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Authors: Sandra Marton

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“If there is no one present who can offer a reason why Nicolas and Dawn should not be wed,” he said briskly, as if fearing another interruption, “then, in accordance with the laws of God and the State of Connecticut, I pronounce them husband and wife.”
Nick turned to his bride, took her in his arms and kissed her. The organist struck a triumphant chord, the guests rose to their feet and Damian lost sight of the woman in a blur of faces and bodies.
* * *
Saved by the bell, Laurel thought, though it was more accurate to say she'd been saved by a C major chord played on an organ.
What an awful entrance to have made! It was bad enough she'd arrived late for Dawn's wedding, but to have interrupted it, to have drawn every eye to her...
Laurel swallowed a groan.
Just last week, during lunch, Dawn had predicted that was exactly what would happen.
Annie had brought her daughter to New York for the final fitting on her gown, and they'd all met for lunch at Tavern on the Green. Dawn, with all the drama in her eighteen-year-old heart, had looked at Laurel and sighed over her Pasta Primavera.
“Oh, Aunt Laurel,” she'd said, “you are so beautiful! I wish I looked like you.”
Laurel had looked across the table at the girl's lovely face, innocent of makeup and of the rough road that was life, and she'd smiled.
“If
I
looked like
you
,” she'd said gently, “I'd still be on the cover of
Vogue
.”
That had turned the conversation elsewhere, to Laurel's declining career, which Annie and Dawn stoutly insisted wasn't declining at all, and then to Laurel's plans for the future, which she'd managed to make sound far more exciting than they so far were.
And, inevitably, they'd talked about Dawn's forthcoming wedding.
“You are going to be the most beautiful bride in the world,” Laurel had said, and Dawn had blushed, smiled and said well, she certainly hoped Nick would agree, but that the most beautiful woman at the wedding would undoubtedly be her aunt Laurel.
Laurel had determined in that moment that she would not, even inadvertently, steal the spotlight. When you had a famous face—well, a once-famous face, anyway—you could do that just by entering a room, and that was the last thing she wanted to do to the people she loved.
So this morning, she'd dressed with that in mind. Instead of the pale pink Chanel suit she'd bought for the occasion, she'd put on a periwinkle blue silk dress that was a couple of years old. Instead of doing her hair in the style that she'd made famous—whisked back and knotted loosely on the crown, with sexy little curls tumbling down her neck—she'd simply run a brush through it and let it fall naturally around her shoulders. She hadn't put on any jewelry and she'd even omitted the touch of lip gloss and mascara that was the only makeup she wore except when she was on a runway or in front of a camera.
She'd even left early, catching a train at Penn Station that was supposed to have gotten her into Stratham a good hour before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. But the train had broken down in New Haven and Laurel had started to look for a taxi when the station public address system announced that there'd be a new train coming along to pick up the stranded passengers in just a few minutes. The clerk at the ticket counter confirmed it, and said the train would be lots faster than a taxi.
And so she'd waited, for almost half an hour, only to find that it wasn't a train that had been sent to pick up the passengers at all. It was a bus and, of course, it had taken longer than the train ever would have, longer than a taxi would have, too, had she taken one when the train had first ground to a halt. The icing on the cake had come when they'd finally reached Stratham and for endless minutes, there hadn't been a cab in sight.
“Aunt Laurel?”
Laurel looked up. Dawn and her handsome young groom had reached her row of pews.
“Baby,” she said, fixing a bright smile to her face as she reached out and gave the girl a quick hug.
“That was some entrance,” Dawn said, laughing.
“Oh, Dawn, I'm so sorry about—”
Too late. The bridal couple was already moving past her, toward the now-open doors and the steps that led down from the church.
Laurel winced. Dawn had been teasing, she knew, but Lord, if she could only go back and redo that awful entrance.
