The Fallen Greek Bride\At the Greek Boss's Bidding (15 page)

With the expansive windows open, and course after course of the most delicious seafood and pasta arriving at their table, Morgan felt the tension easing from between her shoulders. After finishing her coffee, she leaned back in her chair. “This was really lovely, Drakon. I feel almost optimistic again. Thank you.”

“I’ve done very little, Morgan.”

“You’ve done everything. You’ve brought in Rowan and his team, and while they work to free Dad, you’re keeping me occupied and encouraging me to think about life, down the road. You’ve shown me incredible things today, and given me ideas for future designs, and best of all, peace of mind. You’re my hero...my knight in shining armor.”

“So much better than a husband.”

“Husbands are overrated,” she teased.

“Apparently so,” he answered drily.

And then reality hit her, and the memory of what had happened to them. Her smile slowly, painfully faded. “I’ve cost you a pretty penny, haven’t I? Four hundred million here, seven million there—”

“I don’t think about the money when I look at you.”

“What do you think about?”

“You.”

She dipped her head, and while this is what she wanted to hear, she did feel guilty. Love shouldn’t be this expensive. Love shouldn’t have cost Drakon so much. “I want to pay for Dunamas’s services.”

“They’re expensive.”

“But my father isn’t your responsibility, and I can’t allow you to keep picking up the tab, taking hits and losses, because you got tangled up with me.”

“Tangled? Is that what they call wives and weddings these days?”

“Don’t try to distract me. I’m serious about paying you back. It will take me some time. I’ll pay in installments, but I’ll pay interest, too. It’s what the banks would do. And I may be one of those entitled Copelands, but I’m not entitled to your money, and I insist on making sure you are properly compensated—”

“You’re ruining my lunch.”

“You’ve finished eating, already.”

“Then you’re ruining my coffee.”

“You’ve finished that, too.” She held up a finger. “And before you think of anything else I’m ruining, please know I’m immensely grateful, which is why I’m trying to make things right, as well as make them fair.”

“How is it fair for me to take what little money you earn over the next ten years? I’d be ashamed to take your money.”

“And you don’t think I’m ashamed that I had to come back to you, with my hand out, begging for assistance?”

Frowning, he pushed his empty cup. “We should go.”

She reached across the table and caught his hand in hers. “Don’t be angry, Drakon. Branson’s not the only one who wants to put things right. If I could, I’d pay every one of my father’s investors back—”

“You’re not your father, Morgan. You’re not responsible.”

“I
feel
responsible.”

“You’ll make yourself sick, obsessing about this.”

“And you don’t obsess about what my father did to you?”

Drakon looked down at their hands, where their fingers were laced together. “Yes, I did lose a fortune,” he said after a moment, his fingers tightening on hers. “But losing you five years ago was so much worse.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He squeezed her fingers again. “There is always more money to be made,
gynaika mou.
But there is only one of you.”

* * *

The driver stopped before the villa’s great iron gates, waiting for them to open to give them access to the old estate’s private drive and exquisite gardens. But Morgan wasn’t ready to be back at the villa with Bronwyn and Rowan and the villa staff. After so many years of not being with Drakon, it was such a joy to have him to herself.

“We’ll soon find out if Rowan’s heard anything,” Drakon said, glancing out the window as the four-story white marble villa came into view.

“Hopefully he has,” she said, feeling guilty because for the past hour she hadn’t thought of her father, not once. She’d been so happy just being with Drakon that she’d forgotten why she was here in Italy on the Amalfi Coast.

“And hopefully you had a good day,” he added. “I’d thought perhaps you’d be inspired by Pompeii, but it can be overwhelming, too.”

“I loved it. Every minute of it.”

And it was true, she thought, as the car stopped in front of the villa’s entrance and the driver stepped out to come around to open their door. But it wasn’t just Pompeii she loved. She loved every minute of being with him today. This was what life was supposed to feel like. This is what she’d missed so much—his warmth, his strength, his friendship, his love.

His love.

She frowned, confused, suddenly caught between two worlds—the memories of a complicated past and the changing present. In this moment, the present, anything could happen. In this moment, everything was fluid and possible.

She and Drakon were possible. Life was possible. Love was possible.

She and Drakon could make different decisions, be different people, have a different future.

Could it be a future together?

“I enjoyed today, too,” Drakon said.

“I hope we can do it again.”

“Visit Pompeii?”

“Not necessarily Pompeii. But another outing...another adventure. It was fun.”

