The Fallen Greek Bride

And, of course, that’s what she’d think about now. What Drakon wanted. How he liked things. How ironic that even after five years, she was still worrying about him, still turning herself inside out to please him, to be what he needed, to handle things the way he handled them.

What about her?

What about what she needed? What she wanted? What about her emotions or her comfort?

The back of her eyes burned and she jerked her chin higher. “Well, I’m sorry you don’t like seeing me like this, but this is who I am. Desperate. And I’m willing to take desperate measures to help my family. You don’t understand what it’s like for us. My family is in pain. Everyone is hurting, heartsick with guilt and shame and confusion—how could my father do what he did? How could he not know Amery wasn’t investing legitimately? How could he not protect his clients … his friends … his family? My sisters and brother—we can’t even see each other anymore, Drakon. We don’t speak to each other. We can’t handle the shame of it all. We’re outcasts now. Bottom feeders. Scum. So fine, stand there and mock me with your principles. I’m just trying to save what I can. Starting with my father’s life.”

“Your father isn’t worth it. But you are. Stop worrying about him, Morgan, and save yourself.”

“And how do I do that, Drakon? Have you any advice for me there?”

“Yes. Come home.”

“Home?”

“Yes, home to me—”

“You’re not home, Drakon. You were never home.”

She saw him flinch and she didn’t like it, but it was time he knew the truth. Time he heard the truth. “You asked me a little bit ago why I’d want to forget our sex life, and I’ll tell you. I don’t like remembering. It hurts remembering.”

“Why? It was good. No, it was great. We were unbelievable together—”

“Yes, yes, the sex was hot. And erotic. You were an incredibly skillful lover. You could make me come over and over, several times a day. But that’s all you gave me. Your name, a million-dollar diamond wedding ring and orgasms. Lots and lots of orgasms. But there was no relationship, no communication, no connection. I didn’t marry you to just have sex. I married you to have a life, a home. Happiness. But after six months of being married to you, all I felt was empty, isolated and deeply unhappy.”

She held his gaze, glad she’d at last said what she’d wanted to say all those years ago, and yet fully aware that these revelations changed nothing. They were just the final nail in a coffin that had been needing to be sealed shut. “I was so unhappy I could barely function, and yet there you were, touching me, kissing me, making me come. I’d cry after I came. I’d cry because it hurt me so much that you could love my body and not love me.”

“I loved you.”

“You didn’t.”

“You can accuse me of being a bad husband, of being cold, of being insensitive, but don’t tell me how I felt, because I know how I felt. And I did love you. Maybe I didn’t say it often—”

“Or ever.”

“But I thought you knew.”

“Clearly, I didn’t.”

He stared at her from across the room, his features so hard they looked chiseled from stone. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said finally.

“Because you hated me talking to you.” Her throat ached and she swallowed around the lump with difficulty. “Every time I opened my mouth to say anything you’d roll your eyes or sigh or turn away—”

“Not true, either.”

“It is true. For me, it’s true. And maybe you were raised in a culture where women are happy to be seen and not heard, but I’m an American. I come from a big family. I have three sisters and a brother and am used to conversation and laughter and activity and the only activity I got from you was sex, and even then it wasn’t mutual. You were the boss, you were in control, dictating to me how it’d be. Strip, crawl, come—” She broke off, gasping for air, and shoved a trembling hand across her eyes, wiping them dry before any tears could fall. “So don’t act so shocked that I’d beg you to help me save my father. Don’t say it’s degrading and beneath me. I know what degrading is. I know what degrading does. And I’ve been there, in our marriage, with you.”

And then she was done, gone.

Morgan raced to the door, her heels clicking on the polished marble, her purse on the antique console in the grand hall close to the front door, her travel bag in the trunk of her hired car.

She’d flown to Naples this morning from London, and yesterday to London from Los Angeles, almost twenty hours of traveling just to get here, never mind the tortuous winding drive to the villa perched high on the cliffs of the coast between Positano and Ravello. She was exhausted and flattened. Finished. But she wasn’t broken. Wasn’t shattered, not the way she’d been leaving him the first time.

