The Greek's Unwilling Bride (9 page)

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Authors: Sandra Marton

BOOK: The Greek's Unwilling Bride
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* * *
Laurel rose carefully from the bed.
It was very late, and Damian was asleep. She was sure of it; she could hear the steady susurration of his breath.
Her clothing was scattered across the room. She gathered up the bits and pieces, moving quietly so as not to wake him, and she thought about how he had undressed her, how she'd let him undress her, how she'd wanted him to undress her.
A hot, sick feeling roiled in the pit of her stomach.
The apartment was silent as she slipped out of his bedroom, though the darkness had given way to a cheerless grey. It made it easier to see, at least; the last thing she wanted to do was put on a light and risk waking him.
What in heaven's name had she done?
Sex, she told herself coldly. An experience, a seduction, the kind other women whispered about, even joked about. That was what had happened to her, a mind-blowing night of passion in the arms of a man who obviously knew his way around the boudoir.
Laurel's hands trembled as she zipped up her skirt.
She had given up all the moral precepts she'd lived by. She'd humiliated herself. She'd...she'd...
A moan broke from her throat. She'd become someone else, that was what had happened, and the knowledge that such a woman even existed inside her would haunt her forever.
The things she'd done tonight, the things she'd let Damian do...
What had happened to her? Just the sight of him, kneeling between her thighs, had made her come apart. He was so magnificent, such a perfect male animal, his broad shoulders gleaming as if they'd been oiled, his hair dark and tumbling around his face. The tiny gold stud, glinting in his ear, had been all the adornment such a man would ever need.
And then he'd entered her. She'd felt her body stretching to welcome him, to contain him...and then he'd moved, and moved again, and a cry had burst from her throat and she'd shattered into a million shining pieces.
“Damian,” she'd sobbed, “oh, Damian...”
“I know,” he'd whispered, his mouth on hers, and then she'd felt him beginning to move again, and she'd realized he was still hard within her. The flames had ignited more slowly the second time, not because she'd wanted him less but because he'd made it happen that way, pulling back, then easing forward, filling her and filling her, taking her closer and closer to the edge until, once again, she'd felt herself soar into the night sky where she'd blazed as brightly as a comet before tumbling back to earth.
She'd found paradise, she'd thought dreamily, as Damian's arms closed around her. She'd blushed as he whispered soft words to her and when, at last, he'd kissed her forehead, and her mouth, and held her close against his heart, she'd drifted into dreamless sleep.
Hours later, something—a sound, a whisper of breeze from the window—had awakened her. For a moment, she'd been confused. This wasn't her bedroom...
And then she'd remembered. She was in Damian's arms, in his bed, with the scent of him and what they'd done on her skin, and suddenly, in the cold, sharp light of dawn, she'd seen the night for what it really had been.
Cheap. Tawdry. Ugly.
Paradise? Laurel's throat constricted. A one-night stand, was more like it. She'd gone to bed with a stranger, not just gone to bed with him but—but done things with him she'd never...
...felt things she'd never...
“Laurel?”
She gasped and spun around. The bedroom door had opened; Damian stood in a pool of golden light that spilled from a bedside lamp. Naked, unashamed, he was a Greek statue come to life, hewn not of cold marble but of warm flesh. There was a little smile on his lips, a sexy, sleepy one, but as he looked at her, it began to fade.
“You're all dressed.”
“Yes.” Laurel cleared her throat. “I—I'm sorry if I woke you, Damian. I tried to be quiet but—”
God, she was babbling! She'd never sneaked out of a man's apartment before, but she'd be damned if she'd let him know that. Anyway, there was a first time for everything. Hadn't she proved that tonight?
“I apologize if I disturbed you.”
“Apologize?” he said, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes. Oh, and thank you for...”
For what? Are you crazy? What are you thanking him for?
“For everything,” she said brightly.
“Laurel...”
“No, really, you needn't see me out. I'm sure I can find my way, just down the stairs and through the—”
“Dammit,” he said sharply, “what is this?”
“What is what? It's late. Very late. Or early, I don't really know which. And I have to go home, and change, and—” The quick, brittle flow of words ended in a gasp as he reached out and brought her against him. “Damian, don't.”
“Ah,” he said softly, “I understand.” He laughed softly, bent his head and took the tip of her earlobe gently between his teeth. “Morning-after jitters. Well, I know how to fix that.”
“Don't,” she said again. She could hear the faint rasp in her own voice; it said, more clearly than words, that though her head meant one thing, her traitorous body meant something very different. She could feel him stirring against her and a warm heaviness settled in her loins.
“Laurel.” Damian spoke in a whisper. He wasn't laughing now; he was looking at her through eyes that had darkened to silvery ash. “Come back to bed.”
“No,” she said, “I just told you, I can't.”
His smile was honeyed. Slowly he dipped his head and kissed her, parting her lips with his.
“You can. And you want to. You know that you do.”
She closed her eyes as he kissed the hollow of her throat. He was right, that was the worst of it. She wanted to go with him into that wide bed, where the scent of their lovemaking still lingered.
Except that it hadn't been lovemaking. It had been... There was a word for what they'd done, a word so ugly, so alien, that even thinking it made her feel unclean.
His hands were at the top button of her blouse. In a moment, he'd have them all undone, and then he'd touch her, and she wouldn't want to stop him...
