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Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands: The Fallen Greek Bride (The Disgraced Copelands) / His Defiant Desert Queen (The Disgraced Copelands) / Her Sinful Secret (The Disgraced Copelands)
About the Author
JANE PORTER grew up on a diet of Mills & Boon romances, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight, and spent many of her high school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now Jane splits her time between rugged Seattle, Washington, and the beautiful beaches of Hawaii, with her sexy surfer and three very active sons. Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, USA. Or visit her website at www.janeporter.com
Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands
The Fallen Greek Bride
His Defiant Desert Queen
Her Sinful Secret
Jane Porter
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-09881-6
RUMOURS: THE DISHONOURED COPELANDS
The Fallen Greek Bride © 2013 Jane Porter His Defiant Desert Queen © 2015 Jane Porter Her Sinful Secret © 2017 Jane Porter
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
The Fallen Greek Bride
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
His Defiant Desert Queen
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Her Sinful Secret
Back Cover Text
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
About the Publisher
The Fallen Greek Bride
Jane Porter
For Randall Toye—thank you
for the friendship and support.
CHAPTER ONE
“WELCOME HOME, MY WIFE.”
Morgan froze inside Villa Angelica’s expansive marble and limestone living room with its spectacular floor-to-ceiling view of blue sky and sea, but saw none of the view, and only Drakon’s face.
It had been five years since she’d last seen him. Five and a half years since their extravagant two-million-dollar wedding, for a marriage that had lasted just six months.
She’d dreaded this moment. Feared it. And yet Drakon sounded so relaxed and warm, so normal, as if he were welcoming her back from a little holiday instead of her walking out on him.
“Not your wife, Drakon,” she said softly, huskily, because they both knew she hadn’t been his anything for years. There had been nothing, no word, no contact, not after the flurry of legal missives that followed her filing for divorce.
He’d refused to grant her the divorce and she’d spent a fortune fighting him. But no attorney, no lawsuit, no amount of money could persuade him to let her go. Marriage vows, he’d said, were sacred and binding. She was his. And apparently the courts in Greece agreed with him. Or were bought by him. Probably the latter.
“You are most definitely still my wife, but that’s not a conversation I want to have across a room this size. Do come in, Morgan. Don’t be a stranger. What would you like to drink? Champagne? A Bellini? Something a little stronger?”
But her feet didn’t move. Her legs wouldn’t carry her. Not when her heart was beating so fast. She was shocked by Drakon’s appearance and wondered for a moment if it really was Drakon. Unnerved, she looked away, past his broad shoulders to the wall of window behind him, with that breathtaking blue sky and jagged cliffs and azure sea.
So blue and beautiful today. A perfect spring day on the Amalfi Coast.
“I don’t want anything,” she said, her gaze jerking back to him, although truthfully, a glass of cool water would taste like heaven right now. Her mouth was so dry, her pulse too quick. Her head was spinning, making her dizzy from nerves and anxiety. Who was this man before her?
The Drakon Xanthis she’d married had been honed, sleek and polished, a man of taut, gleaming lines and angles.
This tall intimidating man in front of the picture window was broader in the shoulders and chest than Drakon had ever been, and his thick, inky brown and black hair hung in loose curls to almost his shoulders, while his hard fierce features were hidden by a dark beard. The wild hair and beard should have obscured his sensual beauty, rendered him reckless, powerless. Instead the tangle of hair highlighted his bronzed brow, the long straight nose, the firm mouth, the piercing amber gold eyes.
His hair was still damp and his skin gleamed as if he’d just risen from the sea, the Greek god Poseidon come to life from ancient myth.
She didn’t like it. Didn’t like any of this. She’d prepared herself for one thing, but not this….
“You look pale,” he said, his voice so deep it was almost a caress.
She steeled herself against it. Against him. “It was a long trip.”
“Even more reason for you to come sit.”
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She hated being here. Hated him for only seeing her here at Villa Angelica, the place where they’d honeymooned for a month following their spectacular wedding. It’d been the happiest month of her life. When the honeymoon was over, they had left the villa and flown to Greece, and nothing was ever the same between them again. “I’m fine here,” she said.
“I won’t hurt you,” he replied softly.
