The Mogul's Maybe Marriage (18 page)

She clutched her handbag close to her side as the elevator descended all twelve stories. She was grateful that she'd brought the purse; all too often in the past couple of weeks, she had let herself depend on Ethan entirely, let herself trust him to be ready with tips, with credit cards, with whatever financial arrangements were required.

That night, though, for Margaret's party, she'd wanted to be perfect. She'd needed a lipstick for mid-party touch-ups, and a couple of acetaminophen in case the crowd brought on a headache. It had been second nature for her to slip her wallet into her sleek clutch purse as well.

Second nature. And good fortune.

Sloane crossed the empty lobby, pleased that she
didn't encounter any late-arriving guests. Not that any of them would even recognize her. Sloane was just a prop for the bigger drama that was unfolding upstairs. Just a conveniently needy woman for Ethan, someone he could use to meet Margaret's birthday ultimatum.

She had to say, Ethan was an excellent actor. He knew exactly what to say to keep Sloane by his side. He hadn't planned on their fighting on Independence Day. He hadn't meant to endanger his deal. That was when he'd finally confessed his so-called love—when she had most threatened his boardroom arrangement. And she had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.

Sloane had been a business proposition, all along. A cold, hard bargain, driven to preserve some insane family obligation.

The thought flashed through her mind that she was wrong. She knew Ethan better than that. They understood each other more completely. But then she remembered how he had reacted to Daisy's illness. He had been perfectly capable, perfectly
comfortable,
cutting the little dog out of his life entirely. He could turn his emotions on and off like a spigot.

He had lied to Sloane every single day for the past two months, every instant that he let her believe that he was giving up his Bachelor-of-the-Year ways for her, for their daughter.
Truth. Respect. Partnership.
Those were just words for him. Meaningless syllables.

For the first time since Sloane had stood on the Kennedy Center terrace, she was one hundred percent grateful that she had insisted on maintaining
some
distance from Ethan—physical, if not emotional. How much worse would it have been to hear Zach's words, if she and Ethan had spent the past two months in the intimacy of a physical relationship? How much worse would it be
to realize that he had lied with his body as well as his words?

Approaching the heavy glass door to the outside, Sloane realized that Ethan's driver would pull into the circular driveway the instant that he saw her pause on the threshold. She never gave the guy a chance, though. Instead, she exited as if she had a distinct destination, turning to her right and rushing toward the sidewalk without any hint of hesitation. With any luck at all, the driver wouldn't recognize her in the few seconds before she slipped into twilight shadows. He wouldn't be able to report to Ethan. Couldn't turn her in.

She walked two blocks before she got to busy Connecticut Avenue. Three taxis passed by her raised hand, already ferrying passengers to their own destinations. The fourth one, though, pulled to a stop. She opened the back door reflexively, settled into the seat, fastened the belt.

“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

Sloane moved her purse onto her lap. Her wallet held the five hundred-dollar bills that Ethan had left for her that first morning, the day that he had tracked her down in her dingy basement apartment. She had intended to use them on a wedding present for him, buying him something sweet and sentimental, something that marked some inside joke that only they could share.

Well, there was nothing sweet or sentimental about their wedding.

Unable to think of a destination, increasingly aware of the driver's exasperation, Sloane said the first thing that popped into her mind. “Take me to the Eastern Hotel, please.”

S
loane huddled against the headboard, the snowy-white hotel duvet pulled up to her chin. It had been easy enough to get a room. Not the penthouse suite that she and Ethan had shared; her cash wouldn't stretch that far, by any means. But a regular room, with a king-size bed and a view of Pennsylvania Avenue, America's Main Street. A retreat.

She'd slipped off her uncomfortable shoes and hung her party dress in the closet. The rich terry-cloth robe, so thoughtfully provided by the Eastern, felt like a memory of the childhood she'd never had, a whisper of comfort as she wrapped herself inside its modest warmth. Despite the robe, though, her teeth had started to chatter.

She'd adjusted the thermostat in the room, turning off the whispering air conditioner. She'd run her hands under the hot water faucet in the bathroom, holding them in the stream until they turned red. She'd looked long
ingly at the Jacuzzi tub, but she knew that she couldn't indulge in a steaming hot bath. She had to protect her daughter. Had to do what was right for both of them.

It had been so easy to slip into the dream represented by Ethan Hartwell. So easy to believe that she could live in a nice house, surrounded by nice things. She could talk to kind people like James. She could eat gourmet breakfasts, work in a complete library, surrounded by wonder-filled books.

But she wasn't supposed to be that woman. She wasn't supposed to have that sort of good fortune.

Sloane Davenport was a misfit kid, a foster child. She was the girl without a real family, without real friends.

