seen his writing before, she could picture his fingers curled around a pen, slashing out the letters on the heavy white paper. “Give me another chance? E.” A ticket was nestled inside the folds of paper.
Swan Lake, the Bolshoi Ballet, opening gala for the dance season at the Kennedy Center. Friday night.
She sank back in the hard chair. What was she getting herself into?
But that wasn’t really the question, was it? The question was what had she gotten herself into? Two and a half months before, when she’d given in to the magnetic power of the man she’d met at the Eastern, when she’d let herself be drawn into the thrumming, driving force that had risen between them like a river overflowing its banks.
She laid her hand across her belly, across the child that grew inside her.
Sure, she could tell him that she had other plans for Friday night. She could send back the ticket. After all, she was healthy and happy, and she already loved her baby with a sharp fierceness.
But what, exactly, was she going to do, long-term? How was she going to raise this child?
Marry me.
Independence was important to her. It was the one thing that she had always carried with her, the one certainty she had clung to, no matter what had happened in her turbulent childhood, in her confused adolescence. She had built a life for herself, built a dream. Selfreliance had made her the woman that she was today.
Marry me.
She’d scoured job sites every day since leaving the foundation, but there weren’t a lot of paying opportunities for psychologists focusing on art therapy for foster kids. That was why she’d ended up at AFAA as a project coordinator in the first place. How much longer would it take for her to find something? How much longer would her meager savings hold out?
Even if she spent the five hundred dollars that he’d left, even if she accepted the money as a gift and not an insult.
Marry me.
He couldn’t mean it. He had to have spoken out of surprise, the shock at discovering he was going to be a father. Shock. But why hadn’t Sloane told him? What had she been proving to herself? To him? That she didn’t need him? That she didn’t need anyone? Once again, she saw the earnest look in his eyes as he proposed to her, his solemn hazel gaze as he turned his own life upside down. He had not hesitated an instant. He had reached out to her with all his strength, all the certainty that had sparked off him at the Eastern during that fateful night. She could learn to depend on that strength. She could learn to bask in it.
Marry me.
She was crazy to even consider it. Crazier than he’d been to offer. But what better option did she have for her baby? How else could she give her child the comfort, stability and security it deserved?
She stared at the gleaming ticket. What could it hurt, going to the ballet? What did she have to lose?
Her stomach growled as she read Ethan’s note again. For the first time in days, she was actually hungry. A burger with cheese and bacon sounded wonderful. And for once, she didn’t have to worry about whether she could afford an extra large order of fries.
Ethan forbade himself to check the time once again. Either she would show up or she wouldn’t, and staring at his watch wasn’t going to change anything.
The musicians were warming up in the orchestra pit. Violins chased each other in discordant flurries. Horns blared repeated trills of notes. Ethan tapped his program against the arm of his chair, wishing that the theater box was large enough for him to pace.
Opting for the best alternative under the circumstances, he stood. He shot his cuffs and glanced at his wrist again, before he remembered that he wasn’t going to check the time.
And then the door to the box opened. For one moment, he could only see the dark shadows of the antechamber. Then, a tentative hand reached out, creamy flesh with perfect crimson nails that sent a reflexive shiver down his spine. Sloane followed the promise of that hand, gliding into the light, a dizzying contrast of sophisticated innocence, of steely vulnerability, all enfolded in a demure, floor-length cobalt gown.
He murmured her name, unable to manage more.
She glanced at the half-dozen chairs arrayed in the box, and the shadow of a frown darted across her lips. “Who else is coming?”
“No one,” he said. “I wanted to make sure we had some privacy. The box is ours for tonight.”
She blushed and looked away from him, obviously nervous. That surprised him. She’d chosen to come here, to accept his peace offering. And she certainly knew what he was capable of, what they were capable of together. He could recall perfectly how she had responded to his touch, how she had trembled when he traced the line of her collarbone with the tip of his tongue. He could remember the instant that she shifted her hips beneath him, that she matched her thighs to his. He could see the arch of her throat as her breathing quickened, as he guided them closer to the edge of their first delicious peak.
And yet there was more to discover with this woman. More to learn about her. About him with her. That notion was strangely arousing. Hoping to put her at ease, he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
And he was.
Her hair was piled on top of her head in a simple twist, held in place by some invisible woman’s magic. The sleek lines made the column of her neck impossibly long. Impossibly vulnerable. His fingers itched to follow the path of the chaste fabric V across her chest. Instead, he settled for gesturing toward her chair, offering her the best seat in the box.
As she stepped forward, he saw that the modest front of her dress lied. The back was cut low, swooping to bare the twin wings of her shoulder blades, the polished marble of her spine. Awareness of that body, of that perfect flesh, shot through him like an electric wire. She took her seat gracefully, apparently unaware of the havoc she was wreaking inside him, the sudden blow she had dealt his composure.
Sloane had known that Ethan would be in a tuxedo. Nevertheless, the formal suit tugged at her memories, catapulted her back to that night at the Eastern. All too easily, she could see his bow tie stripped loose at his throat. She could picture the tiny onyx studs sprung open down his chest, his cuff links freed to reveal the tight muscles of his forearms.
With perfect recall, she could see those satin-striped trousers pooled on the floor, as if he’d just shed them.
But that wasn’t what this night was about. That wasn’t why she’d agreed to meet Ethan Hartwell here, at the Kennedy Center. She needed to remember her focus. She needed to remember her goal. She needed to remember that her baby deserved medical care and protection, safety and security, things that she could not afford to provide.
Sloane was grateful she’d taken the time to pin up her hair and paint her nails. And she was thrilled that she could still fit into the improbably perfect dress that she’d found years before, at Goodwill, in Chicago.
She’d never been to the Kennedy Center before, had only seen it on television. The rich crimson of the carpet made her feel like a princess. The gold accents on the light fixtures picked out the blond in Ethan’s hair, highlighting the unruly strands that made him look like a slightly naughty boy. She blinked, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she pictured him balanced over her, nothing