Her nails pierced her skin. Her eyes stung. If her legs would function, she’d run. Protect herself. Save herself. If only she had someone else to go to, someone else who would help her, but there was no one. Just Drakon. Just the man who had destroyed her, making her question her own sanity. “You already did that.”
“You say that, my love, and yet you’ve never told me how—”
“As you said, that isn’t something to discuss across a room of this size. And we both know, I didn’t come here to discuss us. Didn’t come to rehash the past, bring up old ghosts, old pain. I came for your help. You know what I need. You know what’s at stake. Will you do it? Will you help me?”
“Six million dollars is a lot of money.”
“Not to you.”
“Things have changed. Your father lost over four hundred million dollars of what I gave him.”
“It wasn’t his fault.” She met his gaze and held it, knowing that if she didn’t stand up to him now, he’d crush her. Just as he’d crushed her all those years ago.
Drakon, like her father, played by no rules but his own.
A Greek shipping tycoon, Drakon Sebastian Xanthis was a man obsessed with control and power. A man obsessed with amassing wealth and growing his empire. A man obsessed with a woman who wasn’t his wife. Bronwyn. The stunning Australian who ran his Southeast Asia business.
Her eyes burned and her jaw ached.
But no. She wouldn’t think of Bronwyn now. Wouldn’t wonder if the willowy blonde still worked for him. It wasn’t important. Morgan wasn’t part of Drakon’s life anymore. She didn’t care whom Drakon employed or how he interacted with his female vice presidents or where they stayed on their business trips or what they discussed over their long dinners together.
“Is that what you really believe?” he asked now, voice almost silky. “That your father is blameless?”
“Absolutely. He was completely misled—”
“As you have been. Your father is one of the biggest players in one of the biggest Ponzi schemes ever. Twenty-five billion dollars is missing, and your father funneled five billion of that to Michael Amery, earning himself ten percent interest.”
“He never saw that kind of money—”
“For God’s sake, Morgan, you’re talking to me, Drakon, your husband. I know your father. I know exactly who and what he is. Do not play me for a fool!”
Morgan ground her teeth together harder, holding back the words, the tears, the anger, the shame. Her father wasn’t a monster. He didn’t steal from his clients. He was just as deceived as they were and yet no one would give him an opportunity to explain, or defend himself. The media had tried and convicted him and everyone believed the press. Everyone believed the wild accusations. “He’s innocent, Drakon. He had no idea Michael Amery was running a pyramid scheme. Had no idea all those numbers and profits were a lie.”
“Then if he’s so innocent, why did he flee the country? Why didn’t he stay, like Amery’s sons and cousins, and fight instead of setting sail to avoid prosecution?”
“He panicked. He was frightened—”
“Absolute rubbish. If that’s the case, your father is a coward and deserves his fate.”
She shook her head in silent protest, her gaze pinned to Drakon’s features. He might not look like Drakon, but it was definitely him. She knew his deep, smooth voice. And those eyes. His eyes. She’d fallen in love with his eyes first. She’d met him at the annual Life ball in Vienna, and they hadn’t danced—Drakon didn’t dance—but he’d watched her all evening and at first she’d been discomfited by the intensity of his gaze, and then she’d come to like it. Want it. Crave it.
In those early weeks and months when he’d pursued her, Drakon had seduced her with his eyes, examining her, holding her, possessing her long before he’d laid a single finger on her. And, of course, by the time he did, she was his, completely.
The last five years had been brutal. Beyond brutal. And just when Morgan had found herself again, and felt hopeful and excited about her future, her world came crashing down with the revelation that her beloved, brilliant financier father, Daniel Copeland, was part of Michael Amery’s horrific Ponzi scheme. And instead of her father handling the crisis with his usual aplomb, he’d cracked and run, creating an even bigger international scandal.
She drew a slow, unsteady breath. “I can’t leave him in Somalia to die, Drakon. The pirates will kill him if they don’t get the ransom money—”
“It would serve him right.”
“He’s my father!”
“You’ll put yourself in debt for the rest of your life, just to buy his freedom, even though you know that his freedom will be short-lived?”
“Yes.”
“You do understand that he’ll be arrested the moment he tries to enter any North American or European country?”
