Читать книгу Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands - Jane Porter - Страница 13

MORGAN HAD ONLY packed her traveling clothes and the one blue linen top and skirt she’d changed into after arriving in Naples, and so before lunch arrived, she slipped into her comfortable tracksuit to eat her lunch on the balcony before taking a nap. She hadn’t meant to sleep the afternoon away but she loved the breeze from the open doors and how it fluttered the long linen curtains and carried the scents of wisteria and roses and lemon blossoms.

She slept for hours in the large bed with the fluffy duvet and the down pillows all covered in the softest of linens. The Italians knew how to make decadent linens and it was here on her honeymoon that she’d come to appreciate cool, smooth sheets and lazy afternoon naps. She’d fall asleep in Drakon’s arms after making love and wake in his arms and make love yet again and it was all so sensual, so indulgent. It had been pure fantasy.

She’d dreamed of Drakon while she slept, dreamed they were still together, still happy, and parents of a beautiful baby girl. Waking, Morgan reached for Drakon, her hand slipping sleepily across the duvet, only to discover that the other side of her big bed was empty, cool, the covers undisturbed. Rolling onto her side, she realized it was just a dream. Yet more fantasy.

Tears stung her eyes and her heart felt wrenched, and the heartbreak of losing Drakon felt as real as it had five years ago, when her family had insisted she go to McLean Hospital instead of return to Drakon in Greece.

You’re not well. This isn’t healthy. You’re not healthy. You’re too desperate. This is insanity. You’re losing your mind….

Her throat swelled closed and her chest ached and she bit into her lip to keep the memories at bay.

If she hadn’t left Drakon they probably would have children now. Babies … toddlers … little boys and girls …

She’d wanted a family with him, but once in Greece Drakon had become a stranger and she had feared they were turning into her own parents: distant, silent, destined to live separate lives.

She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be like her parents. Wouldn’t raise children in such an unhealthy, unsuitable environment.

Stop thinking about it, she told herself, flipping the covers back and leaving the bed to bathe before dinner. In her grand bathroom with the soaring frescoed ceiling and the warm cream-and-terra-cotta marble, she took a long soak in the deep tub before returning to the bedroom to put her tired linen skirt and blouse back on. But in the bedroom the crumpled blue skirt and blouse were gone and in their place was a huge open Louis Vuitton trunk sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed.

She recognized the elegant taupe-and-cream trunk—it was part of the luggage set her father had given her before her wedding and it was filled with clothes. Her clothes, her shoes, her jewelry, all from the Athens villa. Drakon must have sent for them. It was a thoughtful gesture and she was grateful for clean clothes and something fresh to wear, but it was painful seeing her beautiful wardrobe … so very extravagant, so much couture. So much money invested in a couple dozen dresses and blouses and trousers. Thousands more in shoes and purses.

Morgan sorted through the sundresses and evening dresses and chic tunics and caftans. Her sisters were far more fashionable than she was, and constantly pushing her to be a bit more trendy, but Morgan liked to be comfortable and loved floaty dresses that skimmed her body rather than hug every curve, but she needed something more fitted tonight, something to keep her together because she was so close to falling apart.

She settled on a white eyelet dress with a boned corset and small puffy sleeves that made her feel like a Gypsy, and she added gold hoop earrings and a coral red shawl worn loosely around her shoulders. Morgan didn’t wear a lot of makeup and applied just a hint of color to her cheeks and lips, a little concealer to soften the circles that remained beneath her eyes and then a bit of mascara because it gave her confidence.

The sun was just starting to set as she headed downstairs. She remembered her way to the dining room, but one of the villa staff was on hand at the foot of the stairs to escort her there. Before she’d even entered the dining room she spotted Drakon on the patio, through the dining room’s open doors. He was outside, leaning against the iron railing, talking on the phone.

She hesitated before joining him, content for a moment to just look at him while he was preoccupied.

He’d changed from the cashmere sweater to a white linen shirt and a pair of jeans for dinner. His choice in wardrobe surprised her.

Jeans.

She’d never seen him wear jeans before, and these weren’t fancy European denim jeans, but the faded American Levi’s style and they looked amazing on him. The jeans were old and worn and they outlined Drakon’s strong thighs and hugged his hard butt and made her look a little too long at the button fly that covered his impressive masculine parts.