As it was, she'd stood outside the little church after the cab had dropped her off, trying to decide which was preferable, coming in late or missing the ceremony, until she'd decided that missing the ceremony was far worse. So she'd carefully cracked the doors open, only to have the wind pull them from her hands, and the next thing she'd known she'd been standing stage-center, with every eye in the place on her.
Including his. That man. That awful, smug-faced, egotistical man.
Was he Nicholas's guardian? Well, former guardian. Damian Skouras, wasn't that the name? That had to be him, considering where he'd been standing.
One look, and she'd known everything she needed to know about Damian Skouras. Unfortunately she knew the type well. He had the kind of looks women went crazy for: wide shoulders, narrow waist, a hard body and a handsome face with eyes that seemed to blaze like blue flame against his olive skin. His hair swept back from his face like the waves on a midnight sea, and a tiny gold stud glittered in one ear.
Looks and money, both, Laurel thought bitterly. It wasn't just the Armani dinner jacket and black trousers draped down those long, muscled legs that had told her so, it was the way he held himself, with careless, masculine arrogance. It was also the way he'd looked at her, as if she were a new toy, all gift-wrapped and served up for his pleasure. His smile had been polite but his eyes had said it all.
“Baby,” those eyes said, “I'd like to peel off that dress and see what's underneath.”
Not in
this
lifetime, Laurel thought coldly.
She was tired of it, sick of it, if the truth were told. The world was filled with too many insolent men who'd let money and power go to their heads.
Hadn't she spent almost a year playing the fool for one of them?
The rest of the wedding party was passing by now, bridesmaids giggling among themselves in a pastel Hurry of blues and pinks, the groomsmen grinning foolishly, impossibly young and good-looking in their formal wear. Annie went by with her ex and paused only long enough for a quick hug after which Laurel fell back into the crowd, letting it surge past her because she knew
he'd
be coming along next, the jerk who'd stared at her and stripped her naked with his eyes...and yes, there he was, bringing up the rear of the little procession with one of the bridesmaids, a child no more than half his age, clinging to his arm like a limpet.
The girl was staring up at him with eyes like saucers while he treated her to a full measure of his charm, smiling at her with his too-white teeth glinting against his too-tanned skin. Laurel frowned. The child was positively transfixed by the body-by-health club, tan-by-sunlamp and attitude-by-bank-balance. And Mr. Macho was eating up the adulation.
Bastard, Laurel thought coldly, eyeing him through the crowd, and before she had time to think about it, she stepped out in the aisle in front of him.
The bridesmaid was so busy making goo-goo eyes at her dazzling escort that she had to skid to a stop when he halted.
“What's the matter?” the girl asked.
“Nothing,” he answered, his eyes never leaving Laurel's.
The girl looked at Laurel. Young as she was, awareness glinted in her eyes.
“Come on, Damian. We have to catch up to the others.”
He nodded. “You go on, Elaine. “I'll be right along.”
“It's Aileen.”
“Aileen,” he said, his eyes still on Laurel. “Go ahead. I'll be just behind you.”
The girl shot Laurel a sullen glare. “Sure.” Then she picked up her skirts and hurried along after the others.
Close up, Laurel could see that the man's eyes were a shade of blue she'd never seen before, cool and pale, the irises as black-ringed as if they'd been circled with kohl. Ice, she thought, chips of polar sea ice.
A pulse began to pound in her throat. I should have stayed where I was, she thought suddenly, instead of stepping out to confront him...
“Yes?” he said.
His voice, low and touched with a slight accent, was a perfect match for the chilly removal of his gaze.
The church was empty now. A few feet away, just beyond the doors, Laurel could hear the sounds of laughter but here, in the silence and the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, she could hear only the
thump-thump
of her heart.
“Was there something you wished to say to me?”
His words were polite but the coldness in them made Laurel's breath catch. For a second, she thought of turning and running but she'd never run from anything in her life. Besides, why should she let this stranger get the best of her?
There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all.
