The Greek's Unwilling Bride Page 9

  “Because I slept with George, the first time we went out. That’s how.”

  Laurel sank down on the edge of a stool. “You did?”

  “I did. And I’d never done anything like it before.”

  “Well, then, why did you, that time?”

  Susie smiled. “Who knows? Hormones? Destiny? It happened, that’s all.”

  Laurel’s smile was wobbly. “See? I was right, you ought to be writing for the soaps.”

  “Mostly, though, I did it because my body and my heart knew what my brain hadn’t yet figured out. George and I were soul mates.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have any such excuse. Damian Skouras and I are definitely not soul mates. I did what I did, and now I have to live with it.”

  “The bastard!”

  Laurel laughed. “A minute ago, he was Adonis. Or was it Apollo?”

  “A minute ago, I didn’t know he’d taken advantage of you and then done the male thing.”

  “Trust me, Suze,” Laurel said wryly, “he didn’t take advantage of me. I was willing.”

  Susie plucked the remaining Mallomar from the box. “That’s beside the point. He did the male thing, anyway. ‘Wham, bam, thank you. ma’am—and maybe I’ll call you sometime.’”

  Laurel stared at her friend. Then she rose, yanked a piece of paper towel from the roll, dampened it in the sink and began to rub briskly at the countertop.

  “I told him not to call.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. He wanted to see me again. I told him it was out of the question, that I wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship.”

  “You and Damian made love, it was great and you told him· you never wanted to see him again?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “That it wasn’t great? Or that you never wanted to see him again?”

  Laurel stared at Susie, and then she dropped her gaze and turned to the sink.

  “What’s your point?” she said, plunging her hands into the water.

  “It’s your point I’m trying to figure out here, my friend. Why did you make love with the guy and then tell him to hit the road?”

  “I didn’t ‘make love’ with him,” Laurel said sharply. “I slept with him.”

  “Semantics,” Susie said with a shrug.

  “No, it’s more than that. Look, Susie, what you did with George was different. You loved him.”

  “Still do,” Susie said, with a little smile.

  “Well, I didn’t love Damian. I can’t imagine loving Damian. He’s such an arrogant, egotistical, super-macho SOB...”

  “Sigh,” Susie said, rolling her eyes.

  Laurel laughed. “The point is, he’s not my type.”

  “Nobody’s your type. Name one guy since that bastard, Kirk Soames, who you’ve given more than a quick hello and I’ll eat whatever it is you think you’re gonna make out of that poor overbeaten, overkneaded, overpounded sourdough.”

  “And I’m not his type,” Laurel finished, refusing to rise to the bait. She shut off the water, dried her hands on a dish towel and turned around. “That’s the sum, total and end of it, so—so...”

  Susie had just taken a bite of the Mallomar. A smear of dark chocolate and marshmallow festooned her upper lip.

  “You only think so, babe. I saw the way you guys looked at each other.”

  Laurel swallowed hard. “There’s a—a smudge of chocolate on your mouth, Suze.”

  “Yeah?” Susie scrubbed a finger over her lip. “Did I get it?”

  “Most of it. There’s still a little bit...” Laurel’s stomach rose slowly into her throat. “That’s it,” she said weakly. “You’ve got it now.” She turned away and wrapped her hands around the rim of the sink, waiting until her stomach settled back where it belonged.

  “Laurel? You all right?”

  Laurel nodded. “Sure. I’m just—”

  “Tired of me poking my nose where it doesn’t belong,” Susie said. She sighed. “Listen, let’s drop the subject. You want to talk about it, I’m here. You don’t...?” She gave an elaborate shrug. “Tell you what. How about having supper with us tonight? George is making pirogi. Remember his pirogi? You loved ’em, the last time.”

  “Yes, I did. They were—they were...”

  Laurel thought of the little doughy envelopes filled with onion-studded ground beef. She had loved them, it was true, but now all she could think about was how they’d glistened with butter, how the butter had slid down her throat like oil...

  “They were delicious,” she said brightly, “but—but this bread is my last extravagance for a while. I’m going on a quick diet. You know how it is. I’ve got a layout coming up and I need to drop a couple of pounds. Give me a rain check, okay?”

  Susie leaned back against the counter. “Well, have supper with us anyway.” She patted her belly. “It wouldn’t hurt me to lose some weight, and you know those closeups they give George. Forget the pirogi. We’ll go wild, take out a couple of Lean Cuisine Veggie Lasagnas and zap ’em in the microwave. How’s that sound?”

  Lasagna. Laurel imagined bright red tomato sauce, smelled its acidic aroma. Saliva filled her mouth, and she swallowed hard.

  “Actually, I may just pass on supper altogether. I think I’ve got some kind of bug. I did a shoot in Bryant Park last week. Everybody was coughing and sneezing like crazy, and I’ve felt rotten ever since.”

  “Summer colds,” Susie said philosophically, as she popped what remained of the Mallomar into her mouth. “The worst kind to shake. A couple of aspirin and some hot chicken soup ought to... Laurel? What’s the matter?”

  A bead of jelly, glistening like blood at the corner of Susie’s mouth, that was what was the matter.

  Laurel’s belly clenched.

  “Nothing,” she said, “noth—” Oh hell. Her eyes widened and she groaned, clamped her hand over her mouth and shot from the room.

  When she emerged from the bathroom minutes later, pale and shaken, Susie was waiting in the bedroom, sitting cross-legged in the middle of Laurel’s bed, a worried look on her face.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Laurel said with a shaky smile.

  “Fine, my foot.” Susie looked at her friend’s face. Laurel’s skin was waxen, her eyes were glassy and her forehead glistened with sweat. “You’re sick.”

