by Jane Porter
“You used to attend events like that all the time.”
“Yes, when we were socially desirable, but we’re not anymore. We’re hated, loathed, but Mom doesn’t get it. She’s trying to carry on as if everything is the same, but nothing’s the same. Only Mom refuses to face facts, refuses to accept that no one wants us at their balls or parties or fund-raisers anymore.” Morgan tried to laugh but couldn’t quite pull it off. “Dad’s being held hostage in Somalia and Mom’s trying to find a date for this Saturday’s symphony gala. What a horrible family you married into, Drakon!”
His amber gaze suddenly locked with hers. “I didn’t marry them. I married you.”
“And I’m the craziest of them all!”
He said nothing for a long moment and then he smiled, a slow, wicked smile that put an equally wicked gleam in his eye. “Is that why sex was always so much fun?”
She blushed but was saved from answering by the sudden appearance of Rowan. “Your contact from Somalia just phoned,” he said, entering the living room. “He left a message. They’re not going to let you speak with your father. But since you have the money ready, they want to arrange the drop, and give you instructions on where you’ll find your hostage.”
Morgan’s smile died on her lips and she glanced at Drakon, and then back at Rowan. “Did they really say it like that?”
Rowan nodded and Morgan paled and swallowed hard. “They make my father sound like a carcass,” she whispered, sickened.
“We’re not dealing with sensitive people,” Rowan answered.
“But don’t panic,” Drakon added. “I’m sure he’s still alive.”
She drew a quick breath and lifted her chin. “I want him out of there.”
“He will be,” Drakon said.
Rowan nodded. “Soon.
* * *
It took them a while to move from the living room to the dining room for dinner, but once they got there, the dining room glowed with candlelight. The dining room’s antique chandelier was filled with tapers, and the iron and glass sconces on the white walls reflected onto the ceiling making every surface gleam and dance with light. But the meal was definitely subdued. Morgan was both angry and heartsick and felt impossibly distracted. Rowan barely spoke and Drakon didn’t say much more than Rowan. But every now and then Morgan looked up to find Drakon watching her, his expression shuttered and impossible to read.
Perhaps if she and Drakon had been alone, she would have asked him what he was thinking, but with Rowan present, Morgan left Drakon to his own thoughts, and she tried not to dwell on her father, or his conditions in Somalia.
As Drakon said, her father would be home soon. Rowan had agreed with him.
She had to focus on that, cling to that, not allow herself to slide into panic or doubt.
Finally the dinner dishes were being cleared away and coffee was served. But sitting in silence with coffee proved even more uncomfortable than eating in silence.
“I hate them,” she choked out, unable to remain silent another moment. “I hate how they’ve taken him and are treating him like he’s nothing…nobody…just an object to be bartered.”
“It is horrendous,” Drakon agreed quietly.
“But it’s on the rise, isn’t it?” She looked up at him as she added another half teaspoon of sugar to her coffee and gave it a brisk stir. “From what I read, attacks have doubled in the last few years.”
Drakon’s dark head inclined. “Last year there were more hostages taken than ever before.”
“Nearly twelve hundred,” Morgan murmured, having done a fair amount of research on her own, trying to understand what had happened to her father. “With many being held for nine months or more. Unthinkable. But it’s real. It’s happening.”
“At least your father will be freed,” Rowan said brusquely. “There are hundreds of hostages who haven’t been ransomed…that will never be ransomed.”
Morgan’s insides twisted. She couldn’t imagine being one of the unfortunate crew who were never freed. How terrible to sit day after day, week after week, month after month waiting for a ransom that might never come. “Because someone isn’t willing to pay the ransom?” she asked.
“Or able to pay it. Not all shipping companies have insurance that will pay it, and most ordinary people can’t come up with millions of dollars, not even to save a loved one,” Drakon answered.
