Jean settled herself at her desk and turned on her computer. Perhaps that was why Mr. Skouras had wanted all those magazines. He’d be living like a monk for the next couple of months; he always did, after an affair ended. What better time to research a new business venture? Soon enough, though, another stunning female would step into his life, knowing she was just a temporary diversion but still hoping to snare a prize catch like him.
They always hoped, even though he never seemed to know it.
Jean gave a motherly sigh. As for herself, she’d given up hoping. There’d been a time she’d clung to the belief that her boss would find himself a good woman to love. Not anymore. He’d had one disastrous marriage that he never talked about and it had left him a confirmed loner.
Amazing, how a man so willing to risk everything making millions could refuse to take any risks at all, in matters of the heart.
* * *
Damian frowned as he looked over the magazines spilling across his desk.
Headlines screamed at him.
Are You Sexy Enough to Keep Your Man Interested?
Ten Ways to Turn Him On
Sexy Styles for Summer
The Perfect Tan Starts Now
Was there really a market for such drivel? He’d seen Gabriella curled up in a chair, leafing through magazines like these, but he’d never paid any attention to the print on the covers.
Or to the models, he thought, his frown deepening as he leafed through the glossy pages. Why did so many of them look as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks? Surely, no real man could find women like these attractive, with their bones almost protruding through their skin.
And those pouting faces. He paused, staring at an emaciated-looking waif with a heavily made-up face who looked up from the page with an expression that made her appear to have sucked on one lemon too many.
Who would find such a face attractive?
After a moment, he sighed, closed the magazine and reached for another. Laurel’s photograph wasn’t where Gabriella had said it would be. Not that it mattered. There’d been no good reason to want to see the picture; he’d directed his secretary to buy these silly things on a whim.
Come on, man, who are you kidding?
It hadn’t been a whim at all. The truth was that he’d slept poorly, awakening just after dawn from a fragmented dream filled with the kinds of images he hadn’t had in years, his loins heavy and aching with need...
And there it was. The photograph of Laurel Bennett.
Gabriella had been wrong. Laurel wasn’t nude, and he tried to ignore the sense of relief that welled so fiercely inside him at the realization.
She’d been posed with her back to the camera, her head turned, angled so that she was looking over her shoulder at the viewer. Her back and shoulders were bare; a long length of ivory silk was draped from her hips, dipping low enough to expose the delicate tracery of her spine almost to its base. Her hair, that incredible mane of sun-streaked mahogany, tumbled over her creamy skin like tongues of dark flame.
Damian stared at the picture. All right, he told himself coldly, there she is. A woman, nothing more and nothing less. Beautiful, yes, and very desirable, but hardly worth the heated dreams that had disturbed his night.
He closed the magazine, tossed it on top of the others and carried the entire stack to a low table that was part of a conversational grouping at the other end of his office. Jean could dispose of them later, either toss them out or give them to one of the clerks. He certainly had no need for them, nor had he any further interest in Laurel Bennett.
That was settled, then. Damian relaxed, basking in the satisfaction that came of closure.
* * *
His morning was filled with opportunities for that same feeling, but it never came again.
There was a problem with a small investment firm Skouras International had recently acquired. Damian’s CPAs had defined it but they hadn’t been able to solve it. He did, during a two-hour brainstorming session. A short while later, he held a teleconference with his bankers in Paris and Hamburg, and firmed up a multimillion dollar deal that had been languishing for months.
At twenty of twelve, he began going through the notes Jean had placed on a corner of his desk in preparation for his one o’clock business luncheon, but he couldn’t concentrate. Words kept repeating themselves, and entire sentences.
He gave up, pushed back his chair and frowned.
Suddenly he felt restless.
He rose and paced across the spacious room. There was always a carafe of freshly brewed coffee waiting for him on a corner shelf near the sofas that flanked the low table where he’d dumped the magazines.
He paused, frowning as he looked down at the stack. The magazine containing Laurel’s photo was on top and he picked it up, opened it to that page and stared at the picture. Her hair looked like silk. Would it feel that way, or would it be stiff with hair spray when he touched it, the way Gabriella’s had always been? How would her skin smell, when he put his face to that graceful curve where her shoulder and her neck joined? How would it taste?
Hell, what was the matter with him? He wasn’t going to smell this woman, or taste her, or touch her.