Count it as a victory, she told herself, wrenching open the front door and stepping outside into the blinding sunshine. You came, you saw him and you’re leaving in one piece. You did it. You faced your dragon and you survived him.

CHAPTER TWO

DRAKON WATCHED MORGAN spin and race from the living room, her cheeks pale, her long dark hair swinging. He could hear her high-heeled sandals clicking against the gleaming floor as she ran, and then heard the front door open and slam shut behind her.

He slowly exhaled and focused on the silence, letting the stillness and quiet wash over him, calm him.

In a moment he’d go after her, but first he needed to gather his thoughts, check his emotions. It wouldn’t do to follow her in a fury—and he was furious. Beyond furious.

So he’d wait. He’d wait until his famous control was firmly in check. He prided himself on his control. Prided himself for not taking out his frustrations on others.

He could afford to give Morgan a few minutes, too. It’s not as if she would be able to go anywhere. Her hired car and driver were gone, paid off, dispensed with, and the villa was set off the main road, private and remote. There would be no taxis nearby. She wasn’t the sort to stomp away on foot.

And so Drakon used the quiet and the silence to reflect on everything she’d said. She’d said quite a bit. Much of it uncomfortable, and some of it downright shocking, as well as infuriating.

She’d felt degraded in their marriage?

Absolute rubbish. And the fact that she’d dare say such a thing to his face after all these years made him want to throttle her, which seriously worried him.

He wasn’t a violent man. He didn’t lose his temper. Didn’t even recognize the marriage she described. He had loved her, and he’d spoiled her. Pampered her. Worshipped her body. How was that degrading?

And how dare she accuse him of being a bad husband? He’d given her everything, had done everything for her, determined to make her happy. Her feelings had been important to him. He’d been a respectful husband, a kind husband, having far too many memories of an unhappy childhood, a childhood filled with tense, angry people—namely his mother—to want his wife to be anything but satisfied and content.

His mother, Maria, wasn’t a bad woman, she was a good woman, a godly woman, and she tried to be fair, just, but that hadn’t made her affectionate. Or gentle.

Widowed at thirty-five when Drakon’s father died of a heart attack at sea, Maria had found raising five children on her own overwhelming. The Xanthis family was wealthy and she didn’t have to worry about money, but that didn’t seem to give her much relief, not when she was so angry that Drakon’s father, Sebastian, had died leaving her with all these children, children she wasn’t sure she’d ever wanted. One child might have been fine, but five was four too many.

Drakon, being the second eldest, and the oldest son, tried to be philosophical about her anger and resentment. She came from a wealthy family herself and had grown up comfortable. He told himself that her lack of affection and attention wasn’t personal, but rather a result of grief, and too many pregnancies too close together. And so he learned by watching her, that she was most comfortable around her children if they asked for nothing, revealed no emotion or expressed no need. Drakon internalized the lesson well, and by thirteen and fourteen, he became the perfect son, by having no needs, or emotions.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy pleasing others. Throughout his twenties he had taken tremendous pride in spoiling his girlfriends, beautiful glamorous women who enjoyed being pampered and showered with pretty gifts and extravagant nights out. The women in his life quickly came to understand that he didn’t show emotion and they didn’t expect him to. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel, but it wasn’t easy to feel. There were emotions in him somewhere, just not accessible. His girlfriends enjoyed his lifestyle, and his ability to please them, and they accepted him for who he was, and that he expressed himself best through action—doing or buying something for someone.

So he bought gifts and whisked his love interests to romantic getaways. And he became a skilled lover, a patient and gifted lover who understood the importance of foreplay.

Women needed to be turned on mentally before they were turned on physically. The brain was their largest erogenous zone, with their skin coming in second. And so Drakon loved to seduce his partner slowly, teasing her, playing with her, whetting the appetite and creating anticipation, because sex was how he bonded. It’s how he felt close to his woman. It was how he felt safe expressing himself.

