by Ann Cristy
"How?"
Damon didn't pretend not to know what she was asking. "How did I get your ring size?" He smiled. "I enlisted Lona's help. I asked her to watch and see if you ever left your school ring on your dresser." He shrugged. "You did. I measured it, and Lona returned it for me."
"Sneaky, aren't you?" Zen held up her hand to the light.
"With you I have to be." He growled into her hair. "Do I get a thank you kiss?"
She hesitated. "I suppose so." She glanced up as his mouth descended to hers, raising her index finger between them. "But I can't sleep with—"
Damon bit her finger. "For God's sake, woman, don't tell me again that you aren't sleeping with me. I don't like hearing it." His mouth took hers with heart-melting tenderness, his tongue a gentle probe between her lips. "I do love to kiss you," he muttered against her mouth. She was lost to him.
"I like it, too," Zen murmured, letting her body mold itself to his.
"Lord, Zen, don't do that. I'll be in the shower all night."
She laughed. She felt as light as a balloon and as powerful as an Amazon. Her skin tingled. She was going to marry him, the man she had loved since she was twenty years old! It was too good to be true.
Yes, far too good to be real, a cynical side of herself argued. Dreams didn't come true. They died slowly, a lingering death.
Whatever Damon felt for her—and she doubted it was love—was bound to change, probably sooner rather than later.
Damon groaned and stepped away from her, not hiding his arousal. "Zen, I'm not used to this—and I damn well don't like it. Good night!" He pivoted on his heel and left the room.
Zen had felt as if she were floating on a pink cloud, but now she landed with a bump. "Do you mean you're not used to denying yourself sex?" she demanded of the closed door. "How dare you be unfaithful to me!" Her anger grew threefold as she imagined him chuckling with a blond... no, a redhead... no, a stately brunette. "I'll cut him out of my heart before he cuts me out of his life," she decided.
All at once a wave of fatigue assailed her. It had been an exhausting and emotionally draining day.
She washed her face and climbed into bed, cradling her cheek in her left hand and falling almost immediately into the black well of sleep.
The next day Sophie and Thag took the boys with them to the courthouse and obtained a marriage license. They returned to announce that they would marry a few days later. Zen shared their joy. Sophie's obvious happiness made her see her future mother-in-law in a new light.
The wedding was simple and small, attended only by David, Daniel, Zen, and Damon. When they returned to the house, they enjoyed a special dinner prepared by Maria and served by Lona and Yanos, who were all encouraged to join the toast with vintage champagne.
"Are we drinking champagne, Aunt Zeno?" Daniel quizzed, watching the bubbles in his glass.
"No, dear, you're drinking sparkling grape juice. Do you like it?"
He nodded and edged next to her on the settee. He leaned his head on her arm.
Concerned, Zen raised his chin in her hand and studied his face. "What is it, dear? Aren't you feeling well?"
"Yes... I mean I'm fine." Daniel's voice faltered.
"Tell me. What's wrong?"
His lip quavered before he bit down on it. "Aunt Dalia said... she said that you and Nonna won't want me and David when you get married." Daniel's eyes filled with tears.
"My own boy," Zen cried, enfolding him close to her, her face pressed against his head.
"What is it? What's wrong?" David climbed up on Zen's lap, wanting to be hugged, too.
"My babies..." Zen was so full of feeling that she couldn't say anything else.
The three of them sat locked in a tight embrace for long, emotion-filled moments.
Damon glanced at them from where he stood with Maria, Yanos, and Lona and strode immediately over to them. He sank to his knees in front of them. "All right, what's going on here?" he demanded.
"Your aunt Dalia told Daniel that your mother and I wouldn't want the boys after we were married." Zen reached for a tissue to dry her eyes.
"Such big tears on your cheek, love. Ummm, salty too," Damon crooned. Then he turned to the boys and held their gazes with his own. "Nonna and Thag will be going on a trip soon," he explained, "but they will be back before Zen and I get married. When we go away for our trip, they will stay here with you. When we come back, all of us—David, Daniel, Aunt Zeno, and I—will be going on a trip together. Then the four of us will come back here to live. We're a family now. We'll be together."