“Yes.”
“He’s never going to be free again. He’s going to spend the rest of his life in prison, just like Michael Amery will, once he’s caught, too.”
“I understand. But far better for my father to be in an American prison than held by Somali pirates. At least in the United States he could get medical care if he’s sick, or medicine for his blood pressure. At least he could have visitors and letters and contact with the outside world. God knows what his conditions are like in Somalia—”
“I’m sure they’re not luxurious. But why should the American taxpayer have to support your father? Let him stay where he is. It’s what he deserves.”
“Do you say this to hurt me, or is it because he lost so much of your money?”
“I’m a businessman. I don’t like to lose money. But I was only in four hundred million of the five billion he gave to Amery. What about those others? The majority were regular people. People who trusted your father with their retirement money … their life savings. And what did he do? He wiped them out. Left them with nothing. No retirement, no security, no way to pay the bills now that they’re older and frailer and unemployable.”
Morgan blinked hard to clear her vision. “Michael Amery was my father’s best friend. He was like family. Dad trusted him implicitly.” Her voice cracked and she struggled to regain her composure. “I grew up calling him Uncle Michael. I thought of him as my family.”
“Yes, that’s what you told me. Just before I gave your father four hundred million dollars to invest for me. I nearly gave him more. Your father wanted more. Twice as much, as a matter of fact.”
“I am so sorry.”
“I trusted your father.” His gaze met hers and held. “Trusted you. I know better now.”
She exhaled slowly. “Does that mean you won’t help me?”
“It means …” His voice faded, and his gaze narrowed as he looked at her, closely, carefully, studying her intently. “Probably not.”
“Probably?” she repeated hoarsely, aware that if Drakon wouldn’t help her, no one would. The world hated her father, and wanted him gone. They all hoped he was dead. And they all hoped he’d suffered before he died, too.
“Surely you must realize I’m no fan of your father’s, glykia mou.”
“You don’t have to be a fan of my father’s to loan me the money. We’ll draft a contract, a legal document that is between you and me, and I will pay you back in regular installments. It will take time, but it’ll happen. My business is growing, building. I’ve got hundreds of thousands of dollars of orders coming in. I promise—”
“Just like you promised to love me? Honor me? Be true to me for better or worse, in sickness and in health?”
She winced. He made it sound as if she hadn’t ever cared for him, when nothing could be further from the truth. The truth was, she’d cared too much. She’d loved him without reservation. And by loving him so much, she’d lost herself entirely. “So why haven’t you divorced me then? If you despise me so much, why not let me go? Set me free?”
“Because I’m not like you. I don’t make commitments and run from them. I don’t make promises and then break them. I promised five and a half years ago to be loyal to you, and I have been.”
His deep gravelly voice was making her insides wobble while his focused gaze rested on her, examining her, as if she were a prized pet that had been lost and found.
“Those are just words, Drakon. They mean nothing to me. Not when your actions speak so much louder.”
“My actions?”
“Yes, your actions. Or your lack of action. You only do something if it benefits you. You married me because it benefited you … or you thought it would. And then when times were difficult … when I became difficult … you disappeared. You wouldn’t grant me a divorce but you certainly didn’t come after me, fight for me. And then when the world turned against us, where were you again? Nowhere. God knows you wouldn’t want your name sullied by connection with the Copeland family!”
He studied her for an endless moment. “Interesting how you put things together. But not entirely surprising. You’ve inherited your mother’s flair for the dramatic—”
“I hate you! I do.” Her voice shook and her eyes burned, but she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He’d taken everything from her, but not anymore. “I knew you’d mock me, humiliate me. I knew when I flew here, you’d make it difficult, but I came anyway, determined to do whatever I had to do to help my father. You’ll let me plead with you, you’ll let me beg—”
“That was a very passionate speech, so please forgive my interruption, but I’d like to clarify something. I don’t believe you’ve begged. You’ve asked for money. You’ve demanded money. You’ve explained why you needed money. But there’s been very little pleading, and absolutely no begging, at all.”
A pulse beat wildly in her throat. She could feel the same wild flutter in her wrists and behind her ears. Everything in her was racing, raging. “Is that what you want? You’d like for me to beg you to help me?”
