The Mogul's Maybe Marriage. Mindy L. Klasky

who had been thrown off the college tennis team for sneaking his girlfriend into the tournament locker room. He was the twenty-seven-year-old who had celebrated receiving his medical degree and his business degree on the same day, only to crash his Porsche into the Tidal Basin.

      He was the thirty-three-year-old corporate executive, standing before his chairman of the board.

      “Ethan, enough is enough. Your parties and your women are bringing down this company. They’re distracting you. And they’re not even making you happy.” His grandmother gave him the flinty stare that had sealed a thousand legendary business deals. “Ethan, I want you married by no later than my birthday.”

      He laughed.

      “This isn’t a joke.” She leaned forward across her desk. All of a sudden, Ethan became aware of the deep lines beside her mouth, the bags beneath her eyes. Her fingers were knotted as she laid them flat against her gold-scrolled leather blotter. Did they tremble because she was angry with him? Or was something more going on? He barely resisted the urge to reach across her desk, to fold his fingers around the pulse point in her wrist, to measure her heart rate. Was she keeping track of her medication? Was she managing the high blood pressure?

      “Grandmother,” he said, purposely striving for a soothing tone. “I’m a grown man. I’ll decide when it’s time to marry.”

      “I wish I believed that.” Her voice quaked, spiking his own blood with a touch of true concern. “I’ve tried to be patient, Ethan, but I’m terrified that I’ll die without knowing our family will continue.” She raised one trembling hand to silence his automatic protest. “I know that you’re afraid. But we can test now. We can be absolutely certain that any child you father is spared the genetic mutation.”

      He had never seen his grandmother cry before. Not when two grandchildren had died—Ethan’s siblings. Not when Ethan’s mourning parents had incinerated their marriage. Not when Grandmother had been left with the responsibility of managing the company that the family had originally founded to research an end to their long-kept medical secret. Not when she had buried her beloved husband of fifty-one years.

      But she was crying now.

      “You have a responsibility, Ethan. To the Hartwell family and to this company. To yourself. It’s time for you to settle down.” She must have read the automatic rebellion in his expression. She sat up straighter, staring at him with the hazel eyes that were the more benign manifestation of his Hartwell heritage. “And if you’re not willing to do that, then I’ll have no choice but to step down from the board and transfer my shares in Hartwell Genetics.”

      Her shares. Enough stock to influence every major corporate decision. If someone else owned Grandmother’s interest, Ethan would be forced to fight, to keep the secret of his own genetic heritage. He’d be bound to waste countless hours cajoling along new business colleagues, educating them about the corporation’s diverse pharmaceutical initiatives, all the while keeping secret its one dear mission. Ethan could kiss every one of his short-term goals goodbye while he adjusted to the change. And under a new regime, his long-term plans might never coalesce.

      “You don’t mean that,” he said.

      “I do. I need to know that I’ve built something that will last, Ethan, something that will outlive me.” He heard every one of her seventy-nine years in her voice. “Ethan, I need to know that you can step up to your obligations. That you will guide Hartwell Genetics through its next fifty years. If you can’t prove that to me—if you’re not married by January fifth—then I’m celebrating eight decades by transferring my entire estate to the American Foundation for the Advancement of the Arts.”

      AFAA. His grandmother’s longtime pet charity.

      This was even worse than he’d thought a moment ago. AFAA had no interest in medicine. They would view a massive infusion of corporate stock as a conservative investment. They would do their best to challenge every decision Ethan made to expand the corporate mission, to bring Hartwell Genetics into new markets. They’d argue for safety and security and preservation of their newfound wealth, at all costs.

      Ethan sighed. He’d escorted Grandmother to the foundation’s annual charity auction only a couple of months before, at the luxurious Eastern Hotel, the one with the bar that overlooked the Washington Monument.

      He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He’d bought a drink for the auction coordinator that night. A drink, and then a hastily arranged suite on the penthouse level of the hotel.

      Sloane. Sloane Davenport.

      He could still see Sloane’s delicate, self-conscious smile as she admitted that she’d never done anything like that before, never gone off with a man she’d just met. He had silenced her confession with a kiss, not willing to admit to himself just how much her innocence attracted him, how much her shyness drew him in.

      Since the auction, he’d picked up the phone to call her half a dozen times, but he’d never followed through. He hadn’t wanted to hear regret when he identified himself. Hadn’t wanted to think about the conversation they’d shared in the dark, the talk that had gone on, sleepy and comfortable, long after their bodies were sated. Hadn’t wanted to remember waking up alone, with just a memory of her honeysuckle scent on the pillow.

      He cleared his throat and shifted his weight, ordering his body to relax, to forget the only night that stood out from the past year’s slideshow of one-night stands. “AFAA,” he finally forced himself to say.

      His grandmother’s eyes glittered as she tapped a thick manila folder on her desk. “I have the papers here, Ethan. Zach drew them up.”

      Zach Crosby. Ethan’s best friend. His grandmother’s personal attorney.

      Ethan turned on his heel and left, ignoring his grandmother’s sharp remonstration, ignoring her secretary’s petulant frown, ignoring the buzz of his BlackBerry. Seven months to find a bride. And he had absolutely no doubt that his grandmother would follow through on her threat if he failed. He was certain of that. She loved him, and she would do whatever she thought best to save him. Even if he didn’t want to be saved.

      Sloane Davenport gasped as her computer screen flickered, giving one heart-stopping moment of blue-screen warning before it died. Damn! That was the third time today. And she had no way of knowing if her email had been sent before the stupid machine crashed. No way of knowing if her résumé was heading out toward a prospective new employer. No way of knowing if she might finally be making her way out of the mess that enveloped her.

      She stood slowly, bracing her palms against the kitchen table before she folded her fingers into fists and rubbed the small of her back. The dull, throbbing pain had returned. She grimaced and picked up a saltine from her chipped plate. Nausea swirled through her belly, but she forced herself to chew slowly, to swallow an entire glass of water when she was done.

      Two and a half months. She should be past the morning sickness any day now. That’s what the book said, the dog-eared volume that she kept on her coffee table like a family Bible.

      She shrugged and reached for the stack of papers beside her computer. Bills. Fortunately, she kept her checkbook on paper. No chance for her ancient computer to ruin them.

      Not that the curling slips of paper offered any great comfort. At least she’d managed to send her rent check on time. She glanced at the air conditioner that chugged along in the kitchen window of her tiny basement apartment. Her landlord covered utilities. No need to worry about electricity or water.

      Student loans, though, were another matter. She’d sent off a tiny payment, along with a note explaining that she’d send more, as soon as she was able.

      Like that was going to happen anytime soon. Expenses related to the baby had barely begun, and Sloane was already overwhelmed. Soon, she was going to have to buy some new clothes. She wasn’t showing yet, but it was only a matter of weeks. Her jeans were already snug in the waistband, and she’d left the button unfastened as she worked at her kitchen table.

      She’d