The Fallen Greek BrideAt the Greek Boss's Bidding

by Jane Porter

  “Are you flighty?”

  “You must think so.”

  He leaned forward, too, closing the distance between them. “I’m not asking you to tell me what I think. I’m asking you—are you flighty?”

  Her chin jerked up. “No.”

  “Are you preoccupied with frivolous things?” he persisted.

  Her cheeks burned hot and her eyes felt gritty. “No.”

  “So you’re not flighty or frivolous?”

  “No.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then why would I think you are?”

  She had to close her eyes, overwhelmed by pain and the wave of grief that swept over her.

  “Morgan?”

  She gave her head a small shake, refusing to open her eyes until she was sure they were perfectly dry. “I am sorry,” she said huskily. “You deserved better than me.”

  “And I’d like to hear more about your jewelry and your ideas, unless you’re determined to hold onto this bizarre fantasy of yours that I don’t care for you or what’s going on inside that beautiful, but complicated head.”

  She suddenly seethed with anger. Why was he so interested in her thoughts now, when he hadn’t been interested in anything but her body when they’d lived together? “I loved what I did,” she said shortly. “I was really proud of my work, and I am still proud of those three collections.”

  She glared at him, waiting for him to speak, but he simply sat back in his chair and looked at her, and let the silence grow, expand and threaten to take over.

  The silence was beginning to feel uncomfortable and he was examining her a little too closely. She felt herself grow warm, too warm. “They were jewelry, yes,” she said, rushing now to fill the silence, “but they were also miniature works of art, and each collection had a theme and each individual piece told a story.”

  “And what were those stories?”

  “Life and death, love and loss, hope and despair…” Her voice faded, and she looked away, heart aching, because the collections had really been about him, them, their brief fierce love that became so very dangerous and destructive.

  “I liked them all, but my favorite collection was your last one. The one you called a failure.”

  Her head jerked up and she had to blink hard to keep tears from welling up. “You’re familiar with my three collections?”

  “But of course.”

  “And you liked my designs?”

  “You have such a unique vision. I admired your work very much.”

  She exhaled slowly, surprised, touched, grateful. “Thank you.”

  “I was proud of you, my wife. I still am.”

  The tears she’d been fighting filled her eyes and she didn’t know what affected her more—his words or his touch. “My short-lived career,” she said, struggling to speak, trying to sound light, mocking, but it had hurt, closing her business. She’d truly loved her work. Had found so much joy in her work and designs.

  He caught one of her tears before it could fall. “I don’t think it’s over. I think you’re in the middle of a transition period, and it may feel like death, but it’s just change.”

  “Well, death certainly is a change,” she answered, deadpan, flashing him a crooked smile, thinking she liked it when Drakon talked to her. She’d always liked his perspective on things. She found it—him—reassuring, and for her, this is how she connected to him. Through words. Language. Ideas.

  If only they’d had more of this—time and conversation—perhaps she wouldn’t have felt so lost in Greece. Perhaps they’d still be together now.

  He suddenly reached out and stroked her cheek with his thumb, making her heart turn over once again.

  “I liked it when you smiled a moment ago,” he said gruffly, his amber gaze warm as he looked at her. “I have a feeling you don’t smile much anymore.”

  For a moment she didn’t speak, she couldn’t, her heart in her mouth and her chest filled with hot emotion.

  She was still so drawn to him, still so in love with him. But there was no relationship anymore. They were mostly definitely done—finished. No turning back.

  He was helping her because she needed help, but that was all. She had to remember what was important—her father and securing his release—and not let herself get caught up in the physical again because the physical was maddening, disorienting and so incredibly addictive. She hadn’t known she had such an addictive personality, not until she’d fell for Drakon.

  “There hasn’t been a great deal to smile about in the past few months,” she said quietly. “Everything has been so grim and overwhelming, but just being here, having your support, gives me hope. If you hadn’t agreed to help me, I don’t know what I would have done. I’m so very grateful—”

  “Your father’s not home yet.”

  “But with your help, he soon will be.”

  “Careful, my love. You can’t say that. You don’t know that.”

  She averted her head and blinked hard, gazing out across the water that had darkened to purple beneath a lavender sky. The first stars were appearing and the moon was far away, just a little crescent of white.

  “I’m not saying that it’s hopeless,” Drakon said. “Just that there is still a great deal we do not know yet.”

  “I understand. I do.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MORGAN PASSED ON coffee and returned to her room, finding it far too painful to sit across from Drakon and look at him, and be so close to him, and yet not be part of his life anymore. Better to return to her suite and pace the floor in privacy, where he couldn’t read her face or know how confused she felt.

  How could she still want him so much even now? How could she want him when she knew how dangerous he was for her?

  She needed to go home, back to New York, back to her family. There was no reason to remain here. Surely this man, Rowan whatever-his-name-was, from Dunamas Intelligence, didn’t need her here for his work. He could email her, or call, when he had news….

  Morgan nearly returned downstairs to tell Drakon she wanted to leave tonight, that she insisted on leaving tonight, but as she opened her door she realized how ridiculous she’d sound, demanding to go just when Rowan was set to arrive. No, she needed to calm down. She was being foolish. As well as irrational. Drakon wouldn’t hurt her. He wasn’t going to destroy her. She just needed to keep her head, and not let him anywhere close to her body.

