The Greek's Unwilling Bride (7 page)

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Authors: Sandra Marton

BOOK: The Greek's Unwilling Bride
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“Laurel?”
The Bozo was talking to Laurel again but he hadn't taken his eyes off him.
“What's the deal? Do you know this guy?”
“Of course she knows me,” Damian snapped.
“Is that right, Laurel?”
She nodded with obvious reluctance. “I know him. But I didn't invite him here.”
The Bozo folded his arms over his chest. “She knows you,” he said to Damian, “but she didn't invite you here.”
“I don't know how to break this to you, mister...?”
“Morgan,” George said. “Grey Morgan.”
Damian smiled pleasantly. “I don't know how to break this to you, Mr. Morgan, but I understood every word she said.”
“Then you'll be sure to understand this, too,” Laurel said. “Go away.”
“Go away,” the Bozo repeated, and unfolded his arms.
His height, and all those rippling muscles, were impressive. Good, Damian thought. He could feel the same sense of anticipation spreading through his body again, the one he'd had this afternoon when he'd wanted nothing so much as to take that photographer apart.
Maybe he'd been sitting in too many boardrooms lately, exercising his mind instead of his muscles.
Laurel was thinking almost the same thing, though not in such flattering terms. What was with this man? She could almost smell the testosterone in the air. Damian's jaw was set, his eyes glittered.
George, his buffed torso and his tight jeans, was oozing muscle; Damian was the epitome of urbanity in his expensive dark suit...but she didn't for a second doubt which of them would win if it came down to basics.
Arrogant, self-centered, accustomed to having the world dance to his tune, and now it looked as if he had all the primitive instincts of a cobra, she thought grimly. How in hell was she going to get rid of him?
“Laurel doesn't want you here, mister.”
“What are you?” Damian said softly. “Her translator?”
“Listen here, pal, Laurel and I are—”
“We're very close,” Laurel said. She moved forward, slipped her arm through the Bozo's, looked up and gave him a smile that sent Damian's self-control slipping another notch. “Aren't we, George—I mean, Grey?”
“Yeah,” the Bozo said, after half a beat, “we are. Very, very close.”
Damian's brows lifted. Maybe George or Grey or whoever he was, was right. Maybe he did need a translator. Something was going on here but he couldn't get a handle on it. He felt the way he sometimes did when he was doing business in Tokyo. Everyone spoke some English, Damian could manage some Japanese, but once in a while, a word or a phrase seemed to fall through the cracks.
“So if you don't mind, Mr. Skouras,” Laurel said, putting heavy emphasis on the
mister
, “we'd appreciate it if you would—”
“George? Honey, are you done up there?”
They all looked down the hall. A pretty brunette stood at the bottom of the steps, smiling up at them.
“Hi, Laurel. Are you done borrowing my husband?”
Damian's brows arced again. He looked at Laurel, who flushed and dropped the Bozo's arm.
“Hi, Suze. Yeah, just about.”
“Great.” The brunette came trotting up the stairs. “Did he do a good job?”
Laurel's color deepened. “Fine,” she said quickly.
“You see, George?” The brunette dimpled. “If the ratings ever go into the toilet, you can always go back to fixing them.”
Laurel swallowed hard. Damian could see the movement of the muscles in her throat.
“He fixed my shower,” she said, with dignity.
Damian nodded. “I see.”
“Suze,” George said, clearing his throat, “Laurel's got a bit of a problem here...”
“No,” Laurel said quickly, “no, I don't.”
“But you said...?”
“It's not a problem at all.” She looked at Damian. “Mr. Skouras was just leaving. Weren't you, Mr. Skouras?”
“Yes, I was.”
“You see? So there's no need to—”
“Just as soon as you change your clothing,” he said. He leaned back against the door jamb, arms folded, and gave her a long, assessing look. “On the other hand, what you're wearing is...rather interesting. You might want to put on a pair of shoes, though. You never know what you're liable to step in, on a New York street.”
He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the expression that swept over Laurel's face.
“I know what
you've
stepped in,” she said, her chin lifting and her eyes blazing into his, “but I promise you, I've no intention of going anywhere with you.”
“But our reservation is for eight,” he said blandly.
A little furrow appeared between Laurel's eyebrows. “What reservation?”
“For dinner.”
The furrow deepened. “Dinner?”
Damian looked at Susie. They shared a conspiratorial smile. “I'd be insulted that she forgot our appointment, but I know what a long day she put in doing that Redwood Computer layout.”
“Redwood?” Susie said.
“Redwood?” George said, with interest, “the outfit that makes those hot portables?”
Damian shrugged modestly. “Well, that's what Wall Street says. I'm just pleased Laurel's doing the ads for the company.” He smiled. “Almost as pleased as I am to have had the good fortune to have purchased Redwood.”
“Redwood Comp...?” Susie's eyes widened. “Of course. Skouras.
Damian
Skouras. I should have recognized you. I was just reading
Manhattan Magazine.
Your picture's in it.” A smile lit her pretty face. “George?” she said, elbowing her husband in the ribs, “this is...”
“Damian Skouras.” George stuck out his hand, drew it back and wiped it on his damp jeans, then stuck it out again. “A pleasure, Mr. Skouras.”
“Please, call me Damian,” Damian said modestly.
