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Authors: Sandra Marton

BOOK: The Greek's Unwilling Bride
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“Great!” Haskell began moving around her, his camera at his eye. “Hold that image, whatever it is, because it's working.”
A nice, stiff-armed jab into his solar plexus.
“Wonderful stuff, Laurel. That's my girl!”
Why hadn't she done it? Because there'd already been too many eyes on them, that was why. Because if she'd done what she'd wanted to do, she'd have drawn the attention of everyone in the room, to say nothing of ruining Dawn's day.
“Look up, darling. That's it. Tilt your head. Good. This time, I want something that smolders. A smile that says your wonderful computer's what's made it possible for you to be out here instead of in your office, that in a couple of minutes you'll leave behind this glorious sun and sea, traipse down to the cabin and tumble into the arms of a gorgeous man.” Haskell leaned toward her, camera whirring. “You do know a gorgeous man, don't you?”
Damian Skouras.
Laurel stiffened. Had she said the words aloud? No, thank goodness. Haskell was still dancing around her, his eye glued to his camera.
Damian Skouras, gorgeous? Don't be silly. Men weren't “gorgeous.”
But he was. That masculine body. That incredible face, with the features seemingly hewn out of granite. The eyes that were a blue she'd never seen before. And that mouth, looking as if it had been chiseled from a cold slab of marble but instead feeling warm and soft and exciting as it took hers.
“Now you've got it!” Haskell's camera whirred and clicked until the roll of film was done. Then he dumped the camera on his worktable and held out his hand. “Baby, that was great. The look on your face...” He sighed dramatically. “All I can say is, wow!”
Laurel put the computer on the floor, took Haskell's hand, rose to her feet and reached for the terry-cloth robe she'd left over the back of a chair.
“Are we finished?”
“We are, thanks to whatever flashed through your head just now.” Haskell chuckled. “I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who he was?”
“It wasn't a ‘he' at all,” Laurel said, forcing a smile to her lips. “It was just what you suggested. I thought about what I was having for dinner tonight.”
“No steak ever made a woman look like that,” Haskell said with a lecherous grin. “Who's the lucky man, and why isn't it me?”
“Perhaps Miss Bennett's telling you the truth.”
Laurel spun around. The slightly amused male voice had come from a corner of the cavernous loft, but where? The brightly lit set only deepened the darkness that lurked in the corners.
“After all, it's well past lunchtime.”
Laurel's heart skipped a beat. No. No, it couldn't be...
Damian Skouras emerged from the shadows like a man stepping out of the mist.
“Hello, Miss Bennett.”
For a minute, she could only gape at this man she'd hoped never to see again. Then she straightened, drew the robe more closely around her and narrowed her eyes.
“This isn't funny, Mr. Skouras.”
“I'm glad to hear it, Miss Bennett, since comedy's not my forte.”
“Laurel?” Haskell turned toward her. “You know this guy? I mean, you asked him to meet you here?”
“I do not know him,” Laurel said coldly.
Damian smiled. “Of course she knows me. You heard her greet me by name just now, didn't you?”
“I don't know him, and I certainly didn't ask him to meet me here.”
Haskell moved forward. “Okay, pal, you heard the lady. This isn't a public gallery. You want to do business with me, give my agent a call.”
“My business is with Miss Bennett.”
“Hey, what is it with you, buddy? You deaf? I just told you—”
“And I just told you,” Damian said softly. He looked at the photographer. “This has nothing to do with you. I suggest you stay out of it.”
Haskell's face turned red and he stepped forward. “Who's gonna make me?”
“No,” Laurel said quickly, “Haskell, don't.”
She knew Haskell was said to have a short fuse and a propensity for barroom brawls. She'd never seen him in action but she'd seen the results, cuts and bruises and once a black eye. Not that Damian Skouras didn't deserve everything Haskell could dish out, but she didn't want him beaten up, not on her account.
She needn't have worried. Even as she watched, the photographer looked into Damian's face, saw something that made him blanch and step back.
“I don't want any trouble in my studio,” he muttered.
“There won't be any.” Damian smiled tightly. “If it makes you feel better, I have every right to be here. Put in a call to the ad agency, tell them my name and they'll confirm it.”
Laurel laughed. “You're unbelievable, do you know that?” She jabbed her hands on her hips and stepped around Haskell. “What will they confirm? That you're God?”
Damian looked at her. “That I own Redwood Computers.”
“You're
that
Skouras?” Haskell said.
“I am.”
“Don't be a fool, Haskell,” Laurel snapped, her eyes locked on Damian's face. “Just because he claims he owns the computer company doesn't mean he does.”
“Trust me,” Haskell muttered, “I read about it in the paper. He bought the company.”
Laurel's chin rose. “How nice for you, Mr. Skouras. That still doesn't give you the right to come bursting in here as if you owned this place, too.”
Damian smiled. “That's true.”
“It doesn't give you the right to badger me, either.”
“I'm not badgering you, Miss Bennett. I heard there was a shoot here today, I was curious, and so I decided to come by.”
Laurel's eyes narrowed. “It had nothing to do with me?”
“No,” Damian said, lying through his teeth.
“In that case,” she said, “you won't mind if I...”
He caught her arm as she started past him. “Have lunch with me.”
“No.”
