The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (16 page)

And Ethan had to admit that he found that drive, that devotion, more compelling than anything else about the woman he was going to marry. Sure, he enjoyed showing her fine things, introducing her to the ballet, to the best restaurants in Washington. Absolutely, he reveled in her body, as much as she was willing to share. But her mind was what truly captivated him—her absolute dedication to her beliefs of right and wrong, and her certainty that she could change the world for the better.

With a flourish, she pressed a key, hunching forward as she waited to see if the program would finally work. Ethan caught his breath as she did, waiting, hoping. When a bright rainbow spilled across the screen, Sloane shouted her laughter. “That's it!” she cried. “You solved it!”

He caught her close as she flung her arms around him, embracing him with the enthusiasm of a high school cheerleader. “I didn't have anything to do with it,” he protested until she stopped him with a kiss. “But
if that's the way you want to thank me,” he continued when he'd surfaced from her energetic attention, “I'm happy to pretend.”

“Pretend!” She pulled him close in another overwhelming hug. “That's what I love about being with you. Neither one of us has to pretend a thing!”

She pulled away so that she could show him how the art package functioned, how a child could use it to work through worries and fears. Ethan listened to every word. He had to. He was trying to drown out the little voice that clamored at the back of his head, nagging him to tell Sloane about his grandmother's ultimatum. He should stop pretending, once and for all.

And he would. Very, very soon, he promised himself. For now, he concentrated on the Hope Project, and everything that Sloane was going to accomplish.

T
he next two weeks flew by. Ethan had three business trips—to San Francisco, to Paris, to Montreal.

Sloane missed him while he was gone, but every reunion was sweeter than the last. Each time, he entered the house like a returning hero, finding her on the patio, in the bedroom, staking claim to her with kisses that threatened to steal her breath away forever.

Coming back from Canada, he found her working in the library, her legs stretched out on the green leather couch, her laptop balanced across her thighs. Daisy greeted him with enthusiasm, wriggling with excitement, as if he'd been gone for years rather than forty-eight hours. Nevertheless, the puppy complied with his command to sit; she behaved like a true show dog.

Sloane started to stand up when he came in, but he quickly settled beside her. He took her bare feet onto
his lap, finding the tender point at each arch, smoothing away tension with the unerring weight of his thumb.

“Mmm,” she said, scrunching lower on the couch so that her head rested against the padded arm. “Do I know you?”

“How quickly they forget,” he growled in mock disdain. His fingers tickled up her bare legs, tracing the hem of her shorts against her thighs. “Or maybe you have an endless line of men, waiting to rub your feet?”

For answer, she shut the computer, making sure that the lid snicked closed before she set it on the luxurious Turkish carpet. She would hate to lose hours of hard work. The Hope Project was nearly done; she'd be ready to have beta testers work through the website in another week or two.

Her hands free, she knelt on the couch, enjoying the flare of pleased surprise in Ethan's eyes as he realized that the top two buttons of her blouse were open. His hands settled on her waist, steadying her, pulling her closer.

The action triggered a flutter deep inside of her. “Oh!”

“What?” he asked, only the tightening of his fingers over her hipbones betraying anxiety.

“The baby! I felt her move!”

The look of joy that spread across Ethan's face filled her heart even more than the sudden realization that her baby—their daughter—was growing, was ever closer to joining them. Another flutter rippled through her insides.

“Is this the first time you've felt her?” Ethan asked. He kept his voice low, even though he knew the baby couldn't hear them, even though he knew that he could not possibly disturb their daughter.

“I thought I felt her move, maybe a week ago. And again, the morning that you left for Montreal.” Sloane's smile was wide, her blue eyes bright with laughter. “This is the first time I've been certain, though.”

Reaching underneath Sloane's blouse, he settled his palm across her belly. He felt a sudden tremble ripple across her skin, but he knew
that
motion was caused by him, summoned by his touch. He waited, holding his breath.

“There!” Sloane said.

He shook his head, trying not to feel cheated, not to feel left out. “Nothing,” he said. “Not yet.” Still, seeing the excitement that flushed Sloane's cheeks, he found himself laughing. “Soon enough, though. Give our little ballerina another couple of months, and you'll be begging her to sit still for a while.”

“Never!” Sloane's laughter filled his chest with a fierce protectiveness, and he gathered her close to his side, kissing the top of her head, all the while maintaining contact with their baby.

