to allow you to take the lead when it comes to the pirates,” she said, her smile slowly dying, “and you may manage them, but Drakon, you mustn’t try to manage me. I won’t be managed. I’ve had enough of that these past five years.”
Drakon frowned, sensing that there was a great deal she wasn’t saying, a great deal he wouldn’t like hearing, and he wanted to ask her questions, hard questions, but now wasn’t the time, not when she was so fragile and fatigued. There would be time for all his questions later, time to learn just what had dismantled his marriage, and who and what had been managing her, but he could do that when she wasn’t trembling with exhaustion and with dark purple circles shadowing her eyes.
“I’m concerned about you,” he said flatly.
“There’s been a lot of stress lately.”
He didn’t doubt that, and it crossed his mind that if he’d been a real husband, and a more selfless man, he would have gone to Morgan, and offered her support or assistance before it’d come to this. Instead, he, like the rest of the world, had followed the Copeland family crisis from afar, reading about the latest humiliation or legal move in the media, and doing nothing.
“I can see that, but you’ll be of no use to your father, if you fall apart yourself,” he said. “I’ll make some calls and the staff can prepare us a late lunch—”
“Do we really need lunch?”
“Yes, we do. And while I understand time is of the essence, not eating will only make things worse. We need clear heads and fierce resolve, and that won’t happen if we’re fainting on our feet.”
Morgan suddenly laughed and she shook her head, once again giving him a glimpse of the Morgan he’d married … young and vivacious and full of laughter and passion. “You keep using ‘we,’ when we both know you mean me.” She paused and her gaze lifted, her eyes meeting his. “But I do rather like the image of you fainting on your feet.”
His gaze met hers and held and it was all he could do to keep from reaching for her. He wanted her. Still wanted her more than he’d wanted anyone or anything. “Of course you would,” he said roughly. “You’re a wicked woman and you deserve to be—”
Drakon broke off abruptly, balling his hands into fists and he realized how close he’d come to teasing her the way he’d once teased her, promising her punishment, which was merely foreplay to make her hot, to make her wet, to make her shudder with pleasure.
It used to give him such pleasure that he brought her pleasure. He wasn’t good at saying all the right words, so he used his body to say how much he adored her, how much he desired her, how much he cherished her and would always cherish her.
But only now did he know she’d hated the way he’d pleasured her.
That she’d been disgusted—
“Don’t,” she whispered, reaching out to him, her hand settling on his arm. “Don’t do that, don’t. I know what you’re thinking, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did, shouldn’t have said it how I did. It was wrong. I was wrong. I was upset.”
His body hardened instantly at her touch, and he glanced down at her hand where it clung to his forearm. He could feel her warmth through the softness of the cashmere, and the press of her fingers, and it was nothing at all, and yet it was everything, too. Nothing and everything at the same time.
He looked away from her hand, up into her eyes, angry with her all over again, but also angry with himself. How could he have not known how she felt? How could he have not realized that she didn’t enjoy … him … them?
“Rest assured that I will not take advantage of you while you are here,” he said, trying to ease some of the tension rippling through him. “You are safe in the villa,” he continued, hating that he suddenly felt like a monster. He wasn’t a monster. Not even close. It’s true he could be ruthless in business, and he had a reputation for being a fierce negotiator, a brilliant strategist, an analytical executive, as well as a demanding boss, but that didn’t make him an ogre and he’d never knowingly hurt a woman, much less his wife. “You are safe from me.”
“Drakon.”
“I’ll have your bag taken up to the Angelica Suite,” he said. “It’s the second master suite, on the third floor, the suite one with the frescoed ceiling.”
“I remember it.”
“It’s in the opposite wing of where I’m staying but it should give you privacy and I think you’ll find it quite comfortable. I can show you the way now.”
“There’s no need to take me there,” she said hoarsely. “I remember the suite.”
“Fine. Then I’ll let you find your way, and as I have quite a few things to do, I’ll eat as I work, and I’ll have a light lunch sent to you in your room, but we’ll need to meet later so I can fill you in on the arrangements I’ve been able to make for your father.”
Morgan was glad to escape to her room, desperate to get away from Drakon and that intense physical awareness of him….
She’d hurt him. What she’d said earlier, about their sex life, about their marriage, it’d hurt him terribly and she felt guilty and sorry. So very sorry since she knew Drakon would never do anything to hurt her. He’d always been so protective of her but he was also so very physical, so carnal and sexual and she was a little afraid of it. And him. Not when she was with him, making love to him, but later, when he was gone, separated from her. It was then that she analyzed their relationship, and what they did and how they did it and how little control she had with him.
It frightened her that she lost control with him.
Frightened her that he had so much power and she had so little.
It had niggled at her during their honeymoon, but their picnics and dinners out and the afternoon trips on his yacht were so fun and romantic that she could almost forget how fierce and shattering the sex was when he was charming and attentive and affectionate. But in Athens when he disappeared into his work life, his real life, the raw nature of their sex life struck her as ugly, and she became ugly and it all began to unravel, very, very quickly.
Upstairs in her suite, Morgan barely had time to open the two sets of French doors before a knock sounded on the outer bedroom door, letting her know her overnight bag had arrived. She thanked the housemaid and then returned to the first of the two generous balconies with the stunning view.
She had never tired of this view. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could tire of it.
The Amalfi Coast’s intense blues and greens contrasted by rugged rock had inspired her very first jewelry collection. She’d worked with polished labradorite, blue chalcedony, paua shell, lapis lazuli and Chinese turquoise, stones she’d acquired on two extensive shopping trips through Southeast Asia, from Hong Kong to Singapore to Bali.
It’d been a three-month shopping expedition that big sister Tori had accompanied her on for the first month, and then Logan came for the second month, and Jemma for the third.
By the time Morgan returned to New York, she’d filled two enormous trunks of stones and had a briefcase and laptop full of sketches and the first orders from Neiman Marcus and Bergdorf Goodman. The designs were pure fantasy—a stunning collection of statement-making collars, cuffs and
