The realization frightened her, and she gave herself up, instead, to a sharp response.
“You should have considered a lot of things, Damian, but you didn’t, and here we are.”
His hand fell away from her. “Yes,” he said, “and here we are.”
* * *
When Laurel had come to Greece before, it had been to do a cover for Femme. They’d shot it on a tiny island that had stunned her with its natural beauty.
Actos was not such a place.
If the island was beautiful, she was hard-pressed to see it. A rusted Ford station wagon was waiting for them at the dock, its mustachioed driver as ancient and gnarled as an olive tree. He and Damian greeted each other quietly, though she noticed that when they clasped hands, the men looked deep into each other’s eyes and smiled.
The old man turned to her and took off his cap. He smiled, bowed and said something to Damian.
“Spiro says he is happy to meet you.”
“Tell Spiro I am glad to meet him, too.”
“He says you are more lovely than Aphrodite, and that I am a very fortunate man to have won you.”
“Tell him Aphrodite’s an overworked image but that I thank him anyway for being such a charming liar, and that you are not fortunate, you are a scheming tyrant who blackmailed me into marriage.”
Damian laughed. “That would not upset Spiro. He still remembers the old days, when every man was a king who could as easily take a woman as ask for her.”
The old man leaned toward Damian and said something. Both men chuckled.
Laurel looked from one to the other. “What did he say now?”
“He said that your eyes are cool.”
“It is more than my eyes that are cool, Damian. And I fail to see why that should make the two of you smile.”
“Because,” he said, his smile tilting, “Spiro tells me there is a saying in the village of his birth. A woman who is cold in the day fills the night with heat.”
A flush rose in her cheeks. “It’s amazing, how wrong an old saying can be.”
“Is it, my sweet wife?”
“Absolutely, my unwanted husband.”
Spiro muttered again and Laurel rolled her eyes.
“I feel like the straight man in a comedy act,” she snapped. “Now what?”
Damian moved closer to her. “He thinks there is more than coolness in your eyes,” he said softly. “He says you do not look like a happy woman.”
“A clever man, this Spiro.”
“It is, he says, my responsibility to make you happy.”
“Did you tell him you could have done that by leaving me alone?”
Damian’s slow smile was a warning, but it came too late. His fingers threaded in her hair and he bent his head and kissed her.
“Kissing me to impress the old man is pathetic,” Laurel said, when he drew back. She spoke calmly and told herself that the erratic beat of her pulse was the result of weariness, and the sun.
Damian kissed her again, as gently as he had when she’d said ‘No’ at their wedding.”
“I kiss you because I want to kiss you,” he said, very softly, and then he turned away and helped Spiro load their luggage into the old station wagon, while Laurel fought to still her racing heart.
* * *
A narrow dirt road wound its way up the cliffs, through groves of dark cypresses and between outcroppings of gray rock. They passed small houses that grew further and further apart as they climbed. After a while, there were no houses at all, only an occasional shepherd’s hut. The heat was unrelenting, and a chorus of cicadas filled the air with sound.
The road grew even more narrow. Just when it seemed as if it would end among the clouds, a house came into view. It was made of white stone with a blue tile roof, and it stood on a rocky promontory overlooking the sea.
The house, and the setting, were starkly simple and wildly beautiful, and Laurel knew instantly that this was Damian’s home.
A heavy silence, made more pronounced by the shrill of the cicadas and the distant pound of the surf, filled the car as Damian shut off the engine. Behind them, the car door creaked as Spiro got out. He spoke to Damian, who shook his head. The old man muttered in annoyance, doffed his cap to Laurel and set off briskly toward the house.
“What was that all about?”
Damian sighed. “He will be eighty-five soon, or perhaps even older. He’s rather mysterious about his age.” He got out of the car, came around to Laurel’s door and opened it. “Still, he pretends he is a young man. He wanted to take our luggage to the house. I told him not to be such an old fool.”
Laurel ignored Damian’s outstretched hand and stepped onto the gravel driveway.
“So you told him to send someone else to get our things?”
Damian looked at her. “There is no one else at the house, except for Eleni.”
“Eleni?”
“My housekeeper.” He reached into the back of the wagon, picked up their suitcases and tossed them onto the grass, his muscles shifting and bunching under the thin cotton T-shirt. “Besides, why would I need anyone to do such a simple job as this?”
Her thoughts flashed back to Kirk, and the staff of ten who’d run his home. She’d never seen him carry anything heavier than his attaché case, and sometimes not even that.
“Well?” Damian’s voice was rough. “What do you think? Can you survive a week alone with me, in this place?”
A week? Alone, here, with Damian? She didn’t dare tell him what she really thought, that if he had set out to separate her from everything safe and familiar, he had succeeded.
“Well,” she said coolly, “it’s not Southampton. But I suppose there’s hot water, and electricity, at least.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Damian’s jaw tighten. Good, she thought with bitter satisfaction. What had he expected? Tears? Pleas? A fervent demand he take her somewhere civilized? If that was what he’d hoped for, he’d made an error. She wasn’t going to beg, or grovel.
