The Greek's Unwilling Bride by Sandra Marton Page A

been a plumber’s apprentice back in the days when he’d still been known as George Mogenovitch of Brooklyn.
    His pretty dancer wife, Susie, had turned into a close friend, but she was another in what Laurel thought of as a legion of inveterate matchmakers. At least she had learned to read the signs. When Susie made spaghetti and invited her to supper, she accepted happily. When the invitation was for Beef Stroganoff and a good bottle of wine, it was wise to plead an excuse.
    Laurel smiled to herself. Susie and George were the most warmhearted people imaginable, which explained why she was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in her bathroom with a bunch of tools in her lap while George stood in her bathtub and tried to figure out why no water at all was coming out of the shower.
    â€œSorry it’s taking me so long,” he said, grunting as he worked a wrench around a fitting. “But I think I’ve almost got it.”
    â€œHey,” Laurel said, “don’t apologize. I’m just grateful you’re willing to bother.”
    George flicked back his blond mane and shot her a grin.
    â€œSusie wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said. “She figures it keeps me humble.”
    Laurel smiled. “Clever Susie.”
    Not that George needed to be kept humble. He was a nice guy. Success hadn’t gone to his head the way it did with some men. Hand them some good looks, some money, fame and fortune, and what did you get?
    A man like Damian Skouras, that’s what. Laurel’s mouth thinned. Or like Kirk Soames. What was it about her that attracted such superficial, self-centered bastards?
    Of course, she hadn’t seen it that way, not at first. She was a woman accustomed to making her own way in the world; she’d learned early on that many men were threatened by her fame, her independence, even her beauty. So when Kirk—powerful, rich and handsome—came on to her with wry certainty and assurance, she’d found it intriguing. By the time he’d asked her to move in with him, she’d been head over heels in love.
    Annie had told her, straight out, that she was making a mistake.
    â€œMove in with him?” she’d said. “What ever happened to, ‘Marry me?’”
    â€œHe’s cautious,” Laurel had replied, in her lover’s defense, “and why wouldn’t he be? Marriage is a tough deal for a man like that.”
    â€œIt’s a tough deal for anybody,” Annie had said wryly. “Still, if he loves you and you love him...”
    â€œAnnie, I’m thirty-two. I’m old enough to live with a man without the world coming to an end. Besides, I don’t want to rush into anything, any more than Kirk does.”
    â€œUh-huh,” Annie had said, in a way that made it clear she knew Laurel was lying. And she was. She’d have married Kirk in a second, if he’d asked. And he would ask, given time. She’d been certain of that.
    â€œLaurel?”
    Laurel blinked, George was looking at her, his brows raised. “Hand me that other wrench, will you? The one with the black handle.”
    So she had moved in with Kirk, more or less, though she’d held on to her apartment. It had been his suggestion. He’d even offered to pay her rent, though she had refused. If she kept her apartment, he’d said, she’d have a place to stay when she had shoots or showings in the city because he lived thirty miles out, in a sprawling mansion on Long Island’s North Shore.
    â€œBull,” Annie had snorted. “The guy’s a zillionaire. How come he doesn’t have an apartment in the city?”
    â€œAnnie,” Laurel had said patiently, “you don’t understand. He needs the peace and quiet of the Long Island house.”
    In the end, it had turned out that he did have a Manhattan apartment. Laurel closed her eyes against the rush of painful memories. She’d learned about