The Greek's Unwilling Bride (22 page)

Read The Greek's Unwilling Bride Online

Authors: Sandra Marton

BOOK: The Greek's Unwilling Bride
6.91Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
They didn't, not until Laurel was calmer, not until she was undressed and asleep in her bed.
Then they left because, really, when you came right down to it, what else was there to do?
* * *
What else was there to do? Damian thought, as he attacked the boulder outside his house overlooking the Aegean with the sledgehammer.
Nothing. Nothing but beat at this miserable rock and work himself to exhaustion from sunup to sundown in hopes he'd fall into bed at night and not dream of Laurel.
It was a fine plan. Unfortunately it didn't work.
He had not seen Laurel, or heard her voice, in two months—but she was with him every minute of the day, just the same. The nights were even worse. Alone in the darkness, in the bed where he'd once held his wife in his arms, he tossed and turned for hours before falling into restless, dream-filled sleep.
He had considered returning to New York, but he could not imagine himself sitting behind a desk, in the same city where Laurel lived. And so he stayed on Actos, and worked, and sweated, and oversaw his business interests by computer, phone and fax. He told himself that the ache inside him would go away.
It hadn't. If anything, it had grown worse.
He knew that Eleni and Spiro were almost frantic with worry.
“Is he trying to kill himself?” he'd heard Eleni mutter just that morning, as he'd gone out the door. “You must speak to him, Spiro,” she'd said.
Damian's mouth thinned as he swung the sledgehammer. If the old man knew what was good for him, he'd keep his mouth shut. He'd interfered enough already. Damian had told him so, on his return to Greece.
“Was it you who permitted my wife to leave the island and follow me to New York?” he'd demanded.
Spiro had stiffened.
“Né,”
he'd said, “yes, it was I.”
Damian's hands had balled into fists. “On whose authority did you do this thing, old man?”
“On my own,” Spiro had replied quietly. “The woman was not a prisoner here.”
A muscle had knotted in Damian's cheek. “No,” he'd said, “she was not.”
Spiro had waited before speaking again.
“She said that she had something of great importance to tell you,” he'd said, his eyes on Damian's. “Did she find you, and deliver her message?”
Damian's mouth had twisted. “She did, indeed,” he'd replied, and when Spiro had tried to say more, he'd held up his hand. “There is nothing to discuss. The woman is not to be mentioned again.”
She had not been, to this day. But that didn't mean he didn't think about her, and dream about her. Did she dream of him? Did she ever long for the feel of his arms and the sweetness of his kisses, as he longed for hers?
Did she ever think of how close they'd come to happiness?
Damian's throat constricted. He swung the hammer hard, but his aim wasn't true. His vision was blurred—by sweat, for what else could it be?—and the hammer hit the rock a glancing blow.
“Dammit,” he growled, and swung again.
“Damian,” Spiro's voice was soft. “The rock is not your enemy.”
“And you are not a philosopher,” Damian snapped, and swung again.
“What you battle is not the boulder, my son, it is yourself.”
Damian straightened up. “Listen here,” he said, but his anger faded when he looked at the old man. Spiro looked exhausted. Sweat stained his dark trousers and shirt; his weathered face was bright red and there was a tremor in his hands.
Why was the old fool so stubborn? The heat was too much for a man his age. Damian sighed, set the sledgehammer aside and stripped off his work gloves.
“It is hot,” he said. “I need something to drink.”
“There is a bottle of
retsina
in my jacket, under the tree.”
Damian plucked his discarded T-shirt from the ground and slipped it on.
“I know the sort of
retsina
you drink, old man. The sun will rot our brains quickly enough, without its help. We will go up to the house. Perhaps we can convince Eleni to give us some cold beer.”
“Né.”
Spiro smiled. “For once, you have an excellent idea.”
It took no convincing at all. Eleni took one look at them, rolled her eyes and brought cold beer and glasses out to the terrace. Damian ignored the glasses, handed one bottle to the old man and took the other for himself. He leaned back against the railing and took a long drink. Spiro drank, too, then wiped his mustache with the back of his hand.
“When do you return to New York?” he said.
Damian's brows lifted. “Are you in such a rush to get rid of me?”
“You cannot avoid reality forever, Damian.”
“Spiro.” Damian's voice was chill. “I warn you, do not say anything more. It is hot, I am in a bad mood—”
“As if that were anything new.”
Damian tilted the beer bottle to his lips. He drank, then set the bottle down. “I am going back to work. I suggest you go inside, where it is cooler.”
“I suggest you stop pretending you do not have a wife.”
“I told you, we will not discuss her.”
“And now I tell you that we must.”
“Dammit, old man—”
“I saw how happy she made you, Damian, and how happy you made her.”
“Are you deaf? I said that we would not—”
“You loved her. And you love her still.”
“No! No, I do not love her. What is love anyway, but a thing to make men idiots?”
Spiro chuckled and folded his arms. “Are you saying I was an idiot to put up with you, after I found you on the streets of Athens? Be careful, or I will have to take a switch to your backside, as I did when you were a boy.”
“You know what I mean,” Damian said, stubbornly refusing to be taken in. “I'm talking of male and female love, and I tell you that I did not
love
her. All right? Are you satisfied now? Can I get back to work?”
“She loved you.”
“Never.” Damian's voice roughened. “She did not love me, old man. She despised me for everything I am and especially for forcing her into a marriage she did not want.”
“She loved you,” Spiro repeated. “I know this, for a fact”
“She loved another, you sentimental old fool.”
“It is not sentiment or foolishness that makes me say this, Damian, it is the knowledge of what she told me.”