“I know it would please you if I said no.” His smile was curt as he stepped past her, hoisted their suitcases and set off for the house. “But we have all the amenities you wish for, my dear wife. I know it spoils things for you, but I am not quite the savage you imagine.”
The house was almost glacial, after the heat of the sunbaked hillside. White marble floors stretched to meet white painted walls. Ceiling fans whirred lazily overhead.
Damian dumped the suitcases on the floor and put his hands on his hips.
“Eleni,” he roared.
A door slammed in the distance and a slender, middle-aged woman with eyes as dark as her hair came hurrying toward them. She was smiling broadly, but her smile vanished when she saw Damian’s stern face. He said a few words to her, in Greek, and then he looked at Laurel.
“Eleni speaks no English, so don’t waste your time trying to win her to your cause. She will show you to your room and tend to your needs.”
The housekeeper, and not Damian. It was another small victory, Laurel thought, as he strode past her.
Eleni led the way up the stairs to a large, handsome bedroom with an adjoining bath.
Laurel nodded.
“Thank you,” she said, “efcharistó.”
It was the only word of Greek she remembered from her prior trip. Eleni smiled her appreciation and Laurel smiled back at her, but when the door had shut and she was, at last, alone, her smile faded.
She had set out to irritate Damian and somehow, she’d ended up wounding him. It was more of a victory than she’d ever have hoped.
Why, then, did it feel so hollow?
* * *
The cypresses were casting long shadows over the hillside. Soon, it would be night.
Damian stood on the brick terrace and gazed at the sea. He knew he ought to feel exhausted. It had been a long day. An endless day, following hard on the heels of an endless week—a week that had begun with him thinking he’d never see Laurel again and ending w
ith his taking her as his wife.
His wife.
His jaw knotted, and he lifted the glass of chilled ouzo to his lips and drank. The anise-flavored liquid slipped easily down his throat, one of the few pleasurable experiences in the entire damned day.
It still didn’t seem possible. A little while ago, his life had been set on a fixed course with his business empire as its center. Now, in the blink of an eye, he had a wife, and a child on the way—a wife who treated him, and everything that was his, with such frigid distaste that it made his blood pressure rumble like the volcanos that were at the heart of these islands.
So she didn’t like this house. Hell, why should she? He knew what it was, an isolated aerie on the edge of nowhere, and that he’d been less than forthright about its amenities, which began, and just about ended, with little more than electricity and hot water. She was a woman accustomed to luxury, and to the city. Her idea of paradise wasn’t likely to include a house on top of a rocky hill overlooking the Aegean, where she was about to spend seven of the longest days of her life trapped with the fool who’d forced her into marriage.
Damian frowned and tossed back the rest of the ouzo.
What the hell had he been thinking, bringing her here? God knew this wasn’t the setting for a honeymoon—not that this was going to be one. Spiro, that sly old fox, had slapped him on the back and said that it was about time he’d married. Damian had told him to mind his own business.
This wasn’t a marriage, it was an arrangement...and maybe that was the best way to think about it. Marriage, under the best of circumstances, was never about love, not once you scratched the surface. It was about lust, or loneliness, or procreation. Well, in that sense, he and Laurel were ahead of the game. There was no pretense in their relationship, no pretending that anything but necessity had brought them to this point in the road.
Damian refilled his glass and took a sip. Viewed ressonably, he really had no cause to complain. Not about having a child, at least. The more he’d thought about it the past week, the more pleased he’d been at the prospect of fatherhood. He’d enjoyed raising Nicholas, but the boy had come into his life almost full-grown. There’d be a special pleasure in holding an infant in his arms, knowing that it carried his name and his genes, that it would be his to mold and nurture.
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. And, despite all the advances of modern science, you still needed a woman to have a baby. A wife if you wanted to do it right, and as wives went, Laurel would be eminently suitable.
She was beautiful, bright and sophisticated. She’d spent her life rubbing elbows with the rich and famous; to some degree, she was one of them herself. She’d be at ease as the hostess of the parties and dinners his work demanded, and he had no doubt that she’d be a good mother to their child.
As for the rest...as for the rest, he thought, the heat pooling in his loins, what would happen between them in bed would keep them both satisfied. She would not deny him forever. She wouldn’t want to. Despite her protestations, Laurel wanted him. She was a passionate woman with a taste for sex, but she was his now. If she ever thought to slake her thirst with another man, he’d—he’d...
The glass splintered in his hand. Damian hissed with pain as the shards fell to the terrace floor.
“Dammit to hell!”
Blood welled in his palm. He cursed again, dug in his pocket for a handkerchief—and just then, a small, cool hand closed around his.
“Let me see that,” Laurel said.
He looked up, angry at himself for losing control, angry at her for catching him, and the breath caught in his throat.
How beautiful his wife was!
She was wearing something long, white and filmy; he thought of what Spiro had said, that she looked like Aphrodite, but the old man was wrong for surely the goddess had never been this lovely.
Laurel must have showered and washed her hair. It hung loose in a wild cloud of dark auburn curls that tumbled over her shoulders as she bent over his cut hand.
“It isn’t as bad as it probably feels,” she said, dabbing at the wound with his handkerchief.