Morgan put her spoon down, her eyes burning, guilt eating at her because she was able to help her father. She was able to do something and yet she felt for those who couldn’t. “Fortunately, I understand the counter-piracy measures put in place this past year seem to be helping. From what I read, piracy was down during the first quarter of the year—not enough of course to give cause for celebration, but enough to know that the experts might be on to something.”
“That’s true,” Drakon agreed. “Right now there’s a concerted international effort to check piracy, and it’s helping, but it certainly hasn’t stopped the pirates. It’s just slowed them a little.”
“How do you stop them?”
“Put a stable, strong, and effective government in place. Change their economic structure. Take out the group who is arming the pirates, and profiting from the hostage ransoms.” Rowan’s lips curved, his expression hard. “But if that were easy, it would have been done already. And so we do the next best thing—increase maritime intelligence and continue international cooperation on monitoring the water off the Horn of Africa.”
“Until I began researching piracy I didn’t realize that until recently, few countries worked together…that for the most part, most countries just focused on their own pirated vessels,” Morgan answered.
Rowan shrugged. “Typical nationalistic reaction.”
“How so?”
“Every country has its own navy, military intelligence and sources, so it’s not easy getting everyone on the same page. Governments are protective of their military and don’t want to share resources,” he answered her.
Morgan frowned. “But you’re military?”
“Former, yes. Just as most of us in maritime intelligence have served in one arm of the navy or another.”
“Were you in the Royal Navy?” she asked.
“I’ve actually served in both the U.S. Navy and the Royal Navy, but at different times and in different capacities.”
Morgan glanced to Drakon and then back to Rowan. “How is that possible?”
“I have dual nationalities…I was born in Northern Ireland to an Irish mother, and an American Greek father, giving me both American and British citizenship.”
“Irish, too,” Drakon said.
“They let you have all those passports?” Morgan asked, rather amazed.
Rowan shrugged. “If you’re good at what you do.”
“And you are good, I take it?”
His lips curved but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Have to be. There’s a lot at stake—” He broke off as the sound of high heels clicking briskly on hard tiles echoed in the hallway.
They were all listening to the footsteps and Morgan stiffened, her shoulders drawing back as unease rolled through her in a huge dark wave.
Bronwyn.
Morgan went hot and then cold. But no, it couldn’t be. What would Bronwyn be doing here?
And yet no one else walked that way. No one else sounded so fiercely confident in high stiletto heels.
Then there she was, appearing in the dining room doorway as if she owned Villa Angelica, as tall and blonde and statuesque as ever, dressed tonight in a formfitting red jersey knit that clung to her curves, making the most of her voluptuous body. Bronwyn, a stunning blonde with brilliant blue eyes and a dark golden tan, knew how to make an entrance.
“Hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said, smiling, as her gaze swept the dining room, before lingering on Drakon.
Morgan’s stomach hurt as she saw the way Bronwyn looked at Drakon. Drakon had always said that Bronwyn was just part of his management team, a valua
ble employee and nothing more, but from the possessive expression on Bronwyn’s face, Morgan knew that Bronwyn was fiercely attached to Drakon.
“You haven’t kept us waiting,” Drakon answered, rising and gesturing to a chair at the table. “Join us. Have you eaten? Would you like coffee? Something sweet?”
Bronwyn flashed Drakon a grateful smile as she moved around the dining room table to take an empty chair. “A glass of wine would be perfect. You know what I like.”
Morgan ground her teeth together as she glanced from Bronwyn to Drakon and then back to Bronwyn again. How could he have invited her here, now, when they were in the middle of a crisis? How could he possibly think it was appropriate?
Bronwyn sat down and crossed one leg over the other, then gave her head a small toss, sending her long, artfully layered blond hair spilling over her shoulders down to the tops of her high full breasts. “Drakon, next time, send the helicopter for me, not a driver. I was nauseous from Sorrento on. Such a grueling drive. So many hairpin curves.”
