“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...
<
br /> 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.”
“Close your eyes,” he said. “Rest for a while.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Yes, you are.”
“For heaven’s sake, Damian, must you pretend you know every...”
Her eyes closed. She was asleep.
Damian rose to his feet. No, he thought grimly, he didn’t know everything, but he knew enough to figure that a woman who claimed she’d been on a diet of tomato juice and black coffee wasn’t very likely to have eaten something that made her sick...especially not when she was carrying around a little white card like the one that had fallen from her pocket when he’d put her on the couch.
He walked into the kitchen and took the card from the table, where he’d left it: Vivian Glass man, M.D., Gynecology and Obstetrics.
It probably didn’t mean a thing. People tucked away cards and forgot about them, and even if that was where Laurel had been today, what did it prove? Women went for gynecological checkups regularly.
His fist clenched around the card. He thought of Laurel’s face, when she’d seen him coming toward her a little while ago—and he thought of something else.
All these weeks that he’d dreamed of her, relived the night they’d spent in each other’s arms. The heat, the sweetness—all of it had seemed permanently etched into his brain. Now, another memory vied for his attention, one that made his belly cramp.
In all that long, wild night, he’d never thought to use a condom.
It was so crazy, so irresponsible, so completely unlike him. It was as if he’d been intoxicated that night, drunk on the smell of Laurel’s skin and the taste of her mouth.
He hadn’t used a condom. She hadn’t used a diaphragm. Now she was nauseous, and faint, and she was seeing a doctor whose specialty was obstetrics.
Maybe she was on the pill. Maybe his imagination was in overdrive.
Maybe it was time to get some answers.
He took a long, harsh breath. Then he reached for the phone.
* * *
Laurel awoke slowly.
She was lying on the living-room couch. Darkness had gathered outside the windows but someone had turned on the table lamp.
Someone?
Damian.
He was sitting in a chair a few feet away. There was a granitelike set to his jaw; above it, his mouth was set in a harsh line.
“How do you feel?”
She swallowed experimentally. Her stomach growled, but it stayed put.
“Much better.” She sat up, pushed the afghan aside and swung her legs to the floor. “Thank you for everything, Damian, but there really wasn’t any need for you to sit here while I slept.” He said nothing, and the silence beat in her ears. Something was wrong, she could feel it. “What time is it, anyway?” she asked, trying for a light tone. “I must have slept for—”
“When did you plan on telling me?”
Her heart thumped, then lodged like a stone behind her breastbone.
“Plan on telling you what?” She rose to her feet and he did, too, and came toward her. Damn, where were her shoes? He was so tall. It put her at a disadvantage, to let him loom over her like this.
“Perhaps you didn’t intend to tell me.” His voice hummed with challenge; his accent thickened. “Was that your plan?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, starting past him, “and I’m really not in the mood for games.”
“And I,” he said, clamping his hand down on her shoulder, “am not in the mood for lies.”
Her eyes flashed fire as she swung toward him. “I think you’d better leave.”
“You’re pregnant,” he said flatly.
Pregnant. Pregnant. The word seemed to echo through the room.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It will be easier if you tell me the truth.”
She twisted free of his grasp and pointed at the door. “It will be easier if you get out of here.”
“Is the child mine?”
“Is...?” Laurel stuffed her hands into her pockets. “There is no child. I don’t know where you got this idea, but—”
“How many men were you with that week, aside from me?”
“Get out, damn you!”
“I ask you again, is the child mine?”
She stared at him, her lips trembling. No, she wanted to say, it is not. I was with a dozen men that week. A hundred. A thousand.
“Answer me!” His hands clamped around her shoulders and he shook her roughly. “Is it mine?”
In the end, it was too barbarous a lie to tell.
“Yes,” she whispered, “it’s yours.”
He said nothing for a long moment. Then he jerked his head towards the sofa.
“Sit down, Laurel.”
She looked up and their eyes met. A shudder raced through her. She stepped back, until she felt the edge of the sofa behind her, and then she collapsed onto the cushions like a rag doll.
“How—how did you find out?”
His mouth curled. He reached into his pocket, took out a small white card and tossed it into her lap. Laurel stared down at it. It was the card Dr. Glass man had given her.
She looked up at him. “She told you? Dr. Glass man told you? She had no right! She—”
“She told me nothing.” His mouth twisted again. “And everything.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The card fell from your pocket. I telephoned Glass man’s office. The receptionist put me through when I said I was a ‘friend’ of yours and concerned about your health.”
The twist he put on the word
brought a rush of color to Laurel’s face. Damian saw it and flashed a thin smile.
“Apparently your physician made the same interpretation. But she was very discreet. She acknowledged only that she knew you. She said I would have to discuss your medical condition with you, and she hung up.”
Laurel’s face whitened. “Then—then you didn’t really know! You lied to me. You fooled me into—into—”
“I put two and two together, that’s all, and then I asked a question, which you answered.”
“It wasn’t a question!” Laurel drew a shuddering breath. “You said you knew that I was—that I was—”
“I asked if it was my child.” He moved suddenly, bending down and spearing his arms on either side of her, trapping her, pinning her with a look that threatened to turn her to ice. “My child, damn you! What were you planning, Laurel? To give it up for adoption? To have it aborted?”
“No!” The cry burst from her throat and, as it did, she knew that it was the truth. She would not give up the life within her. She wanted her baby, with all her heart and soul, had wanted it from the moment the doctor had confirmed that she was pregnant. “No,” she whispered, her gaze steady on his. “I’m not going to do that. I’m going to have my baby, and keep it.”
“Keep it?” Damian’s mouth twisted. “This is not a puppy we speak of. How will you keep it? How will you raise a child alone?”
“You’d be amazed at how much progress women have made,” Laurel said defiantly. “We’re capable of rearing children as well as giving birth to them.”
“A child will interfere with the self-indulgent life you lead.”
“You don’t know the first thing about my life!”
“I know that a woman who sleeps with strangers cannot possibly pretend to be a fit mother for my child.”
Laurel slammed her fist into his shoulder. “What a hypocritical son of a bitch you are! Who are you to judge me? It took two of us to create this baby, Damian, two strangers in one bed that night!”
A thin smile touched his lips. “It is not the same.”
“It is not the same,” she said, cruelly mimicking his tone and his accent. She rose and shoved past him. “Do us both a favor, will you? Get out of here. Get out of my life. I don’t ever want to see your face again!”
The Greek's Unwilling Bride Page 10