That's what had happened with Ethan, she now realized. She'd been so eager to make things perfect. So eager to live the life she desired. She'd told herself stories, told herself
lies.
Made herself believe lies told to her. He loved her. Ha. Any idiot could see that Ethan Hartwell would never be interested in
her,
not in the long run. Not when he had every model and actress in the world to choose from. Not when he could buy whatever companionship he desired.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. It had all seemed so
real.
In the darkness behind her eyelids, she could see Ethan leaning over her. She could feel his lips on hers, teasing, taunting, seeking admission to the heat of her mouth. She could feel his fingers, raising heart-trembling reactions from her flesh. She could smell the pine scent of him, the fragrance unique to the man she had loved.

No.

None of it had been real. Not when Ethan had first told Sloane that he loved her. Not when he'd brought back the joyous news of their daughter's health. Not
when he'd given her the engagement ring. It had all been a game, a play, a performance put on for Margaret's benefit. He had always known, in the back of his mind, that he was working to meet his grandmother's ultimatum. He had always been lying to Sloane. Forget about
truth.
Forget about
respect.
And don't even mention
partnership.

Sloane forced herself to take a calming breath. Another. Another.

Maybe she was being ridiculous. Maybe she was making the proverbial mountain out of a molehill.

But she couldn't get past one simple fact: Ethan could have told her about Margaret's demands at any time. He could have shared the truth. They could have laughed about it together. If their relationship were real, wouldn't Ethan have done that? Wouldn't he have trusted her?

Zach had saved Sloane from a lifetime of misery. Her lips twisted into a grim smile. Perhaps she should pay Zach for his time. Whatever astronomical hourly wage the lawyer commanded, it couldn't be too much, given the value of the lesson he had taught.

As if Sloane had two cents to pay a high-priced lawyer.

She curled her hands into fists. Everything had
seemed
so much better. Sloane had enjoyed a roof over her head, food on the table, medical care for herself and her unborn daughter. She had looked forward to her new job at AFAA, to the fruition of all the hours she'd spent on the Hope Project.

She could never take that job now. She'd been a fool even to consider meeting Lionel Hampton for lunch. The job was as tainted as all the rest of it—a treat dangled by Margaret, to lure Sloane into the bizarre web of Hartwell family deceit.

Miserable, Sloane reached for her purse on the nightstand. She dug out her cell phone, thumbed through the last few entries until she reached Mr. Hampton's phone number. She pressed the button to reply to his call. One ring. Two. Three. His voice mail picked up halfway through the fourth ring.

She didn't pay attention to his authoritarian message, didn't bother to hear how sorry he was to have missed her call, how she could reach his assistant. Instead, she waited for the mechanical beep, and then she said, “Mr. Hampton, this is Sloane Davenport. I'm afraid I won't be able to meet with you next week after all. Thank you for your interest in my project. I hope that the foundation does well in the future.”

She hung up before she could change her mind.

After that, she didn't have anything more to do. There was no one else to call. No one to talk to. No one to share the mess she'd made of her life.

She pulled the robe closer around her body, slashing the belt tight with a series of tight motions. Her teeth started to chatter again as she pulled the duvet up to her ears.

No one could find her here. She'd paid with cash. She was anonymous. She could sleep until morning, until she needed to check out, until she needed to leave the Eastern and figure out a new place to live, a new way to find food, clothes. Tomorrow would be soon enough for all of that. She started sobbing, well before she managed to fall asleep.

 

She woke to the sound of pounding on the door.

She couldn't remember where she was. The room was dark, so dark. This wasn't the bright guest suite of Ethan's home.

She rubbed her hand across her face, rasping her skin with loops of terry cloth. Memory flooded back to her; she was in the Eastern, hiding from everyone, from everything. She blinked hard and glanced toward the window. She could see that it was bright outside; a chink in the blackout curtains revealed summer sunshine.

The pounding began again, and she swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She fumbled for the reading lamp on the nightstand, took three tries to find the switch. Dull yellow light washed across the room.

Her mouth was dry; she tried to figure out what she would say to whoever had awakened her. She must have slept past checkout time. She hoped that the hotel wouldn't charge her for a second day. She had no way of paying. Not without using Ethan's credit card. And she was never going to use Ethan's credit card again.

Abruptly, the noise at the door stopped. Sloane drew a deep breath, grateful for the reprieve. She could take a shower. She could get dressed. She could have a few more minutes before the sanctuary of the Eastern was taken away from her.

In her rush of relief, she almost missed the sound of the key card whispering through the door's lock. A solid
snick,
though, indicated that the mechanism had released. Two men were silhouetted in the cold light that flooded in from the hallway.

Ethan's relief was so sharp that he needed to steady himself against the door frame with one hand. The sight of Sloane stole his breath away, left him literally unable to speak. She stood beside her rumpled bed, clutching her robe closed at the neck. The folds of fabric hid the gentle swell of her belly, protecting her modesty perfectly.

Her hair was mussed, as if she'd had a bad night's
sleep. He could see a faint crease on one cheek. Her eyes were blurry, their sapphire brilliance hidden for once, as if she were still dozing, still dreaming whatever crazy nightmare had brought her to this place.

He turned to the manager, intensely aware of the privacy of this moment, of his need to be alone with the woman who was going to be his wife. “Thank you,” he said. “That will be all.”