Drakon didn’t respond; too busy speaking to one of the kitchen staff, requesting Bronwyn’s wine.
Bronwyn turned to Rowan. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”
“Busy,” he answered flatly, expression hard.
“But it must be nice to be in a business that is booming,” she retorted.
“Not if there are people’s lives at stake,” Morgan said, unable to remain silent.
Bronwyn waved her hand in a careless gesture. “Most crews on hijacked ships aren’t hurt. Most are eventually released when the ransom’s paid.”
“Most,” Morgan said, hanging on to her temper by a thread. “But that’s not all, and not a cause to celebrate.”
Bronwyn smiled, her long lashes dropping over her eyes, but not before Morgan caught the glittering animosity in the blue depths. “Was I celebrating? I hope not. That would be most insensitive of me, considering your father is being held hostage as we speak.”
For a moment Morgan couldn’t breathe. The air caught in her throat and she balled her hands into fists. “We’ll have him home soon, though,” she answered, struggling to sound calm. “Drakon’s brought in the best to secure his release.”
Bronwyn flashed Rowan an amused glance. “The best, yes, as well as the most expensive. What will the job cost Drakon this time, Rowan? Seven million? Ten? More?”
“That’s none of your business, Bronwyn,” Drakon said gruffly.
The Australian turned wide blue eyes on him. “You assigned me the task of improving the corporation’s bottom line, which includes cutting unnecessary spending—”
“And you know perfectly well that I will pay Dunamas Maritime Intelligence from my personal account, not the corporation, so enough.” Drakon’s tone was cool and firm, but not cold or firm enough for Morgan.
Why did he put up with Bronwyn? Why did he allow his vice president to speak to him the way he did? He wouldn’t tolerate it from anyone else, Morgan was sure of that.
“Yes, boss,” Bronwyn answered, rolling her eyes even as she glanced in Morgan’s direction, the exasperation in Bronwyn’s eyes replaced by bruising disdain.
Interesting, Morgan thought, air catching in her throat. Bronwyn doesn’t like me, either.
Morgan had sensed it five years ago, and had mentioned her concern to Drakon, but Drakon had brushed Morgan off, telling her not to be petty, that Bronwyn was far too professional to have any ill will toward his new wife. Morgan had felt ashamed for being petty—if that’s what how she was behaving—and properly chastised, tried not to object to Bronwyn’s frequent intrusions into their personal life, but it was almost impossible. Bronwyn called constantly, appeared on their doorstep at strange moments, felt perfectly comfortable drawing Drakon out of the living room and off into his study for long, private business conversations.
Morgan hated it, and had come to resent Bronwyn, all the while feeling guilty for resenting someone that Drakon viewed as so indispensible to his work.
But now Morgan knew she’d been right to object to Bronwyn’s intrusiveness. Because Bronwyn meant to be intrusive. Bronwyn wanted Drakon. She’d wanted him five years ago, and she still wanted him now.
Of course, Morgan had no proof, just her female intuition and that nagging gut instinct that told her something was wrong…the same gut instinct that was telling her now that Bronwyn was still a problem.
Abruptly Morgan stood, unable to remain one more moment in the same room with Bronwyn.
“It’s late and I’m still jet-lagged,” Morgan said, her voice sharper than usual. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll head to bed.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE NEXT MORNING Morgan had coffee brought to her in her room and she sat on her balcony, sipping her coffee, trying to figure out how she could avoid going downstairs today. She’d slept like hell, dreaming of Bronwyn, as well as Bronwyn and Drakon frolicking in the pool, and the ballroom, and everywhere else, and the last person Morgan wanted to see was the real Bronwyn, who Morgan knew was up and about, as she could hear her voice wafting up from one of the terraces below.
Morgan glared down into her coffee as Bronwyn’s laugh spiraled up again. Why was Bronwyn here? What was Drakon thinking?
“More coffee? A pastry?” a deep, distinctive male voice coming from the bedroom behind her, asked.
