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He put down his drink, stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the bathroom. His plane was waiting at the airport. Just another few hours, and he’d be home.
He showered quickly. There wasn’t a minute to waste. The sooner he left here, the sooner he’d be in Laurel’s arms.
But there was one stop to make first.
He knotted a bath sheet around his waist, ran his fingers carelessly through his damp hair and retrieved his drink from the bedroom.
He was going to go to Tiffany’s. He’d never given his wife an engagement ring. Well he was going to remedy that failing right away. What would suit her best? Diamonds and emeralds? Diamonds and sapphires? Hell, maybe he’d solve the problem by buying her a whole bucketful of rings.
He grinned as he headed down the stairs. Another drink—ginger ale, because he wanted a clear head for this—and then he’d phone Tiffany’s, see if they were open. If they weren’t...what was the name of that guy he’d met last year? He was a Tiffany Veep, or maybe he was with Cartier or Harry Winston. Damian laughed out loud as he set his glass down on the bar. It didn’t matter. Laurel wouldn’t care where the ring was from, she wouldn’t give a damn if it came from Sear’s, not if she loved him, and he was closer and closer to being damned sure that she—
What was that?
Damian frowned. He could hear the soft hum of the elevator, see the lighted panel blinking as the car rose.
What the hell? He certainly wasn’t expecting anyone, and the doorman would not send someone up with out...
Unless it was Laurel.
His heart thudded.
That was impossible. She was on Actos. Or was she? Spiro hadn’t approved of his hasty departure. In the old days, the old man had never hesitated to do what he thought best, even if it meant overriding Damian’s wishes. Of course, a lot of years had gone by since then.
On the other hand, Spiro could still be stubborn. If he thought it wise to take matters into his own hands...
The elevator stopped, and Damian held his breath. The doors opened—and Gabriella stepped out of the car.
“Surprise,” she said in a smoky contralto.
The sight of her, draped in hot pink that left nothing to the imagination and with a crimson smile painted on her lips, twisted his gut with such savage rage that it left him mute for long seconds. Then he drew a deep, painful breath and managed to find his voice.
“I’m not going to bother asking how you talked your way past the doorman,” he said carefully. “I’m just going to tell you to turn around, get back into that elevator and get the hell out.”
“Damian, darling, what sort of greeting is that?” Gabriella smiled and strolled past him, to the bar. “What are you drinking, hmm? Vodka rocks, it looks like. Well, I’ll just have a tiny one, to keep you company.”
“Did you hear me? Get out.”
“Now, darling, let’s not be hasty.” She lifted her glass, took a sip, then put it down. “I know you were upset this morning, but it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have tried to convince you to come back to me the way I did.”
“Convince me to...?” Damian put his fists on his hips. “Let’s not play games, okay? What you tried was blackmail, and it didn’t work. Now, do us both a favor and get out of here before it gets nasty.”
Gabriella licked her lips. “Damian,” she purred, “look, I understand. You married this woman. Well, you had no choice, did you? I mean, the word is out, darling, that your little Laurel got herself pregnant.”
He came toward her so quickly that she stumbled backward. “I’ll give you to the count of five,” he snarled, “and then I’m going to take you by the scruff of your neck and toss you out the door. One. Two. Three...”
“Dammit,” she said shrilly, “you cannot treat me like this! You made promises.”
“You’re a liar,” he said flatly. “The only promise you’ve ever heard from me is this one. Go through that door on your own, or so help me...”
“Don’t be a fool, Damian. You’ll tire of her soon enough.” Gabriella’s hand went to the sash at her waist and pulled it. The hot pink silk fell open, revealing her naked body. “You’ll want this. You’ll want me.”
Later, Damian would wonder why he hadn’t heard the elevator as it made its return trip but then, how could he have heard anything, with each thud of his heart beating such dark fury through his blood?
“Cover yourself,” he said, with disgust—and then he heard the sound of the elevator doors opening.
He saw Gabriella’s quick, delighted smile and somehow, he knew, God, he knew...
