“All right. Yes, I fell in love with her. But nothing is that simple.”
“Love is never simple.”
Damian turned and clasped the railing. He could feel his anger seeping away and a terrible despair replacing it.
“Spiro, you are the father I never knew and I trust your advice, you know that, but in this matter—”
“In this matter, Damian,” the old man said, “trust your heart. Go to her, tell her that you love her. Give her the chance to tell you the same thing.”
Damian’s throat felt tight. He blinked his eyes, which seemed suddenly damp.
“And if she does not?” he said gruffly. “What then?”
“Then you will return here and swing that hammer until your arms ache with the effort—but you will return knowing-that you tried to win the woman you love instead of letting her slip away.” Spiro put his hand on Damian’s shoulder. “There is always hope, my son. It is that which gives us the will to go on, né?”
Out in the bay, a tiny sailboat heeled under the wind. The sea reached up for it with greedy, white-tipped fingers. Surely it would be swallowed whole...
The wind subsided as quickly as it had begun. The boat bobbed upright.
There is always hope.
Quickly, before he could lose his courage, Damian turned and embraced the old man. Then he headed into the house.
* * *
They were wrong. Dead wrong.
Laurel pounded furiously at the lump of sourdough.
What did Annie and Susie know, anyway? Annie was divorced and Susie was married to a marshmallow. Neither of them had ever had the misfortune to deal with a macho maniac like Damian Skouras.
Damn, but it was hot! Too hot for making bread but what else was she going to do with all this pent-up energy? Laurel blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, wiped her hand over her nose and began beating the dough again.
They were driving her crazy, her sister and her friend. Ever since yesterday, when she’d been dumb enough to break down in front of them and admit she’d loved Damian, they hadn’t left her alone. If it wasn’t Annie phoning, it was Susie.
Well, let ’em phone. She’d given up answering. Let the machine deal with the cheery “hi”s and the even cheerier “Laurel? Are you there, honey?”s.
This morning, in a fit of pique, she’d snatched up the phone, snarled, “No, I’m not there, honey,” and slammed it down again before Annie or Susie, whichever it was, could say a word. Why listen to either of them, when she knew what they were going to say? They’d both said it already, that maybe she’d misjudged Damian, that maybe what he’d told her about the blonde was the truth.
“I didn’t,” Laurel muttered, picking up the dough and then slamming it down again. “And it wasn’t.”
And anyway, what did it matter? So what, if maybe, just maybe, Blondie had set him up? He’d left her, damn him, in the middle of the honeymoon, he’d gone off without a word.
Because you hurt him, Laurel, have you forgotten that?
No, she thought grimly, no, she had not forgotten. So she’d hurt him. Big deal. He’d hurt her a heck of a lot more, not telling her where he was going or even that he was going, not saying good bye...
Not loving her, when she loved him so terribly that she couldn’t shut her eyes without seeing his face or hearing his voice or—
“Laurel?”
Like that. Exactly like that. She could hear him say her name, as if he were right here, in the room with her...
“Laurel, mátya mou...”
Laurel spun around, and her heart leaped into her throat. “Damian?”
Damian cursed as her knees buckled. He rushed forward, caught her in his arms and carried her into the living room. “Take a deep breath,” he ordered, as he sat down on the sofa with her still in his arms. “You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?”
“Of course not,” she said, when the mist before her eyes cleared away. “I never pass out.”
“No,” he said wryly, “you never do—except at the sight of me.”
“What are you going here, Damian? And how did you get in?”
“That George,” he said, smoothing the hair back from her face with his hand. “What a splendid fellow he is.”
“George gave you my spare key? Dammit, he had no right! You had no—”
“And I see that I got here just in time.” A smile tilted at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been doing experiments in the kitchen again.”
“I’ve been making bread. And don’t try to change the subject. You had absolutely no right to unlock the door and—”
“I know, and I apologize. But I was afraid that you’d leave me standing in the hall again, if I asked you to let me in.”
“You’re right, I would have done exactly that.” Laurel put her hands on his shoulders. “Let me up, please.”
“I love you. Laurel.”
Hope flickered in her heart, but fear snuffed it out.
“You just want your child,” she said.
“I want our child, my darling wife, but more than that, I want you. I love you, Laurel.” He took her face in his hands. “I adore you,” he said softly. “You’re the only woman I have ever loved, the only woman I will ever love, and if you don’t come back to me, I will be lost forever.”
Tears roses in Laurel’s eyes. “Oh, Damian. Do you mean it?”
He kissed her. It was a long, sweet, wonderful kiss, and when it ended, she was trembling.
“With all my heart. I should have awakened you that night and told you I had to leave, but you were so angry and I—I was angry, too, and wounded by the knowledge that you’d once loved another.”
Laurel shook her head. “I didn’t love him. I only talked about Kirk to hurt you. I’ve never loved anyone, until you.”
“Tell me again,” he whispered.
She smiled. “I love you, Damian. I’ve never loved anyone else. I never will. There’s only you, only you, only—”
He kissed her again, then leaned his forehead against hers.
