The Greek's Unwilling Bride (20 page)

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Authors: Sandra Marton

BOOK: The Greek's Unwilling Bride
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He bent and brushed his mouth gently over hers. She stirred and breathed a soft sigh, and it was all he could do to keep from lying down beside her and gathering her into his arms.
First, though, there was Gabriella to deal with.
Damian's jaw hardened as he left his wife's room and quietly shut the door after him.
And deal with the bitch, he would.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
L
AUREL AWAKENED to bright sunlight and a memory as ethereal as a wisp of cloud.
Was it a dream, or had Damian really entered her room in the middle of the night, kissed her and called her his beloved?
It seemed so real...but it couldn't have been. They'd quarreled, and even though he'd held out a tentative olive branch, she'd rejected it.
She sat up, pushed aside the light sheet that covered her and scrubbed her hands over her face.
Rejected his peace offering? That was putting it mildly. She'd damn near slapped his face, then rubbed his nose in her relationship with Kirk for good measure.
Laurel puffed out her breath. What on earth had possessed her? The man she loved—the only man she'd ever loved—was Damian.
She dressed quickly, with little care for how she looked. All that mattered was finding a way to rectify the damage she'd caused last night. Damian didn't love her, not yet, but she knew that he cared for her—at least, he had, until she'd instigated that ugly scene.
Well, there was only one way to fix things.
She had to tell Damian the truth. To hell with pride, and the pain that would come of admitting she loved him without hearing that he loved her, too. She'd go to him, tell him that Kirk had never meant a damn to her, that no one had or ever would, except him.
Her heart was racing, as much with apprehension as with anticipation. After Kirk, she'd promised she'd never leave herself so vulnerable to any man again. But Damian wasn't
any
man. He was her husband, her lover—he was the man she would always love.
Laurel squared her shoulders and stepped out into the hall.
* * *
He wasn't in his bedroom. Well, why would he be? It was past eight o'clock, late by his standards, and there'd been nothing to make him linger in bed today. She hadn't been lying in the curve of his arm, her head pillowed on his shoulder; he hadn't whispered a soft, sexy “good morning” and she hadn't given him a slow, equally sexy smile in return.
He wasn't in the kitchen, either, nor on the terrace, sipping a second cup of coffee while he and Spiro conferred on what might need doing today.
Eleni was there, though, out on the terrace, busily watering the urns filled with pansies and fuchsias and impatiens.
“
Kaliméra sas
.”
Laurel smiled as she stepped outside.
“Kalimdra sas,
Eleni. Where is Mr. Skouras, do you know?”
Eleni's brows lifted. “Madam?”
“My husband,” Laurel said. “Have you any idea where...” She sighed, smiled and shook her head. “Never mind. I'll find him, I'm sure.”
But she didn't. He wasn't at the barns, or strolling along the wall, or hammering at the boulder.
“
Kaliméra sas
.”
It was Spiro. He had come up behind her, as quietly as a shadow.
“Kaliméra sas
,” Laurel said, and hesitated. The old man spoke no English and she spoke no Greek beyond the few words she'd picked up during the week. Still, it was worth a try. Damian had to be here somewhere. “Spiro, do you know where Mr. Skouras is?”
The old man's bushy brows lifted questioningly.
“I'm trying to find Damian. Damian,” she repeated, pointing at the platinum wedding band on her left hand, “you know, my husband.”
“Ah. Damian.
Né.
Yes, I understand.”
“You do speak English, then?”
“A little bit only.”
“Believe me, your English is a thousand times better than my Greek. So, where is he?”
“Madam?”
“Damian, Spiro. Where is he?”
The old man cleared his throat. “He leave island, madam.”
“Left Actos? For Crete, you mean?”
“He is for New York.”
Laurel stared at him. “What do you mean, he's... No, Spiro, you must be mistaken. He wouldn't have gone to New York without me.”
“He is for New York, madam. Business.”
“Business,” she repeated and then, without warning, she began to weep. She cried without sound, which somehow only made her tears all the more agonizing for Spiro to watch.
“Madam,” he said unhappily, “please, do not cry.”
“It's my fault,” she whispered. “It's all my fault. We quarreled, and I hurt him terribly, and—and I never told him—he doesn't know how much I—”
She sank down on a bench and buried her face in her hands. Spiro stood over her, watching, feeling the same helplessness he'd felt years ago, when he'd come across a lamb who'd gotten itself caught on a wire fence.
He put out his hand, as if to touch her head, then reached into his pocket instead, pulled out an enormous white handkerchief, and shoved it into her hands.
“Madam,” he said, “you will see. All will be well.”
“No.” Laurel blew her nose, hard, and rose to her feet. “No, it won't be. You don't understand, Spiro. I told Damian a lie. An awful lie. I said cruel things...”
“You love him,” the old man said gently.
“Yes. Oh, yes, I love him with all my heart. If only I'd gone to him last night. If only I hadn't been so damn proud. If only I could go to him now...”
Spiro nodded. It was as he'd thought. Something had gone wrong between Damian and his bride; it was why he had left her in the middle of the night.
“Where are you going at such an hour?” Spiro had asked.
Damian's reply had been sharp. “New York,” he'd said, “and before you ask, old man, no, Laurel does not know I'm going, and no, I am not going to tell her.”
“But what shall I tell her, when she asks?”
“Tell her whatever seems appropriate,” Damian had said impatiently, and then he'd motioned Spiro to cast off the line.
The old man frowned. Damian and this woman loved each other deeply, any fool could see that, but for reasons that were beyond him to comprehend, they could not admit it.
“Spiro.”
He looked at the woman standing beside him. Her eyes were clear now, and fierce with determination.
“I know that you love Damian,” she said. “Well, I love him, too. I have to tell him that, Spiro, I have to make him understand that there's never been anyone but him, that there never could be.”