So she drew herself up to her full five foot ten, tossed her hair back from her face and fixed him with a look of cool
hauteur,
the same one she wore like a mask when she was on public display, and that had helped make her a star on runways from here to Milan.
“Only that you look pathetic,” she said regally, “toying with that little girl.”
“Toying with...?”
“Really,” she said, permitting her voice to take on a purr of amusement, “don't you think you ought to play games with someone who's old enough to recognize you for what you are?”
The man looked at her for a long moment, so long that she foolishly began to think she'd scored a couple of points. Then he smiled in a way that sent her heart skidding up into her throat and he stepped forward, until he was only a hand's span away.
“What is your name?”
“Laurel,” she said, “Laurel Bennett, but I don't see—”
“I agree completely, Miss Bennett. The game is far more enjoyable when it is played by equals.”
She saw what was coming next in his eyes, but it was too late. Before Laurel could move or even draw back, he reached out, took her in his arms and kissed her.
CHAPTER TWO
L
AUREL SHOT a surreptitious glance at her watch.
Another hour, and she could leave without attracting attention. Only another hour—assuming she could last that long.
The man beside her at the pink-and-white swathed table for six, Evan Something-or-Other, was telling a joke. Dr. Evan Something-or-Other, as Annie, ever the matchmaker, had pointedly said, when she'd come around earlier to greet her guests.
He was a nice enough man, even if his pink-tipped nose and slight overbite did remind Laurel of a rabbit. It was just that this was the doctor's joke number nine or maybe nine thousand for the evening. She'd lost count somewhere between the shrimp cocktail and the
Beouf aux Chanterelles.
Not that it mattered. Laurel would have had trouble keeping her mind on anything this evening. Her thoughts kept traveling in only one direction, straight towards Damian Skouras, who was sitting at the table on the dais with an expensively dressed blond windup doll by his side—not that the presence of the woman was keeping him from watching Laurel.
She knew he was, even though she hadn't turned to confirm it. There was no need. She could feel the force of his eyes on her shoulder blades. If she looked at him, she half expected to see a pair of blue laser beams blazing from that proud, arrogant face.
The one thing she
had
confirmed was that he was definitely Damian Skouras, and he was Nicholas's guardian. Former guardian, anyway; Nick was twenty-one, three years past needing to ask anyone's permission to marry. Laurel knew that her sister hadn't wanted the wedding to take place. Dawn and Nick were too young, she'd said. Laurel had kept her own counsel but now that she'd met the man who'd raised Nick, she was amazed her sister hadn't raised yet a second objection.
Who would want a son-in-law with an egotistical SOB like Damian Skouras for a role model?
That was how she thought of him, as an Egotistical SOB. and in capital letters. She'd told him so the next time she'd seen him, after that kiss, when they'd come face-to-face on the receiving line. She'd tried breezing past him as if he didn't exist, but he'd made that impossible, capturing her hand in his, introducing himself as politely as if they'd never set eyes on each other until that second.
Flushed with indignation, Laurel had tried to twist her hand free. That had made him laugh.
“Relax, Miss Bennett,” he'd said in a low, mocking tone. “You don't want to make another scene, do you? Surely one such performance a day is enough, even for you.”
“I'm not the one who made a scene, you—you—”
“My name is Damian Skouras.”
He was laughing at her, damn him, and enjoying every second of her embarrassment.
“Perhaps you enjoy attracting attention,” he'd said. “If so, by all means, go on as you are. But if you believe, as I do, that today belongs to Nicholas and his bride, then be a good girl, smile prettily and pretend you're having a good time, him?”
He was right, and she knew it. The line had bogged down behind her and people were beginning to crane their necks with interest, trying to see who and what was holding things up. So she'd smiled, not just prettily but brilliantly, as if she were on a set instead of at a wedding, and said, in a voice meant to be heard by no one but him, that she was hardly surprised he still thought it appropriate to address a woman as a girl and that she'd have an even better time if she pretended he'd vanished from the face of the earth.
