The Greek's Unwilling Bride (12 page)

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Authors: Sandra Marton

BOOK: The Greek's Unwilling Bride
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“Laurel?” The doctor settled back behind her desk and peered over the rims of her reading glasses. “Of course,” she said gently, “if you wish to make other arrangements...”
“I'm four weeks pregnant, you say?”
“Just about.”
“And—and everything seems fine?”
“Perfectly fine.”
Laurel gazed down at her hands, which were linked carefully in her lap. “If I should decide... I mean, if I were to...”
The doctor's voice was even more gentle. “You've plenty of time to think things through, my dear.”
Laurel nodded and rose to her feet. Suddenly she felt a thousand years old.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
The gynecologist rose, too. She came around her desk and put her arm lightly around Laurel's shoulders.
“I know what an enormous decision this is,” she said. “If you need someone to talk to, my service can always reach me.”
* * *
A baby, Laurel thought as she rode down in the elevator to the building's lobby. A child of her flesh. Hers, and Damian's.
Babies were supposed to be conceived in love, not in the throes of a passion that made no sense, a passion so out of character that she'd tried to put it out of her mind all these weeks. Not that she'd managed. In the merciless glare of daylight, she'd suddenly think of what she'd done and hate herself for it.
But at night, with the moonlight softening the shadows, she dreamed about Damian and awakened in a tangle of sheets, with the memory of his kisses still hot on her lips.
Laurel gave herself a little shake. This wasn't the time for that kind of nonsense. There were decisions to be made, although the only practical one was self-evident. There was no room in her life for a baby. Her apartment wasn't big enough. Her life was too unsettled, what with her career winding down and an uncertain future ahead. And then there was the biggest consideration of all. Dr. Glassman was right; some people might think it old-fashioned but it was true. Children were entitled to at least begin life with two parents.
The elevator door slid open and she stepped out into the lobby. Her high heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as she made her way toward the exit.
A baby. A soft, sweet-smelling, innocent bundle of smiles and gurgles. A child, to lavish love upon. To warm her heart and give purpose to her existence. Her throat constricted. A part of Damian that would be hers forever.
She paused outside the building, while an unseasonable wind ruffled her hair. Gum wrappers and a torn page from the
New York Times
flapped at her feet in the throes of a mini-tornado.
What was the point in torturing herself? She wasn't about to have this baby. Hadn't she already decided that? Her reasoning was sound; it was logical. It was—
“Laurel?”
Her heart stumbled. She knew the voice instantly; she'd heard it in her dreams a thousand times during the past long, tortured weeks. Still, she tried to tell herself that it couldn't be Damian. He was the last person she ever wanted to set eyes on again, especially now.
“Laurel.”
Oh God, she thought, and she turned toward the curb and saw him stepping out of the same black limousine that had a month ago transported her from sanity to delirium. All at once, the wind seemed to grow stronger. Her vision blurred and she began to sway unsteadily.
And then she was falling, falling, and only Damian's arms could bring her to safety.
CHAPTER SEVEN
W
HAT KIND OF MAN wanted a woman who'd made it clear she didn't want him?
Only a man who was a damned fool, and Damian had never counted himself as such.
And yet, four weeks after Laurel Bennett had slept in his arms and then walked out of his life, he had not been able to forget her.
He dreamed of her—hot, erotic dreams of the sort he'd left behind in adolescence. He thought of her during the least expected moments during the day, and when he'd tried to purge his mind and his flesh by becoming involved with someone else, it hadn't worked. He had wined and dined half a dozen of New York's most beautiful women during the past month, and every one had ended her evening puzzled, disappointed and alone.
It was stupid, and it angered him. He was not a man to waste time mourning lost opportunities or dreams. It was the philosophy that had guided his life since childhood; why should it fail him now? Laurel was what his financial people would have termed a write-off. She was a gorgeous woman with a hot body and an icy heart. She'd used him the way he'd used women in the past.
So how come he couldn't get her out of his head?
It was a question without an answer, and it was gnawing at him as his car pulled to the curb before the skyscraper that housed his corporate head quarters...which was why, when he first saw her, he wondered if he'd gone completely over the edge. But this was no hallucination. Laurel was real, she was coming out of the adjacent building—and she was even more beautiful than he'd remembered.
He stepped onto the sidewalk and hesitated. What now? Should he wait for her to notice him? He had nothing to say to her, really; still, he wanted to talk to her. Hell, he wanted more than that. He wanted to go to her, take her in his arms, run his thumb along her bottom lip until her mouth opened to his...