George grinned as the men shook hands. “My wife and I just bought a hundred shares of your stock.”
Damian smiled. “I'm delighted to hear it.”
I don't believe this, Laurel thought incredulously. Was it a conspiracy? First Annie and Dawn, her very own flesh and blood; now Susie and George...
“Laurel,” Susie said, “you never said a word!”
“About what?”
“About...about this,” Susie said, with a little laugh.
“Suze, you've got this all wrong.”
“You're not posing for those ads?”
“Yes. Yes, I am, but—but this man—”
“Damian,” Damian said with a smile.
“This man,” Laurel countered, “has nothing to do with—”
“My advertising people selected Laurel. With my approval, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Susie echoed.
“Imagine my surprise when we bumped into each other at my ward's wedding yesterday.” His smile glittered. “In the flesh, as it were. We had a delightful few hours. Didn't we, Laurel? And we agreed to have dinner together tonight. To discuss business, of course.”
Susie's eyes widened. She looked at Laurel, who was watching Damian as if she wished a hole in the ground would open under his feet.
“Of course,” Susie said, chuckling.
“At
The Gotham Penthouse.”
“The Gotham Penthouse!
I just read a review of it in—”
“Manhattan Magazine?”
Laurel said, through her teeth.
Susie nodded. “Uh-huh. It's supposed to be scrumptious!”
Damian smiled. “So I hear. Perhaps you and—is it George?”
“Yeah,” George said. God, Laurel thought with disgust, it was a good thing there was no dirt on the floor or he'd have been scuffing his toes in it. “It is. Grey's my stage name. My agent figured it sounded better.”
“Sexier,” Susie said, and smiled up at her husband.
“Well, perhaps you and your wife would like to join us?”
“No,” Laurel said sharply. Everyone looked at her. “I mean—I mean, of course, that would be lovely, but it isn't as if—”
“You don't have to explain.” Susie looped her arm through her husband's. “It's a very romantic place,
The Penthouse.
Well, that's what the reviewer said, anyway.”
Her smile was warm. It encompassed both Damian and Laurel as if they were a package deal. Laurel wanted to grab Susie and shake her until her teeth rattled. Or slug Damian Skouras in the jaw. Or maybe do both.
“You guys don't need an old married couple like us around.”
“Susie,” Laurel said grimly, “you really do not understand.”
“Oh, I do.” Susie grinned. “It's business. Right, Damian?”
Could a snake really smile? This one could.
“Precisely right,” Damian said.
“It would be lovely to get together for dinner some other time, though. At our place, maybe. I do a mean Beef Stroganoff—which reminds me, George, if we don't get moving, everything will be burned to a crisp.”
George's face suddenly took on a look of uncertainty. “Laurel? You're okay with this?”
A muscle worked in Laurel's jaw. At least somebody was still capable of thinking straight, but why drag innocent bystanders into the line of fire? This was a private war, between her and Damian.
“It's fine,” she said. “And thanks for fixing the shower.”
“Hey, anytime.” George held out his hand, and Damian took it. “Nice to have met you.”
“The same here,” Damian said politely.
Susie leaned toward Laurel behind her husband's broad back.
“You never said a word,” she announced in a stage whisper that could have been heard two floors below. “Laurel, honey, this guy is
gorgeoust”
This guy's a rat, Laurel thought, but she bit her tongue and said nothing.
* * *
Susie had been right. The restaurant was a winner.
It had low lighting, carefully spaced tables and a magnificent view. The service was wonderful, the wine list impressive and the food looked delicious.
Laurel had yet to take a bite.
When she'd ignored the menu, Damian had simply ordered for them both. Beluga caviar, green salads, roast duck glazed with Montmorency cherries and brandy and, for a grand finale, a chocolate soufflé garnished with whipped cream that looked as light as air.
Neither the waiter nor Damian seemed to notice her hunger strike. The one served each course, then cleared it away; the other ate, commented favorably on the meal, and kept up a light, pleasant conversation in which she refused to join.
“Coffee?” Damian said, when the soufflé had been served. “Or do you prefer tea?”
Even prisoners on hunger strikes drank liquids. Laurel looked across the table at him.
“Which are you having?”
“Coffee. As strong as possible, and black.”
Coffee was what she always drank, and just that way. Laurel gave a mental sigh.
“In that case,” she said, unsmiling, “I'll have tea.”
Damian laughed as the waiter hurried off. “Is there anything I could do to make you less inclined to insult me?”
“Would you do it, if there were?”
“Why do I have the feeling your answer might prove lethal?”
“At least you got
that
right!”
He sighed and shook his head, though she could see amusement glinting in his eyes. “That's not a very ladylike answer.”
“Since you're obviously not a gentleman, why should it be? And I'm truly delighted to have provided you with a laugh a minute today. First Haskell, then George and Susie, and now here I am, playing jester for the king while he dines.”
“Is that what you think?” Damian waited until their coffee and tea were served. “That I brought you here to amuse me?”
“I think you get your kicks out of tossing your weight around.”
“Sorry?”
“You like to see people dance to your tune.”
He pushed aside his dessert plate, moved his cup and saucer in front of him and folded his hands around the cup.
“That is not why I asked you to join me this evening.”

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