How odd this new Drakon was, so different from the sophisticated, polished man she’d remembered all these years ago. His beard and long hair might be gone, but he still wasn’t the Drakon of old. He was someone else, someone new, and that kept taking her by surprise.

The Drakon she’d married had been an incredibly successful man aware of his power, his wealth, his stature. He’d liked Morgan to dress up, to wear beautiful clothes, to be seen in the best of everything, and Drakon himself dressed accordingly. He wouldn’t have ever worn a simple white linen shirt halfway unbuttoned to show off his bronze muscular chest. He’d been too controlled, too tightly wound, while this man … he oozed recklessness. And sex.

Drakon had always had an amazing body, but this new one was even stronger and more fit now and Morgan swallowed hard, hating to admit it, but she was fascinated by him. Fascinated and a little bit turned on, which wasn’t at all appropriate given the situation, especially considering how Drakon had promised not to touch her….

Drakon suddenly turned, and looked straight at her, his amber gaze meeting hers through the open door. Despite everything, heat flickered in his eyes and she swallowed hard again, even as she blushed hotly, aware that she’d been caught staring.

Nervous, she squared her shoulders and briskly crossed the dining room before stepping outside onto the patio. Drakon had just ended his call as she joined him outside and he slipped the phone into the front pocket of his jeans.

Those damn faded jeans that lovingly outlined his very male body.

There was no reason a Greek shipping magnate needed a body like that. It was decadent for a man who already had so much. His body was beautiful. Sexual. Sinful. He knew how to use it, too, especially those lean hard hips. Never mind his skillful fingers, lips and tongue.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” he said.

Cheeks hot, insides flip-flopping, she reluctantly dragged her gaze from his button fly up to his face with its newly shaven jaw and square chin. “No,” she murmured, almost missing the dark thick beard and long hair. When she’d first arrived, he’d looked so primitive and primal. So undeniably male that she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d pushed her up against the wall and taken her there.

Perhaps a little part of her wished he had.

Instead he’d vowed to stay away from her, and she knew Drakon took his vows seriously. Was it so wrong of her to wish he’d kissed her properly before he’d made that vow? Was it wrong to crave his skin even though he’d made the vow already?

Just thinking of his skin made her glance at his chest, at that broad expanse of hard muscle, and her body reacted, her inner thighs tightening, clenching, while her lower belly ached with emptiness. She hadn’t been honest with him. She had loved to make love with him, loved the way he felt inside of her, his body buried deeply between her thighs and how he’d draw back before thrusting back in, over and over until she raked her nails across his shoulders and gripped his arms and arched under him, crying his name.

And just remembering, she could almost feel the weight of him now, his arms stretching her arms above her head, his hands circling her wrists, his chest pressed to her breasts. He’d thrust his tongue into her mouth even as his hard, hot body thrust into hers, burying himself so deeply she couldn’t think, feel, want anything but Drakon.

Drakon.

And now she was here with him. Finally. After all these years.

Morgan, it’s not going to happen, she told herself. He’s letting you go. You’re moving on. There will be no sex against the wall, or sex on the floor, or sex on the small dining table painted gold and rose with the lush sunset.

But wouldn’t it feel good? another little voice whispered.

Of course it’d feel good. Everything with Drakon had felt good. Sex wasn’t the problem. It was the distance after the sex that was.

“Something to drink?” he asked, gesturing to the bar set up in the corner and filled with dozens of bottles with colorful labels. “I can make you a mixed drink, or pour you a glass of wine.”

“A glass of wine,” she said, as a breeze blew in from the sea, and caught at her hair, teasing a dark tendril.

“Red or white?”

“Doesn’t matter. You choose.”

He poured her a glass of red wine. “Were you able to sleep?” he asked, handing her the goblet, and their fingers brushed.

A frisson of pleasure rushed through her at the brief touch. Her pulse quickened and she had to exhale slowly, needing to calm herself, settle herself. She couldn’t lose focus, had to remember why she was here. Her father. Her father, who was in so much danger. “Yes,” she said, her voice pitched low, husky with a desire she could barely master, never mind hide.