Drakon suddenly leaned forward and swept the back of his hand over her cheek. “It was. And good to get away from here, and all this.”

Her heart ached at the gentle touch. She’d forgotten how extraordinarily tender he could be. Over the years she’d focused on his control and his aloofness, in contrast to the wild heat of their lovemaking, and she’d turned him into someone he wasn’t...someone cold and hard and unreachable. But that wasn’t really Drakon. Yes, he could be aloof, and hard, and cold, but that wasn’t often, and only when he was angry. And he wasn’t always angry. In fact, he’d never been angry during their engagement or the first couple months of their marriage. It was only later, after they’d gone to Athens and gotten stuck in that terrible battle for control, a battle that had come to include Bronwyn, that they’d both become rigid and antagonistic.

She reached up, caught his hand, pressed it to her cheek. “Promise me we’ll do this again soon. Please?”

“I promise,” he said, holding her gaze as the driver opened the door to the back of the car.

Drakon stepped out and Morgan was just about to follow when heavy footsteps crunched the gravel drive and Rowan appeared at their side.

“Where have you been?” Rowan demanded. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the past hour.”

“My mobile didn’t ring,” Drakon answered.

“I called,” Rowan said. “Repeatedly.” He turned to look at Morgan, his expression apologetic. “Your father was moved from his village today and we don’t know where he is at the moment. But my office is gathering intelligence now that should help us understand what happened, why and where he’s being held now.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

M
ORGAN
PACED
THE
living room, unable to stop moving, unable to be still.

How could her father have vanished? Where had he been taken? And why? Had he gotten sick? Had he died? What were his captors reason for moving him?

She reached the end of the living room, turned and started back again. She’d traveled this path for ten minutes now but there was no way she could sit, not when fear bubbled up in her, consuming her.

Drakon was at the opposite end of the living room, watching her, keeping her company. “Where did they take him, Drakon?” she said, stopping midstep. “Why did they move him?”

She’d asked him the same questions already, several times, as a matter of fact, but he answered just as patiently now. “As Rowan explained, high-profile hostages are often moved from one location to another to stymie rescue attempts.”

“Do you think they knew we were planning something?”

“I doubt it. Rowan doesn’t think so, either, but we don’t know for sure. Fortunately, his office is diligently gathering intelligence now and we should know more soon. Believe me, your father is at the top of Dunamas’s priority list.”

“He’s right,” Bronwyn said, entering the living room with a brisk step, her deceptively simple knit dress, the color of ripe plums, making the most of her lush shape. “Dunamas is pulling all their sources and resources from other tasks to gather information on your father, leaving dozens of ships, countless sailors and hundreds of millions of dollars of cargo vulnerable to attack.”

“That’s not necessary, Bron,” Drakon said, rebuking her.

“But it’s true.” She leaned on the back of a wing chair, her blond hair smooth and sleek and falling forward in an elegant golden shimmer. The expression in her blue eyes was mocking and she shot Drakon a challenging glance. “I know you don’t like to discuss business in front of your wife, but shouldn’t she know the truth? That Dunamas is dropping everything, and everyone, because Morgan Copeland’s criminal father has changed village locations?”

Morgan flinched at Bronwyn’s words. “Is that true? Has Dunamas pulled all its surveillance and protection from its other clients?”

“No,” Drakon said flatly. “It’s not true. While Dunamas has made your father a priority, it continues its surveillance and protective services for each ship, and every customer, it’s been hired to protect.”

“But at tremendous personal expense,” Bronwyn retorted.

“That’s none of your business,” he answered, giving her a look that would have crushed Morgan, but Bronwyn wasn’t crushed.

“Funny how different you are when she’s around.” Bronwyn’s blue gaze met his and held.

Drakon’s jaw thickened. “I’m exactly the same.”

“No. You’re not. Normally Drakon Xanthis rules his shipping empire with a cool head, a critical eye and shrewd sense...always fiscally conservative, and cautious when it comes to expenses and investments.” Bronwyn’s lips pursed. “But the moment Morgan Copeland enters the picture, smart, insightful, strategic Drakon Xanthis loses his head. Suddenly money is no object, and common sense is thrown out the window—”

“Bronwyn,” he growled.

The Australian jerked her chin up, her expression a curious mixture of anger and pain. “You’re just a fool for love, aren’t you?”

Drakon looked away, his jaw tight, his amber gaze strangely bleak. Morgan glanced from Drakon to Bronwyn and back again, feeling the tension humming in the room, but this wasn’t the sparky, sexy kind of tension that zinged between her and Drakon, but something altogether different. This tension was dark and heavy and overwhelming....