And yet she hadn’t felt safe with him. She hadn’t even enjoyed being with him. Their lovemaking had disgusted her. He had disgusted her. He’d turned off Morgan.

Drakon’s stomach heaved. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.

How stupid he’d been. Moronic.

No wonder she’d left him. No wonder she’d waited until he had flown to London for the day. He had only been away for the day, having flown out early on his jet, returning for a late dinner. But when he had entered their villa in Ekali, a northern suburb of Athens, the villa had been dark. No staff. No dinner. No welcome. No Morgan.

He remembered being blindsided that night. Remembered thinking, he could go without dinner, could live without food, but he couldn’t live without Morgan.

He’d called her that night, but she didn’t answer. He’d left a message. Left another. Had flown to see her. She wasn’t to be found.

He’d called again, left another message, asking her to come home. She didn’t. She wouldn’t even speak to him, forcing him instead to interact with her trio of attorneys as they informed him that their client was filing for divorce and moving on with her life, without him.

His surprise gave way to frustration and fury, but he never lost his temper with her. He tried to remain cool, focused, pragmatic. Things had a way of working out. He needed to be patient, and he refused to divorce her, insisting he wouldn’t agree to a divorce until she met with him. Sat down and talked with him. In person.

She wouldn’t. And so for two years her attorneys had battled on her behalf, while Drakon had battled back. His wife would not leave him without giving him a proper explanation. His wife could not just walk away on a whim.

While the Copeland attorneys filed their lawsuits and counter lawsuits, Drakon had made repeated attempts to see Morgan. But every attempt to reach her was stymied. Her cell phone was disconnected. He had no idea where she was living. Her family would only say she’d gone away indefinitely. Drakon had hired private investigators to find her, but they couldn’t. Morgan had vanished.

For two and a half years she’d vanished into thin air.

And then in October she had reappeared, emerging again on the New York social scene.

The private investigators sent Drakon her address, a high-rent loft in SoHo, paid for by her father. She’d started her own business as a jewelry designer and had opened a small shop down the street from her loft, locating her little store close to big hitters.

Drakon immediately flew to New York to see her, going straight from the airport to her boutique, hoping that’s where he’d find her at 11:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. Before he even stepped from his limousine, she walked out the shop’s front door with her youngest sister, Jemma. At first glance they looked like any glamorous girls about town, slim and chic, with long gleaming hair and their skin lightly golden from expensive spray-on tans, but after that first impression of beauty and glamour, he saw how extremely thin Morgan was, dangerously thin. She looked like a skeleton in her silk tunic and low-waisted trousers. Wide gold bangles covered her forearms, and Drakon wondered if it was an attempt to hide her extreme slenderness, or perhaps accent her physique?

He didn’t know, wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The only thing he knew for certain was that she didn’t look well and he was baffled by the change in her.

He let her go, leaving her with Jemma, and had his driver take him to her father’s building on 53rd and Third Avenue. Daniel Copeland could barely hide his shock at seeing Drakon Xanthis in his office, but welcomed him cordially—he was, after all, taking care of Drakon’s investment—and asked him to have a seat.

“I saw Morgan today,” Drakon had said bluntly, choosing not to sit. “What’s wrong with her? She doesn’t look well.”

“She hasn’t been well,” Daniel answered just as bluntly.

“So what’s wrong with her?” he repeated.

“That’s her business.”

“She’s my wife.”

“Only because you won’t let her go.”

“I don’t believe in divorce.”

“She’s not happy with you, Drakon. You need to let her go.”

“Then she needs to come tell me that herself.” He’d left Daniel’s office after that, and for several weeks he’d expected a call from Morgan, expected an email, something to say she was ready to meet with him.

But she didn’t contact him. And he didn’t reach out to her. And the impasse had continued until three days ago when Morgan had called him, and requested a meeting. She’d told him up front why she wanted to see him. She made it clear that this had nothing to do with them, or their marriage, but her need for a loan, adding that she was only coming to him because no one else would help her.

You are my last resort, she’d said. If you don’t help me, no one will.