“I hope she doesn't bother you too much at dinner tonight.”

Sloane shook her head. Of course the baby wouldn't be a bother. Then, she remembered. “That's right! We're meeting those board members, for dinner downtown!” She looked at her watch. “Another engagement party. That's why you're home early.”

The smile that he turned on her was as lazy as a summer afternoon. “That, and I wanted to see you.”

He was rewarded with a deep kiss. A deep kiss, and her hands roaming over his back, and then the confession, “I missed you.”

“All of this travel has been ridiculous. It'll slow down for the rest of the month. Washington practically goes
to sleep in August. We used to travel, Grandmother and I, to a different country every year.”

“I can't imagine what that would be like!” She sighed, thinking that their daughter would get to enjoy that sort of life, would thrive on exciting experiences.

She shivered as Ethan's inquisitive fingers did something thoroughly unapproved with the waistband of her shorts. She caught his hand in hers, needing to protect herself from his distraction. “Which was your favorite trip?” she asked, as if his childhood travels were the most fascinating thing in the universe.

He laughed, but he played along, knowing full well what she was doing. “Paris, probably. Grandmother and I spent an entire day in the Musée d'Orsay, looking at the Impressionist paintings.”

“I had no idea you were such an art lover.”

“I wasn't,” he admitted. “But the tour guide Grandmother hired was a totally stunning French girl, with the sexiest accent…”

Sloane hurled a throw pillow at him.

“What?” he protested. “I was fourteen years old, and very impressionable.”

“I can only imagine,” she said dryly.

“What about you? What was your favorite summer?”

She paused before she answered, really thought about the question. Summers were always a challenge when she was young; the long days seemed to add a special strain to life in a foster family. But when she was a teenager, she had volunteered at the Art Institute of Chicago. “The year I turned sixteen,” she said. “I spent every day down at the art museum. I developed a series of tours for little kids, five-minute lectures that taught them the basics of art history. I just loved seeing the connections those kids made, the way they figured things out.”

“And the Hope Project grew from there,” he said.

“With a few thousand steps in between.”

“I guess it really is the things that spark for us when we're young,” he said. “My grandfather and I used to play Monopoly. He was absolutely cutthroat at the game, wouldn't give an inch, even when I was just starting to learn the rules. But I ended up loving everything about it—the deals we'd make to swap properties, the strategy of building hotels on some squares and not on others.”

“You don't talk about your family very much. I've never even heard you mention your grandfather.”

“He died ten years ago. I was only twenty-three. Sometimes I wonder what he'd think about me. About the person I've become.”

Sloane heard the yearning in Ethan's voice, the desire to be accepted. To be loved. “I think he'd be very proud,” she said.

Ethan cleared his throat and pushed himself to his feet. The movement caused Daisy to dance backward and forward. “We should get ready, if we're going to get to the restaurant on time. I'll walk this fierce beast before we go.”

They made it to the restaurant with ten minutes to spare, and they had a charming evening with the board members. As they did three nights later, when they got together with Ethan's med school roommates and their wives. And Ethan's business school friends a few nights after that.

Sloane was consistently astonished that Ethan knew so many people. He shrugged it off, as easily as he shrugged off his enormous fortune, the tremendous success of Hartwell Genetics. He'd lived lots of lives, he said, first as Margaret's grandson, then as a doctor,
then as a successful entrepreneur. There were a lot of social circles to intersect.

A lot of dinner parties to attend.

Sloane needed to put Ethan's credit card back in circulation. At five months and counting, she was truly beginning to show. She felt marvelous, full of energy, as if she were only now coming fully awake after those first few months of nausea and discomfort. She suspected that, down the road, she'd be awkward and uncomfortable, but for now, she was thrilled by the ease of her pregnancy, by the simple presence of her ever-growing daughter.

Her increased energy let her finally finish the Hope Project. In fact, she was just saving the final computer file, when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the unfamiliar number, surprised that anyone was tracking her down that way. Suspecting that Ethan might be trying to reach her from an unknown line, she answered. “Hello?”

“Ms. Davenport?”

“Yes. Who is this please?”

“My name is Lionel Hampton. I'm afraid we haven't met before, but Margaret Hartwell suggested that I give you a call.”

Sloane's heart leaped into her throat. Lionel Hampton. The executive director of the American Foundation for the Advancement of the Arts. Her ex-boss's boss's boss. “Mr. Hampton,” she said, hoping that she hadn't let too many seconds tick away as she battled her surprise.

