The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (15 page)

Retreating from the jangle of phones, Sloane closed the door to the library. It was comforting there in the dark, wood-paneled room, surrounded by books and the heft of heavy leather furniture. She curled up on the dark green couch with her laptop, grateful for the chance finally to dig back into the Hope Project.

She made the mistake of checking her favorite news site before she began her work. Her engagement was splashed all over the page. It turned out that a lot of people had an interest in Ethan Hartwell and his matrimonial plans. The financial pages all discussed the likely impact on Hartwell Genetics. The health care reporters speculated on whether any new products would be brought to market in the fourth quarter. The gossip pages continued to report their usual mash of confused halftruths, focusing on Sloane's mysterious background. She didn't know whether to be pleased or annoyed that she was painted as a conniving fortune hunter by one publication, an innocent victim of Ethan's playboy ways by another and a business partner in disguise by yet a third.

As she shook her head in disbelief, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the Caller ID. Ethan.

“Surviving the storm?” he asked. She could hear the smile in his voice, picture the curve of his lips as he formed the question. Immediately, she pictured those lips put to better use, and she had to shake her head, to return her concentration to the matter at hand.

“I had no idea that so many people would care about what we do with our personal lives!”

“Just imagine what would happen if they knew the
truly
personal details I could share with them.” His growl ignited a blush that tingled from the roots of her hair to her toes. “Where are you now?” he asked.

“In the library.” She made her voice as prim and proper as she could. If she gave in to the invitation barely hidden behind his words she would never get any work done that afternoon.

“What are you wearing?” he whispered.

“A white blouse buttoned up to my neck, a black skirt with a bustle that hangs to my ankles and tiny boots that pinch my feet,” she said, smoothing her hand over her T-shirt and shorts.

“Are the boots made out of leather?”

She couldn't help but laugh at the hopeful note in his voice. “How's work?” she asked. “Are you able to get anything done, with everyone digging for more information? James has been fielding calls here nonstop.”

“I've issued my ‘no comments.' I've also accepted a half-dozen invitations.”

“Invitations?”

“Drinks here. Dinners there. I'm only saying yes to the ones I absolutely can't afford for us to skip. Do you hate me?”

She laughed at the worried note in his voice. “How could I hate you? Just make sure I end up with all the dates in my calendar.”

“The most important one is in a month. Grandmother is throwing a cocktail party in our honor. At her apartment, downtown.”

“Her apartment? Fine. I assume there will only be a handful of guests?”

“You haven't seen Grandmother's apartment. She has the entire top floor of the Waverly.”

Sloane's enthusiasm flagged, but she knew that they'd both be happier if she kept a positive attitude. “A cocktail party for a hundred of our closest friends. Sounds
grand. It'll cost you, though. I'll need something appropriate to wear.”

His chortle thrilled her over the phone line. “Whatever you desire. Speaking of which, let's get back to those leather boots…?.”

 

Ethan drank deeply from his beer, grateful that he and Zach were viewing the Nationals baseball game from the air-conditioned comfort of the luxury box owned by Zach's law firm. “You owe me, buddy,” he said. “Owe me big time.”

“Wait a minute,” Zach said, gesturing around the well-appointed room. “I thought
you
were supposed to be grateful to
me,
for bringing you to the game.”

“I consider this a small down payment on the real debt, my friend.” Ethan paused to watch the visiting pitcher step up to the plate. Three pitches, and the Nationals had nailed the third out of the inning. Music started to play as the team ran in from the field.

Zach sighed in mock apology. “And what have I done this time?”

“Made a small fortune for the Good to the Bone dog obedience school.” Ethan pretended to glare as Zach laughed. “I've had one of their instructors on call for a week. Whenever Sloane heads out on an errand, James squeezes in a quick session with Daisy. So far, she's mastered sit, stay and down. I just hope that she gets the hang of ‘heel' pretty soon. That one's harder to practice, without Sloane figuring out what we're working on.”