  Morgan went to bed, thinking she’d be too wound up to sleep, but she did finally sleep and then woke up early, her room filled with dazzling morning sunlight. After showering, she dressed simply in slim white slacks and one of her favorite colorful tunics and headed downstairs to see if she could get a coffee.

  One of the maids gestured to the breakfast room, which was already set for two. Morgan shook her head. “Just coffee,” she said, unable to stomach the idea of another meal with Drakon. “An Americano with milk. Latte,” she added. “But nothing to eat.”

  The maid didn’t understand and gestured again to the pretty table with its cheerful yellow and blue linens and smiled winningly.

  “No, no. Just coffee. Take away.” Morgan frowned, wondering why she couldn’t seem to remember a single word of Italian. She used to know a little bit, but her brain wasn’t working this morning. She was drawing a total blank.

  The maid smiled. “Coffee. Americano, si. Prego.” And she gestured to the table once more.

  Morgan gave up and sat down at the table, needing coffee more than argument. She ended up having breakfast alone and enjoyed her warm pastries and juice and strong hot coffee, which she laced with milk.

  The sun poured in through the tall leaded windows, and light dappled the table, shining on the blue water glasses and casting prisms of delicate blue on the white plaster walls.

  Morgan studied the patches of blue glazing the walls. She loved the color blue, particularly this cobalt-blue glass one found on the Amalfi coast, and could imagine beautiful jewelry made from the same blue glass, round beads and square knots
mixed with gold and shells and bits of wood and other things that caught her fancy.

  Her fingers suddenly itched to pick up a pencil and sketch some designs, not the extravagant gold cuffs and collars from her Amalfi collection, but something lighter, simpler. These pieces would be more affordable, perhaps a little bit of a splurge for younger girls, but within reach if they’d saved their pennies. Morgan could imagine the trendy jet-setters buying up strands of different colors and textures and pairing them with easy bracelets, perfect to wear to dinner, or out shopping on a weekend, or on a beach in Greece.

  “What are you thinking about?” Drakon asked from the doorway.

  Startled, she gazed blankly at him, having forgotten for a moment where she was. “Jewelry,” she said, feeling as if she’d been caught doing something naughty. “Why?”

  “You were smiling a little…as if you were daydreaming.”

  “I suppose I was. It helps me to imagine designing things. Makes the loss of my company less painful.”

  “You’ll have another store again.”

  “It’d be fiscally irresponsible. My last collection nearly bankrupted me.”

  One of the kitchen staff appeared with an espresso for Drakon and handed it to him. He nodded toward the table. “May I join you?”

  “Of course you may, but I was just about to leave,” she said.

  “Then don’t let me keep you,” he answered.

  His voice didn’t change—it remained deep, smooth, even—but she saw something in his face, a shadow in his eyes, and she suddenly felt vile. Here he was, helping her, supporting her, extending himself emotionally and financially, and she couldn’t even be bothered to sit with him while he had breakfast?

  “But if you don’t mind my company,” she added quickly, “I’ll have another coffee and stay.”

  There was another flicker in his eyes, this one harder to read, and after sitting down across from her, he rang the bell and ordered another coffee for her, along with his breakfast.

  They talked about trivial things over breakfast like the weather and movies and books they’d read lately. Morgan was grateful their talk was light and impersonal. She was finding it hard to concentrate in the first place, never mind carry on a conversation. Drakon was so beautiful this morning with his dark hair still slightly damp from his shower and his jaw freshly shaven. The morning light gilded him, with the sun playing across his strong, handsome features, illuminating his broad brow, his straight Greek nose, his firm full mouth.

  It was impossible to believe this gorgeous, gorgeous man had been her husband. She was mad to leave him. But then, living with him had made her insane.

  Drakon’s black brows tugged. “It’s going to be all right. Rowan should be here in the next hour. We’ll soon have information about your father.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “Last night after you’d gone to bed I was thinking about everything you said yesterday—” He broke off, frowning. “Am I really such an ogre, Morgan? Why do you think I would judge you…and judge you so harshly?”

  His gaze, so direct, so piercing, unnerved her. She smoothed the edge of the yellow square cloth where it met the blue underskirt. “Your corporation is worth billions of dollars and your work is vital to Greece and world’s economy. I’m nothing. I do nothing. I add little value—”

  “Life isn’t just about drudgery. It is also about beauty, and you bring beauty into the world.” The heat in his eyes reminded her of their courtship, where he’d watched her across ballrooms with that lazy, sensual gleam in his eyes, his expression one of pride and pleasure as well as possession. She’d felt powerful with his eyes on her. Beautiful and important.

  “But I don’t think important thoughts. I don’t discuss relevant topics.”

  “Relevant to whom?”

  “To you! I bore you—”

  “Where do you get these ideas from?”

  “From you.” She swallowed hard and forced herself to hold his gaze even though it was so incredibly uncomfortable. “I annoyed you when we lived together. And I don’t blame you. I know you find people like me irritating.”