Damian's face went pale beneath its tan. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It is the reason I sent her after you. She said she loved you deeply.”
For one sweet instant, Damian felt his heart might burst from his chest. But then he remembered the reality of what had happened: the swiftness with which Laurel had accepted the ugly scene orchestrated by Gabriella, the way she'd refused even to listen to his explanation...and the message he'd found on his answering machine, Laurel's cool voice saying that she'd never stopped hating him, that what they'd shared had been nothing but sex...
“You misunderstood her, old man. You speak English almost as badly as she spoke Greek.”
“I know what she told me, Damian.”
“Then she lied,” Damian said coldly. He picked up the bottle and drained it dry. “She lied, because it was the only way she could get you to agree to let her leave the island, and you fell for it. Now, I am going to work and you are going to stay out of the sun before it bakes your brain completely. Is that clear?”
“What is clear,” the old man said quietly, “is that I raised a coward.”
Damian spun toward him, his eyes gone hard and chill. “If any other man but you dared say such a thing to me,” he said softly, “I would beat him within an inch of his life.”
“You are a coward in your heart, afraid to face the truth. You love this woman but because she hurt you in some fashion, you would rather live your life without her than risk going after her.”
“Damn you to hell,” Damian roared, and thrust his face into the old man's. “Listen, Spiro, and listen well, for I will say this only once. Yes, I love her. But she does not love me.”
“How do you know this?”
“How? How?” Damian's teeth glinted in a hollow laugh. “She told me so, all right? Does that satisfy you?”
“Did you ever tell her that you loved her?”
“Did I ever...?” Damian threw his arms skyward. “By all the gods that be, I cannot believe this! No, I never told her. She never gave me the chance. She came bursting into my apartment in New York, found me with another woman and damned me without even giving me an opportunity to explain.”
Spiro's weather-beaten face gave nothing away. “And what were you doing with this woman, my son? Arranging flowers, perhaps?”
Damian colored. “I admit, it did not look good...”
“You were not arranging flowers?”
“What is this? An interrogation? I had just come out of the shower, okay? And the woman—the woman was trying to seduce me. I just admitted, it did not look good.” He took a deep breath. “But Laurel is my wife. She should have trusted me.”
“Certainly she should have trusted you. After all, what had you ever done to make her distrustful, except to impregnate her and force her into a marriage she did not want?”
“How did you—”
“Eleni says that there is a look to a woman's face, when she is carrying a child. Any fool could see it, just as any fool could see that when you first brought her here, neither of you was happy.” Spiro smiled. “But that changed, Damian. I do not know how it happened, but you both finally admitted what had been in your hearts from the beginning.”
“All right. Yes, I fell in love with her. But nothing is that simple.”
“Love is never simple.”
Damian turned and clasped the railing. He could feel his anger seeping away and a terrible despair replacing it.
“Spiro, you are the father I never knew and I trust your advice, you know that, but in this matter—”
“In this matter, Damian,” the old man said, “trust your heart. Go to her, tell her that you love her. Give her the chance to tell you the same thing.”
Damian's throat felt tight. He blinked his eyes, which seemed suddenly damp.
“And if she does not?” he said gruffly. “What then?”
“Then you will return here and swing that hammer until your arms ache with the effort—but you will return knowing-that you tried to win the woman you love instead of letting her slip away.” Spiro put his hand on Damian's shoulder. “There is always hope, my son. It is that which gives us the will to go on,
né?”
Out in the bay, a tiny sailboat heeled under the wind. The sea reached up for it with greedy, white-tipped fingers. Surely it would be swallowed whole...
The wind subsided as quickly as it had begun. The boat bobbed upright.
There is always hope.
Quickly, before he could lose his courage, Damian turned and embraced the old man. Then he headed into the house.
* * *
They were wrong. Dead wrong.
Laurel pounded furiously at the lump of sourdough.
What did Annie and Susie know, anyway? Annie was divorced and Susie was married to a marshmallow. Neither of them had ever had the misfortune to deal with a macho maniac like Damian Skouras.
Damn, but it was hot! Too hot for making bread but what else was she going to do with all this pent-up energy? Laurel blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, wiped her hand over her nose and began beating the dough again.
They were driving her crazy, her sister and her friend. Ever since yesterday, when she'd been dumb enough to break down in front of them and admit she'd loved Damian, they hadn't left her alone. If it wasn't Annie phoning, it was Susie.
Well, let 'em phone. She'd given up answering. Let the machine deal with the cheery “hi”s and the even cheerier “Laurel? Are you there, honey?”s.
This morning, in a fit of pique, she'd snatched up the phone, snarled, “No, I'm not there,
honey,”
and slammed it down again before Annie or Susie, whichever it was, could say a word. Why listen to either of them, when she knew what they were going to say? They'd both said it already, that maybe she'd misjudged Damian, that maybe what he'd told her about the blonde was the truth.
“I didn't,” Laurel muttered, picking up the dough and then slamming it down again. “And it wasn't.”

Other books

Ravaged by Fox, Jaide
The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux
Join by Steve Toutonghi
The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge
Saltation by Sharon Lee, Steve Miller
Portraits by Cynthia Freeman