The Greek's Unwilling Bride by Sandra Marton Page A

knew that he’d sooner face the fires of hell than start pretending to be a gentleman tonight.
    * * *
    He lived in an apartment on Park Avenue.
    It was a penthouse duplex, reached by a private elevator that opened onto a dimly lighted foyer that rose two stories into darkness. If he had servants, they were not visible.
    The elevator doors slid shut, and they were alone.
    Shadows, black-velvet soft and deep, wrapped around them. The night was so still that Laurel could hear the pounding beat of her heart.
    There was still time. She could say, “This was a mistake,” and demand to be taken home. Damian wouldn’t like it, but what did that matter? She was neither a fool nor a tramp, and surely only a woman who was one or both would be on her way to bed with a man she’d met little more than twenty-four hours ago.
    Damian’s hands closed on her shoulders. He turned her toward him, and what she saw mirrored in his eyes drove every logical thought from her mind.
    â€œLaurel,” he said, and she went into his arms.
    He kissed her hard, lifting her against him, his hands cupping her bottom so that she was pressed against his erection. His mouth teased hers open. He bit down on her bottom lip, then soothed the tiny wound with his tongue, until she was trembling and clutching his jacket for support.
    â€œSay it now,” he said in a savage whisper. “Tell me what you want.”
    The answer was in her eyes, but she gave it voice.
    â€œYou,” she said in a broken whisper, “you, you—”
    Damian’s mouth dropped to hers. Heart surging with triumph, he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs, into the darkness.
    * * *
    His bedroom was huge. The bed, bathed in ivory moonlight, faced onto a wall of glass below which the city glittered in the night like a castle from a fairy tale.
    Slowly Damian lowered Laurel to her feet. For a long moment, he didn’t touch her. Then he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek. Laurel closed her eyes and leaned into his caress.
    Gently he ran his hand over her hair.
    â€œTake it down,” he said softly.
    Her eyes flew open. She couldn’t see his face clearly—he was standing in shadow—but there was an intensity in the way he held himself.
    â€œMy hair?” she whispered.
    â€œYes.” He reached out and touched the silky curls that lay against her neck. “Take it down for me.”
    Laurel raised her hands to the back of her head. Her hair had already started coming loose of the tortoiseshell pins she’d used to put it up. Now, she removed the pins slowly, wishing she could see his face as she did. But he was still standing in shadow, and he didn’t step forward until her hair tumbled around her shoulders.
    â€œBeautiful,” he whispered.
    He caught a fistful of the shining auburn locks and brought them to his lips. Her hair felt like silk against his mouth and its fragrance reminded him of a garden after a gentle spring rain.
    He let her hair drift from his fingers.
    â€œNow your earrings,” he said softly.
    Her hands went to the tiny crystal beads that swayed on slender gold wires from her earlobes. He could see confusion in her eyes and he knew she’d expected something different, a quicker leap into the flames, but if that was what she wanted, he wouldn’t, hell, he couldn’t , oblige. His control was stretched almost to the breaking point. He couldn’t touch her now; if he did, it would all be over before it began, and he didn’t want that.
    Nothing would be rushed. Not with her. Not tonight.
    One earring, then the other, dropped into her palm. Damian held out his hand, and she gave them to him. Her hands went to the silver buttons on her silk jacket, and he nodded. Seconds later, the jacket fell to the floor.
    He reached out and caught her wrists.
    â€œNothing more,” he whispered, and brushed his mouth over hers. “I want to do all the