“I never thought I'd see the day when Ethan Hartwell was worried about training a puppy.”

“Yeah, well, there are a lot of things I never thought I'd be doing.” Ethan stared out at the baseball diamond, losing track of the pitch sequence as he thought about
the night before. He had taken to walking Sloane to her bedroom each night. He stood on the threshold of the guest suite like a high school kid hanging out on a front porch, worried that his girlfriend's father was standing just inside the front door.

Like that overeager teen, he had leaned in to kiss Sloane good-night. Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he had eased his hands beneath the loose T-shirt that she wore. The garment was casual, but her hidden bra was not. He had caught his breath as his palms passed over a line of lace that left little to his over-heated imagination. Immediately, he could picture her breasts straining to be free. Trying to ignore the arrow that tugged at his groin, he had eased his fingers beneath the fabric edge, gliding around to Sloane's back, to the delicate clasp that kept her covered, kept her safe. She had sighed as he flicked the fastener open, her delicate breath immediately reminding him of the way she had lain beneath him at the Eastern.

Another minute, and it would have been too late. Another minute, and they both would have cast away their silly vow of chastity. He'd recognized the powerful need on her face, the desire that had welled up in her eyes like an entire conversation.

And then Daisy had come bounding up the stairs, eager for her last walk of the night and her usual dog biscuit treat. Ethan had managed not to swear as he bent down to ruffle the excited puppy's ears. Sloane had actually laughed, closing her door before either of them could walk down a tantalizing—and thoroughly physically satisfying—road of regrets.

Now, Zach whistled, long and low. “You are a total goner, aren't you? And here I thought you were never going to give up your title to Bachelor of the Year.”

Ethan shook his head, forcing his thoughts back to the stadium, back to the good-natured ribbing of his best friend. “Believe me, I never thought I'd do it, either.”

“Then it's not just because of Margaret? Not because of the stock transfer?” The two men rarely talked about Margaret Hartwell. Zach took attorney-client confidentiality seriously. In this case, though, they were both fully aware of the transfer provisions that would benefit AFAA if Ethan failed to conform.

Ethan's lips curled into a sardonic grin. “It started that way. I figured I could kill two birds with one stone—keep Grandmother's stock in the family, and push every single one of her controlling, manipulative, marriage-minded buttons—all by choosing a woman she never expected me to marry.”

“But now?”

“Now, I just want Sloane. If Grandmother disapproved and said that she was still going to donate her stock, I wouldn't care. I'd still marry Sloane. Tomorrow, if we could.”

“Man,” Zach said, shaking his head and popping open two more beers. “You really have it bad.” Ethan heard a faint touch of jealousy in the other man's voice. He laughed, and they turned back to the ball game, just as the Nationals' cleanup hitter knocked a home run out of the park.

 

Sloane picked up her purse and hurried back into the library. “Jeanine,” she said. “Thank you for being so patient!”

The skinny redhead glanced up from Daisy, who was sitting quietly in the middle of the thick Turkish rug, eyes focused intently on the trainer's right hand. “No problem!”

“Should I make out that check to you, or to Doggie-B-Good?”

“The company name is fine,” Jeanine said. Then she turned back to Daisy and snapped her fingers. “Good Daisy,” she said, releasing the pet from the “sit” command. Daisy started to wag her entire hind quarters in excitement at the praise.

Sloane laughed. “I cannot believe how she's caught on to all of the commands!”

“Some dogs just learn really quickly,” Jeanine said. “They all
want
to be good. That makes everything work out in their pack. Isn't that right, Daisy? Don't you want to be a good puppy?”

For answer, Daisy yapped once. Sloane handed over the check. “I really appreciate your coming over here at such crazy times. It's just that I want this training to be a surprise, for Ethan. It would be easy enough if I just had to wait for him to be out of town, but I don't want James to know, either. He'd spill the beans, for sure.”