He spun around and there was Laurel, standing in the open doors of the elevator.
“Laurel,” he said, and when he started toward her, she threw up her hands and the look in her face went from shock to bone-deep pain.
“No,” she whispered, and before he could reach her, she stabbed the button and the doors closed in his face.
And Damian knew, in that instant, that his last chance, his only chance, at love and happiness was gone from his life, forever.
CHAPTER TWELVE
RAIN POUNDED at the windows; late summer lightning split the low, gray sky as thunder rolled across the city.
Inside Laurel’s kitchen, three women sat around the table. Two of them—Susie and Annie—were trying to look anywhere but at each other; the third—Laurel—was too busy glaring at her cup of decaf to notice.
“I hate decaffeinated coffee,” Laurel said. “What is the point of drinking coffee if you’re going to take out all the caffeine?”
Susie’s gaze connected with Annie’s. “Here we go again,” her eyes said.
“It’s better for you,” she said mildly. “With the baby and all.”
“I know that. For heaven’s sakes, I’m the one who decided to give up coffee, aren’t I? It’s just that it’s stupid to drink stuff that smells like coffee, looks like coffee, but tastes like—”
“Okay,” Annie said, getting to her feet. She smiled brightly, whisked the coffee out from under Laurel’s nose and dumped it into the sink. “Let’s see...” She opened the cabinet and peered inside. “You’ve got a choice of herbal tea, cocoa, regular tea—”
“Regular tea’s got as much caffeine as coffee. A big help you are, Annie.”
Annie’s brows shot skyward. “Right,” she said briskly. She shut the cabinet and opened the refrigerator. “How about a nice glass of milk?”
“Yuck.”
“Well, then, there’s ginger ale. Orange juice.” Her voice grew muffled as she leaned into the fridge. “There’s even a little jar of something that might be tomato juice.”
“It isn’t.”
“V8?”
“No.”
“Well, then, maybe it’s spaghetti sauce.”
“I don’t remember the last time 1 had pasta.”
Annie frowned and plucked the jar from the shelf. “It’s
not a good idea to keep chemistry experiments in the—”
Laurel shot to her feet. “Why did you say that?”
“Say what?” Annie and Susie exchanged another look. “Laurel, honey, if you’d just—”
“Just because a person finds something strange in another person’s kitchen is no reason to say it looks like a—it looks like a...” Laurel took a deep breath. “Sorry,” she said brightly. She looked from her big sister to her best friend. “Well,” she said, in that same phony voice, “I know the two of you have things to do, so—”
“Not me,” Susie said quickly. “George is downstairs, glued to the TV. I’m free as a bird.”
“Not me, either,” Annie said. “You know how it is. My life is dull, dull, dull.”
“Dull? With your ex hovering in the background?” Laurel eyed her sister. “What’s that all about, anyway? You’re not seriously thinking of going down that road again, are you?”
For one wild minute, Annie considered telling Laurel the whole story...but Laurel’s life was complicated enough. The last thing she needed was to hear someone else’s troubles.
“Of course not,” she said, with a quick smile. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“Good question.” Laurel shoved back her chair, rose from the table and stalked to the sink. “If there’s one truth in this world,” she said, as she turned on the water, “it’s that men stink. Oh, not George, Suze. I mean, he’s not a man...”
Susie laughed.
“Come on, you know what I’m saying. George is so sweet. He’s one in a million.”
“I agree,” Susie said. She sighed. “And I’d have bet my life your husband was, too.”
Laurel swung around, eyes flashing. “I told you, I do not wish to discuss Damian Skouras.”
“Well. I know, but you said—”
“Besides, he is not my husband!”
“Well, no, he won’t be, after the divorce comes through, but—”
“To hell with that! A man who—who forces a woman into marriage isn’t a husband, he’s a—a—”
“A no-good, miserable, super-macho stinking son of a bitch, that’s what he is!” Annie glared at her sister, as if defying her to disagree. “And don’t you tell me you don’t want to talk about it, Laurel, because Susie and I have both had just about enough of this nonsense.”