He’d agreed to see her, telling her to meet him here, at Villa Angelica. He’d thought perhaps by meeting here, where they’d embarked on their married life, they could come to an understanding and heal the breach. Perhaps face-to-face here, where they had been happy, he could persuade Morgan to return to Athens. It was time. He wanted children, a family. He wanted his wife back where she was supposed to be—in his home, at his side.

Now he realized there was no hope, there never had been, and he felt stupid and angry.

Worse, he felt betrayed. Betrayed by the woman he’d vowed to love and protect, a woman he’d continued to love these past five years, because it was his duty to love her. To be faithful to her. To provide for her.

But he was done with his duty. Done with his loyalty. Done with her.

He wanted her gone.

It was time to give her what she wanted. Time to give them both what they needed—freedom.

Drakon ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the dense beard, a beard he’d started growing that day he’d learned she intended to end their marriage without uttering a single word, or explanation, or apology to him.

He’d vowed he’d grow his beard until his wife returned home, or until he’d understood what had happened between them.

It had been an emotional, impulsive vow, but he’d kept it. Just as he’d kept hope that one day Morgan, his wife, would return to him.

And she had returned, but only to tell him how much she hated him. How much she despised him. How degrading she’d found their marriage.

Drakon exhaled slowly, trying to control the hot rush of emotion that made his chest ache and burn. He wasn’t used to feeling such strong emotions. But he was feeling them now.

He headed into the small sitting room, which opened off the living room to his laptop and his briefcase. He took a checkbook to his personal account out of his briefcase and quickly scrawled her name on a check and filled in the amount, before dating it and signing it. He studied the check for a moment, the anger bubbling up, threatening to consume him, and it took all of his control to push it back down, suppressing it with ruthless intent.

He wasn’t a failure. She was the failure. She was the one who had walked out on him, not the other way around. He was the one who had fought to save their marriage, who had honored their vows, who had honored her by thinking of no other woman but his wife, wanting no other woman than Morgan.

But now he was done with Morgan. He’d give her the money she wanted and let her go and once she left, he wouldn’t waste another moment of his life thinking or worrying about her. She wanted her freedom? Well, she was about to get it.

Morgan was standing on the villa’s front steps gazing out at the sweeping drive, with the stunning view of the dark green mountains that dropped steeply and dramatically into the sapphire sea, anxiously rubbing her nails back and forth against her linen skirt, when she heard the front door open behind her.

Her skin prickled and the fine hair at her nape lifted. She knew without even turning around it was Drakon. She could feel his warmth, that magnetic energy of his that drew everything toward him, including her.

But she wouldn’t allow herself to be drawn back into his life. Wouldn’t give him power over her ever again.

She quickly moved down the front steps, putting distance between them. She refused to look at him, was unable to look at him when she was filled with so much anger and loathing.

“You had no right to send away my car,” she said coolly, her gaze resolutely fixed on the dazzling blue and green colors of the coast, but unable to appreciate them, or the lushness of the dark pink bougainvillea blooming profusely along the stone wall bordering the private drive. Panic flooded her limbs. He was so close to her she could barely breathe, much less think.

“I didn’t think you’d need it,” he said.

She looked sharply at him then, surprised by his audacity, his arrogance. “Did you imagine I was going to stay?”

“I’d hoped,” he answered simply.

She sucked in a breath, hating him anew. He could be so charming when he wanted to be. So endearing and real. And then he could take it all away again, just like that. “You really thought I’d take one look at you and forget my unhappiness? Forget why I wanted the divorce?”

“I thought you’d at least sit down and talk to me. Have a real conversation with me.”

“You don’t like conversation, Drakon. You only want information in bullet form. Brief, concise and to the point.”

He was silent a moment, and then he nodded once, a short, decisive nod. “Then I’ll be brief in return. The helicopter is on the way for you. Should be here soon. And I have this for you.” He handed her a folded piece of paper.

Morgan took it from him, opened it. It was a check for seven million dollars. She looked up at Drakon in surprise. “What’s this?”

“The money you begged for.”

