The Greek's Unwilling Bride (17 page)

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Authors: Sandra Marton

BOOK: The Greek's Unwilling Bride
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As for the rest...as for the rest, he thought, the heat pooling in his loins, what would happen between them in bed would keep them both satisfied. She would not deny him forever. She wouldn't want to. Despite her protestations, Laurel wanted him. She was a passionate woman with a taste for sex, but she was his now. If she ever thought to slake her thirst with another man, he'd—he'd...
The glass splintered in his hand. Damian hissed with pain as the shards fell to the terrace floor.
“Dammit to hell!”
Blood welled in his palm. He cursed again, dug in his pocket for a handkerchief—and just then, a small, cool hand closed around his.
“Let me see that,” Laurel said.
He looked up, angry at himself for losing control, angry at her for catching him, and the breath caught in his throat.
How beautiful his wife was!
She was wearing something long, white and filmy; he thought of what Spiro had said, that she looked like Aphrodite, but the old man was wrong for surely the goddess had never been this lovely.
Laurel must have showered and washed her hair. It hung loose in a wild cloud of dark auburn curls that tumbled over her shoulders as she bent over his cut hand.
“It isn't as bad as it probably feels,” she said, dabbing at the wound with his handkerchief.
He felt a fist close around his heart. Yes, it was, he thought suddenly, it was every bit as bad, and maybe worse.
“Come inside and let me wash it.”
He didn't want to move. The moment was too perfect. Laurel's body, brushing his. Her hair, tickling his palm. Her breath, warm on his fingers...
“Damian?” She looked up at him. “The cut should be—it should be...”
Why was he looking at her that way? His eyes were as dark as the night that waited on the rim of the sea. There was a tension in his face, in the set of his shoulders...
His wide shoulders, encased in a dark cotton shirt. She could see the golden column of his throat at the open neck of the shirt; the pulse beating in the hollow just below his Adam's apple; the shadow of dark, silky hair she knew covered his hard-muscled chest.
A chasm seemed to open before her, one that terrified her with its uncharted depth.
“This cut should be washed,” she said briskly, “and disinfected.”
“It is not necessary.” His voice was low and throaty; it made her pulse quicken. “Laurel...”
“Really, Damian. You shouldn't ignore it.”
“I agree. A thing like this must not be ignored.”
Her eyes met his and a soft sound escaped her throat. “Damian,” she whispered, “please...”
“What?” he said thickly. He lifted his uncut hand and pushed her hair back from her face. “What do you want of me,
kati mou?
Tell me, and I will do it.”
Kiss me, she thought, and touch me, and let me admit the truth to myself, that I don't hate you, don't despise you, that I—that I...
She let go of his hand and stepped back.
“I want you to let me clean this cut, and bandage it,” she said briskly. “You've seen to it that we're a million miles from everything. If you developed an infection, I wouldn't even know how to get help.”
Damian's mouth twisted.
“You are right.” He wound the handkerchief around his hand and smiled politely. “You would be stranded, not just with an unwanted husband but with a disabled one. How selfish of me, Laurel. Please, serve yourself some lemonade. Eleni prepared it especially for you. I will tend to this cut, and then we shall have our dinner. You will excuse me?”
Laurel nodded. “Of course,” she said, just as politely, and she turned and stared out over the sea, watching as a million stars fired the black velvet sky, and blinking back tears that had risen, inexplicably, in her eyes.
* * *
She woke early the next morning.
The same insect chorus was singing, accompanied now by the soaring alto of a songbird. It wasn't the same as awakening to an alarm clock, she thought with a smile, or to the honking of horns and the sound of Mr. Lieberman's footsteps overhead.
Dressed in a yellow sundress, she wandered through the house to the kitchen. Eleni greeted her with a smile, a cup of strong black coffee and a questioning lift of the eyebrows that seemed to be the equivalent of, “What would you like for breakfast?”
A bit of sign language, some miscommunication that resulted in shared laughter, and Laurel sat down at the marble-topped counter to a bowl of fresh yogurt and sliced strawberries. She ate hungrily—the doors leading out to the terrace were open, and the air, fragrant with the mingled scents of flowers and of the sea, had piqued her appetite. She poured herself a second cup of coffee and sipped it outdoors, on the terrace, and then she wandered down the steps and onto the grass.
It was strange, how a night's sleep and the clear light of morning changed things. Yesterday, the house had seemed disturbingly austere but now she could see that it blended perfectly with its surroundings. The location didn't seem as forbidding, either. There was something to be said for being on the very top of a mountain, with the world laid out before you.
Impulsively she kicked off her sandals and looped the straps over her fingers. Then she set off toward the rear of the house, where she could hear someone—Spiro, perhaps-beating something with what sounded like a hammer.
But it wasn't the old man. It was Damian, wearing denim cutoffs, leather work gloves, beat-up sneakers and absolutely nothing else. He was wielding what she assumed was a sledgehammer, swinging it over and over against a huge gray boulder.
His swings were rhythmic; his attention was completely focused on the boulder. She knew he had no idea she was there and a part of her whispered that it was wrong to stand in the shadow of a cypress and watch him this way... but nothing in the world could have made her turn away or take her eyes off her husband.
How magnificent he was! The sun blazed down on his naked shoulders; she could almost see his skin toasting to a darker gold as he worked. His body glistened under a fine layer of sweat that delineated its muscled power. He grunted softly each time he swung the hammer and she found herself catching her breath at each swing, holding it until he brought the hammer down to smash against the rock.
