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Their eyes met again. She swallowed dryly, then got to her knees. Slowly she hooked a finger under one shoulder strap and slid it off. She slid off the second. There were three satin ties on the teddy, just between her breasts, and she reached for them.

Damian’s breathing quickened, but his eyes never left hers.

“One,” she said softly. “Two. Three...”

With a throaty growl, he tumbled her to the carpet. And then, for a long, long time, the only sounds in the room were the sighs and whispers of love.

* * *

He refused to believe that she could cook.

They discussed it, one afternoon, as Laurel sat in a field of daisies with Damian’s head in her lap.

She reminded him, indignantly, of the bread he’d found rising in her kitchen. He reminded her, not very gallantly, that it had resembled a science experiment gone bad.

Laurel plucked a handful of daisies and scattered them over his chest.

“I’ll have you know that I make the most terrific sourdough bread in the world.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you mean, ‘uh huh’? I do. Ask George. He loves my bread.”

“George,” Damian scoffed. “The man’s besotted. He’d say it was great even if it tasted like wet cardboard.”

Laurel dumped more daisies over him. “He is not besotted with anyone but his own wife.”

Damian sat up, reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers. There was something he had to tell her, something he should have told her sooner. It meant nothing to him, but she had the right to know.

“It’s good, for a man to be besotted with his wife,” he said softly.

She smiled and brushed a daisy petal from his hair.

“Is it?”

“Did I ever tell you,” he asked, catching her hand and raising it to his mouth, “that I was married before?”

Laurel’s teasing smile vanished. “No. No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I was. For a grand total of three weeks.”

“What happened?” She tried another smile and hoped this one worked. “Don’t tell me. The lady served you a slice of wet cardboard, called it sourdough bread and you sent her packing.”

“Nothing so simple. It turned out we had nothing in common. She wanted my name and my money, and I...”

“And you? What did you want?”

“Out,” he said, with a little laugh, “almost from the beginning. The marriage was a complete mistake. I think we both knew it.”

“Why did you marry her, then?” A chill crept into Laurel’s heart, and she gave him a stiff smile. “Was she pregnant, too?”

She regretted the ugly words as soon as she’d said them, but it was too late to call them back. Damian sat up, his face cold and hard.

“No. She was not pregnant. Had she been, I can assure you, I would still be married to her.”

“Because it would have been your duty.” Laurel stood up and dusted the grass from her shorts. “Of course,” she said, and started briskly toward the house, “I almost forgot how noble you are, Damian. Sorry.”

“Theé mou!” Angrily he clasped her shoulders and spun her around. “What is the matter with you, Laurel? Are you angry with me for having divorced a woman I did not love? Or for admitting that I would have done the right thing by her, if I’d had to?”

“I’m not angry with you at all.” Her smile was brittle. “I’m just—you can’t blame me for being curious. Damian. After all, I only just found out you have an ex-wife.”

“I told you, the relationship was meaningless. We met, we thought we were in love, we got married. By the time we realized what we’d done, it was too late.”

“Yes, well, that’s what happens, when a person marries impetuously.”

“Dammit, don’t give me that look!”

“What look? It’s the only one I’ve got—but how would you know that?”

“Don’t be a little fool!” Damian glared at her, his face dark with anger. “There is no comparison between this marriage and the other. I married you because—because...”

“Because I was pregnant.”

“Yes. No. I mean...” What did he mean? Of course he’d married her because she was pregnant; why deny it? What other reason could possibly have made him ask Laurel to be his wife?

“You needn’t explain.” Laurel’s voice was frosty, a perfect match to her smile. “We both know what an honorable man you are. You married me for the sake of our child, and you’ll stay married to me for the same reason. Isn’t that right?”

Damian’s jaw knotted. “You’re damned right,” he growled. “I’m going to stay married to you, and you to me, until as the man said, ‘Death do us part.”’

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her just as he had the day he’d announced he was going to make her his wife. For the first time since they’d made love in the tower overlooking the sea, Laurel didn’t respond. She felt nothing, not desire, not even anger.

“You are my wife,” Damian said. Stone-faced, he held her at arm’s length and looked down into her face. “And nothing more needs to be said about it.”

Laurel wrenched free of his grasp. “How could I possibly forget that, when you’ll always be there to remind me?”

She swung away and strode up the hill, toward the house. Damian’s hands knotted at his sides. Dammit, what was wrong with her? He thought they’d gotten past this, that Laurel had made peace with the circumstances of their marriage, but it was clear that she hadn’t.

Had she been pretending, all those times they’d made love? Had she lain in his arms, touching him, kissing him, and wishing all the while that he’d never forced her into becoming his wife? Because he had. Hell, there was no denying it. He’d given her about as much choice in the matter as the rocks below gave to the ships they’d claimed, over the centuries.

His mouth twisted. So what? They were man and wife. She had to accept that. As for this afternoon’s pointless quarrel...she’d get over it when he took her to bed, tonight.

He took a deep breath, stuck his hands into his pockets and stood staring out to sea.

She hadn’t been pretending, when they made love. He would have known if those sweet sighs, those exciting whispers, had been false.

Of course, he would... Wouldn’t he?

* * *

Laurel sat at the dressing table in the bedroom where she’d spent her first night as Mrs. Damian Skouras, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

She hadn’t been back in this room since then. Every night—and a lot of long, wonderful mornings and afternoons—had been spent in Damian’s bed.

Her hand trembled as she picked up a silver-backed brush and ran it over her hair.

What had gotten into her today? Damian had been married before. Well, so what? She’d had a relationship before, too, and even if Kirk hadn’t treated it as a marriage, she had. She’d been faithful, and loving, and when she’d found out that he’d deceived her, her heart couldn’t have been more broken than if she had been Mrs. Kirk Soames. She’d loved Kirk every bit as much as if—as if—

A choked cry burst from her lips and she dropped the brush and buried her face in her hands.

It wasn’t true. She’d never really loved Kirk, she knew that now. What she felt for Damian made her feelings for Kirk seem insignificant.

And that was what this afternoon’s performance had been all about, wasn’t it?

“Wasn’t it?” she whispered, lifting her head and staring at her pale face and tear-swollen eyes in the mirror.

Damian had told her he’d been married before, that it had been an impetuous marriage and hadn’t worked out, and all she’d been able to think was that he’d married her the same way, impetuously, because it had been the right thing to do.

How she’d longed for him to deny it!

I married you because I love you, she’d wanted him to say, because I’ll always love you.

But he hadn’t. He’d married her because

he wanted his child to have a father, and even though part of her knew how right, how decent, that was, another part of her longed to hear him say he’d married her for love.

She picked up the hairbrush again and stared at her reflection.

But he hadn’t. She was Damian’s wife, but not his love. She had his name, and his interest in bed, but if she made many more scenes like the one she’d made today, she probably wouldn’t even have that, and never mind the Until death do us part promise. Her mouth turned down with bitterness. She knew all about men like Damian, and promises of fidelity. Oh, yes, she knew all about—

“Laurel?”

Her gaze flew to the mirror just as the bedroom door opened. Damian stood in the doorway, wearing a terry cloth robe. She knew from the experience of the past week that he had nothing on beneath it. His hair was tousled, his eyes were dark and she wanted nothing so much as to jump up and hurl herself into his arms.

Pride and pain kept her rooted in place.

“Yes, Damian,” she said. She smiled politely, put down the brush and turned around.

“Are you feeling better?”

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