Drakon stiffened at the sudden spike of awareness. Morgan practically hummed with tension, her slim figure taut, energy snapping and crackling around her. It was hot and electric, she was hot and electric, and he knew if he reached for her, touched her, she’d let him. She wanted him. Morgan had been right about the physical side of their relationship. There was plenty of heat … intense chemistry … but she’d been the one that brought the fire to their relationship. She’d brought it out in him. He’d enjoyed sex with other women, but with her, it wasn’t just sex. It was love. And he’d never loved a woman before her. He’d liked them, admired them, enjoyed them … but had never loved, not the way he loved her, and he was quite sure he would never love any woman this way again.

“For hours,” she added, blushing, her voice still husky. “It was lovely. But then, I always sleep well here.”

“It’s the air, I think,” he said. “You look beautiful, by the way,” he said.

Her cheeks turned pink and her blue eyes glowed with pleasure. She looked surprised, touched. His beautiful woman. Part of him wanted to shake her, kiss her, make her his again, and another part of him wanted to send her away forever.

“Thank you for sending for my clothes,” she said, fighting the same tendril of hair, the one the breeze loved to tease. “That was very kind of you.”

“Not kind, just practical,” he answered. “Since you’re not returning to Ekali, there’s no point keeping your things at the villa there anymore. Which reminds me, I have another trunk with your winter clothes and ski things ready to go home with you when you leave for New York. It’s in one of the storage rooms downstairs. Didn’t see any reason to drag it up three flights of stairs only to drag it down again in a few days.

A shadow passed across her face. “Is that how long you think I need to be here?”

“We’ll know better once Rowan arrives. I expect him in late tonight or early tomorrow.”

“Rowan?”

“Rowan Argyros, from Dunamas Maritime Intelligence. He’s the one I work with when my ships have been seized. His headquarters are in London, but when I phoned him this afternoon I learned that he’s in Los Angeles and he’s promised to fly out this afternoon.”

“But if you are a maritime piracy expert, why do you need outside help?”

“Because while I know shipping, and I’ve becoming quite knowledgeable about counter-piracy, it takes more than money to free a seized ship, or crew being held hostage. It takes a team of experts, as well as information, strategy and decisive action, and in your father’s case, it will take extraordinary action. As you can imagine, it’s crucial to do everything exactly right. There is no room for error in something like this. Even a small mistake could cost his life.”

She paled. “Perhaps it’s too dangerous.”

“Rowan won’t act unless he’s sure of a positive outcome.”

He watched her bite nervously into her lower lip and his gaze focused on that soft bottom lip. For a few seconds, he could think of nothing but her mouth. He loved the shape, the color, the softness of it. Always had. Her lips were full and a tender pink that made him think of lush, ripe summer fruit—sweet strawberries and cherries and juicy watermelon.

“We don’t even know if my father is alive,” she said after a moment, looking up into his eyes.

He knew from her expression that she was looking for reassurance, but he couldn’t give it, not yet, not until Rowan had finished his intelligence work. And yet at the same time, there was no reason to alarm her. Information would be coming soon. Until then, they had to be positive. “We don’t know very much about his condition at the moment, but I think it’s important to focus on the best outcome, not the worst.”

“When do you think this … Rowan … will have news for us?”

“I expect he’ll have information when he arrives.”

Morgan’s eyes searched his again and her worry and fear were tangible and he fought the impulse to reach for her, comfort her, especially when she was so close he could feel her warmth and smell her light, delicate fragrance, a heady mix of perfume and her skin.

“It’s difficult waiting,” she said softly, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip. “Difficult to be calm and patient in the face of so much unknown.”

The glimpse of her pink tongue made him instantly hard. He wanted her so much, couldn’t imagine not wanting her. It was torture being this close and yet not being able to kiss her, hold her, and he hardened all over again at the thought of kissing her, and tasting her and running his tongue across the seam of her lips.

He’d been with no one since Morgan left. For five years he’d gone without a woman, gone without closeness, intimacy, gone without even a kiss, and he suddenly felt starved. Ravenous. Like a man possessed. He needed her. She was his. His wife, his woman—

Drakon stopped himself. He couldn’t go there, couldn’t think of her like that. She might be his legally, but the relationship itself was over. “But that is life,” he said grimly. “It is nothing but the unknown.”