Damian frowned. What was this? The feverish glow on her cheeks couldn't hide the fact that her face was pale. She seemed hesitant, just standing there while pedestrians flowed around her like a stream of water against an immutable rock.
Dammit, she was weeping!
He started toward her. “Laurel?”
She had to be ill. She'd never cry, otherwise; he knew it instinctively. His belly knotted.
“Laurel,” he shouted, and she looked up and saw him.
For one wild, heart-stopping instant, he thought he saw her face light with joy but he knew it had only been his imagination because a second later her eyes widened, her pallor became waxy and she mouthed his name as if it were an obscenity.
His mouth thinned. To hell with her, then...
God, she was collapsing!
“Laurel,” Damian roared, and he dove through the crowd and snatched her up in his arms just before she fell.
She made a little sound as he gathered her close to him.
“It's all right,” he whispered, “I've got you, Laurel. It's okay.”
Her lashes fluttered. She looked at him but he could tell she wasn't really focusing. His arms tightened around her and he pressed his lips to her hair while his heart thundered in his chest. What if he hadn't been here, to catch her? What if she'd fallen?
What if he'd never held her in his arms again?
“Damian?” she whispered.
There was a breathy little catch in her voice, and it tore at his heart. She sounded as fragile as Venetian glass. She felt that way, too. She was tall for a woman and he would never have thought of her as delicate yet now, in his arms, that was how she seemed.
“Damian? What happened?”
“How in hell should I know!” The words sounded uncaring. He hadn't meant them to be, it was just that a dozen emotions were warring inside him and he didn't understand a one of them. “I was just getting out of my car... You fainted.”
“Fainted? Me?” He watched the tip of her tongue slick across her lips. “Don't be silly. I've never passed out in my...” Color flooded her face as she remembered. The doctor. The diagnosis. “Oh God,” she whispered, and squeezed her eyes shut.
Damian frowned. “What is it? Are you going to pass out again?”
She took a deep breath and forced herself to open her eyes. Damian looked angry. Well, why not? He'd never expected to see her again and now here he was, standing on a crowded street with her in his arms, playing an unwilling Sir Gala had to her damsel in distress and, dammit,
he
was the reason for that distress. If she'd never laid eyes on him, never gone to dinner with him, never let herself be seduced by him...
It wasn't true. He hadn't seduced her. She'd gone to bed with him willingly. Eagerly. Even now, knowing that her world would never be the same again no matter what she decided, even now, lying in his arms, she felt—she felt—
She stiffened, and put her palms flat against his chest.
“I'm not going to pass out again, no. I'm fine, as a matter of fact. Please put me down.”
“I don't think so.”
“Don't be ridiculous!” People hurrying past were looking at them with open curiosity. Even in New York, a man standing in the middle of a crowded sidewalk with a woman in his arms was bound to attract attention. “Damian, I said—”
“I heard what you said.” The crowd gave way, not much and not very gracefully, but Damian gave it no choice. “Coming through,” he barked, and Laurel caught her breath as she realized he was carrying her back into the building she'd just left.
“What are you doing?”
“There must be a dozen doctors' offices in this building. We'll pick the first one and—”
“No!” Panic surged through her with the speed of adrenaline. “I don't need a doctor!”
“Of course you do. People don't pass out cold for no reason.”
“But there was a reason. I—I've been dieting.” It was the same lie she'd tried on Susie hours ago, but this time, she knew it would work. “Nothing but tomato juice and black coffee for breakfast, lunch and dinner,” she said, rattling off the latest lose-weight-quick scheme that was floating through the fashion world. “You can drop five pounds in two days.”
Five pounds? Damian couldn't imagine why she'd want to lose an ounce She felt perfect to him, warm and lushly curved, just as she'd been in his dreams each night.
“You don't need to lose five pounds.”
“The camera doesn't agree.”
His smile was quick and dangerously sexy. “Maybe the camera hasn't had as intimate a view of you as I have.”
Laurel stiffened in his arms. “How nice to know you're still the perfect gentleman. For the last time, Damian. Put me down!”
His eyes narrowed at the coldness of her voice. “My pleasure.” He put her on her feet but he kept a hand clamped around her elbow. “Let's go.”
“Go? Go where? Dammit, Damian...”
She sputtered with indignation as he hustled her through the door, across the sidewalk and toward the limousine. Stevens was already out of the front seat, standing beside the rear door and holding it open, his face a polite mask as if he were accustomed to seeing his employer snatch women off the street.
Laurel dug in her heels but it was useless. Damian was strong, and determined, and even when she called him a word that made his eyebrows lift, he didn't loosen his hold.