"Then Aunt Dalia was wrong?" David asked, sighing.
Damon nodded. "Aunt Dalia was very wrong."
Both boys smiled, then slid from Zen's lap and ran to their grandmother and their new grandfather, talking at full speed. The indulgent adults hovered over them.
"And you," Damon continued, still kneeling in front of Zen, "must stop jumping to conclusions. Come to me if something is wrong. We'll settle it together." He rose, pulling her up with him. "We'll be married in one week— in nine days, to be exact, and then all your ghosts will go away."
Amazed, Zen looked up at him. He could see into her heart of hearts. He had opened the door that no one had ever opened, the door that concealed her most private fears. He seemed able to recognize and fulfill her needs before she recognized them herself.
While Sophie and Thag went on their short wedding trip, Zen was thrust into prewedding chaos. She had expected to shop for a dress; she had not expected a phone call from a designer named Charine, who informed her that her showroom was located on Madison near
Sixtieth Street
and to ask if Thursday morning would be suitable for the first fittings.
"Fittings?" Zen repeated, waving frantically at Damon, who had entered the room. She held her hand over the phone and explained who was at the other end.
He nodded and took the phone from her. "Charine? Damon Aristides. Yes, fine... Right. I'll bring her in myself. Yes." He replaced the receiver. "I have to get some work done anyway. I'll leave you at the showroom. Then when you're ready you can come to the office. I'll send my driver to pick you up."
"You will?" Zen was amazed. "But you'll be busy." "Yes. I generally am... and lately I've taken off more time than ever before. But I have a very efficient staff." Damon shrugged and kissed her open mouth. "Don't look so surprised, love. The boss should be able to play hooky now and then."
"Yes," she agreed, bemused.
Damon frowned. "Perhaps you would prefer another designer. I should have remembered your own designing talents. Would you rather design you own dress, love?"
Zen considered for a moment and shook her head. "I'll probably have a few ideas of my own, but I know and admire Charine's work."
"Good." Damon kissed her again. "I just came in to say good-bye. I have a meeting at eleven."
Thursday was a drizzly day with a bite to the misty wind. Zen was content to cuddle close to Damon during the ride into Manhattan, glad that they were being chauffeured.
Damon dropped her at the designer's, after explaining that he wouldn't come in with her. He had piles of work to go through.
Charine was a small, birdlike woman with coal black hair that she wore twisted into a chignon. From her Italian leather shoes to the diamond studs in her ears she gave off an aura of French chic.
To Zen's surprise, the first order of the day was to provide her with nightwear.
"This was Madame Aristides' idea," Charine explained, smiling. "She informed me that you are to have silk in golds and greens that complement your coloring." Charine studied Zen as she stood before her in bra and briefs. "Madame was right- Those colors are good for you." She snapped her fingers, and an iridescent garment was placed in her hands, a pale gold silk kaftan that fell full from the shoulders. The front closed with two tiny hooks.
Zen tried it on, and a tiny smile appeared on Charine's face.
"Ah, good," She turned Zen in front of the three-way mirror in th
e large fitting room. "See for yourself."
Zen's eyes widened at the sight of the transparent fabric, which rippled on her form like a silken waterfall. "It's beautiful."
"Your husband will lose his mind," Charine predicted, fully satisfied.
Zen lost track of the garments she put on. Her head was filled with silks, woolens, and linens.
Finally Charine brought her the wedding dress. Zen took one look at the ruffles and balked. "No. I look better in tailored clothes," she said. Nothing would dissuade her. "It has too many ruffles for me."
Charine sighed and tapped one finger on her chin, then snapped her fingers. "Bring the special one—the cream satin," she told the assistant.
The pale cream satin had thin straps and no other decoration. The bust line was defined by stitching, but the dress fell to a demi-train that was plain and unadorned.
