Sandra Marton - The Bride Said Never!

there was silence.

“Why must you make this so difficult?” Damian said softly.

“I’m not the one making this difficult,” Laurel said coldly. She looked down at her wrist, still encircled by his hand, and then at him. “Let go of me, please.”

Damian’s gaze followed hers. Hell, he thought, what was he doing? This wasn’t his style at all. When you came down to it, nothing he’d done since he’d laid eyes on this woman was in character. The way he’d gone after her yesterday, like a bull in rut. And what he’d done moments ago, challenging that photographer like a street corner punk when the man had only been coming to Laurel’s rescue. All he’d been able to think, watching the man’s face, was, Go on, take your best shot at me, so I can beat you to a pulp.

And that was crazy. He wasn’t a man who settled things with his fists. Not anymore; not in the years since he’d worked his way up from summer jobs on the Brooklyn docks to a Park Avenue penthouse.

He wasn’t a man who went after a woman with such single-minded determination, either. Why would he, when there were always more women than he could possibly want, ready and waiting to be singled out for his attention?

That was it. That was what was keeping his interest in the Bennett woman. She was uninterested, or playing at being uninterested, though he didn’t believe it, not after the way she’d kissed him yesterday. Either way, the cure was the same. Bed her, then forget her. Satisfy this most primitive of urges and she’d be out of his system, once and for all.

But dammit, man, be civilized about it.

Damian let go of her wrist, took a breath and began again.

“Miss Bennett. Laurel. I know we got off to a poor start—”

“You’re wrong. We didn’t get off to any start. You’re playing cat-and-mouse games but as far as I’m concerned, we never even met.”

“Well, we can remedy that. Have dinner with me this evening.”

“I’m busy.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

“Still busy. And, before you ask, I’m busy for the foreseeable future.”

He laughed, and her eyes flashed with indignation.

“Did I say something funny, Mr. Skouras?”

“It’s Damian. And I was only wondering which of us is pretending what?”

“Which of us...” Color flew into her face. “My God, what an insufferable ego you must have! Do you think this is a game? That I’m playing hard to get?”

He leaned back against the edge of the photographer’s worktable, his jacket open and his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers.

“The thought crossed my mind, yes.”

“Listen here, Mr. Skouras...”

“Damian.”

“Mr. Skouras.” Laurel’s eyes narrowed. “Let me put this in words so simple even you’ll understand. One, I do not like you. Two, I do not like you. And three, I am not interested in lunch. Or dinner. Or anything else.”

“Too many men already on the string?”

God, she itched to slap that smug little smile from his face!

“Yes,” she said, “exactly. I’ve got them lined up for mornings, afternoons and evenings, and there’re even a couple of special ones I manage to tuck in at teatime. So as you can see, I’ve no time at all for you in my schedule.”

He was laughing openly now, amusement glinting in his eyes, and it was driving her over the edge. She would slug him, any second, or punch him in the very center of that oh-so-masculine chest...

Or throw her arms around his neck, drag his head down to hers and kiss him until he swung her into his arms and carried her off into the shadows that rimmed the lighted set...

“Laurel?” Damian said, and their eyes met.

He knew. She could see it in the way he was looking at her. He’d stopped laughing and he knew what she’d thought, what she’d almost done.

“No,” she said, and she swung away blindly. She heard him call her name but she didn’t turn back, didn’t pause.

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