It felt like death...loss...

Why? What had happened between them? And what bound Drakon to Bronwyn, a woman Morgan disliked so very intensely.

But then on her own accord, Bronwyn walked out, pausing in the doorway to look at Drakon. “Don’t be putty in her hands,” she said. “You know what happens to putty.”

The pressure in Morgan’s chest should have eased after Bronwyn left. There should have been a subtle shift in mood, an easing of the tension, some kind of relief.

But Morgan felt no relief, and from Drakon’s taut features, she knew there would be no relief.

Whatever it was that Bronwyn had just said to Drakon—and Morgan had heard her, but hadn’t understood the significance, only felt the biting sarcasm—it’d hit the mark. Drakon had paled and was now ashen, his strong jaw clenched so tightly the skin along the bone had gone white.

“What just happened?” Morgan asked, her voice cracking.

Drakon didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her.

She flushed as silence stretched and it became evident that he wasn’t going to answer her, either.

“What was she saying, Drakon?” Morgan whispered, hating the way shame crept through her, shame and fear and that terrible green-eyed monster called jealousy, because she was jealous of Bronwyn, jealous that Bronwyn could have such a powerful effect on Drakon.

But once again Morgan’s question was met with stony silence. And the silence hurt. Not merely because he wasn’t talking to her, but because Bronwyn had done this to him—to
them—
again.

Again.

Morgan’s hands fisted at her sides. What was Bronwyn’s power? Because she certainly had something...some strange and rather frightening influence over Drakon....

Something had to have happened between Drakon and Bronwyn. Something big...

Something private and powerful...

Morgan’s head pounded as she left the living room. She needed space and quiet, and headed downstairs to the sunroom, and then outside to the broad terrace beyond. But the terrace still felt too confining and Morgan kept walking, down more stairs, to the lower garden, through manicured boxwood and fanciful hedges to the old rose garden and the herb garden and then to the miniature orchard with its peekaboo views of the sea.

She walked the narrow stone path through the orchard before reaching the twisting path that followed the cliff, the path dotted with marble benches. Morgan finally sat down in one of these cool marble benches facing the sea, and drew a slow breath, trying to process everything, from her father’s disappearance, to Drakon and Bronwyn’s peculiar relationship, to her own relationship with Drakon. There was a lot to sort through.

She sat on the bench, just breathing in the heady, fragrant scent of wisteria and the blossoms from the citrus trees in the small orchard, when she heard someone talking.

It was Rowan approaching on the path, talking on the phone, speaking English to someone, his tone clipped, no-nonsense, and his low brusque voice was such a contrast to his appearance. He looked like sex, but talked like a soldier. And suddenly the warrior king from the film
Spartacus
came to mind.

Rowan spotted her and ended his call.

“Any news about my father?” she asked him as he stopped before her bench.

“Not yet. But don’t panic.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Good girl.”

The sun had dropped significantly and the colors in the sky were deepening, the light blue turning to rose gold.

“It’s going to be another beautiful sunset,” she said. “I love the sky here, the red and orange sunsets.”

“You do know its pollution, ash and smoke just scattering away the shorter-wavelength part of the light spectrum.”

Morgan made a face. “That’s so not romantic.”

He shrugged. “As Logan will tell you, I’m not a romantic guy.”

Shocked, Morgan turned all the way to look at him. “You know my sister?”

“Drakon didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Thought he had.”

“How do you know her?”

“I live in L.A. Malibu.”

Which made sense as Logan lived in Los Angeles, too. “How well do you know her?”

He hesitated, just a fraction too long, and Morgan realized that he
knew
her, knew her, as in the Biblical knowing. “You guys...dated?”

“Not dated, plural. One date. Met at a celebrity fund-raiser.”

“What fund-raiser?” she asked, finding it impossible to imagine Rowan Argyros at a charity event.

“It’s inconsequential.”

But from his tone, she knew it wasn’t, and Morgan fought the sudden urge to smile. There was much more to the Rowan-Logan story than what he was telling her, and Morgan eyed him with new interest, as well as appreciation, because Logan might be her fraternal twin, but Logan and Morgan were polar opposites. Morgan was quieter and shyer, and Logan was extremely confident and extroverted, as well as assertive, especially when it came to men. Morgan had married Drakon, her first love, while Logan didn’t believe in love.

“How did you two get along?” she asked now, lips still twitching, amused by the idea of Logan and Rowan together. They were both so strong—it would have been an interesting date...an explosive date.

