Free The Greek's Unwilling Bride by Sandra Marton

approval, naturally.”
    â€œNaturally,” Susie echoed.
    â€œImagine my surprise when we bumped into each other at my ward’s wedding yesterday.” His smile glittered. “In the flesh, as it were. We had a delightful few hours. Didn’t we, Laurel? And we agreed to have dinner together tonight. To discuss business, of course.”
    Susie’s eyes widened. She looked at Laurel, who was watching Damian as if she wished a hole in the ground would open under his feet.
    â€œOf course,” Susie said, chuckling.
    â€œAt The Gotham Penthouse.”
    â€œThe Gotham Penthouse! I just read a review of it in—”
    â€œManhattan Magazine?” Laurel said, through her teeth.
    Susie nodded. “Uh-huh. It’s supposed to be scrumptious!”
    Damian smiled. “So I hear. Perhaps you and—is it George?”
    â€œYeah,” George said. God, Laurel thought with disgust, it was a good thing there was no dirt on the floor or he’d have been scuffing his toes in it. “It is. Grey’s my stage name. My agent figured it sounded better.”
    â€œSexier,” Susie said, and smiled up at her husband.
    â€œWell, perhaps you and your wife would like to join us?”
    â€œNo,” Laurel said sharply. Everyone looked at her. “I mean—I mean, of course, that would be lovely, but it isn’t as if—”
    â€œYou don’t have to explain.” Susie looped her arm through her husband’s. “It’s a very romantic place, The Penthouse. Well, that’s what the reviewer said, anyway.”
    Her smile was warm. It encompassed both Damian and Laurel as if they were a package deal. Laurel wanted to grab Susie and shake her until her teeth rattled. Or slug Damian Skouras in the jaw. Or maybe do both.
    â€œYou guys don’t need an old married couple like us around.”
    â€œSusie,” Laurel said grimly, “you really do not understand.”
    â€œOh, I do.” Susie grinned. “It’s business. Right, Damian?”
    Could a snake really smile? This one could.
    â€œPrecisely right,” Damian said.
    â€œIt would be lovely to get together for dinner some other time, though. At our place, maybe. I do a mean Beef Stroganoff—which reminds me, George, if we don’t get moving, everything will be burned to a crisp.”
    George’s face suddenly took on a look of uncertainty. “Laurel? You’re okay with this?”
    A muscle worked in Laurel’s jaw. At least somebody was still capable of thinking straight, but why drag innocent bystanders into the line of fire? This was a private war, between her and Damian.
    â€œIt’s fine,” she said. “And thanks for fixing the shower.”
    â€œHey, anytime.” George held out his hand, and Damian took it. “Nice to have met you.”
    â€œThe same here,” Damian said politely.
    Susie leaned toward Laurel behind her husband’s broad back.
    â€œYou never said a word,” she announced in a stage whisper that could have been heard two floors below. “Laurel, honey, this guy is gorgeoust”
    This guy’s a rat, Laurel thought, but she bit her tongue and said nothing.
    * * *
    Susie had been right. The restaurant was a winner.
    It had low lighting, carefully spaced tables and a magnificent view. The service was wonderful, the wine list impressive and the food looked delicious.
    Laurel had yet to take a bite.
    When she’d ignored the menu, Damian had simply ordered for them both. Beluga caviar, green salads, roast duck glazed with Montmorency cherries and brandy and, for a grand finale, a chocolate soufflé garnished with whipped cream that looked as light as air.
    Neither the waiter nor Damian seemed to notice her hunger strike. The one served each course, then cleared it away; the other ate, commented favorably on the meal, and kept up a light, pleasant conversation in which she refused to