Her thoughts flashed two years back, to Kirk, and to the hours he'd spent working out in the elaborate gym in the basement of his Long Island home. Two hours a day, seven days a week, and he'd still not looked as beautifully male as Damian did right now.
She thought of how strong Damian's arms had felt around her the night they'd made love, of how his muscles had rippled under her hands...
“Laurel.”
She blinked. Damian had turned around. He smiled, put down the hammer and wiped his face and throat with a towel that had been lying in the grass.
“Sorry,” he said, tossing the towel aside and coming toward her. “I didn't mean to wake you.”
“You didn't. I've always been an early riser.”
He stripped off his gloves and tucked them into a rear pocket.
“I am, too. It's an old habit. If you want to get any work done in the summer here, you have to start before the sun is too high in the sky or you end up broiled to a crisp. Did you sleep well?”
Laurel nodded. “Fine. And you?”
“I always sleep well, when I am home.”
It was usually true, though not this time. He'd lain awake half the night, thinking about Laurel, lying in a bed just down the hall from his. When he'd finally dozed off, it was only to tumble into dreams that had left him feeling frustrated. He'd figured on working that off this morning through some honest sweat, but just the sight of his wife, standing like a barefoot Venus with the wind tugging at her hair and fluttering the hem of her sundress, had undone all his efforts.
Laurel cleared her throat. “What are you doing, anyway?”
“Being an idiot,” he said, and grinned at her. “Or so Spiro says. I thought it would be nice to plant a flower garden here.”
“And Spiro doesn't approve?”
“Oh, he approves. It's just that he's convinced that I will never defeat the boulder, no matter how I try.” He bent down, picked up a handful of earth and let it drift through his fingers. “He's probably right but I'll be damned if I'll give in without a fight.”
She couldn't imagine Damian giving in to anything without a fight. Wasn't that the reason she was here, as his wife?
“Besides, I've gotten soft lately.”
He didn't look soft. He looked hard, and fit, and wonderful.
“Too many days behind a desk, too many fancy lunches.” He smiled. “I can always find ways to work off a few pounds, when I come home to Actos.”
“You grew up here, in this house?”
Damian laughed. “No, not quite. Here.” He plucked her sandals from her hand and knelt down before her. “Let me help you with these.”
“No,” she said quickly, “that's all right. I can...” He lifted her foot, his fingers long and tan against the paleness of her skin. Her heart did another of those stutter-steps, the foolish ones that were coming more often, and for no good reason. “Damian, really.” Irritation, not with him but with herself, put an edge on her words. “I'm not an invalid. I'm just—”
“Pregnant,” he said softly, as he rose to his feet. His eyes met hers, and he put his hand gently on her flat stomach. “And with my child.”
Their eyes met. It was hard to know which burned stronger, the flame in his eyes or the heat in his touch. Deep within her, something uncoiled lazily and seemed to slither through her blood.
“Come.” He held out his hand.
“No, really, I didn't mean to disturb you. You've work to do.”
“The boulder and I are old enemies. We'll call a truce, for now.” He smiled and reached for her hand. “Come with me, Laurel. This is your home, too. Let me show it to you.”
It wasn't; it never would be. She wanted to tell him that but he'd already entwined his fingers with hers and anyway, what harm could there be in letting him walk her around?
“All right,” she said, and fell in beside him.
He showed her everything, and she could tell from the way he spoke that he took a special pride in it all. The old stone barns, the pastures, the white specks in a lower valley that he said were sheep, even the squawking chickens that fluttered out of their way...it all mattered to him, and she could see in the faces of the men who worked for him, tilling the land and caring for the animals, that they knew it, and respected him for it.
At last he led her over the grass, down a gentle slope and into a grove of trees that looked as if they'd been shaped by the wind blowing in from the sea.
“Here,” he said softly, “is the true heart of Actos.”
“Are these olive trees? Did you plant them?”
“No,” he said, with a little smile, “I can't take any credit for the grove. The trees are very old. Hundreds of years old, some of them. I'm only their caretaker, though I admit that it took years to restore them to health. This property had been left unattended for a long time, before I bought it.”
“It wasn't in your family, then?”
“You think this house, this land, was my inheritance?” He laughed, as if she'd made a wonderful joke. “Believe me, it was not.” His smile twisted; he tucked his hands into his back pockets and looked at her, his gaze steady. “The only thing I inherited from my parents was my name—and sometimes, I even wonder about that.”
“I'm sorry,” Laurel said quickly. “I didn't mean to pry.”
“No, don't apologize. You have the right to know these things about me.” A muscled knotted in his jaw. “My father was a seaman. He made my mother pregnant, married her only because she threatened to go to the police with a tale of rape, and left her as soon as I was born.”
“How terrible for her!”
“Don't waste your pity.” He began walking and Laurel hurried to catch up. Ahead, a low stone wall rose marked the edge of the cliff, and the bright sea below. “I doubt it happened as she described it She was a tavern whore.” His voice was cold, without inflection; they reached the wall and he leaned against it and stared out over the water. “She told me as much, when she'd had too much to drink.”
“Oh, Damian,” Laurel said softly, “I'm so sorry.”
“For what? It is reality, and I tell it to you not to elicit your pity but only because you're entitled to know the worst about the man you've married.”
“And the best.” She drew a deep breath and made the acknowledgment she'd refused to make until this moment “Your decision about this baby—our baby—wasn't one every man would choose.”

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