Free The Mogul's Maybe Marriage by Mindy Klasky

some sleep, wait to see Sloane in the morning. But he couldn’t resist opening her door.
    The sight inside made him catch his breath.
    Sloane had kicked the summer comforter onto the floor where it huddled at the foot of her bed like a lumpy ghost. Her sheets were tangled, nearly tied into knots. Even in the silvery moonlight, he could see that her feet were caught in the twisted mess. Her hair was splayedacross her pillow, like seaweed trailing on a beach. Somewhere in her sleep, she must have heard his soft grunt of amazement. She rolled from her side to her back, her arms lashing out in the darkness. “No,” she moaned, rubbing at her face. “Please. No.”
    He stepped into the room before he was consciously aware of moving. As if she could sense his presence, Sloane grew more agitated. Her breath caught in a sob, and she pushed away the confining chains of her sheets. Her fingers snagged in the colorless cotton of her nightgown, and she struggled like a desperate child.
    The scent of roses filled the room. He saw the flowers that he’d ordered, faded to gray in the moonlight. He thought he’d been so clever, choosing chaste flowers. He had thought it would be their joke, their secret, a floral memory of the silly, brave promise she’d extracted from him the night before. Now, though, the roses looked like rotten rags and their perfume reminded him of a funeral parlor.
    The dead oak tree outside the window swayed in a sudden breeze, scraping its branches against the window. The sound grated like fingers on a chalkboard, and it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The screech must have penetrated Sloane’s nightmare, because she started sobbing in earnest, her words drowned in hopeless, helpless sorrow.
    He was beside the bed before he could think.
    â€œHush,” he whispered, settling his palm against her cheek.
    She fought like a wild thing, thrashing against the sheets, flinging herself away from him. “Sloane,” he murmured, trying to wake her gently, to ease her out of her nightmare. He gathered up the sheets that bound her, shoving them toward the foot of the bed. Her feet werestill tangled, and he edged his hands past her thighs, along her calves, fighting to free her ankles. “Sloane,” he said again, sitting on the edge of the bed, folding his arms around her, gathering her close to his chest. “I’m here. It’s all right. You were having a bad dream.”
    She shook her head, still dazed, obviously confused. He tightened his grip, pulling her onto his lap. Her head rested on his shoulder; her fingers clutched at the crisp broadcloth of his shirt. “Hush,” he said again. “I’m here. You’re fine.”
    The oak fingers scraped against the window again, and she tensed in his arms. He fought the urge to swear out loud. The damned tree had been struck by lightning the summer before. James had hoped that it would recover, but Ethan would have it cut down in the morning.
    â€œIt’s just a tree,” he said. “Just a dream.” He started rocking her, gently easing his hand down the trembling plane of her back. He was relieved when her sobs quieted, when her breathing started to slow.
    Sloane forced her fingers to loosen their death grip on Ethan’s shirt. What had she been thinking? How had she gotten so lost inside her dream? Even now, the nightmare was fading; she could scarcely remember the horror that she’d been fighting. She was awake enough to feel foolish, absolutely idiotic as she sat on Ethan’s lap, clutching him as if she were a child, listening to him whisper meaningless phrases.
    She didn’t feel like a child, though. Ethan’s fingers were firm. His right hand gripped her steadily, keeping her anchored, secure. His left palm stroked her back with a soothing pressure.
    No. Not soothing. There was more than that.
    His flesh spoke to hers. He had dragged her back from the brink of a