The Mogul's Maybe Marriage Read Free Page B

settling a hand on her arm. She knew that she should pull away, keep a safe distance. But she didn’t entirely trust her suddenly trembling legs.
    â€œLet’s try this again,” he said. “Sit down.” He must have heard the note of command beneath his words, because he inclined his head and gestured toward the sofa as if it were something elegant, something worthy of royalty. “Please.”
    She took a seat, pretending that the action was her own idea, even as she was grateful for the support against her back. She longed to cradle one of the throw pillows in her lap, to hide behind the cushion. Instead, she folded her hands across her belly, trying to summon a calm that she could not feel past her pounding heart. As he sat beside her, she tried to think of something to say, anything, some everyday conversational gambit that would pass for normal between two consenting adults.
    He spoke before she did, though, his tone deceptively mild. “How far along are you?”
    She clutched at her T-shirt. “How did you know?”
    â€œThe vitamins.” He nodded toward her kitchen counter, toward the white plastic bottle that announced its contents in bright orange letters. “The book.” She blushed as his gaze fell on the coffee table. He insisted, “How many weeks?”
    â€œTen.” She watched him closely while he flashed through the math, waiting to see anger light his eyes,denial tighten his jaw. She didn’t see either of those emotions, though. Instead, there was something else, something she had no idea how to read.
    He set his shoulders. “Is it mine?”
    She nodded, suddenly unable to find words. Hormones, she thought as tears sprang to her eyes. Stupid pregnancy hormones.
    Wonderful, Ethan thought. That made two women he’d driven to tears that week.
    He hadn’t expected this. Not once, in all the times that he’d thought of Sloane, had he imagined that their one night together had led to a baby. A baby that was half Hartwell genes. Half a potential for such a disaster that his breath came short.
    They’d used protection, of course. He wasn’t an idiot. But he was a doctor, and he knew the statistics. Condoms failed, three percent of the time. Three percent, and after a lifetime of luck, of practice, of protection, he’d just lost the lottery.
    He had come to Sloane that morning with mixed emotions, determined to maintain his independence, even as he gave lip service to his grandmother’s edict. He had thought that he and Sloane could get to know each other better. After all, in the past year, she’d been the only woman he’d thought about once he’d left her bed. The only woman he’d ever wanted to confide something in, confide everything in. Which, of course, had made him vow never to contact her again.
    Except now he needed a woman. He needed a wife. And Sloane had been the first person to cross his mind when Grandmother issued her ultimatum.
    He had fooled himself, thinking that everything would be simple. They could go out on a few proper dates. Stay out of bed, difficult as that might prove tobe. Even as Ethan had built his plan, he’d been wryly amused by the thought that Sloane worked at AFAA. If, after a month or two of testing the waters, he found that he and Sloane truly were compatible, then she would be the perfect ironic tool to rein in his grandmother’s plan. He would put a ring on Sloane’s finger, and AFAA would lose the potential for a controlling interest in Hartwell Genetics.
    Except the stakes had just been raised. Astronomically. And Sloane didn’t have the least idea what was going on. She had no concept of what heartbreak her future might bear. Ethan set his jaw. There were tests, as his grandmother had reminded him. Tests that could be run as soon as Sloane reached her fourteenth week.
    He’d let the silence stretch out too long between them. He had to know.