“Thank you, Stevens,” he said smoothly. “Get into the car please, Laurel.”
Get into the car,
please
? He made it sound like a polite request, but a request was something you could turn down. This was a command. Despite her struggles, her protests, her locked knees and gritted teeth, Damian was herding her onto the leather seat.
She swung toward him, eyes blazing, as he settled himself alongside her.
“How
dare
you? How dare you treat me this way? I am not some—some package to be dumped in a truck and—and shipped off.”
“No,” he said coldly, “you are not. You're a pigheaded female, apparently bent on seeing which you can manage first, starving yourself to death or giving yourself a concussion.” The car nosed into the stream of traffic moving sluggishly up the avenue. “Well, I'm going to take you home. Then, for all I give a damn, you can gorge on tomato soup and black coffee while you practice swan dives on the living-room floor.”
“It's tomato juice,” Laurel said furiously, “not soup. And I was not doing swan dives.” She glared at Damian. Her skirt was rucked up, her hair was hanging in her eyes, a button had popped off her knit dress and there he sat, as cool as ice, with a look on his face that said he was far superior to other human beings. How she hated this man!
“A perfect three-pointer,” he said, “aimed right at the pavement.”
“Will you stop that? I just—I felt a little light-headed, that's all.”
“At the sight of me,” he said, fixing her with a stony look.
Laurel flushed. “Don't flatter yourself.”
“Tomato juice and black coffee,” he growled. “It's a toss-up which you are, light-brained or light-headed.”
Laurel glared at him. She blew a strand of hair off her forehead, folded her arms in unwitting parody of him and they rode through the streets in silence. When they reached her apartment house, she sprang for the door before Damian could move or Stevens could get out of the car.
“Thank you so much for the lift,” she said, her words dripping with venom. “I wish I could say it's been a pleasure seeing you, but what's the sense in lying?”
“Such sweet words, Laurel. I'm touched.” Damian looked up at her and a half smile curled over his mouth. “Remember what I said. You don't need to lose any weight.”
“Advice from an expert,” she said, with a poisonous smile.
“Try some real food for a change.”
“What are you, a nutritionist?”
“Of course, you could always get back into the car.”
“In your dreams,” she said, swinging away from him.
“We could go back to the
Penthouse.
Maybe you'd like to see what you missed last time. The caviar, the duck, the soufflé...”
Caviar, oily and salty. Duck, with the fat melting under the skin. Chocolate soufflé. under a mantle of whipped cream...
Laurel's stomach lifted. No, she thought, oh please, no...
The little she had eaten since the morning bolted up her throat.
Dimly, over the sound of her retching, she heard Damian's soft curse. Then his hands were clasping her shoulders, supporting her as her belly sought to do the impossible and turn itself inside-out. When the spasms passed, he pulled her back against him. She went willingly, mortified by shame but weak in body and in spirit, desperately needing the comfort he offered.
“I'm so sorry,” she whispered.
Damian turned her toward him. He took out his handkerchief and gently wiped her clammy forehead and her mouth. Then he swung her into his arms and carried her inside the house.
She was beyond protest. When he asked for her keys, she handed him her pocketbook. When he settled her on the living-room couch, she fell back against the cushions. He took off her shoes, undid the top buttons on her dress, tucked a pillow under her head and an afghan over her legs and warned her not to move.
Move? She'd have laughed, if she'd had the strength. As it was, she could barely nod her head.
Damian took off his jacket, tossed it over a chair and headed for the kitchen. She heard the fridge opening and she wondered what he'd think when he saw the contents. Her seesawing stomach had kept her from doing much shopping or cooking lately.
Laurel swallowed. Better not to think about food. With luck, there just might be some ginger ale on the shelf, or some Diet Coke.
“Ginger ale,” Damian said. He squatted down beside her, put his arm around her shoulders and eased her head up. “It's flat, but that's just as well. Slowly, now. One sip at a time.”
Another command, but she still didn't have the energy to argue. Anyway, it was good advice. She didn't want to be sick again, not with Damian here.
“There's a chemistry experiment in your kitchen,” he said.
“A chem...?”
“Either that, or an alien presence has landed on the counter near the sink.”
Laurel laughed weakly and lay back against the pillow. “It's sourdough.”
“Ah. Well, I hope you don't mind, but I've disposed of it. I had the uncomfortable feeling it was planning on taking over the apartment.”
“Thanks.”
“How do you feel now?”
“Better.” She sighed deeply, yawned and found herself fighting to keep her eyes open. “I must have eaten something that disagreed with me.”

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