  “I told you, Suze, it’s just some bug I picked up.”

  “The one that had everybody on that photo session coughing and sneezing?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Susie uncrossed her legs and stood up. “Except you’re not.”

  “Not what?”

  “Coughing. Or sneezing.”

  “Well, it hit me differently, that’s all.”

  “Have you been out of the country or something?”

  “Not in weeks.”

  “I mean, there’s all kinds of nasties floating around this old planet. Weren’t you in Ghana or someplace like that a couple of months ago?”

  “It was Kenya and it was last year, and honestly, I’m okay. You know what the flu can be like.”

  “Uh-huh.” There was a long silence and then Susie cleared her throat. “My sister had the same symptoms last year. Nausea in the mornings, tossing her cookies every time somebody so much as mentioned food and generally looking just about as awful as you do.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Laurel speared her hands into her hair and shoved it off her forehead. Her skin felt clammy, and even though her stomach was completely empty, it still felt like a storm-tossed ship at sea. “Listen, Susie—”

  “So she went to the doctor.”

  “I’m not going to the doctor. All I need is to take it easy for a couple of days and—”

  “Turns out she was pregnant,” Susie said quietly, her eyes on Laurel’s face.

  “Pregnant!” Laurel laughed. “Don’t be silly, I’m not...”

  Oh God! The floor seemed to drop out from beneath her feet.

  Pregnant? No. It wasn�
��t possible. Or was it? When had she last had her period? She couldn’t remember. Was it since she’d been with Damian?

  No. No!

  She sank down on the edge of the bed, feeling empty and boneless. Everything had happened so quickly that night. Had Damian used a condom? Not that she could remember. She certainly hadn’t used anything. Why take the pill, when sex was hardly a major item in your life? She knew some women carried diaphragms in their handbags but she wasn’t one of them. You needed a whole different mind set to do that. You had to be the sort of woman who might find herself tumbling into a man’s bed at the drop of a hat and she had never—she had certainly never...

  A little sound tore from her throat. She looked at Susie’s questioning face and did what she could to turn the sound into a choked laugh.

  “I can’t be,” she said. “How could I possibly have gotten pregnant?”

  “The method hasn’t changed much through the centuries.”

  “Yes, but just one night...”

  One night. One endless night.

  “You need to make an appointment with your doctor,” Susie said gently.

  “No,” Laurel whispered. She lifted her head and stared at Susie. “No,” she said, more strongly. “It’s ridiculous. I am not pregnant. I have the flu, that’s all.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Susie said with a false smile. “But, what the heck, you want to make certain.”

  Laurel rose from the bed. “Look, how’s this sound? I’ll spend all day tomorrow in bed. I’ll down aspirin and lots of liquids and if I’m not feeling better by Monday or Tuesday, I’ll call my doctor.”

  “Your gynecologist.”

  “Really, Susie.” Laurel looped her arm around the other woman’s shoulders. Together, they headed for the foyer. “Give that imagination of yours a rest and I’ll do the same for my flu-racked bones. And be sure and tell George I’m taking a rain check on dinner.”

  “I’m getting the brush-off, huh?”

  “Well,” Laurel said with forced gaiety, “if you want to hang around and listen to me upchuck again, you’re welcome.”

  “Listen, if you need anything... Aspirin, Pepto-Bismol...” Susie flashed a quick smile. “Just someone to talk to, I’m here.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine. Truly. You’ll see. These bugs are all the same. You feel like dying for twenty-four hours and then you’re as good as new.”

  “Didn’t you say you’d been feeling shaky all week?”

  “Twenty-four hours, forty-eight, what’s the difference?” Laurel swung the door open. “It’s flu, that’s all. I’m not pregnant. Trust me.”

  “Uh-huh,” Susie said, without conviction.

  “I’m not,” Laurel said firmly.

  She held a smile until the door shut and she was safely alone. Then the smile faded and she sank back against the wall, eyes tightly shut. “I’m not,” she whispered.

  * * *

  But she was.

  Four weeks gone, Dr. Glassman said, later that afternoon, as Laurel sat opposite her in the gynecologist’s sunny, plant-filled Manhattan office.

  “I’m glad we could fit you in at the last minute like this, Laurel.” The doctor smiled. “And I’m glad I can make such a certain diagnosis. You are with child.”

  With child. Damian’s child.

  “Have you married, since I saw you last?” A smile lit Dr. Glassman’s pleasant, sixtyish face again. “Or have you decided, as is becoming so common, to have a child and remain single?”

  Laurel licked her lips. “I—I’m still single.”

  “Ah. Well, you’ll forgive me if I put on my obstetrical hat for a while and urge that you include your baby’s father in his—or her—life, to as great a degree as possible.” The doctor chuckled softly. “I know there are those who would have me drawn and quartered for saying such a thing, but children need two parents, whenever it’s possible. A mother and a father, both.”

  There was no arguing with that, Laurel thought, oh, there was no arguing with—

  “Any questions?”

  Laurel cleared her throat. “No. None that I can think of just now, anyway.”

  “Well, that’s it for today, then.” The doctor took a card from a holder on her desk, scribbled something on it and handed it to Laurel. “Phone me Tuesday and I’ll give you your lab reports, but I’m sure nothing unforeseen will arise. You’re in excellent health, my dear. I see no reason why your baby shouldn’t be healthy and full-term.”

  Dr. Glassman rose from her chair. Laurel did, too, but when the doctor smiled at her, she couldn’t quite manage a smile in return.

  “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

  WHAT 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.