His staff appeared on the patio, lighting candles and sconces, including the heavy silver candelabra on the round white-linen covered table. “It appears dinner is ready,” he added, glad for the diversion. “Shall we sit?”

Morgan realized with a start that the sun had dropped significantly and now hung just above the sea, streaking the horizon red, rose and gold. It would be a stunning sunset and they’d be here on the patio to see it. “Yes, please,” she said, moving toward the table, but Drakon was already there, holding a chair for her.

She felt the electric shock as she sat down, her shoulder briefly touching his chest, and then his fingers brushing across the back of her bare arm. Her shawl had slipped into the crook of her elbow and the unexpected sensation of his skin on hers made her breath catch in her throat and she held the air bottled in her lungs as she pressed her knees tightly together, feeling the hot lick of desire and knowing she had to fight it.

“It will be a gorgeous sunset,” she said, determined to think of other things than the useless dampness between her thighs and the coiling in her belly that made her feel so empty and achy.

His amber gaze met hers, and the warm tawny depths were piercing, penetrating, and it crossed her mind that he knew.

He knew how she felt, he knew she wanted him, and it was suddenly too much … being here, alone with him.

“Must grab my camera,” she said, leaping to her feet. “Such an incredible sunset.”

She rushed off, up to her room, where she dug through her things and located her phone, which was also her camera, but didn’t return to the dining room immediately, needing the time to calm herself and pull her frayed nerves back together.

He’s always done this to you, she lectured herself. He seduced you with his eyes long before he ever touched you, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s lust. He’s good at sex. That doesn’t mean he should be your husband.

Morgan returned downstairs, head high. As she approached the patio through the dining room, the sunset bathed the patio in soft golden light. The small, round dining table seemed to float above the shimmering green tiles on the patio. The same green tiles extended all the way into the dining room and from the kitchen she caught a whiff of the most delicious aromas—tomato and onion, garlic, olive oil, herbs—even as the breeze rustled her skirts, tugging at her air, whispering over her skin.

So much light and color and sound.

So much sensation. So much emotion. It was wonderful and terrible … bittersweet. Drakon and Villa Angelica had made her feel alive again.

Drakon rose as she stepped out onto the patio. “The sun is almost gone,” he said, holding her chair for her.

She glanced out at the sea, and he was right. The bright red ball of sun had disappeared into the water. “I did miss it,” she said, hoping she sounded properly regretful as she sat back down.

“Maybe next time,” he said, with mock sympathy.

She looked up at him and then away, aware that he was playing her game with her. Pretending she’d wanted a photo when they both knew she just needed to escape him.

“I’ll have to keep my phone close by,” she said, reaching for her water glass and taking a quick sip.

His gaze collided with hers and then held, his expression one of lazy amusement. “Photos really help one remember things.”

She felt herself grow warm. “I have a purely professional interest in the scenery.”

“Is that so?”

She hated the way one of his black eyebrows lifted. Hated that curl of his lips. It was sardonic, but also quite sexy, and she was sure he knew it. “I use them for inspiration, not souvenirs,” she said coolly, wanting to squash him, and his amusement. There was no reason for him to take pleasure in her discomfiture. No reason for him to act superior.

“Interesting,” he drawled, and Morgan had to restrain herself from kicking him beneath the table because she knew he didn’t mean it. And he didn’t believe her. He probably was sitting there arrogantly thinking she was completely hung up on him … and imagining she was obsessing about having great sex with him … which was ludicrous because she wasn’t thinking about having great sex with him anymore. At least not when she was talking about the scenery and inspiration.

“I use the inspiration for my work,” she said defiantly, not even sure why she was getting so upset. “But you probably don’t consider it work. You probably think it’s silly. Superficial.”

“I never said that.”

“Perhaps you didn’t say it, but you think it. You know you do.”

“I find it interesting that you feel compelled to put words into my mouth.”

His ability to be so calm and detached when she was feeling so emotional made her even more emotional. She leaned toward him. “Surely you’ve wondered what drove you to marry a flighty woman like me … a woman so preoccupied with frivolous things.”

“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.”