When Zen put it on, the designer and her assistants inhaled sharply. "You look like a miniature Venus. Though you are tiny of stature, mademoiselle, you have poise. And you are right about the dress. I will add sleeves—long and tight to the wrist," Charine mused. "And the neckline shall be square with the shoulders barely covered and the back falling to a deep V. It shall be stark—your hair, the gold-red color, and pink pearls in the ears shall be your only adornment. Five white flowers will tie back your hair so that it cascades down you back like a veil." Charine's eyes snapped in creative fervor. "You will be a goddess."
"I'll settle for making it down the aisle without falling," Zen said, smiling weakly as Charine buzzed around her like a queen bee, tucking, nipping, straightening, grumbling to herself,
"What? What did you say? Oh... ha, the American joke. How droll."
Not all of Zen's protestations that she really wasn't a clothes horse, despite her work in fashion, convinced Charine that she didn't need all the clothes and lingerie that an assistant jotted down in a loose-leaf notebook.
"Well, it is done, Mademoiselle Driscoll. The dress will be ready in plenty of time. Monsieur Aristides assures me that no expense must be spared." Charine smiled at Zen.
"But I won't wear half of these things," Zen protested. Charine shrugged. "But it will be such a comfort to know that they are there to discard." Charine herself accompanied Zen to the front entrance of the showroom and bowed her out to the waiting Rolls-Royce.
"That must be the logic that sends such a large number of Americans to bankruptcy proceedings," Zen muttered, sitting back against the plush cushions.
Slowly they made their way through Manhattan traffic. Brakes screeched; horns blasted. Finally they pulled up in front of Olympus Ltd, managing to beat a Mercedes Benz into a parking space.
The chauffeur opened Zen's door, ignoring the fist-shaking driver of the Mercedes.
Zen, too, ignored the man's invective. She was about to identify herself to the security man on duty when he bowed to her and led her to an elevator.
"Mr. Aristides has been calling down every fifteen minutes for the last hour," the man explained in a Brooklyn accent. "I've worked for the boss for a few years and never remember him gettin' in such a whirl over a woman." He smiled at Zen as she entered the elevator. "Just punch the button. Take ya right there."
Zen's stomach and knees met in the tingling, rapid ascent.
When the doors opened, Damon was standing there. He pulled her from the elevator into his arms. His mouth came down over hers.
Immediately her limbs grew weak, and her thoughts whirled away. Damon filled all her senses. "People will see," she managed to gasp, trying to force her eyes open.
"Darling, you're in my private office," Damon explained, pulling her over to his desk and sitting down with her in his lap. I've been thinking about you all day, haven't been able to concentrate on the Rothman Cable problem at all."
"Business first," Zen croaked, clutching at his shoulders, rubbing her head against his chin.
"Tell me what—" A red light blinked on the desk console. Damon glowered. He punched a button. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Aristides, but Miss Crawford insisted. She says she is only in town for—"
Damon barked into the speaker, then broke the connection.
Zen watched, fascinated, as his face darkened to crimson. She was sure he had forgotten her, even though she was sitting on his lap.
Who was Miss Crawford that the mere mention of her name provoked such an immediate embarrassed response from him? Were they involved? Did Damon love her? Zen shook her head to clear it of the black thoughts that crowded it.
Chapter 8
The wedding day dawned gray and drizzly. It perfectly matched Zen's mood. She and Damon had been walking a tightrope for the last three days—ever since she had demanded to know who Miss Crawford was.
At first Damon had hedged. Then finally, infuriated by her needling, he'd told her.
"All right, damn it, she was my mistress. But I haven't seen her in six months." He had stood before Zen, fists clenched.
She took several deep breaths. She felt as though a truck had just rammed her middle. "So, in the meantime you found a substitute—me," she accused. "But now your West Coast sweetie wants you back. Is that it?"
"No, that is not it." Damon's body tensed with anger. "And don't jump to any—"
"Don't you swear at me," Zen retorted, her hands on her hips.
"I'm not swearing at you." Damon ground his teeth. "Don't you raise your voice either, because I won't let you push me around." Zen drew herself up to her full five feet two inches and glared at him.