He felt a fist close around his heart. Yes, it was, he thought suddenly, it was every bit as bad, and maybe worse.
“Come inside and let me wash it.”
He didn’t want to move. The moment was too perfect. Laurel’s body, brushing his. Her hair, tickling his palm. Her breath, warm on his fingers...
“Damian?” She looked up at him. “The cut should be—it should be...”
Why was he looking at her that way? His eyes were as dark as the night that waited on the rim of the sea. There was a tension in his face, in the set of his shoulders...
His wide shoulders, encased in a dark cotton shirt. She could see the golden column of his throat at the open neck of the shirt; the pulse beating in the hollow just below his Adam’s apple; the shadow of dark, silky hair she knew covered his hard-muscled chest.
A chasm seemed to open before her, one that terrified her with its uncharted depth.
“This cut should be washed,” she said briskly, “and disinfected.”
“It is not necessary.” His voice was low and throaty; it made her pulse quicken. “Laurel...”
“Really, Damian. You shouldn’t ignore it.”
“I agree. A thing like this must not be ignored.”
Her eyes met his and a soft sound escaped her throat. “Damian,” she whispered, “please...”
“What?” he said thickly. He lifted his uncut hand and pushed her hair back from her face. “What do you want of me, kati mou? Tell me, and I will do it.”
Kiss me, she thought, and touch me, and let me admit the truth to myself, that I don’t hate you, don’t despise you, that I—that I...
She let go of his hand and stepped back.
“I want you to let me clean this cut, and bandage it,” she said briskly. “You’ve seen to it that we’re a million miles from everything. If you developed an infection, I wouldn’t even know how to get help.”
Damian’s mouth twisted.
“You are right.” He wound the handkerchief around his hand and smiled politely. “You would be stranded, not just with an unwanted husband but with a disabled one. How selfish of me, Laurel. Please, serve yourself some lemonade. Eleni prepared it especially for you. I will tend to this cut, and then we shall have our dinner. You will excuse me?”
Laurel nodded. “Of course,” she said, just as politely, and she turned and stared out over the sea, watching as a million stars fired the black velvet sky, and blinking back tears that had risen, inexplicably, in her eyes.
* * *
She woke early the next morning.
The same insect chorus was singing, accompanied now by the soaring alto of a songbird. It wasn’t the same as awakening to an alarm clock, she thought with a smile, or to the honking of horns and the sound of Mr. Lieberman’s footsteps overhead.
Dressed in a yellow sundress, she wandered through the house to the kitchen. Eleni greeted her with a smile, a cup of strong black coffee and a questioning lift of the eyebrows that seemed to be the equivalent of, “What would you like for breakfast?”
A bit of sign language, some miscommunication that resulted in shared laughter, and Laurel sat down at the marble-topped counter to a bowl of fresh yogurt and sliced strawberries. She ate hungrily—the doors leading out to the terrace were open, and the air, fragrant with the mingled scents of flowers and of the sea, had piqued her appetite. She poured herself a second cup of coffee and sipped it outdoors, on the terrace, and then she wandered down the steps and onto the grass.
It was strange, how a night’s sleep and the clear light of morning changed things. Yesterday, the house had seemed disturbingly austere but now she could see that it blended perfectly with its surroundings. The location didn’t seem as forbidding, either. There was something to be said for being on the very top of a mountain, with the world laid out before you.
Impulsively she kicked off her sandals and l
ooped the straps over her fingers. Then she set off toward the rear of the house, where she could hear someone—Spiro, perhaps-beating something with what sounded like a hammer.
But it wasn’t the old man. It was Damian, wearing denim cutoffs, leather work gloves, beat-up sneakers and absolutely nothing else. He was wielding what she assumed was a sledgehammer, swinging it over and over against a huge gray boulder.
His swings were rhythmic; his attention was completely focused on the boulder. She knew he had no idea she was there and a part of her whispered that it was wrong to stand in the shadow of a cypress and watch him this way... but nothing in the world could have made her turn away or take her eyes off her husband.
How magnificent he was! The sun blazed down on his naked shoulders; she could almost see his skin toasting to a darker gold as he worked. His body glistened under a fine layer of sweat that delineated its muscled power. He grunted softly each time he swung the hammer and she found herself catching her breath at each swing, holding it until he brought the hammer down to smash against the rock.
Her thoughts flashed two years back, to Kirk, and to the hours he’d spent working out in the elaborate gym in the basement of his Long Island home. Two hours a day, seven days a week, and he’d still not looked as beautifully male as Damian did right now.
She thought of how strong Damian’s arms had felt around her the night they’d made love, of how his muscles had rippled under her hands...
“Laurel.”
She blinked. Damian had turned around. He smiled, put down the hammer and wiped his face and throat with a towel that had been lying in the grass.
“Sorry,” he said, tossing the towel aside and coming toward her. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I’ve always been an early riser.”
He stripped off his gloves and tucked them into a rear pocket.
“I am, too. It’s an old habit. If you want to get any work done in the summer here, you have to start before the sun is too high in the sky or you end up broiled to a crisp. Did you sleep well?”
The Greek's Unwilling Bride Page 13