She flinched. “The pirates are only asking for six.”

“There will be other expenses. Travel and rescue logistics. You’ll want to hire an expert to help you. Someone with the right negotiation skills. There are several excellent firms out there, like Dunamas Maritime Intelligence—”

“I’m familiar with them.”

“They won’t be cheap.”

“I’m familiar with their fees.”

“Don’t try to do it on your own, thinking you can. Better to pay for their expertise and their relationships. They know what they’re doing, and they’ll help you avoid a trap. The Somali pirates sound like they’re a ragtag organization, but in truth, they’re being funded by some of the wealthiest, most powerful people in the world.”

She nodded, because she couldn’t speak, not with her throat swelling closed. For the first time in a long, long time, she was grateful for Drakon Xanthis, grateful he had not just the means to help her, but knowledge and power. There weren’t many people like Drakon in the world, and she was suddenly so very glad he had been part of her life.

“Use whatever is left after you pay your management fee to pay your father’s travel expenses home. There should be enough. If there isn’t, let me know immediately,” he added.

“Thank you,” she whispered huskily.

His jaw tightened. “Go to London before you return to New York, cash the check at the London branch of my bank. There won’t be any problems. They’ll give you the six million in cash you need for the ransom. You must have it in cash, and not new bills, remember that. But I’m sure your contact told you that?”

“Yes.”

His lashes dropped, concealing his expression. “They’re very particular, agapi mou. Follow the instructions exactly. If you don’t, things could turn unpleasant.”

“As if storming my father’s yacht off the Horn of Africa, and killing his captain, wasn’t unpleasant enough—” She broke off, hearing the distinctive hum of the helicopter. It was still a distance from them, but it would be here soon.

For a moment neither said anything, both listening to the whir of the helicopter blades.

“Why have you kept the news of your father’s kidnapping private?” he asked her. “I would have thought this was something you’d share with the world … using the kidnapping to garner sympathy.”

“Because it wouldn’t garner sympathy. The American public hates him. Loathes him. And if they discovered he was kidnapped by Somali pirates, they’d be glad. They’d be dancing in the streets, celebrating, posting all kinds of horrible comments all over the internet, hoping he’ll starve, or be killed, saying it’s karma—”

“Isn’t it?”

She acted as though Drakon hadn’t spoken. “But he’s my father, not theirs, and I’m not using their money. Not spending government funds, public funds or trust funds. We haven’t gone to the police or the FBI, haven’t asked for help from anyone. We’re keeping this in the family, handling it on our own, and since my brother and sisters don’t have the means, I’m using my money—”

“You mean my money.”

She flushed, and bit hard into her lower lip, embarrassed. His money. Right. They weren’t married, not really, and she had no right to spend his money, just because she had nothing left of her own.

“I stand corrected,” she whispered. “Your money. I’m using your money. But I will pay you back. Every penny. Even if it takes me the rest of my life.”

A small muscle popped in his jaw. “There is no need for that—” He paused, glancing up at the dark speck overhead. The helicopter.

One of the reasons Drakon had chosen this villa for their honeymoon five and a half years ago was that the outdoor pool had a special cover that converted it into a heli landing pad, making the remote villa far more appealing for a man who needed to come and go for meetings in Naples, Athens and London.

“No need to pay me back,” Drakon said, picking up his broken train of thought, “because I’m calling my attorney this afternoon and asking him to process the paperwork for the divorce. He will make sure the dissolution is expedited. By the end of the month, it will be over.”

It will be over. For a moment Morgan couldn’t take this last bit in. What was he saying? He’d finally agreed to the divorce?

He was giving her the money and granting her the divorce?

She just looked up at him, eyes burning, too overwhelmed to speak.

He dipped his head and raised his voice in order to be heard over the hum of the helicopter, which had begun to descend. “You will receive your full settlement once the dissolution occurs. With the current state of affairs, I’d suggest you allow me to open a personal account for you in London or Geneva and I can deposit the funds directly into the account without fear of your government freezing it. I know they’ve frozen all your family accounts in the United States—”