Morgan glanced over her shoulder, to where Drakon lounged in the doorway, looking horribly handsome and very rested. “You should knock,” she said tartly, hating him for bringing Bronwyn here, to the villa, when Morgan was here feeling overwhelmed and out of control.
“I did. You didn’t answer.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have come in.”
“I needed to speak with you.”
“But it’s not polite to barge in on ladies in the morning.”
“Not even if I have an invitation for an outing?”
That did give her pause, and Morgan eyed him suspiciously, excited at the idea of escaping the villa for a few hours, before realizing that she needed to be here, available, in case the pirates tried to contact her. “How can we just leave right now in the middle of everything? What if the pirates want to talk to me? Or change their demands?”
“They’re not going to change their demands. They’re anticipating six million dollars being delivered any day now.”
He was probably right, and yet she found it hard to contemplate doing something pleasurable when her father was still in such trouble. “I wish I knew if he had his heart medicine. I wish I knew he was okay…healthy…strong. Then I’d feel better about things. But I don’t know, and the not knowing is really scary.”
“It’s always the scariest part.” His broad shoulders shifted. “But worrying doesn’t change his situation, it just makes you sick, and makes it more difficult for you to cope with stress. Which is why I’m taking you out for a couple hours. Fresh air and a change of scenery will give you some perspective.”
“And we could be reached if something happens?”
“Absolutely.”
She hesitated. “So who would be going?”
“Just you and me, if that’s all right.”
Her gaze slowly swept over his face with the high cheekbones, straight nose, firm, sensual mouth, before dropping to his body. God, she loved his body…his narrow hips, his long lean, muscular torso and those sinfully broad shoulders. She glanced back up into his face, noting his arched eyebrow and his amused expression. She blushed. “Yes, that’s all right.”
His warm golden brown eyes, framed by those long, dense black lashes, glinted. “I’m glad.”
She looked at him for a long moment, wondering what Drakon had up his sleeve, and why he’d decided to be charming today. He was reminding her of the Drakon of their courtship, the Drakon of their honeymoon—mellow, amusing, easygoing, attentive. She liked this Drakon, very much, but why was he here now? And what did he want? “When do we leave?”
“When can you be ready?”
&nbs
p; * * *
They took the helicopter towards Naples, flying above the stunning Italian coastline, where the blue sea butted against the green swell of land, before rising up into the hills and the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, the volcano that had erupted and wiped out Pompeii.
“So beautiful,” Morgan murmured, her fingers pressed against the slick helicopter window, her gaze fixed on the landscape below. “And so deceptively serene.”
“Because Vesuvius is still active?”
“Isn’t it considered one of the world’s deadliest volcanoes?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Its Plinian eruptions aren’t a good fit for the three million people living at the base, as well as up and down the slopes.”
“I’d be afraid to live there.”
“Scientists believe they can predict an eruption before it happens, and they do have an emergency evacuation plan.
She shivered. “I understand ancient Pompeii was beautiful.”
“The villas that were on the outskirts of town would rival the finest villas today.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“Good. Because we’re on our way there now.”
Morgan clasped his arm in delight. “Really?”
“Really.”
A bubble of warmth formed in her chest, rising. “I’m so glad!”
Drakon glanced down at her hand where it rested on his arm. He’d hardened the moment she touched him, it was how he always responded to her.
He drew a breath and exhaled, trying to ease some of the tightness in his gut. “I hope you’ll enjoy today,” he said, grateful he could sound controlled even when he didn’t feel that way. “I’m hoping you will find something in Pompeii to inspire you and your next jewelry collection.”
“I don’t think there will be another—”
“Yes, there will be.”
“I made terrible mistakes—”
“Everyone makes mistakes, but that doesn’t mean you should give up. You have a gift. You’re an artist. I believe in your vision.”
She looked up into his eyes, fear and hope in the blue depths. “Do you really mean that?”
