The Greek's Unwilling Bride by Sandra Marton Page A

anymore?”
    â€œI saw him once, under protest.”
    â€œYeah, but I figured—”
    â€œYou figured wrong,” Laurel had answered, in a way that made it clear the topic was off limits.
    â€œWell, if you say so,” Susie had said, “but, you know, if anything’s on your mind and you want to talk about it...”
    â€œThanks, but there’s nothing worth talking about,” Laurel had replied with a breezy smile, which, as Susie had tried to tell George that night, was definitely proof that there was.
    â€œI don’t follow you,” George had said patiently. So she’d tried to explain but George, sweet as he was, was a man. It was too much to expect he’d see that if there truly was nothing worth talking about, Laurel would have said something like, “What are you talking about, Susie?” instead of just tossing off that meaningless response. She’d even tried to explain that she had this feeling, just a hunch, really, that something had happened between Laurel and the Skouras guy, but George’s eyes had only glazed over while he said, “Really?” and “You don’t say,” until finally she’d given it up.
    Susie’s frown deepened. On the other hand, even George might sense there was a problem if he could see Laurel beating the life out of that poor sourdough. A couple of more belts like the last and the stuff would be too intimidated to rise.
    Susie cleared her throat.
    â€œUh, Laurel?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œAh, don’t you think that’s about done?”
    Laurel gave the dough a vicious punch and blew a curl off her forehead.
    â€œDon’t I think what’s about done?”
    â€œThe bread,” Susie said, wincing as Laurel slammed her fist into the yeasty mound again.
    â€œSoon.” She gave the stuff another whack that made the counter shudder. “But not just yet.”
    Susie’s mouth twitched. She sat up straight, crossed her long, dancer’s legs and linked her hands around her knee.
    â€œAnybody I know?” she said casually.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œWhoever it is you’re beating to death this morning. I figure there’s got to be a face in that flour that only you can see.”
    Laurel ran the back of her wrist across her forehead.
    â€œYour imagination’s working overtime. I’m making bread, not working out my frustrations.”
    â€œAh,” Susie said knowingly. She watched Laurel give the dough a few more turns and punches before dumping it into a bowl and covering it with a damp dish towel. “Because,” she said, going with instinct, “it occurred to me, it might just be Damian Skouras you were punching out.”
    Laurel turned away and tore a piece of paper towel from the roll above the sink. She thought of saying, “Why would you think that?” and looking puzzled, but she’d barely gotten away clean the last time Susie had raised Damian’s name. Susie knew her too well, that was the problem.
    â€œI told you,” she said flatly, “I’m making bread.”
    â€œThat’s it?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    Susie cleared her throat again. “So, have you heard from him?”
    â€œSuze, you asked me that just the other day. And I said that I hadn’t.”
    â€œAnd that you don’t expect to. Or want to.”
    â€œRight again.” Laurel took the coffeepot from the stove and refilled Susie’s cup. She started to refill hers, too, but when she saw the glint of oil that floated on what remained, her stomach gave a delicate lurch. Wonderful. She had definitely picked up some sort of bug. Just what she needed, she thought, as she hitched her hip onto a stool opposite Susie’s. “So, where’s that handsome hunk of yours this morning?”
    â€œAt the gym, toning up his abs so he can keep his devoted fans drooling. And don’t try to change the subject. It’s your