The manager bristled. “Sir, you said that this woman's health is in danger. It is certainly not the policy of the Eastern to burst into guests' rooms unannounced—”

Ethan turned to Sloane. He could see the confusion on her face, the frown that pulled down the corners of her mouth. Taking a single step closer, he could see the faint puffiness beneath her eyes, silent, accusing proof that she'd been crying. “Sloane,” he said, and he was astonished to hear his voice break across her name. “Please…”

She blinked, obviously still confused. The manager's thin lips twisted in disdain. “Sir,” the man said. “You will leave this room immediately, or I'll be forced to call security.” He backed up his threat by setting one firm hand on Ethan's biceps.

Ethan resisted the urge to shrug free. He had to prove that he was here to help Sloane. That she would be safe with him. “Sloane,” he said, and this time his throat worked properly. “I spoke with Zach. He told me what he said. That you misunderstood.
Please.
”

Sloane shook her head, more in disbelief than in denial. Now that she was awake, she could see how limited her options were. By the light of day—a new day, when she would owe new fees for the hotel room—she realized just how little she could do to get her life back on track.

She also knew, though, that Ethan wasn't any physical threat to her. From the look on the manager's face, the police might be getting involved at any minute. She found the presence of mind to nod once, to send a grateful smile at the hotel official. “Thank you,” she said. “I'll let him stay.”

“Madam,” the manager said, puffing out his chest. “I assure you that the Eastern takes every guest's safety as a matter of utmost concern. I would never have let this man in here if he had not convinced me that it was a matter of life or death, that your physical safety was endangered at this very moment.”

She barely glanced at Ethan. She couldn't bear to look at him. “I understand. He can be very convincing.”

“Madam?”

She had to cut him off. Had to stand up for herself. Had to take the first steps down the long road of the rest of her life. “Thank you. I'm not afraid of him. He can stay.”

The manager stared at her for a long minute, obviously weighing whether she was making her decision freely and without duress. He must have approved of what he saw, though, because he finally stepped out into the hall. “You can reach me at any time, simply by pressing zero on any hotel phone.”

Zero. Just like in Ethan's home.

Sloane nodded her appreciation, then waited for the door to swing closed behind him. She gathered her robe closer about her, stepping back toward the bed, trying to put as much space as possible between Ethan and herself. The silence stretched between them, long and dangerous. She tested a dozen thoughts, tried twenty conversational openings, but nothing was right. Nothing fit.

He read the indecision on her face as clearly as if she were shouting at him. He had to say something, do something to let her know that she
could
trust him, that he hadn't just been making an excuse for the manager. “Thank you,” he said, putting solid emotion behind the words.

He glanced at the reading lamp beside the bed, at the feeble pool of light that it spread across the floor. He needed to change that, needed to bring her out of whatever dark place she'd retreated to. “May I?” he asked, nodding toward the window.

She hesitated a moment, but she nodded. He took longer than he needed to, crossing to the curtains. He pulled the shades slowly, giving her time to adjust. Time to grow comfortable with the change.

He turned back to face her, and he caught the tail end of a nervous gesture, of her running her fingers through her hair. The black cascade over her shoulders tightened his throat. He spread his fingers wide, forcing himself to take a steadying breath, to relax, to keep from frightening her further.

“How did you find me?” she asked. What had she done to betray herself? She thought she'd been so careful, purposely avoiding using his credit card, being tracked by his driver.

He nodded toward her cell phone on the nightstand. “Hartwell Genetics security,” he said. “You made a call last night, to AFAA. We could trace it from the office.”

She swallowed hard. The foundation, catching her once again. She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Ethan, I placed that call to cut my ties. I told the foundation that I wouldn't work for them. Wouldn't take Margaret's money.”

He nodded, as if he had expected as much. Nevertheless, he asked, “Why?”

She stared at him, incredulous. “Do you have to ask? I can't work for them. Not when the job is only another round of charity. Not when it's just another manipulation, another way of Margaret reining you in.”

“Me?” He sounded astonished, but she refused to be drawn in to another round of his game playing.

“You said that you spoke to Zach. Then you know that he told me all about Margaret's ultimatum. You need to be married by Margaret's birthday or you lose everything. I understand that.”

She rubbed her arms, fighting off the deadly chill that nearly made her teeth chatter. She wasn't losing anywhere near as much as Ethan was. Not control over a corporation. Not a family fortune. She was only walking away from luxury that she'd enjoyed for a couple of months.

Of course Ethan had made his choice. Of course he'd agreed to his grandmother's demands, kept them secret in case Sloane even thought of protesting. She couldn't blame him. Wouldn't blame him.

He eyed her steadily. “Sloane, I made my choice. I chose you.” He closed the distance between them, standing so close that she could feel the heat from his body, could feel a human warmth that she thought would never be hers again. “I chose you and our daughter.”

He made it sound so simple. So easy. She bit her lip, trying desperately to maintain her concentration. “No. If you had truly made up your mind, you would have told me about Margaret's demands. You wouldn't have waited for some lawyer to betray your secret. You would have shared the truth.”