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.”
“Asked? Coerced, you mean.”
“I had every intention of asking you politely, Laurel, but when you opened the door and I saw you with that man, Grey...”
“His name is George.”
“George, Grey, what does it matter?” Damian’s eyes darkened. “I saw him, half-dressed. And I saw you smiling at him. And I thought, very well, I have a choice to make. I can do as I intended, ask her to put aside the words that passed between us this morning and come out to dinner with me...”
“The answer would have been no.”
“Or,” he said, his voice roughening, “I can punch this son of a bitch in the jaw, sling her over my shoulder and carry her off.”
The air seemed to rush out of the space between them. Laurel felt as if she were fighting for breath.
“That—that’s not the least bit amusing.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” Damian reached across the table and took her hand. “Something happened between us yesterday.”
“I don’t know what you’re talk—”
“Don’t!” His fingers almost crushed hers as she sought to tug free of his grasp. “Don’t lie. Not to me. Not to yourself.” A fierce, predatory light blazed in his eyes. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. I kissed you, and you kissed me back.”
Their eyes met. He wasn’t a fool; lying would get her nowhere. Well, her years before the camera had taught her some things, at least.
“So what?” she said coolly. She forced a faintly mocking smile to her lips. “You caught me off guard but then, you know that. What more do you want, Damian? My admission that you kiss well? I’m sure you know that, too—or doesn’t your blond friend offer enough plaudits to satisfy that ego of yours?”
“Is that what this is all about? Gabriella?” Damian made an impatient gesture. “That’s over with.”
“She didn’t like watching her lover flirt with another woman, you mean?” Laurel wrenched her hand free of his. “At least she’s not a total idiot.”
“I broke things off last evening.”
“Last...? Not because of...”
“It was over between us weeks ago. I just hadn’t gotten around to admitting it.” A smile curled across his mouth. “It hadn’t occurred to me that you’d be jealous.”
“Jealous? Of you and that woman? Your ego isn’t big, it’s enormous! I don’t even know you.”
“Get to know me, then.”
“There’s no point. I’m not interested in getting involved.”
“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he said bluntly. “We’re consenting adults, you and I. And something happened between us the minute we saw each other.”
“Uh-huh. And next, you’re going to tell me that nothing like this has ever happened to you before.”
Laurel put her napkin on the table and slid to the end of the banquette. She’d listened to all she was going to listen to, and it wasn’t even interesting. His line was no different than a thousand others.
“Laurel.”
He caught her wrist as she started to rise. His eyes had gone black; the bones in his handsome, arrogant face stood out.
“Come to bed with me. Let me make love to you until neither of us can think straight.”
Color flooded her face. “Let go,” she said fiercely, but his hand only tightened on hers.
“I dreamed of you last night,” he whispered. “I imagined kissing your soft mouth until it was swollen, caressing your breasts with my tongue until you sobbed with pleasure. I dreamed of being deep inside you, of hearing you cry out my name as you came against my mouth.”
She wanted to flee his soft words but she couldn’t, even if he had let her. Her legs were weak; she could feel her pulse pounding in her ears.
“That is what I’ve wanted, what we’ve both wanted, from the minute we saw each other. Why do you try to deny it?”
The bluntness of his words, the heat in his eyes, the memory of what she’d felt in his arms, stole her breath away and, with it, all her hard-won denial.
Everything Damian had said was true. She couldn’t pretend anymore. She didn’t like him. He was everything she despised and more, but she wanted him as she’d never wanted any man, and with such desperate longing that it terrified her.
Her vision blurred. She saw herself in his arms, lying beneath him and returning
kiss for kiss, wrapping her legs around his waist as she tilted her hips up to meet his possessive thrusts.
“Yes,” he said fiercely, and she looked into his eyes and knew that the time for pretense was over.
Laurel gave a soft cry. She tore her hand from Damian’s, shot to her feet and flew from the restaurant, but he caught up to her just outside the door, his fingers curling around her arm like a band of steel.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “and so help me God, I’ll have my driver take you home and you’ll never be bothered by me again.”
Time seemed to stand still. They stood in the warmth and darkness of the spring night, looking at each other, both of them breathing hard, and then Laurel whispered Damian’s name and moved into his arms with a hunger she could no longer deny.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY WERE INSIDE the limousine, shut off from the driver and the world, moving swiftly through the late-night streets of the city. The car, and Damian, were all that existed in Laurel’s universe.
His body was rock-hard; his arms crushed her to him. His mouth was hot and open against hers, and his tongue penetrated her in an act of intimacy so intense it made her tremble. She felt fragile and feminine, consumed by his masculinity. His kiss demanded her complete surrender and promised, in return, the fulfilment of her wildest fantasies.
There would be no holding back. Not tonight. Not with him.
Wrong, this is wrong. Those were the words that whispered inside her head, but the message beating in her blood was far louder. Stop thinking, it said. Let yourself feel.
And she could feel. Everything. The hardness of Damian’s body. The wildness of his kisses. The heat of his hands as he touched her. It was all so new... and yet, it wasn’t. They had just met, but Damian was not a stranger. Was this why some people believed they’d lived before? She felt as if she’d known him in another life, or maybe since the start of time.
Her head fell back against his shoulder as his hand swept over her, skimming the planes of her face, stroking the length of her throat, then cupping her breast. His thumb brushed across her nipple and she cried out against his mouth.
He said her name in a husky whisper, and then something more, words in Greek that she couldn’t understand. But she understood this, the way his fingertips trailed fire over her skin, and this, the taste of his mouth, and yes, she understood when he clasped her hand and brought it to him so that she could feel the power and rigidity of his need.
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