His hand had tightened on hers and his eyes had glinted with a sudden darkness that almost made her wish she'd kept her mouth shut.
“You'll never be able to pretend anything when it comes to me,” he'd said softly, “or have you forgotten what happened when I kissed you?”
Color had shot into her face. He'd smiled, let her snatch her hand from his, and she'd swept past him.
No, she hadn't forgotten. How could she? There'd been that first instant of shocked rage and then, following hard on its heels, the dizzying realization that she was suddenly clinging to his broad shoulders, that her mouth was softening and parting under his, that she was making a little sound in the back of her throat and moving against him...
“...well,” Evan Something-or-Other droned, “if that's the case, said the chicken, I guess there's not much point crossing to the other side!”
Everybody at the table laughed. Laurel laughed, too, if a beat too late.
“Great story,” someone chuckled.
Evan smiled, lifted his glass of wine, and turned to Laurel.
“I guess you heard that one before,” he said apologet ically.
“No,” she said quickly, “no, I haven't. I'm just—I think it must be jet lag. I was in Paris just yesterday and I don't think my head's caught up to the clock.” She smiled. “Or vice versa.”
“Paris, huh? Wonderful city. I was there last year. A business conference.”
“Ah.”
“Were you there on business? Or was it a vacation?”
“Oh, it was business.”
“I guess you're there a lot.”
“Well...”
“For showings. That's what they call them, right?”
“Well, yes, but how did you—”
“I recognized you.” Evan grinned. “Besides, Annie told me. I'm her dentist, hers and Dawn's, and the last time she came by for a checkup she said. ‘Wait until you meet my baby sister at the wedding. She's the most gorgeous model in the world.”' His grin tilted. “But she was wrong.”
“Was she?” Laurel asked, trying to sound interested. She knew what came next. If the doctor thought this was a new approach, he was sadly mistaken.
“Absolutely. You're not the most gorgeous model in the world, you're the most gorgeous woman, hands down.”
Drum roll, lights up, Laurel thought, and laughed politely. “You'll have to forgive Annie. She's an inveterate matchmaker.”
“At least she didn't exaggerate.” He chuckled and leaned closer. “You should see some of the so-called ‘dream dates' I've been conned into.”
“This isn't a date, Doctor.”
His face crumpled just a little and Laurel winced. There was no reason to let her bad mood out on him.
“I meant,” she said with an apologetic smile, “I know what you're saying. I've been a victim of some pretty sneaky setups, myself.”
“Matchmakers.” Evan shook his head. “They never let up, do they? And I wish you'd call me ‘Evan.'”
“Evan,” Laurel said. “And you're right, they never do.”
“Annie wasn't wrong, though, was she?” Evan cleared his throat. “I mean, you are, ah, uninvolved and unattached?”
Annie, Laurel thought wearily, what am I going to do with you? Her sister had been trying to marry her off for years. She'd really gone into overdrive after Laurel had finally walked out on Kirk.
“Okay,” Annie had said, “so at first, you didn't want to settle down because you had to build your career. Then you convinced yourself that jerk would pop the question, but, big surprise, he didn't.”
“I don't want to talk about it,” Laurel had replied, but Annie had plowed on, laying out the joys of matrimony as if she hadn't untied her own marriage vows years before, and eventually Laurel had silenced her by lying through her teeth and saying that if the right man ever came along, she supposed she'd agree to tie the knot....
But not in this lifetime. Laurel's mouth firmed. So far as she could see, the only things a woman needed a man for was to muscle open ajar and provide sex. Well, there were gizmos on the market that dealt with tight jar lids. As for sex...it was overrated. That was something else she'd learned during her time with Kirk. Maybe it meant more to women who didn't have careers. Maybe there was a woman somewhere who heard music and saw fireworks when she was in bed with a man but if you had a life, sex was really nothing more than a biological urge, like eating or drinking, and certainly not anywhere near as important.