Tell her whatever seems appropriate...
The old man straightened his shoulders. “Yes,” he said. He put his gnarled hand on Laurel's shoulder. “Yes, madam. You must tell him—and I will help you to do it.”
* * *
New York City was baking in brutal, midsummer heat.
It had been hot on Actos, too, but there the bright yellow sun, blue sea and pale sky had given a strange beauty to the land.
Here, in Manhattan, the sun was obscured by a sullen sky. The air was thick and unpleasant. And, Damian thought as the doors of the penthouse elevator whispered open, it had been one hell of a long day.
He stripped off his jacket and tie, dumped them on a chair and turned up the air conditioner. A current of coolness hissed gently into the silent foyer. Stevens and his housekeeper were both on vacation; he had the place to himself. And that was just as well.
Damian closed his eyes and let the chill envelope him as he undid the top buttons of his shirt, then rolled back his cuffs. He was in no mood to pretend civility tonight, not after dealing with Gabriella. The hour he'd spent closeted with her and their attorneys had felt like an eternity. Even the cloying stink of her perfume was still in his nostrils.
“Are you certain you're up to a face-to-face meeting?” Hastings had asked him.
Damian had felt more up to putting his hands around Gabriella's throat, but he'd known this was the only thing that would work. She had to be confronted with the information he'd ordered gathered but, more than that, she had to see for herself that he would follow through.
For the next sixty minutes, while Gabriella wept crocodile tears into her lace handkerchief and cast him tragic looks, he'd tried to figure out what he'd ever imagined he'd seen in her.
The bleached hair. The artful but heavy makeup. The clinking jewelry—jewelry he'd paid for, from what he could tell—all of it offended him. The sole thing that kept him calm was the picture he held in his mind, of Laurel as he'd last seen her, asleep at Actos, in all her soft, unself-conscious beauty.
Finally he'd grown weary of the legal back-and-forth, and of Gabriella's posturing.
“Enough,” he'd said.
All eyes had turned to him. In a voice that bore the chill of winter, he'd told Gabriella what she faced if she took him on and then, almost as an afterthought, he'd shoved the file folder across the conference table toward her.
“What is this, darling?” she'd said.
For the first time, he'd smiled. “Your past,
darling,
catching up to you.”
She'd paled, opened the folder...and it was all over. Gabriella had called him names, many that were quite inventive; she'd hurled threats, too, but when her attorney peered over her shoulder at the contents of the folder, the list of names of the men she'd been involved with, the photos culled from the files of several private investigators including one of her, topless, sitting between the thighs of a naked man on a palm tree lined beach, he'd blanched and walked out.
Damian smiled, went to the bar and poured himself a shot of vodka over a couple of ice cubes.
“To private investigators,” he said softly, and tossed back half his drink.
Glass in hand, he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom, the room where he'd first made love to his wife. And it
had
been love; he knew that now. It was illogical, it was almost embarrassingly romantic, but there wasn't a doubt in his mind that he'd fallen in love with Laurel at first sight.
He couldn't wait to tell her that.
As soon as he got back to Actos, he was going to take her in his arms and tell her what had been in his heart all the time, that he loved her and would always love her, that it didn't matter what faceless man she'd loved in the past because he, Damian Skouras, was her future, and the future was all that mattered.
He put down his drink, stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the bathroom. His plane was waiting at the airport. Just another few hours, and he'd be home.
He showered quickly. There wasn't a minute to waste. The sooner he left here, the sooner he'd be in Laurel's arms.
But there was one stop to make first.
He knotted a bath sheet around his waist, ran his fingers carelessly through his damp hair and retrieved his drink from the bedroom.
He was going to go to Tiffany's. He'd never given his wife an engagement ring. Well he was going to remedy that failing right away. What would suit her best? Diamonds and emeralds? Diamonds and sapphires? Hell, maybe he'd solve the problem by buying her a whole bucketful of rings.
He grinned as he headed down the stairs. Another drink—ginger ale, because he wanted a clear head for this—and then he'd phone Tiffany's, see if they were open. If they weren't...what was the name of that guy he'd met last year? He was a Tiffany Veep, or maybe he was with Cartier or Harry Winston. Damian laughed out loud as he set his glass down on the bar. It didn't matter. Laurel wouldn't care where the ring was from, she wouldn't give a damn if it came from Sear's, not if she loved him, and he was closer and closer to being damned sure that she—
What was that?
Damian frowned. He could hear the soft hum of the elevator, see the lighted panel blinking as the car rose.
What the hell? He certainly wasn't expecting anyone, and the doorman would not send someone up with out...
Unless it was Laurel.
His heart thudded.
That was impossible. She was on Actos. Or was she? Spiro hadn't approved of his hasty departure. In the old days, the old man had never hesitated to do what he thought best, even if it meant overriding Damian's wishes. Of course, a lot of years had gone by since then.
On the other hand, Spiro could still be stubborn. If he thought it wise to take matters into his own hands...
The elevator stopped, and Damian held his breath. The doors opened—and Gabriella stepped out of the car.
“Surprise,” she said in a smoky contralto.
The sight of her, draped in hot pink that left nothing to the imagination and with a crimson smile painted on her lips, twisted his gut with such savage rage that it left him mute for long seconds. Then he drew a deep, painful breath and managed to find his voice.

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