His eyes fastened on her face. There was a hands-off coolness in her eyes that seemed at odds with her mouth, which looked soft, sexy, and heart-stoppingly vulnerable. It had felt that way, too, beneath his own, after she’d stopped fighting the passion that suddenly had gripped them both and given herself up to him. and to the kiss.
His belly knotted as he remembered the heat and hardness that had curled through his body. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so caught up in a kiss or in the memory of what had been, after all, a simple encounter.
So caught up, and out of control.
Damian’s jaw knotted. This was ridiculous. He was never out of control.
What he had, he thought coldly, was an itch, and it needed scratching.
One night, and that would be the end of it.
He could call Laurel, ask her to have drinks or dinner. It wouldn’t be hard; he had learned early on that information was easy to come by, if you knew how to go about getting it.
She was stubborn, though. Her response to him had been fiery and he knew she wanted him as badly as he wanted her, but she’d deny it. He looked down at the ad again. She’d probably hang up the phone before he had the chance to—
A smile tilted at the corner of his mouth. Until this minute, he hadn’t paid any attention to the advertisement itself. If pressed, he’d have said it was for perfume, or cosmetics. Perhaps furs.
Now he saw just how wrong he’d have been. Laurel was offering the siren song to customers in the market for laptop computers. And the company was one that Skouras International had bought only a couple of months ago.
Damian reached for the phone.
Luck was with him. Ten minutes later, he was in his car, his luncheon appointment canceled, forging through midday traffic on his way to a studio in Soho, where the next in the series of ads was being shot.
* * *
“Darling Laurel,” Haskell said, “that’s not a good angle. Turn your head to the right, please.”
Laurel did.
“Now tilt toward me. Good.”
What was good about it? she wondered. Not the day, surely. Not what she was doing. Why did everything, from toothpaste to tugboats, have to be advertised with sex?
“A little more. Yes, like that. Could you make it a bigger smile, please?”
She couldn’t. Smiling didn’t suit her mood.
“Laurel, baby, you’ve got to get into the swing of things. You look utterly, totally bored.”
She was bored. But that was better than being angry. Don’t think about it anymore, she told herself, just don’t think about it.
Or him.
“Ah, Laurel, you’re starting to scowl. Bad for the face, darling. Relax. Think about the scene. You’re on the deck of a private yacht in, I don’t know, the Aegean.”
“The Caribbean,” she snapped.
“What’s the matter, you got something against the Greeks? Sure. The Caribbean. Whatever does it for you. Just get into it, darling. There you are, on a ship off the coast of Madagascar.”
“Madagascar’s in Africa.”
“Jeez, give me a break, will you? Forget geography, okay? You’re on a ship wherever you want, you’re stretched out in the hot sun, using your Redwood laptop to write postcards to all your pals back home.”
“That’s ridiculous, Haskell. You don’t write postcards on a computer.”
Haskell glared at her. “Frankly, Laurel, I don’t give a flying fig what you’re using that thing for. Maybe you’re writing your memoirs. Or tallying up the millions in your Swiss bank account. Whatever. Just get that imagination working and give us a smile.”
Laurel sighed. He was right. She was a pro, this was her job, and that was all there was to it. Unfortunately she’d slept badly and awakened in a foul mood. It didn’t help that she felt like a ninny, posing in a bikini in front of a silly backdrop that simulated sea and sky. What did bikinis, sea and sky have to do with selling computers?
“Laurel, for heaven’s sake, I’m losing you again. Concentrate, darling. Think of something pleasant and hang on to it. Where you’re going to have supper tonight, for instance. How you spent your weekend. I know it’s Monday, but there’s got to be something you can imagine that’s a turn-on.”
Where she was having supper tonight? Laurel almost laughed. At the kitchen counter, that was where, and on the menu was cottage cheese, a green salad and, as a special treat, a new mystery novel with her coffee.
As for how she’d spent the weekend—if Haskell only knew. That was the last thing he’d want her to think about.
To think she’d let Damian Skouras humiliate her like that!
“Hey, what’s happening? Laurel, babe, you’ve gone from glum to grim in the blink of an eye. Come on, girl. Grab a happy thought and hang on.”
A happy thought? A right cross, straight to Damian Skouras’s jaw.
“Good!”
A knee, right where it would do the most good.
“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.
The Greek's Unwilling Bride Page 4