Damon gazed down at her, his chest heaving. "Just damn well remember that we're getting married in three days." He stormed from the room. The door banged shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the house.
"Womanizer!" Zen called after him. "I never cry, I never cry," she murmured to herself, very fast and restlessly pacing the room. "Well, hardly ever," she amended. She held a hand to her mouth as shudders wracked her body.
Now, on her wedding day, Zen stared out the window at a gray Long Island Sound. "I should take the boys and skip town," she said to herself as she gathered sweet-smelling soaps and shampoos for her bath.
As she lathered her body and hair, she imagined herself with the two boys in a giant balloon crossing the United States, then on camels traversing the SaharaDesert, then in a three-man sailboat braving the Pacific. She would just disappear, she thought as she spread lotion on her body, then donned the filmy panties and stockings that would be her only undergarments. The heavy satin gown was lined with the softest cotton.
Sighing, Zen let Lona drop the gown over her head just as Sophie walked into the room. The older woman sighed, too, and folded her hands in front of her as she watched Lona arrange the garland of white roses at the back of Zen's head. "Charine told me you would look like a goddess from Olympus and you do, child," she said. "Eleni was lovely, but you are beautiful."
Zen swallowed. "Thank you, Mrs. Aristides."
"Can you not call me Sophie now?"
"Yes, of course. If you like." Zen felt uncomfortable under Sophie's soft gaze.
Lona turned Zen around so that she was facing the three-way mirror. She sucked in her breath. She had never looked better. The pearl studs in her ears seemed to have the same pink sheen as her skin. Her hair was like golden fire. The skin above her breasts was almost the same creamy color as the dress.
She picked up the one long-stemmed white rose that she would carry and felt something hard in the nylon net hand holder. She pushed aside the niching. An emerald pin in the shape of a shamrock!
"There's an inscription on the back," Sophie said, smiling.
"My sweet luck. Damon," the inscription read, making Zen's eyes fill.
"Lona, leave us," Sophie said imperiously. "I wish to speak to Xenobia alone."
"But, madame..." Lona frowned, and glanced at the clock.
"It's all right, it's all right. I will not make her late. Father Constantine will wait, regardless, and the judge is a friend of Damon's."
Sophie turned. "Do not be alarmed, child. I have no intention of attacking you. But I do want to apologize." She took a deep breath. "Three years ago, I let my sister chase you away. Because I was afraid, I suppose, but whatever the reason, I regret it. I caused you... and my beloved son... much pain. You see, I saw how much in love with you he was."
Zen was speechless. "That's not possible."
"Yes, child, he was in love with you—so much so that, when you left to live in Ireland, my Damon became someone else, someone hard, cynical, often unkind, often cruel. Although he was never dishonest, he became ruthless. You had been gone two years when I finally came to accept that what he felt for you was great and all-consuming. The feeling had turned inside him like a Judas blade, destroying him."
Sophie's eyes shone with unshed tears. "I recalled how he had been with you in the beginning... how he had laughed, how open and alive he'd been. Because you were gone from him, he had hidden his feelings behind a locked door." She pursed her lips. "His adventures with women were chronicled in too many periodicals."
"I... I saw some of the write-ups in the American papers I received in Dublin," Zen admitted.
"Lord, that son of mine. Even in Athens—" Sophie shook her head and fell silent. "Finally Thag convinced me that Damon was pining for you."
"No," Zen whispered, though a faint ray of hope was dawning. She tried to tamp it down.
"Yes. That is when I decided to convince you to come home again. That and the desire to see my David as well. I hurt you both, and for that I am most sorry."
"It wasn't your fault. Damon and I are too volatile together."
"Yes, you are that," Sophie concurred. "But you are also good for each other. I have heard Damon laugh again, seen him come alive. He is once more eager to enjoy all that life has to offer. I have seen you. You love my son—as you loved him once before."
"No," Zen whispered, "I love him much more now."
"Oh, dear." Sophie smiled. "That could be very dangerous for Damon, couldn't it?"
Zen's face flushed with embarrassment. "I don't know what's the matter with me. I'm such a klutz when he's around me."