her breath caught at the back of her throat.
“Thank you,” he said, staring across the water.
“For what?” She was astonished.
“For coming here tonight. For trusting me that much.”
She’d trusted him a lot more, back at the Eastern. She’d trusted him the way she’d never trusted another man. But in the past three days, as she’d thought about his offer, about their future, she’d realized that she needed to give him more than just her body. As crazy as it seemed, she needed to give him her future. The future of their child.
She held her glass against the pulse point in her right wrist. She wished that she had the courage to reach for his drink, for the ice cubes that she longed to sacrifice against the fever he lit inside her blood. She wasn’t going to acknowledge that heat. She couldn’t. This conversation wasn’t about that sort of satisfaction.
So far, so good, Ethan thought.
She wasn’t running away from him. She hadn’t been frightened off by that bird-brained idiot, Elaine.
And Ethan hadn’t wasted too much time back inside. Stepping away from the bar, he’d been cornered by Zach Crosby, who had raised an eyebrow at Ethan’s two glasses. “You work fast, my man. Who’s tonight’s lucky lady?”
“Who’s asking? My best friend? Or my grandmother’s attorney?”
A frown had clouded Zach’s face. “You know I can’t talk to you about that. I can tell you that I advised her against drawing up the papers, though. No hard feelings?”
Ethan had sighed. Zach had been placed in an impossible position. Margaret Hartwell was his biggest client, by far. Besides, the men’s friendship had survived a lot worse, from elementary school escapades to college pranks. “No hard feelings,” he’d said grudgingly.
“So you’ll introduce me to the woman of the hour? Give me a chance to warn her about you?”
“Absolutely not.” Ethan had smiled, but he’d continued walking toward the door, toward the balcony where Sloane waited.
“Hey!” Zach had called after him. “What about the silent auction?”
Damn. Zach was in charge of the ballet fundraiser. Ethan had already promised to place a bid, to make a sizable donation. “Put me down for something. You know my limit.”
Zach had laughed, and Ethan had escaped to the terrace.
Now, he watched Sloane sip from her champagne flute. Her throat barely rippled as she swallowed. He wanted to trace the liquid with his tongue, to edge aside the dark V that shielded her breasts.
She felt his attention on her. She’d never had any man so aware of her, so focused on her every move. It made her feel…treasured. Protected. Bold enough to say, “What’s this all about, Ethan?”
“What do you mean?” A caged wariness flashed into his hazel eyes.
She set her champagne flute on the ground at her feet, as if she could distance herself from the perfect night, from the old dreams that had spun awake as the dancers twirled upon the stage. “I mean, the view is beautiful, and the ballet was gorgeous, and I really appreciate your bringing me here.” She let the brightness fade from her voice. “But why do you want to marry me? You’re not exactly the type to settle down. We spent one night together.”
“It was a damned good night,” he growled.
The heat behind his words kindled a slow fire inside her, and she had to concentrate to say, “I’ve read about you, Ethan, over and over again, in all the papers. You’ve had nights like that before. You’ve been with lots of other women, but I’ve never heard of you proposing to one of them.”
The simple truth was that not one of those other women had been anything like Sloane. Ethan had thought long and hard since leaving her apartment three days before. Something had broken through his usual reserve to make him say those terrifying two words. Something had driven him to speak out. Marry me.
He’d tried to shrug it off, to tell himself that he was merely overreacting to his grandmother’s absurd demand. His grandmother was being manipulative. She was pushing his buttons. She was overstepping her bounds.
But he had a lifetime of practice ignoring his grandmother.
Besides, only a fool would completely ignore a trusted confidante. And as infuriating as Grandmother could be, she had raised him. She knew him better than any person in the entire world, better even than Zach. Ethan had seen the honest concern on his grandmother’s face; he had recognized the heartsick worry that had softened her to tears when she spoke her mind about his womanizing. If she truly believed that his spending mindless time with a shifting parade of women made him a weaker businessman—a lesser man—then he had to give some credence to what she said. He had to accept the business argument.
And who better to settle down with than the woman who stood beside him? Sloane was real. She had true dreams, actual goals. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel her nestled beside him in bed at the Eastern, her body as spent as his but her mind still restless, still intent on sharing, on telling him what she wanted to build, how she wanted to make the world a better place.
Not one of them has been like you. He longed to emphasize his words with a touch. He could see the vulnerable curve of Sloane’s jaw. Just trace it with a finger…turn her toward him, tilt her head, slant her lips beneath his own.
But he couldn’t touch her now. This had to be about more than simply the lust of his body for hers.
He forced himself to swallow a raw mouthful of Scotch, to substitute one heat with another.
Sloane filled the silence that had stretched out for far too long, making herself say the painful words, the difficult admission that she’d thought about for three straight days. “We had a single night, Ethan. I’m no different than those other women are. I’m not going to hold you to some promise that you made on the spur of the moment. I’m not going to use our baby to force you to do anything you don’t really want to do.” There. She’d said it. She’d voiced her greatest fear. Whatever Ethan said now, she would know that she had been true to herself. True to her child.
As if in answer, he set his glass next to hers before reaching inside the pocket of his jacket. In the darkness of the terrace, it took a moment to decipher what he took out. The black velvet nearly disappeared into the night. He offered it to her on his open palm, his fingers extended as if he were trying to gentle a wild animal.
She plucked the box from his hand before she was fully aware of what it was. The hinge was stiff; one curious touch threw the box open to the moonlight and the stars. She caught her breath as she saw the most stunning diamond ring she’d ever imagined. An emerald cut, perfect in its simplicity. A platinum band. Two carats, at least.
“Ethan,” she breathed, half-afraid that the ring would disappear as she broke its magic spell.
When he’d blurted out his proposal on Tuesday, she hadn’t really believed him. She couldn’t. Things like that didn’t happen to her, had never happened to her.
But a diamond ring was different. A diamond ring, offered to her here under
