The Greek's Unwilling Bride by Sandra Marton Page B

it by accident, fielding a phone call from a foolishly indiscreet building manager who’d wanted to check with Mr. Soames about a convenient time for some sort of repair to the terrace.
    Puzzled, telling herself it was some sort of mistake or perhaps a surprise for her, Laurel had gone to the East side address and managed to slip inside when the doorman wasn’t looking. She’d ridden the elevator to the twentieth floor, taken a deep breath and rung the bell of Apartment 2004.
    Kirk had opened the door, dressed in a white terry-cloth robe. His face paled when he saw her but she had to give him credit; he recovered quickly.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, Laurel?”
    Before she could reply, a sultry voice called, “Kirk? Where are you, lover?” and a porcelain-skinned blonde wearing a matching robe and the flushed look that came of a long afternoon in bed, appeared behind him.
    Laurel hadn’t said a word. She hadn’t even returned to the Long Island house for her things. And when the story got out, as it was bound to do, the people who knew her sighed and said well, it was sad but they’d have sworn Kirk had changed, that once he’d asked her to move into that big house on the water they’d all figured it meant he’d finally decided to settle down...
    â€œYou got a bad diverter valve,” George muttered, “but I’ve almost got it under control. Takes time, that’s all.”
    Laurel gave him an absent smile. Everything took time. It had taken her months to get over the pain of Kirk’s betrayal but once she had, she’d begun thinking about their affair with the cold, clear logic of hindsight and she’d found herself wondering what she’d ever found attractive about a man like that to begin with.
    She’d mistaken his arrogance for self-assurance, his egotism for determination. She, who’d always prided herself on her control, had been stupidly taken in by sexual chemistry, and the truth was that not even that had really lived up to its promise. She’d never felt swept away by passion in Kirk’s arms.
    But Damian’s kiss had done that. It had filled her with fire, and with a longing so hot and sweet it had threatened to destroy her.
    The tools Laurel was holding fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered on the tile floor.
    â€œYou okay?” George said, glancing over at her.
    â€œSure,” she said quickly, and she bent down and scooped up the tools.
    Damian Skouras was not for her. He was nothing but an updated copy of Kirk, right down to the sexy blonde pouting in the background at the wedding.
    â€œGimme the screwdriver, Laurel,” George said. “No, not the Phillips head. The other one.”
    Had the man really thought she wouldn’t notice the blonde? Or didn’t he think it mattered?
    â€œEgotistical bastard,” she muttered, slapping the screwdriver into George’s outstretched hand.
    â€œHey, what’d I do?”
    Laurel blinked. George was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind.
    â€œOh,” she said, and flushed bright pink. “George, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you.”
    He gave her the boyish grin that kept American women glued to their TV sets from two to three every weekday afternoon.
    â€œGlad to hear it. From the look on your face, I’d bate to be whoever it is you’re thinking about”
    She’d never been able to bring herself to tell Annie the truth of her breakup with Kirk, not because Annie might have said, “I told you so,” but because the pain had been too sharp.
    â€œYou were right” was all she’d told her sister, “Kirk wasn’t for me.”
    Maybe I should have told her, Laurel thought grimly. Maybe, if I had, Annie and Dawn and everybody else at that wedding would have known Damian Skouras for the belly-to-the-ground snake he was.
    â€œGot it,” George said in triumph. He handed her the