The Greek's Unwilling Bride by Sandra Marton

waiting to hand her safely off to Stevens.
    Still glowering, he made his way to the terrace in time to see Laurel getting into the car. Stevens shut the door after her, climbed behind the wheel and that was that.
    She was gone, and good riddance.
    Who was he kidding? She wasn’t gone, not that easily. Her fragrance still lingered on his skin, and in his bed. The sound of her voice, the way she’d sighed his name while they were making love, drifted like a half-remembered tune in his mind.
    He had lied to her, when he’d said Stevens was accustomed to being roused at all hours of the night. Being at the beck-and-call of an employer was something he’d hated, in his youth; he’d vowed never to behave so imperiously with those who served him.
    Besides, waking Stevens had never been necessary before.
    No woman had ever risen and left his bed so eagerly, Damian thought grimly, as he strode into his bedroom. His problem was usually getting rid of them, not convincing them to stay.
    Not that he really cared. It had been pleasant, this interlude; he’d have been happy to have gone on with it for a few more weeks, even for a couple of months, but there were other women. There were always other women.
    Something glittered on the carpet. Damian frowned and scooped it up.
    It was Laurel’s earring.
    His hand closed hard around it. He remembered the flushed, expectant look on her face when he’d taken the earrings from her, when he’d begun undressing her, when she’d raised her arms to him and he’d knelt between her thighs and thrust home...
    â€œHome?” he said. He laughed, then tossed the earring onto the night table.
    It was late, he was tired, and when you came right down to it, the only thing special about tonight had been the sheer effort it had taken to get Laurel Bennett into his bed.
    Whistling, Damian headed for the shower.

CHAPTER SIX
    S USIE MORGAN sat at Laurel’s kitchen table, her chin propped on her fist as she watched Laurel knead a lump of sourdough batter.
    Actually, Susie thought with a lifted eyebrow, Laurel was closer to beating the life out of the stuff than she was to kneading it. Susie glanced at her watch and her brow rose another notch. Laurel had been at it for fifteen minutes, well, fifteen minutes that she knew of, anyway. Who knew how long that poor mound of dough had really been lying there? When she’d come by for Laurel’s if-I’m-home-and-haven’ t-gained-any-weight-the-camera-might-notice Friday morning bread-baking session, there’d already been a dab of flour on Laurel’s nose and a mean glint in her eye.
    The flour was one thing, but the glint was another. Susie frowned as Laurel whipped the dough over and punched it hard enough to make her wince in sympathy. She’d never known her friend to look so angry, not in the three years they’d known each other, but that was the way she looked lately...though there were times when another expression chased across her face, one that hinted not so much of anger but of terrible unhappiness.
    Laurel had alternated between those two looks for four weeks now, ever since the night she’d gone out with Damian Skouras, whose name she hadn’t once mentioned since. He hadn’t come by again, either, which didn’t make sense. Susie had seen the way he’d looked at Laurel and, whether Laurel knew it or not, the way she’d looked at him. Any self-respecting scientist caught between the two of them would have had doubts about carbon emissions being the only thing heating up the atmosphere.
    Susie had given it another try, just the other day.
    â€œHow’s Adonis?” she’d said, trying to sound casual.
    Laurel had tried to sound casual, too. “Who?”
    â€œThe Greek,” Susie had replied, playing along, “you know, the one with the looks and the money.”
    â€œHow should I know?”
    â€œAren’t you seeing him