Read The Greek's Unwilling Bride for Free Online Page B

corner shelf near the sofas that flanked the low table where he’d dumped the magazines.
    He paused, frowning as he looked down at the stack. The magazine containing Laurel’s photo was on top and he picked it up, opened it to that page and stared at the picture. Her hair looked like silk. Would it feel that way, or would it be stiff with hair spray when he touched it, the way Gabriella’s had always been? How would her skin smell, when he put his face to that graceful curve where her shoulder and her neck joined? How would it taste?
    Hell, what was the matter with him? He wasn’t going to smell this woman, or taste her, or touch her.
    His eyes fastened on her face. There was a hands-off coolness in her eyes that seemed at odds with her mouth, which looked soft, sexy, and heart-stoppingly vulnerable. It had felt that way, too, beneath his own, after she’d stopped fighting the passion that suddenly had gripped them both and given herself up to him. and to the kiss.
    His belly knotted as he remembered the heat and hardness that had curled through his body. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so caught up in a kiss or in the memory of what had been, after all, a simple encounter.
    So caught up, and out of control.
    Damian’s jaw knotted. This was ridiculous. He was never out of control.
    What he had, he thought coldly, was an itch, and it needed scratching.
    One night, and that would be the end of it.
    He could call Laurel, ask her to have drinks or dinner. It wouldn’t be hard; he had learned early on that information was easy to come by, if you knew how to go about getting it.
    She was stubborn, though. Her response to him had been fiery and he knew she wanted him as badly as he wanted her, but she’d deny it. He looked down at the ad again. She’d probably hang up the phone before he had the chance to—
    A smile tilted at the corner of his mouth. Until this minute, he hadn’t paid any attention to the advertisement itself. If pressed, he’d have said it was for perfume, or cosmetics. Perhaps furs.
    Now he saw just how wrong he’d have been. Laurel was offering the siren song to customers in the market for laptop computers. And the company was one that Skouras International had bought only a couple of months ago.
    Damian reached for the phone.
    Luck was with him. Ten minutes later, he was in his car, his luncheon appointment canceled, forging through midday traffic on his way to a studio in Soho, where the next in the series of ads was being shot.
    * * *
    â€œDarling Laurel,” Haskell said, “that’s not a good angle. Turn your head to the right, please.”
    Laurel did.
    â€œNow tilt toward me. Good.”
    What was good about it? she wondered. Not the day, surely. Not what she was doing. Why did everything, from toothpaste to tugboats, have to be advertised with sex?
    â€œA little more. Yes, like that. Could you make it a bigger smile, please?”
    She couldn’t. Smiling didn’t suit her mood.
    â€œLaurel, baby, you’ve got to get into the swing of things. You look utterly, totally bored.”
    She was bored. But that was better than being angry. Don’t think about it anymore, she told herself, just don’t think about it.
    Or him.
    â€œAh, Laurel, you’re starting to scowl. Bad for the face, darling. Relax. Think about the scene. You’re on the deck of a private yacht in, I don’t know, the Aegean.”
    â€œThe Caribbean,” she snapped.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, you got something against the Greeks? Sure. The Caribbean. Whatever does it for you. Just get into it, darling. There you are, on a ship off the coast of Madagascar.”
    â€œMadagascar’s in Africa.”
    â€œJeez, give me a break, will you? Forget geography, okay? You’re on a ship wherever you want, you’re stretched out in the hot sun, using your Redwood laptop to write postcards to all your pals back