“I completely understand. You'll call me when you're ready to schedule our next lesson?”

“Absolutely,” Sloane promised. She walked the dog trainer to the front door, then settled back on the couch.

As she adjusted her laptop computer across her legs, Daisy whined from the floor. “Down!” Sloane commanded. The little dog dropped to the floor like a pro. “Good dog,” Sloane said. She would have loved to have the puppy on the couch beside her, but she knew that would only create problems when the Old English sheep-dog reached her full growth. A little discipline was good for a dog.

Discipline was good for computer programmers, too. Sloane had spent the past week trying to work out yet another problem with the Hope Project website. She
knew the drawing module that she wanted to link to the front page. The software worked exactly as she intended when she used it in isolation. But every single time that she plugged it into one of the diagnostic packages, it locked up the entire website.

“Okay, Daisy,” Sloane muttered under her breath. “I am
going
to figure this out. I'm not going to bed until this section works.”

Two hours later, Sloane regretted her rash promise. Her eyes felt sandy. She was thirsty. Her back twinged from sitting too long in the same position. She was about to give up on the entire evening, declare the night a loss, when she heard Ethan's key in the front door.

Daisy leaped up and skittered into the hallway, yipping a greeting. “I'm in here!” Sloane called out, when she could make herself heard over the din. She set her computer on the floor and swung herself into a sitting position.

Ethan came into the room, Daisy at his heels. “Sit!” he said to the excited dog, and Sloane was secretly proud to see how quickly Daisy responded. Sloane couldn't wait to show Ethan all of Daisy's tricks, to put the little dog through her paces. Soon enough… All they needed to master was the command to heel.

Ethan sank onto the couch beside Sloane. “You're not still working, are you?”

She smiled ruefully. “I have gone over every single line of this program a hundred times. I
cannot
figure out why it won't launch properly.”

He made a comforting noise and shifted beside her. When his strong hands fell on her shoulders, she melted against him. He started to knead her taut muscles, backing up his gentle touch with just enough strength to force out the knots she'd acquired in a long evening of
frustration. “Why don't you tell me what you're trying to do? Sometimes talking about something makes it all come clear.”

She shifted a little, giving him access to her shoulder blades, to the middle of her back. His questing fingers obliged, and she let the rhythm that he established guide her thoughts. “Everyone who wants to use the drawing module has to register when they come onto the website. It's a security step, to keep individual children anonymous within the system, and to let users save their work between sessions.”

He made a wordless sound of understanding, walking his fingers down another few vertebrae. She hadn't realized how tight her spine had become. She let her head fall forward, stretching out the muscles in her neck, and then she continued. “The registration sets correctly whenever users immediately go into the drawing package. But if they stop first at one of the information pages, then they're locked out of the entire system.”

She started to tighten her hands into fists, falling back into her frustration, but Ethan's gentle touch reminded her to exhale, to let her body relax. It was as if his hands had the power to wash all of her thoughts out of her mind. He could clear her memory with nothing more than the tips of his fingers and the smooth, steady sound of his breath.

Clear her memory.

The art program cleared its memory every time it was called up, giving each user a clean slate for creating pictures. That was a feature, an easy way to let children start each session fresh, without being dragged down into whatever drawings they had made before, whatever problems they had been working on in the past.

“That's it!” she said. “I just have to tell it explicitly
to remember the password! It should forget everything else but remember that information!”

Energized by her breakthrough, she pulled away from Ethan, snatching up her computer from the floor and typing away on the program.

Ethan watched her single-minded enthusiasm as she worked. He loved the way that she focused on the monitor, the way her eyes narrowed just a fraction as she worked through each line of text. Most people would have walked away from the Hope Project by now. Most people would have given up, written off the idea as a good one, but too complex, too difficult to make real.

But not Sloane. She was willing to fight for what she believed in. She was willing to do whatever had to be done.