“Stop it!” Her hands wrapped around his wrists. His brows, as black as a crow's wings, drew together. She'd taken him by surprise, she saw, and she made the most of the advantage and pressed on. “We had—we had fun, I agree, but let's not spoil it. Really, we both knew it was just one of those things that happen. There's no need to say anything more.”
His eyes narrowed. “I thought we might—”
“Might what? Work out an arrangement?” She forced a smile to her lips. “I'm sorry, Damian, but I'd rather leave it at this. You know what they say about too much of anything spoiling it.”
He was angry, she could see that in the flush that swept over his high cheekbones. His ego had taken a hit but that was too damn bad. What had he expected? An if-it's-Tuesday-it-must-be-your-place kind of deal, the sort he'd no doubt had with the blonde?
She waited, not daring to move, knowing that if he took her in his arms and kissed her again, her pathetic show of bravado might collapse—but he didn't. He studied her in silence, a muscle bunching in his cheek, and then he gave a curt nod.
“As you wish, of course. Actually you're quite right. Too much of anything is never good.” He smiled politely, though she suspected the effort cost him, and turned toward the bedroom. “Just give me a minute to dress and I'll see you home.”
“No! No, I'll take a taxi.”
Damian swung toward her. “Don't be ridiculous.”
“I'm perfectly capable of seeing myself home.”
“Perhaps.” His voice had taken on a flinty edge, as had his gaze. He folded his arms over his chest and she thought, fleetingly, that even in the splendor of his nudity, he managed to look imposing. “But this is New York City, not some little town in Connecticut, and I am not a man to permit a woman to travel these streets, alone, at this hour.”
“Permit?
Permit
?” Laurel drew herself up. “I don't need your permission.”
“Hell,” he muttered, and thrust a hand into his hair. “This is nothing to quarrel about.”
“You're right, it isn't. Goodbye, Damian.”
His hand fell on her shoulder as she spun away from him, his fingers biting harshly into her flesh.
“What's going on here, Laurel? Can you manage to tell me that?”
“I have told you. I said—”
“I heard what you said, and I don't believe you.” His touch gentled; she felt the rough brush of his fingertips against her throat. “You know you want more than this.”
“You've no idea what I want,” she said sharply.
He smiled. “Tell me, then. Let me get dressed, we'll have coffee and we'll talk.”
“How many times do I have to say I'm not interested before you believe me, Damian?”
His eyes darkened. Long seconds passed, and then his hand fell from her shoulder. He turned, strode into his bedroom, picked up the telephone and punched a button on the dial.
“Stevens? Miss Bennett is leaving. Bring the car around, please.”
“Why did you do that? There was no need to wake your chauffeur!”
He looked at her, his lips curved in a parody of a smile as he hung up the phone.
“I'm sure Stevens would appreciate your thoughtfulness, but he's been with me for years. He's quite accustomed to being awakened to perform such errands. Can you find your own way to the lobby, or shall I ring for the doorman?”
“I'll find my own way,” she said quickly.
“Fine. In that case, if you'll excuse me...?”
The door shut gently in her face.
She stood staring at it, feeling a rush of crimson flood her skin, hating herself and hating him, and then she spun away.
Would she ever forget the stupidity of what she'd done tonight? she wondered, as she rode to the lobby in his private elevator.
More to the point, would she ever forget that the only place she'd ever glimpsed heaven had been in Damian Skouras's arms?
* * *
In the foyer of the penthouse, Damian stood at the closed doors to the elevator, glaring at the tiny lights on the wall panel as they marked Laurel's passage to the lobby. He'd put on a pair of jeans and zipped them, but he hadn't bothered closing them and they hung low on his hips.
What the hell had happened, between the last time they'd made love and now? He'd fallen asleep holding a warm, satisfied woman in his arms and awakened to find a cold stranger getting dressed in the hallway.
No, not a stranger. Laurel had metamorphosed back into who she'd been when they'd met, a beautiful woman with a tongue like a razor and the disposition of a grizzly bear. And she'd done her damnedest to make it sound as if what had gone on between them tonight had no more importance than a one-night stand.
The light on the panel blinked out. She'd reached the lobby, and the doorman, alerted by the call Damian had made after he'd closed the bedroom door, would be waiting to hand her safely off to Stevens.
Still glowering, he made his way to the terrace in time to see Laurel getting into the car. Stevens shut the door after her, climbed behind the wheel and that was that.
She was gone, and good riddance.
Who was he kidding? She wasn't gone, not that easily. Her fragrance still lingered on his skin, and in his bed. The sound of her voice, the way she'd sighed his name while they were making love, drifted like a half-remembered tune in his mind.
He had lied to her, when he'd said Stevens was accustomed to being roused at all hours of the night. Being at the beck-and-call of an employer was something he'd hated, in his youth; he'd vowed never to behave so imperiously with those who served him.
Besides, waking Stevens had never been necessary before.
No woman had ever risen and left his bed so eagerly, Damian thought grimly, as he strode into his bedroom. His problem was usually getting rid of them, not convincing them to stay.
Not that he really cared. It had been pleasant, this interlude; he'd have been happy to have gone on with it for a few more weeks, even for a couple of months, but there were other women. There were always other women.
Something glittered on the carpet. Damian frowned and scooped it up.
It was Laurel's earring.
His hand closed hard around it. He remembered the flushed, expectant look on her face when he'd taken the earrings from her, when he'd begun undressing her, when she'd raised her arms to him and he'd knelt between her thighs and thrust home...

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