“Is this a good time for us to talk?”

Sloane glanced at her computer screen, at the culmination of five years of work, all wrapped up in the Hope Project. “Yes,” she said, and then she realized that she'd
made her statement sound like a question. She cleared her throat. “How can I help you, Mr. Hampton?”

“I had lunch with my dear friend Margaret this afternoon. She informed me that you and Ethan Hartwell are to be married next month. Please accept my very best wishes.”

“Of course,” Sloane said, feeling her forehead crease as she frowned. What had Margaret done?

“I don't have to tell you that Margaret is one of your biggest fans.” Sloane wasn't about to say otherwise, even if the news was something of a surprise. Mr. Hampton went on, as if Sloane had agreed wholeheartedly. “I was just telling Margaret that we are trying to expand our mission here at AFAA, that we want to have more of an impact on the world beyond the traditional four corners of cultural stewardship. As soon as Margaret mentioned your art therapy project for at-risk foster children, I knew that we had a perfect match.”

“A perfect match?” Sloane wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her, if she was hearing things.

Mr. Hampton cleared his throat. “With Margaret's generous assistance, AFAA is about to create a new center, a division that will specialize in advancing the arts curriculum for children. Margaret speaks very, very highly of you, Ms. Davenport. I would love to offer you a position as the director of our new program.”

Just like that. Margaret wrote a check, pulled some strings and Sloane landed the job of her dreams. Months of résumés, frantic nights wondering whether she would ever find another job, all erased by her wealthy future grandmother-in-law's largesse.

Even if Sloane could accept such a gift, there was one substantial problem. “Mr. Hampton, are you aware of
the fact that I worked for AFAA? That I was dismissed from my position back in March?”

“Oh, yes. That.” A prim sound rattled over the line, a cross between a cleared throat and a cough. “I understand that there was some confusion about our Spring Auction, and that one of our managers may have acted a little precipitously…?.”

Sloane shook her head. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. “I was fired out of hand, for something that had nothing to do with my performance.”

“And I wish that I'd been made aware of the circumstances at the time. Ms. Davenport, I do hope that you can set aside any negative feelings that you might have about our organization. To that end, I'd love to meet you for lunch, say next Monday? We could discuss this matter further, along with the possibilities of our exciting new center. I do hope that you'll say yes.”

Sloane considered her options. She could refuse to meet with the man. She could send him back to Margaret in defeat, mostly likely returning a large check.

Or she could meet with him. She could talk to him about his new center. She could explain, in her own words, just what her project was about and what she knew she could accomplish.

Sure, they might not be able to get past her prior experience at AFAA. But she'd be a fool not to try. Wouldn't she?

“Thank you, Mr. Hampton. I'd love to discuss this matter further.”

She heard the gratitude in his voice as he specified a restaurant, as he thanked her for agreeing to consider the possibility, as he offered her his very best wishes for a wonderful weekend. Sloane stared at the phone for a long time after she hung up from the call.

So. This must be what it was like, to have the power and prestige of the Hartwell name behind her. This was what she could anticipate for the rest of her life, as Ethan's wife. This was the way that doors would open for their daughter.

As if in response, the baby chose that moment to kick against her insides. Sloane smiled. She couldn't imagine what her meeting with Mr. Hampton would be like. She could hardly give him the details about why she'd been dismissed from AFAA. Of course, if the man had done his homework, then it wouldn't be necessary to give him any information at all. And if Margaret's check had already cleared the bank, the entire matter would be moot. The only thing that Sloane needed to do was thank her future grandmother-in-law.

 

Three days later, she had the opportunity, at the engagement party Margaret was hosting for Ethan and Sloane.

Sloane took greater care than usual dressing for the party, feeling like a debutante, poised on the edge of her formal introduction to polite society. Sitting beside Ethan in the back of the Town Car, she stared out the window as the streets of D.C. rushed by. She ran over names and faces in her mind, hoping that she didn't stumble over any important introductions.

Ethan laughed when she asked him to fill her in, one more time, on the names of the Hartwell Genetics board members. “Relax. It's a cocktail party. We'll have a couple of drinks, and then we'll leave.”

“Easy for you to say.” She sighed. “You actually get to drink something with alcohol. Just one glass of wine…that would make this so much easier.”

“What if you had something to look forward to?”