His head cocked, and he studied her, his gaze penetrating. “It’d certainly be a little more conciliatory, and far less antagonistic.”
“Conciliatory.” She repeated the word, rolling it over in her mouth, finding it sharp and bitter.
He said nothing, just watched her, and she felt almost breathless at the scrutiny, remembering how it had been between them during their four weeks here on their honeymoon. It was in this villa she’d learned about love and lust, sex and pleasure, as well as pain and control, and the loss of control.
Drakon never lost control. But he’d made sure she did at least once a day, sometimes two or three times.
Their sex life had been hot. Explosive. Erotic. She’d been a virgin when she’d married him and their first time together had been uncomfortable. He was large and it had hurt when he entered her fully. He’d tried to make it pleasurable for her but she’d been so overwhelmed and emotional, as well as let down. She couldn’t respond properly, couldn’t climax, and she knew she was supposed to. Knew he wanted her to.
He’d showered with her afterward, and kissed her, and beneath the pulsing spray of the shower, he lavished attention on her breasts and nipples, the curve of her buttocks and the cleft between her thighs, lightly playing with her clit until he finally accomplished what he hadn’t in bed—she came. One of his arms held her up since her legs were too weak to do the job, and then he’d kissed her deeply, possessively, and when she could catch her breath, he’d assured her that the next time he entered her, it wouldn’t hurt. That sex would never hurt again.
It hadn’t.
But that didn’t mean sex was always easy or comfortable.
Drakon liked it hot. Intense. Sensual. Raw. Unpredictable.
He loved to stand across the room from her—just as he was doing now—and he’d tell her what to do. Tell her what he wanted. Sometimes he wanted her to strip and then walk naked to him. Sometimes he wanted her to strip to just her panties and crawl to him. Sometimes he wanted her to wear nothing but her elegant heels and bend over … or put a foot on a chair and he’d tell her where to touch herself.
Each time Morgan would protest, but he’d look at her from beneath his black lashes, his amber gaze lazy, his full mouth curved, and he’d tell her how beautiful she was and how much he enjoyed looking at her, that it gave him so much pleasure to see her, and to have her trust him….
Obey him …
She hated those words, hated the element of dominance, but it was part of the foreplay. They had good sex in bed, but then they had this other kind of sex—the sex where they played erotic games that pushed her out of her comfort zone. It had been confusing, but inevitably she did what he asked, and then somewhere along the way, he’d join her, and his mouth would be on her, between her legs, and his hands would hold her, fingers tight on her butt, or in her hair, or gripping her thighs, holding them apart, and he’d make love to her with his mouth and his fingers and his body and he’d arouse her so slowly that she feared she wouldn’t ever come, and then just when the desire turned sharp and hurt, he’d relent. He’d flick the tip of his tongue across that small sensitive nub, or suck on her, or stroke her, or enter her and she’d break. Shatter. And the orgasms were so intense they seemed to go on forever. Maybe because he made sure they went on forever. And by the time he was finished, she was finished. There was nothing left. She was drained, spent, but also quiet. Compliant.
He loved her flushed and warm, quiet and compliant. Loved her physically that is, as long as she made no emotional demands. No conversation. No time, energy or patience. Required no attention.
Morgan’s chest ached. Her heart hurt. She’d been so young then, so trusting and naive. She’d been determined to please him, her beautiful, sensual Greek husband.
Their honeymoon here, those thirty days of erotic lovemaking, had changed her forever. She couldn’t even think of this villa without remembering how he’d made love to her in every single room, in every way imaginable. Taking her on chairs and beds, window seats and stairs. Pressing her naked back or breasts to priceless carpets, the marble floor, the cool emerald-green Italian tiles in the hall …
She wanted to throw up. He hadn’t just taken her. He’d broken her.
“Help me out if you would, Drakon,” she said, her voice pitched low, hoarse. “I’m not sure I understand you, and I don’t know if it’s cultural, personal or a language issue. But do you want me to beg? Is that what you’re asking me to do?” Her chin lifted and tears sparkled in her eyes even as her heart burned as if it had been torched with fire. “Am I to go onto my knees in front of you, and plead my case? Is that what it would take to win your assistance?”
