Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands: The Fallen Greek Bride (The Disgraced Copelands) / His Defiant Desert Queen (The Disgraced Copelands) / Her Sinful Secret (The Disgraced Copelands). Jane Porter
given them three million. I can’t give them another six without proof, but they refuse to let me speak to him, and I don’t know what to do. I’m frightened, Drakon. And overwhelmed. I’ve been trying to keep it together, but I don’t know how to do this—”
“You and your father sing the same tune, don’t you?”
She just stared at him, confused. “What does that mean?”
“The only time I hear from you, or your father, is when one of the Copelands needs money. But I’m not a bank, or an ATM machine, and I’m tired of being used.”
Morgan struggled to speak. “I never meant to use you, Drakon. And I certainly didn’t marry you for money, and I’m ashamed my father asked you to invest in his company, ashamed that he’d put you in that position. I didn’t agree with it then, and I’m shattered now that he lost so much of your personal wealth, but he is my father, and I can’t leave him in Somalia. It might be acceptable … even fiscally responsible, but it’s not morally responsible, not to me. And so I’m here, begging for your help because you are the only one who can help me.”
She paused, swallowed, her gaze searching his face, trying to see a hint of softening on his part. “You might not want to hear this right now, Drakon, but you’d do the same if it were your family. I know you … I know who you are, and I know you’d sacrifice everything if you had to.”
Drakon looked at her hard, his features harsh, expression shuttered, and then turned away, and walked to the window where he put his hand on the glass, his gaze fixed on the blue horizon. Silence stretched. Morgan waited for him to speak, not wanting to say more, or rush him to a decision, because she knew in her heart, he couldn’t tell her no … it’d go against his values, go against his ethics as a man, and a protective Greek male.
But it was hard to wait, and her jaw ached from biting down so hard, and her stomach churned and her head throbbed, but she had to wait. The ball was in Drakon’s court now.
It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was pitched so low she had to strain to hear. “I have sacrificed everything for my family,” he said roughly. “And it taught me that no good deed goes unpunished.”
Her eyes burned, gritty, and her chest squeezed tight with hot emotion. “Please tell me I wasn’t the one who taught you that!”
His hand turned into a fist on the window.
Morgan closed her eyes, held her breath, her heart livid with pain. She had loved him … so much … too much….
“I need to think, and want some time,” Drakon said, still staring out the window, after another long, tense silence. “Go downstairs. Wait for me there.”
DRAKON WAITED FOR the bedroom door to close behind Morgan before turning around.
His gut churned with acid and every breath he drew hurt.
He wasn’t going to do it. There was no way in hell he’d actually help her free her father. For one—he hated her father. For another—Drakon had washed his hands of her. The beard was gone. The vigil was over. Time to move forward.
There was no reason he needed to be involved. No reason to do more than he had. As it was, he’d gone above and beyond the call of duty. He’d given her the money, he’d told her what to do, he’d made it clear that there were those who knew exactly what to do, he’d named the people to call … he’d done everything for her, short of actually dialing Dunamas on his cell phone, and good God, he would not do that.
Drakon stalked back to the bathroom, stared at his reflection, seeing the grim features, the cold, dead eyes, and then suddenly his face dissolved in the mirror and he saw Morgan’s instead.
He saw that perfect pale oval with its fine, elegant features, but her loveliness was overshadowed by the worry in her blue eyes, and the dark purple smudges beneath her eyes, and her unnatural pallor. Worse, even here, in the expansive marble bathroom, he could still feel her exhaustion and fatigue.
She’d practically trembled while talking to him, her thin arms and legs still too frail for his liking and he flashed back to that day in New York where he’d spotted her walking out of her shop with Jemma. Morgan might not be sick now, but she didn’t look well.
Someone, somewhere should be helping her. Not him … she wasn’t his to protect anymore … but there should be someone who could assist her. In an ideal world, there would be someone.
He shook his head, not comfortable with the direction his thoughts were taking him. She’s not your problem, he told himself. She’s not your responsibility. Not your woman.
Drakon groaned, turned away from the mirror, walked out of the bathroom, to retrieve his phone. He’d make a few calls, check on a few facts, see if he couldn’t find someone to work with her, because she’d need someone at her side. Not him, of course, but someone who could offer advice and assistance, or just be a source of support.
Standing outside on his balcony he made a few calls, and then he made a few more, and a few more, and each call was worse than the last.
Morgan Copeland was in trouble.
She’d lost her home, her company, her friends, her reputation. She was a social outcast, and she was broke. She was overdrawn in her checking account and she’d maxed out every credit card she owned.
Drakon hung up from his last call and tossed the phone onto the bed.
Dammit.
Dammit.
He was so angry with her….
And so angry with her rarified world for turning on her.
She had lost everything. She hadn’t been exaggerating.
Morgan was standing in the living room by the enormous wall of windows when Drakon appeared, almost an hour after she’d left him in his bedroom. He’d dressed once again in the off white cashmere V-neck sweater he’d worn earlier, his legs long in the pressed khaki trousers, the sweater smooth over his muscular chest. He’d always had an amazing body, and his perfect build allowed him to wear anything and now with the beard gone she could see his face again and she couldn’t look away.
She couldn’t call him beautiful, his features were so strong, and his coloring so dark, but he had a sensuality and vitality about him that fascinated her, captivated her. “How long had you been growing that beard?” she asked.
“A long time.”
“Years?”
“I’m not here to discuss my beard,” he said curtly, crossing the room, walking toward her. “While upstairs I did some research, made a few phone calls, and you did sell your loft. Along with your boutique in SoHo.”
Energy crackled around him and Morgan felt her insides jump, tumble. He was so physical, always had been, and the closer he got, the more the tension shifted, growing, building, changing, binding them together the way it always had. The way it always did. “I had to,” she said breathlessly, “it was the only way to come up with the money.”
“You should have told me immediately that you’d given the Somali pirates ransom money and that they’d failed to release your father.”
“I thought you might not have helped me, if you knew….” Her voice faded as Drakon closed the distance between them. He was so alive, so electric, she could almost see little sparks shooting off him. Her heart pounded. Her tummy did another nervous, panicked flip.
She shouldn’t have sent away the helicopter. She should have gone while she could. Now it was too late to run. Too late to save herself, and so she stared at him, waited for him, feeling the energy, his energy, that dizzying combination of warmth and heat, light and sparks. This was inevitable.