prayer for him, an invocation for everything that was good and bright and kind within the universe to preserve him, to keep him from being a liar, now, when the words were the most important he'd ever uttered in his life. He passed his free palm over Sloane's forehead, trying to soothe away the worried lines he found there. “Relax,” he said. “It's almost over.”

Phil nodded in approval as Ethan spoke. The doctor's hands moved smoothly, with the ease of familiarity. He narrated his actions, letting Sloane prepare for the slight pinch as he inserted his needle, telling her that everything was going as expected, that everything was routine.

Soon enough, they were done. Sloane heard Dr. Morton's patter. She felt the nurse wipe away the ultrasound gel. She understood that she was supposed to wait for fifteen minutes, then sit up, get dressed, meet Dr. Mor
ton in his office down the hall. The door to the examining room closed.

“Ethan,” she whispered, turning her head to see him.

“Thank you,” he responded in the same subdued tone. “I'm sorry.” He lifted her hand, the one that was still wrapped inside his stony fingers. His lips across its back were dry, nearly weightless, like a memory of autumn leaves.

He lowered his head to her shoulder.

Sloane wanted to stroke the golden strands of his hair, wanted to tell him that everything was going to be fine, that he had no reason to apologize, that he hadn't done anything bad or evil or cruel. She knew he wouldn't listen, though, knew he wouldn't believe her. She stared up at the ceiling instead, reminding herself to take deep breaths, waiting until it was safe for her to stand, to get dressed, to carry on as if nothing whatsoever had happened.

Dr. Morton was waiting for them in his office, a veritable forest of mahogany and brass, with deep leather chairs that looked like they belonged in an antique boardroom. “We'll have results in ten days,” he said.

Ethan cleared his throat. “Surely you can expedite this.”

Dr. Morton shook his head. “Some tests take time to run, Ethan. We can't rush nature.” There was a mild sharpness to the doctor's tone, a hint of rebuke. That sting, though, was gone when Dr. Morton returned his gaze to Sloane. “Take it easy for the rest of the day. Stay off your feet as much as possible. Drink plenty of fluids. No sex for twenty-four hours.”

Sloane studiously avoided looking at Ethan. No sex for a lot longer than that. Not until after they were truly married.

Dr. Morton shook their hands as they stood to leave. He spared a grave smile for Sloane. “Ms. Davenport, please don't hesitate to phone me if you have any questions. Any questions at all.”

“Thank you,” she said, liking his solemn sincerity. Ethan had been right. Transferring her care to Dr. Morton was a good thing. It was a tremendous comfort to know that she could schedule her monthly appointments, that she could follow through on everything that was good for the baby.

Ethan held the door for her as they left the office. He wished that he could do more, that he could make the next ten days disappear, that he could write a check, empty a bank account, open a vein to guarantee the results he craved.

Instead, he was reduced to idiotic, everyday tasks. He insisted on pulling the car around to the elevator lobby so that Sloane wouldn't have to walk even the short distance through the parking lot. He opened the door for her and hovered a protective hand above her head as she gracefully eased herself onto the seat. He barely resisted the urge to lean across, to tug at her seat belt to make sure that she had secured it properly.

Once he was back in the driver's seat, he double-checked his mirrors. He made his way through the streets like a model citizen, observing every speed limit, gliding to a perfect stop at every red light. He felt as if he were making a bargain with heaven, that he was offering up his good behavior in exchange for his dreams.

As he helped her out of the car, he caught a whiff of her scent, the honeysuckle freshness that always surrounded her. Unconsciously, he braced himself for the tug in his groin, for the hot lance of lust that she awakened in him without any effort at all. Instead, he felt a
throbbing ache in his chest, a terrifying surge that nearly stopped his heart.