  His black eyebrows pulled and his jaw jutted. “People like you? What does that mean?”

  She shrugged uneasily, wishing she hadn’t said anything. She hadn’t meant anything by it.

  No, not true. She had. She still remembered how he had shut down her attempts at conversation once their honeymoon had ended and they’d returned to Greece, remembered their silent lonely evenings in their sprawling modern white marble villa. Drakon would arrive home from work and they’d sit in the dining room, but it’d been a silent meal, with Drakon often reviewing papers or something on his tablet and then afterward he’d retreat to a chair in the living room and continue reading until bed. Once in the bedroom, things changed. Behind the closed door, he’d want hot, erotic sex, and for twenty minutes or sixty, or even longer depending on the night, he’d be alive, and sensual, utterly engrossed with her body and pleasure, and then when it was over, he’d fall asleep, and in the morning when she woke, he’d be gone, back to his office.

  “People like me who don’t read the business section of the newspaper. People like me who don’t care passionately about politics. People like me who don’t make money but spend it.” She lifted her chin and smiled at him, a hard dazzling smile to hide how much those memories still hurt. “People who can only talk about fashion and shopping and which restaurants are considered trendy.”

  He tapped his finger on the table. “I do not understand the way you say, ‘people like you.’ I’ve never met anyone like you. For me, there is you, and only you.”

  She leaned forward, her gaze locking with his. “Why did you marry me, Drakon?”

  “Because I wanted you. You were made for me. Meant for me.”

  “What did you like about me?”

  “Everything.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. I loved your beauty, your intelligence, your warmth, your passion, your smile, your laugh.”

  She noticed he said loved, past tense, and it hurt, a hot lance of pain straight through her heart. Perhaps it was merely a slip, or possibly, a grammatical error, but both were unlikely. Drakon didn’t make mistakes.

  “But you know that,” he added brusquely.

  “No,” she said equally roughly, “I didn’t know that. I had no idea why you cared about me, or if you even cared for me—”

  “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Because you never talked to me!” she cried. “After our honeymoon ended, you disappeared.”

  “I merely went back to work, Morgan.”

  “Yes, but you worked twelve- and fourteen-hour days, which would have been fine, but when you came home, you were utterly silent.”

  “I was tired. I work long days.”

  “And I was home alone all day with servants who didn’t speak English.”

  “You promised me you were going to learn Greek.”

  “I did, I took lessons at the language school in Athens, but when you came home at night, you were irritated by my attempts to speak Greek, insisting we converse in English—” She compressed her lips, feeling the resentment and frustration bubble up. “And then when I tried to make friends, I kept bumping into your old girlfriends and lovers. Athens is full of them. How many women have you been with, Drakon?”

  “You make it sound like you met dozens of exes, but you bumped into just three.”

  “You’re right, just three, and in hindsight, they were actually much nicer than the Greek socialites I met who were furious that I’d stolen Greece’s most eligible bachelor from under their noses.” Morgan’s eyes sparkled dangerously. “How could I, a trashy American, take one of Greece’s national treasures?”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “It was that bad! Everybody hated me before I even arrived!” She leaned across the table. “You should have warned me, Drakon. Prepared me for my new married life.”<
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  “I didn’t know…hadn’t realized…that some of the ladies would be so catty, but I always came home to you every night.”

  “No, I didn’t have you. That was the problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Morgan laughed coolly. “You came home to dinner, a bed and sex, but you didn’t come home to me, because if you had, you would have talked to me, and tried to speak Greek to me, and you would have helped me meet people, instead of getting annoyed with me for caring what Greek women thought of me.”

  He swore violently and got up from the table, pacing the floor once before turning to look at her. “I can’t believe this is why you left me. I can’t believe you’d walk out on me, and our marriage, because I’m not one for conversation. I’ve never been a big talker, but coming home to you was my favorite part of the day. It’s what I looked forward to all day long, from the moment I left for my office.”

  She swallowed around the lump filling her throat. “And yet when Bronwyn called you at home, you’d talk to her for hours.”

  “Not for hours.”

  “For thirty minutes at a time. Over and over every night.”

  “We had business to discuss.”

  “And could nothing wait until the morning? Was everything really a crisis? Or could she just not make a decision without you?”

  “Is that why you left me? Because of Bronwyn?”

  Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, yes, yes. But in her heart she knew Bronwyn Harper was only part of the issue. Drakon’s close relationship with his Australian vice president only emphasized how lonely and empty Morgan felt with him. “Bronwyn’s constant presence in our lives didn’t help matters. Every time I turned around, she was there, and you did talk to her, whereas you didn’t talk to me.”

  The fight abruptly left her, and once her anger deserted her, she was exhausted and flattened, depressed by a specter of what they had been, and the illusion of what she’d hoped they’d be. “But it’s a moot point now. It doesn’t matter—” She broke off. “My God! You’re doing it now. Rolling your eyes! Looking utterly bored and annoyed.”

  “I’m frustrated, Morgan, and yes, I do find this entire conversation annoying because you’re putting words in my mouth, telling me how I felt, and I’m telling you I didn’t feel that way when we were married.”