her mind. But of course she would pass it. And he’d be a fool to take her word that the baby was his, without medical proof. She’d already seen the swarm of women waiting for his attention back there in the gallery. He had to protect himself.
The negative thought, though, fed her other insecurities. How could she be certain that he would stay with her? Sure, he said that she was different, that the night they’d shared was special. And, in a way, it was. It had resulted in a child. But the baby was one truth, placed in a balance against all the other truths she had learned, all the articles she’d forced herself to read. Ethan Hartwell was not the kind of man who settled down. He wasn’t the kind of man who married.
But he was the kind of man who could pay for visits to an obstetrician. And for a pediatrician, after that. And for all the other things that Sloane desired for her baby. For Ethan’s baby. For their child together.
She looked down at the stunning engagement ring. Her hands started to shake, hard enough that she was afraid she would drop the velvet box. With a comforting smile, Ethan rescued the ring from its midnight bed. He snapped the box closed, then made it disappear in the pocket of his trousers. His burning fingers grasped hers, steadying her, pouring some iron behind her trembling knees. Carefully, like a surgeon performing a delicate operation, he slid the band onto the ring finger of her left hand.
It fit perfectly. The metal melted into her flesh, as if it had always been a piece of her. The diamond collected all the light in the heavens above, casting it back at her dazed eyes in a thousand tiny flashes.
Ethan thought that the ring looked even better on her hand than he had imagined when he’d selected it at the jewelers. Watching the wonder spread across her face, the wash of joy that echoed the pure physical bliss they’d shared at the Eastern, Ethan folded his hands around hers. She blinked as he covered the brilliance of the ring, almost as if he were breaking some spell. He stepped closer to her, tucking her captured hand against the pleated front of his shirt. He felt the flutter of her pleasure through his palm, measured the solid drumbeat of his own heart through her flesh.
“Sloane Davenport,” he said, his voice a husky whisper. “Will you be my wife?”
This time her tears remained unshed, glistening in the night. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I will.”
He folded his arms around her. Her bare back seared through his sleeves. He had to hold her, had to feel her, had to crush her against the entire length of his body, so that he could truly believe that this was happening, that she was real. His lips found hers, and he drank deeply, swallowing her incredulous laughter as his tongue demanded more. He closed his teeth against her lower lip with a surge of passion, barely heeding the internal rein that reminded him to be careful, to protect her, to spare the woman who bore his child.
“Ethan,” she gasped, finally tearing away from the pressure of his kiss. Her lips felt bruised, swollen, pulsing with the hot blood that he had sucked into them. For a dozen heartbeats, he fought to reclaim her mouth, pressed himself into her, seeking to slake his apparently never-ending thirst.
She couldn’t let him, though. She couldn’t let herself forget her decision, the why and the wherefore of it. She had to be strong, and true to her baby. “Ethan,” she said again, finally managing to lay her palm along his jaw. Her left palm. With the diamond ring winking beside his midnight stubble. “I’ll marry you, but there’s one condition.”
“Yes,” he said immediately, the single word a promise and a plea.
She bit back a smile. “No.” She shook her head. “You need to listen to me. You need to decide.”
His fingers clenched on her hips, but she held his gaze steadily. She had to say this. Had to make sure that her heart knew precisely what she was doing and why she was doing it. She had to make everything absolutely clear.
If she had learned nothing else working on the Hope Project, she had learned this: Children deserved to be with families that loved them. Families that functioned healthily, without parental angst, without adult trials and tribulations constantly undermining stability. All of the art projects in the world could never create what every baby should have from birth: a stable, loving home.
And Sloane couldn’t think of anything more likely to turn a relationship upside down than sex. Sex with Ethan had been wonderful, more fulfilling than she’d ever dreamed. But it had made her lose sight of her goals. Sleeping with Ethan had cost her a job. She wasn’t going to let a physical relationship take away more—not when her child was at risk.
“If I marry you, Ethan, it can’t be because of what happened at the Eastern. It can’t be because of…this.” She looked down, managing to convey both their bodies, the crumpled clothes between them. “It can’t be about…about sex. I won’t go to bed with you until after we’re married. We both need that break. That separation. We both need to be certain that we’re getting married for the right reason—for our baby.”
He understood what she was doing. Despite her finding the courage to meet him tonight, she was unnerved by their passion, by the animal need that had drawn them together, that hummed between them, even now, like the echo of a gong.
But that was why he’d been drawn to her in the first place, wasn’t it? The freshness of her innocence. The honesty that she’d brought to bed with her. That was what had intrigued him, made him realize that she was different from every other woman he’d ever had. It had been a pure bonus to discover that there was more to Sloane than a beautiful face, a gorgeous body. Her passion for her work had been like a decadent dessert after a sating meal—stunning because it was unnecessary. Unexpected.
If only Sloane still wanted him, after she learned the truth about his Hartwell genes. If only she kept her promise to marry him after the fourteenth week, after the testing that would disclose whether Ethan was as cursed as his own parents had been, twice. He couldn’t let himself think about that, though. Couldn’t think about losing Sloane.
Better to play the role she was expecting. Better to pretend that he knew there would always be a happy ending. Better to give in to the passion that he could barely restrain when she was anywhere near.
He raised her wrist to his mouth. His lips hovered above her trembling pulse, barely touching her throbbing flesh. He heard the moan that she caught at the back of her throat, and then he darted out his tongue to taste her. He clamped his fingers around her arm when she jumped away in surprise, and he used the motion to pull her close to his chest.
“You’ll change your mind,” he said. “After a few weeks? Months? How long do you think it will take to plan a wedding?” He leaned down and whispered against her lips, “I promise. You will change your mind.”
She shook her head, her eyes gone round. “I won’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
“You will,” he said. “You already have. And when you admit that, you’ll have to tell me. You’ll have to ask for what you truly want.”
She shook her head, her throat working, but no words rose to the surface.
He pulled back, settling for planting one last kiss in the palm of her hand. “Remember this,” he said. “Remember now. You will.”
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