“Fine.”

“I doubt that.”

Rowan looked at her from beneath a cocked brow, smiling, clearly amused. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I know Logan. She’s my sister. And I’ve met you.”

“Whatever happened—or didn’t happen—is between your sister and me, but I will say she talked about you that night we were together. Told me...things...about you, and your past, not knowing I was connected to Drakon.”

“Did you tell her you knew Drakon?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go.”

He stared down at her, expression troubled. He looked as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t going to.

Morgan sighed. “What is it? What’s on your mind?”

“Have you told Drakon about the year following your separation? Does he know what happened?”

Morgan eyed him warily. “About what?”

“About you being...ill.”

She opened her mouth, and then closed it, shaking her head instead.

“Maybe you should. Maybe it’s time.”

Morgan turned back to the sea, where the horizon was now a dramatic parfait of pink and orange and red, with streaks of luscious violet. So beautiful it couldn’t be real. “I don’t think it’d change anything...if he knew.”

“I think it would change a great deal. Maybe not for you, but for him.”

She shot Rowan a cynical glance, feeling impossibly raw. “How so?”

“You weren’t the only one who had a hard year after you left. Drakon’s world fell apart, too.”

* * *

Drakon was in his room, just stepping out of the shower when he heard a knock at his door. He dried off quickly, wrapped the towel around his hips and headed to the bedroom door. Opening it, he discovered Morgan in the hall.

“You okay?” she asked, looking up at him, a shadow of concern in her eyes.

He nodded. “I was just going to dress and come find you.”

“Do you mind if I come in?”

He opened the door wider, and then once she was inside, he closed the door behind him.

“You look nice,” she said, her voice low and husky.

“Almost naked?”

Color swept her cheeks. “I always liked you naked. You have an amazing body.”

He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her. “I can’t believe you came here to compliment my body.”

“No...no. But it kind of...relates...to what I was going to say.”

He rocked back on his hips, trying not to feel anything, even though he was already feeling too much of everything. But wasn’t that always the way it was when it came to Morgan? He felt so much. He loved her so much.

“Can I kiss you?” she blurted breathlessly.

He frowned, caught off guard.

“Just a kiss, for courage,” she said, clasping her hands, nervously. “Because I don’t know how to tell you this, and I’m not sure what you’ll say, but I probably should tell you. ’Cause I don’t think anyone did tell you—”

He drew her to him, then, silenced her stream of words with a kiss. His kiss was fierce, and she kissed him back with desperation, with the heat and hunger that had always been there between them.

He let the kiss go on, too, drawing her close to his body, cupping the back of her head with one hand while the other slid to the small of her back and urged her even closer to his hips. Just like that he was hard and hot and eager to be inside her body, wanting to fill her, needing to lose himself in her, needing to silence the voices in his head...voices of guilt and anger, failure and shame....

But then Morgan ended the kiss and lifting her head she looked up into his eyes, her blue eyes wet, her black lashes matted. “I’m not right in the head.” Her voice quavered. She tried to smile even as tears shimmered in her eyes. “I’m crazy.”

“You’re not crazy.”

She nodded, and her lower lip quivered. “That’s why you couldn’t find me after I left you. I had a nervous breakdown. My family had me hospitalized.”

Drakon flinched and stepped backward. “Why are you saying this?”

“It’s what happened. I left you and I fell apart. I couldn’t stop crying, and I couldn’t eat, and I couldn’t sleep, and everybody said it was this or that, but I just missed you. I wanted you.”

“So why didn’t you come back?”

“They wouldn’t let me.”

Drakon’s gut churned, and his hands clenched involuntarily at his side. “
Who
wouldn’t let you?”

“The doctors. The hospital. My family. They made me stay there at McLean. It’s a...mental...hospital.”

“I know what McLean is.” Drakon looked at her in barely masked horror. “I don’t understand, Morgan. You were there...why?”

“Because I was crazy.”

“You
weren’t
crazy!”

“They said I was.” She walked away from him, moving around his room, which had been their room on their honeymoon. She touched an end table, and the foot of the bed, and then the chaise in the corner before she turned to look at him. “And I did feel crazy...but I kept thinking if I could just get to you, I’d feel better.”

“So why didn’t you come home to me?”

“I couldn’t.” She struggled to smile, but failed. “I couldn’t get to you, couldn’t call you or write to you. They wouldn’t let me do anything until I calmed down and did all the therapy and the counseling sessions—”

“What do you mean, they wouldn’t let you out? Didn’t you check yourself in?”