“The Four Seasons? Or The Water's Edge
? It's a beautiful day out, Miss Bennett.”
“It was,” she said pointedly, “until you showed up.”
Haskell cleared his throat. “Well, listen,” he said, as he backed away, “long as you two don't need me here...”
“Wait,” Laurel said, “Haskell, you don't have to...”
But he was already gone. The sound of his footsteps echoed across the wooden floor. A door slammed, and then
there was silence.
“Why must you make this so difficult?” Damian said softly.
“I'm not the one making this difficult,” Laurel said coldly. She looked down at her wrist, still encircled by his hand, and then at him. “Let go of me, please.”
Damian's gaze followed hers. Hell, he thought, what was he doing? This wasn't his style at all. When you came down to it, nothing he'd done since he'd laid eyes on this woman was in character. The way he'd gone after her yesterday, like a bull in rut. And what he'd done moments ago, challenging that photographer like a street corner punk when the man had only been coming to Laurel's rescue. All he'd been able to think, watching the man's face, was, Go on, take your best shot at me, so I can beat you to a pulp.
And that was crazy. He wasn't a man who settled things with his fists. Not anymore; not in the years since he'd worked his way up from summer jobs on the Brooklyn docks to a Park Avenue penthouse.
He wasn't a man who went after a woman with such single-minded determination, either. Why would he, when there were always more women than he could possibly want, ready and waiting to be singled out for his attention?
That was it. That was what was keeping his interest in the Bennett woman. She was uninterested, or playing at being uninterested, though he didn't believe it, not after the way she'd kissed him yesterday. Either way, the cure was the same. Bed her, then forget her. Satisfy this most primitive of urges and she'd be out of his system, once and for all.
But dammit, man, be civilized about it.
Damian let go of her wrist, took a breath and began again.
“Miss Bennett. Laurel. I know we got off to a poor start—”
“You're wrong. We didn't get off to any start. You're playing cat-and-mouse games but as far as I'm concerned, we never even met.”
“Well, we can remedy that. Have dinner with me this evening.”
“I'm busy.”
“Tomorrow night, then.”
“Still busy. And, before you ask, I'm busy for the foreseeable future.”
He laughed, and her eyes flashed with indignation.
“Did I say something funny, Mr. Skouras?”
“It's Damian. And I was only wondering which of us is pretending what?”
“Which of us...” Color flew into her face. “My God, what an insufferable ego you must have! Do you think this is a game? That I'm playing hard to get?”
He leaned back against the edge of the photographer's worktable, his jacket open and his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers.
“The thought crossed my mind, yes.”
“Listen here, Mr. Skouras...”
“Damian.”
“Mr.
Skouras.” Laurel's eyes narrowed. “Let me put this in words so simple even you'll understand. One, I do not like you. Two, I do not like you. And three, I am not interested in lunch. Or dinner. Or anything else.”
“Too many men already on the string?”
God, she itched to slap that smug little smile from his face!
“Yes,” she said, “exactly. I've got them lined up for mornings, afternoons and evenings, and there're even a couple of special ones I manage to tuck in at teatime. So as you can see, I've no time at all for you in my schedule.”
He was laughing openly now, amusement glinting in his eyes, and it was driving her over the edge. She
would
slug him, any second, or punch him in the very center of that oh-so-masculine chest...
Or throw her arms around his neck, drag his head down to hers and kiss him until he swung her into his arms and carried her off into the shadows that rimmed the lighted set...
“Laurel?” Damian said, and their eyes met.
He knew. She could see it in the way he was looking at her. He'd stopped laughing and he knew what she'd thought, what she'd almost done.
“No,” she said, and she swung away blindly. She heard him call her name but she didn't turn back, didn't pause.
Moving by instinct, impelled by fear not of Damian but of herself, she ran to the dressing room, flung open the door and then slammed it behind her. She fell back against it and stood trembling, with her heart thudding in her chest.
Outside, in the studio, Damian stood staring at the closed door. His entire body was tense; he could feel the blood pounding through his veins.
She'd been so angry at him. Furious, even more so because he'd been teasing her and she'd known it. And then, all at once, everything had changed. He'd seen the shock of sudden awareness etch into her lovely face and he'd understood it, felt it burn like flame straight into the marrow of his bones.
She'd run not from him but from herself. All he had to do was walk the few feet to the door that sheltered her, open it and take her in his arms. One touch, and she would shatter.
He would have her, and this insanity would be over.
Or would it?
He took a long, ragged breath. She was interesting, this Laurel Bennett, and not only because of the fire that raged under that cool exterior. Other things about her were almost as intriguing. Her ability to play her part in what was quickly becoming a complex game fascinated him, as did her determination to deny what was so obviously happening between them. She was an enigma. A challenge.
Damian smiled tightly. He had not confronted either in a very long time. It was part of the price he'd paid for success.
Perhaps he'd been wrong in thinking that he could get her out of his system by taking her to bed for a long night of passion. Laurel Bennett might prove a diversion that could please him for some time. And he sensed instinctively that, unlike Gabriella, she would not want nor ask for more.
The thought brought another smile to his lips. The women's libbers would hang him from his toes, maybe from a more sensitive part of his anatomy, and burn him in effigy if they ever heard him make such a cool appraisal of a woman, but they'd have been wrong.

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