The Mogul's Maybe Marriage Read Free

flirted…
    Sloane sighed, remembering how easily the words had come to her, as if she were blessed by some daring goddess of romance. For once in her life, it had been simple to talk to a man, to tease him, to taunt. A little amazed, she’d watched Ethan lean close to her. She’d lowered her voice, bit her lip, dipped her head. When he’d settled a finger on her chin, raising her face to his, she’d felt the promise radiating from his hand. She’d registered the heat that had cascaded over her body in a sudden, astonishing wave.
    She’d tasted whiskey on his lips, smoky liquor that swirled through the clean citrus tang of her own drink. Without conscious thought, she’d drunk in more of the flavor of his cocktail, of him. The touch of his tongue on hers had sent an electric tingle down her spine, andshe’d shuddered, grateful for his firm hand on the small of her back, steadying her, drawing her closer.
    One hour, another drink and much banter later, he’d turned away to the bartender, said something that she couldn’t quite catch. She’d seen the flash of a silver credit card pass between the men, and minutes later, the exchange of a plastic room key.
    Another kiss had sealed his invitation, that one rocketing across the tender velvet of her mouth, curling through her belly, trembling into the vulnerable flesh behind her knees. She’d found some witty words to reply, and then she was grateful for the fiery hand that he cupped against her nape, for the scorching iron of his body next to hers as he led the way across the bar, to the elevator, to the penthouse suite that he had so effortlessly secured.
    His ease had given her the confidence to do all the things she wanted to do. She didn’t need to wonder if she should say this, if she should do that. Instead, she’d trusted herself. She’d trusted him. For one perfect night, she was more comfortable than she’d ever been with a man. It was more than just the sex, more than the amazing things he made her body feel. They had actually talked, hour after hour, lying next to each other in the dark, sharing stories of their very different pasts. Everything just felt…right.
    In the morning, though, she’d snuck out before he was awake. That’s what women did—at least according to movies, according to the newspapers, to the tabloids that feasted on men like Bachelor of the Year Ethan Hartwell. She’d snuck out, gone home to shower, made it in to the office no more than thirty minutes late.
    Thirty minutes that her boss had spent waiting forher. Thirty minutes that he’d spent building a furious argument.
    Didn’t Sloane know that AFAA had an image to uphold? AFAA project coordinators could not fraternize with prominent playboy bachelors in public bars where donors—discerning donors, conservative donors—could see them. AFAA project coordinators certainly could not slink off with their conquests, leaving nothing to the imagination about their destination. AFAA project coordinators could never threaten the long-term success of an organization as traditional and staid and sedate as the foundation—not when offended donors threatened to rescind their pledged funds because of the immoral behavior of AFAA staff.
    AFAA project coordinators could be replaced without a second’s hesitation.
    Even now, weeks later, Sloane grimaced at the memory.
    Before she could collect her notes and head to the library with its working computer terminal, her doorbell rang, making her jump in surprise. She never had visitors. When she looked through the peephole, she nearly sank to the floor in disbelief.
    Ethan Hartwell. As if she had summoned him with her recollection of that one night.
    That was absurd, though. She’d thought about that night almost nonstop since March. Mere thought had never brought Ethan to her door before.
    Heart pounding, she ran her fingers through her hair. Thank