“What I told you about Gabriella was the truth. I didn’t ask her to my apartment. She—”
Laurel kissed him to silence. A long time later, Damian drew back.
“We’ll fly to Actos,” he said, “and ask that interfering old man to drink champagne with us.”
Laurel linked her arms around her husband’s neck and smiled into his eyes.
“Did anybody ever tell you that you can sound awfully arrogant at times?”
Damian grinned as he got to his feet with his wife in his arms.
“Someone might have mentioned it, once or twice,” he said, as he shouldered open the bedroom door.
Laurel’s pulse quickened as he slowly lowered her to the bed.
“I thought we were going to Actos,” she whispered.
“We are.” Damian gave her a slow, sexy kiss. “But first,” he said, as he began to undo her buttons, “first, we’ve got to get reacquainted.”
Laurel sighed as he slipped off her blouse. “And how long do you think that’s going to take, husband?”
Damian smiled. “All the rest of our lives, wife.”
Slowly he gathered her into his arms.
EPILOGUE
NO ONE ON THE ISLAND of Actos had ever seen anything quite like it.
There were always weddings, of course, young people and life being as they are, but even the old women at the fish market, who usually argued about everything, agreed on this.
There had never been a wedding the equal of Damian and Laurel’s.
Of course, as the old women were quick to point out, the Skourases were already married. But the ceremony that had joined them meant nothing. It had been performed all the way across the sea, in America, and—can you imagine?—a judge had said the words that had made them man and wife, not a priest.
No wonder they had chosen to be wed all over again, and in the proper way.
The day was perfect: a clear blue sky, a peaceful sea, and t
hough the sun shone brightly, it was not too hot.
The bride, the old ladies said, was beautiful in her lacy white gown. And oh, her smile. So radiant, so filled with love for her handsome groom.
Handsome, indeed, one of the crones said, and she added something else behind her wrinkled hand that made them all cackle with delight.
It was just too bad the bride wasn’t Greek...but she was the next best thing. Beautiful, with shining eyes and a bright smile, and Eleni had told them that she was learning to think like one of them, enough so that when her groom had teasingly warned her that marriage in a Greek church was forever, she’d smiled and put her arms around him and said that was the only kind of marriage she’d ever wanted.
And so, in a little church made of whitewashed stone, with the sun streaming through the windows and baskets of flowers banked along the aisle and at the altar, and with friends and relatives from faraway America flown over for this most special of days, Laurel Bennett and Damian Skouras were wed.
“Yes,” Laurel said clearly, when the priest asked—in English, at Damian’s request—if she would take the man beside her as her husband, to love and honor and cherish for the rest of her days. And when Damian offered the same pledge, he broke with tradition by looking deep into his wife’s eyes and saying that he would cherish forever the woman he had waited all his life to find.
The old ladies in black wept, as did the two stylishly dressed American women in the front pew. Even old Spiro wiped his eyes, though he said later that it was only because a speck had gotten into one.
Retsina and ouzo flowed, and bubbly champagne flown in from France. Everyone danced, and sang; they ate lobster and red snapper and roast lamb, and the men toasted the bride and groom until none could think of another reason to raise his glass.
It was, everyone said, an absolutely wonderful wedding—but if you’d asked the bride and the groom what part was the most wonderful, they’d have said it came late that night, when the crickets were singing and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers and they were alone, at last, on their hilltop overlooking the sea.
The groom took his bride in his arms.
“You are my heart,” he said, looking deep into her eyes, and she smiled so radiantly that his heart almost shattered with joy.
“As you are mine,” she whispered, and as the ivory moon climbed into the black velvet sky, Damian swept Laurel into his arms and carried her up to their bedroom.
* * *
The next morning, Laurel awoke to the ring of the sledgehammer.
She dressed quickly and went outside, to where the boulder stood.
“Damian,” she called, and her husband turned and smiled at her.
“Watch,” he said.
He swung the hammer against the boulder. The sound rang like a bell across the hilltop, and the rock crumbled into a thousand tiny pieces.
* * * * *
If you loved this Sandra Marton title, you will love the newest 8 book series from Harlequin Presents®…
The Billionaire’s Legacy
A search for truth and the promise of passion!
For nearly sixty years, Italian billionaire, Giovanni Di Sione has a kept a shocking secret. Now, nearing the end of his days, he wants his grandchildren to know their true heritage.
He sends them each on a journey to find his“Lost Mistresses”, a collection of love tokens – the only remaining evidence of his lost identity, his lost history… his lost love.
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Di Sione’s Innocent Conquest by Carol Marinelli
The Di Sione Secret Baby by Maya Blake
To Blackmail a Di Sione by Rachel Thomas
The Return of the Di Sione Wife by Caitlin Crews
Di Sione’s Virgin Mistress by Sharon Kendrick
A Di Sione for the Greek’s Pleasure by Kate Hewitt
A Deal for the Di Sione Ring by Jennifer Hayward
The Last Di Sione Claims His Prize by Maisey Yates
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ISBN: 9781460398494
The Greek’s Unwilling Bride
Copyright © 1997 by Sandra Marton
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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