“Sorry,” Evan said, “I guess I shouldn't have asked.”
Laurel blinked. “Shouldn't have...?
“If you were, you know, involved.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Oh, no, don't apologize. I'm, ah, I'm flattered you'd ask. It's just that, well, what with all the traveling I do—”
“Miss Bennett?”
Laurel stiffened. She didn't have to turn around to know who'd come up behind her. Nobody could have put such a world of meaning into the simple use of her name—nobody but Damian Skouras.
She looked up. He was standing beside her chair, smiling pleasantly.
“Yes?” she said coldly.
“I thought you might like to dance.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Ah, but they're playing our song.”
Laurel stared at him. For the most part, she'd been ignoring the band. Now, she realized that a medley of sixties hits had given way to a waltz.
“Our sort of song, at any rate,” Damian said. “An old-fashioned waltz, for an old-fashioned girl.” His smile tilted. “Sorry. I suppose I should say ‘woman.'”
“You suppose correctly, Mr. Skouras. Not that it matters. Girl or woman, I'm not interested.”
“In waltzing?”
“Waltzing is fine.” Laurel's smile was the polite equal of his. “It's you I'm not interested in, on the dance floor or off it.”
Across the table, there was a delighted intake of breath. Every eye had to be on her now and she knew it, but she didn't care. Not anymore. Damian Skouras had taken this as far as she was going to allow.
“You must move in very strange circles, Miss Bennett. In my world, a dance is hardly a request for an assignation.”
Damn the man! He wasn't put off by what she'd said, or even embarrassed. He was amused by it, smiling first at her and then at the woman who'd gasped, and somehow managing to turn things around so that it was Laurel who looked foolish.
It wasn't easy, but she managed to dredge up a smile.
“And in mine,” she said sweetly, “a man who brings his girlfriend to a party and then spends his time hitting on another woman is called a—”
“Hey,” a cheerful voice said, “how's it going here? Everybody having a good time?”
Laurel looked over her shoulder. The bride and groom had come up on her other side and were beaming at the tableful of guests.
“Yes,” someone finally said, after some throat-clearing, “we're having a splendid time, Nicholas.”
“Great. Glad to hear it.” Nick grinned. “One thing I learned, watching the ladies set up the seating chart, is that you never know how these table arrangements are going to work out.” He looked at Laurel, then at Damian, and his grin broadened. “Terrific! I see that you guys managed to meet on your own.”
The woman opposite Laurel made a choked sound and lifted her napkin to her lips.
Damian nodded. “We did, indeed.” he said smoothly.
Dawn leaned her head against her groom's shoulder. “We just knew you two would have a lot to talk about.”
I don't believe this,
Laurel thought.
I'm trapped in a room filled with matchmakers.
“Really,” she said politely.
“Uh-huh.”
“Name one thing.”
Dawn's brows lifted. “Sorry?”
“Name one thing we'd have to talk about,” Laurel said pleasantly, even while a little voice inside her warned her it was time to shut up.
The woman across the table made another choking sound. Dawn shot Nick a puzzled glance. Gallantly he picked up the slack.
“Well,” he said, “the both of you do a lot of traveling.”
“Indeed?”
“Take France, for instance.”
“France?”
“Yeah. Damian just bought an apartment in Paris. We figured you could clue him in on the best places to buy stuff. You know, furniture, whatever, considering that you spend so much time there.”
“I don't,” Laurel said quickly. She looked at Evan, sitting beside her, and she cleared her throat. “I mean, I don't spend half as much time in Paris as I used to.”
“Where do you spend your time, then?” Damian asked politely.
Where didn't he spend his? Laurel made a quick mental inventory of all the European cities a man like this would probably frequent.
“New York,” she said, and knew instantly it had been the wrong choice.
“What a coincidence,” Damian said with a little smile. “I've just bought a condominium in Manhattan.”

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