Font Size:  

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.

“What 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...

“You 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.

“You okay?” George said, glancing over at her.

“Sure,” 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.

“Gimme 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?

“Egotistical bastard,” she muttered, slapping the screwdriver into George’s outstretched hand.

“Hey, what’d I do?”

Laurel blinked. George was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“Oh,” 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.

“Glad 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.

“You 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.

“Got it,” George said in triumph. He handed her the screwdriver and flipped the selector lever up and down. “Just you watch. Soon as I get out of the tub and turn this baby on—”

“Just be careful,” Laurel said. “Watch out for that puddle of water in the...”

Too late. George yelped, lost his footing and made a grab for the first thing that was handy. It was the on-off knob. Water came pouring out of the shower head.

“Damn,” he shouted, and leaped back, but it was too late. He was soaked, and so was Laurel. Half the icy spray had shot in her direction. Sputtering, George pushed the knob back in, shut off the water and flung his dripping hair back from his eyes. He looked down at himself, then eyed Laurel. “Well.” he said wryly, “at least we know it works.”

Laurel burst out laughing.

“Susie’s going to think I tried to drown you,” she said, tossing him a towel and dabbing at herself with another.

George yanked his soaked sweatshirt over his head and stepped out of the tub. His sneakers squished as he walked across the tile floor of the old-fashioned bathroom.

“I guess you’ll have to phone old man Grissom,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Tell him that valve’s just about shot and he’d better send a plumber around to take a look.”

“First thing in the morning,” Laurel said, nodding. She mopped her face and hair, then hung the towel over the rack. “I’m just sorry you got drenched.”

“No problem. Glad to help out.” George draped his arm loosely around Laurel’s shoulders. Together, they sauntered down the hall toward the front door. “As for the soaking—I was planning on entering a wet jeans contest anyway.”

Laurel grinned, leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms.

“Uh-huh.”

“Hey, they have wet T-shirt contests for women, right?” he said impishly as he reached for the doorknob. “Well, why not wet jeans contests for guys?” Grinning, he opened the door. “Anyhow, you know what they used to say. Save water, shower with a friend.”

“Indeed,” a voice said coldly.

Damian Skouras was standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark suit and a white shirt; his tie was a deep scarlet silk, and his face was twisted in a scowl.

Laurel’s throat constricted. She’d been kidding herself. The man wasn’t a copy of anybody, not when it came to looks. Kirk had been handsome but the only word that described Damian was the one she’d come up with this morning.

He was gorgeous.

He was also uninvited. And unwelcome. Definitely unwelcome, she reminded herself, and she stepped away from the wall, drew herself up to her full height and matched his scowl with one of her own.

“What,” she asked coldly, “are you doing here?” Damian ignored the question. He was too busy trying to figure out what in hell was going on.

What do you think is going on you idiot? he asked himself, and his frown deepened.

Laurel was wearing a soaked T-shirt that clung to her like a second skin. Beneath it, her rounded breasts and nipples stood out in exciting relief. She had on a pair of faded denim shorts, her feet were bare, her hair was wet and her

face was shiny and free of makeup.

She was more beautiful than ever.

“Laurel? You know this guy?”

Damian turned his head and looked at the man standing beside her. Actually he wasn’t standing beside her anymore. He’d moved slightly in front of her, in a defensive posture that made it clear he was ready to protect Laurel at all costs. Damian’s lip curled. What would a woman see in a man like this? He was good-looking; women would think so, anyway, though he had too pretty a face for all the muscles that rippled in his bare chest and shoulders. Damian’s gaze swept down the man’s body. His jeans were tight and wet, and cupped him with revealing intimacy.

What the hell had been going on here? Laurel and the

Bozo looked as if they’d just come in out of the rain.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t rained in days.

He thought of what the guy had said about showering with a friend. It was, he knew, a joke. Besides, people didn’t shower with their clothing on. Logic told him that, the same as it told him that they didn’t climb out of bed wet from head to toe, but what the hell did logic have to do with anything?

Coming here, unannounced, had seemed such a clever idea. Catch her by surprise, have the limousine waiting downstairs with a chilled bottle of champagne in the builtin bar, long-stemmed roses in a crystal vase and reservations at that restaurant that had just opened with the incredible view of the city.

It hadn’t occurred to him that just because the telephone directory listed an L. Bennett at this address was no guarantee that she lived alone.

“Laurel?”

The Bozo was talking to Laurel again but he hadn’t taken his eyes off him.

“What’s the deal? Do you know this guy?”

“Of course she knows me,” Damian snapped.

“Is that right, Laurel?”

She nodded with obvious reluctance. “I know him. But I didn’t invite him here.”

The Bozo folded his arms over his chest. “She knows you,” he said to Damian, “but she didn’t invite you here.”

“I don’t know how to break this to you, mister...?”

“Morgan,” George said. “Grey Morgan.”

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
Articles you may like