in bullet form. Brief, concise and to the point.”
He was silent a moment, and then he nodded once, a short, decisive nod. “Then I’ll be brief in return. The helicopter is on the way for you. Should be here soon. And I have this for you.” He handed her a folded piece of paper.
Morgan took it from him, opened it. It was a check for seven million dollars. She looked up at Drakon in surprise. “What’s this?”
“The money you begged for.”
She flinched. “The pirates are only asking for six.”
“There will be other expenses. Travel and rescue logistics. You’ll want to hire an expert to help you. Someone with the right negotiation skills. There are several excellent firms out there, like Dunamas Maritime Intelligence—”
“I’m familiar with them.”
“They won’t be cheap.”
“I’m familiar with their fees.”
“Don’t try to do it on your own, thinking you can. Better to pay for their expertise and their relationships. They know what they’re doing, and they’ll help you avoid a trap. The Somali pirates sound like they’re a ragtag organization, but in truth, they’re being funded by some of the wealthiest, most powerful people in the world.”
She nodded, because she couldn’t speak, not with her throat swelling closed. For the first time in a long, long time, she was grateful for Drakon Xanthis, grateful he had not just the means to help her, but knowledge and power. There weren’t many people like Drakon in the world, and she was suddenly so very glad he had been part of her life.
“Use whatever is left after you pay your management fee to pay your father’s travel expenses home. There should be enough. If there isn’t, let me know immediately,” he added.
“Thank you,” she whispered huskily.
His jaw tightened. “Go to London before you return to New York, cash the check at the London branch of my bank. There won’t be any problems. They’ll give you the six million in cash you need for the ransom. You must have it in cash, and not new bills, remember that. But I’m sure your contact told you that?”
“Yes.”
His lashes dropped, concealing his expression. “They’re very particular, agapi mou. Follow the instructions exactly. If you don’t, things could turn unpleasant.”
“As if storming my father’s yacht off the Horn of Africa, and killing his captain, wasn’t unpleasant enough—” She broke off, hearing the distinctive hum of the helicopter. It was still a distance from them, but it would be here soon.
For a moment neither said anything, both listening to the whir of the helicopter blades.
“Why have you kept the news of your father’s kidnapping private?” he asked her. “I would have thought this was something you’d share with the world … using the kidnapping to garner sympathy.”
“Because it wouldn’t garner sympathy. The American public hates him. Loathes him. And if they discovered he was kidnapped by Somali pirates, they’d be glad. They’d be dancing in the streets, celebrating, posting all kinds of horrible comments all over the internet, hoping he’ll starve, or be killed, saying it’s karma—”
“Isn’t it?”
She acted as though Drakon hadn’t spoken. “But he’s my father, not theirs, and I’m not using their money. Not spending government funds, public funds or trust funds. We haven’t gone to the police or the FBI, haven’t asked for help from anyone. We’re keeping this in the family, handling it on our own, and since my brother and sisters don’t have the means, I’m using my money—”
“You mean my money.”
She flushed, and bit hard into her lower lip, embarrassed. His money. Right. They weren’t married, not really, and she had no right to spend his money, just because she had nothing left of her own.
“I stand corrected,” she whispered. “Your money. I’m using your money. But I will pay you back. Every penny. Even if it takes me the rest of my life.”
A small muscle popped in his jaw. “There is no need for that—” He paused, glancing up at the dark speck overhead. The helicopter.
One of the reasons Drakon had chosen this villa for their honeymoon five and a half years ago was that the outdoor pool had a special cover that converted it into a heli landing pad, making the remote villa far more appealing for a man who needed to come and go for meetings in Naples, Athens and London.
“No need to pay me back,” Drakon said, picking up his broken train of thought, “because I’m calling my attorney this afternoon and asking him to process the paperwork for the divorce. He will make sure the dissolution is expedited. By the end of the month, it will be over.”
It will be over. For a moment Morgan couldn’t take this last bit in. What was he saying? He’d finally agreed to the divorce?
He was giving her the money and granting her the divorce?
She just looked up at him, eyes burning, too overwhelmed to speak.
He dipped his head and raised his voice in order to be heard over the hum of the helicopter, which had begun to descend. “You will receive your full settlement once the dissolution occurs. With the current state of affairs, I’d suggest you allow me to open a personal account for you in London or Geneva and I can deposit the funds directly into the account without fear of your government freezing it. I know they’ve frozen all your family accounts in the United States—”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Yes, you do. You came here for my money. So take what you came for—”
“I came to see you for my father, and that was the only reason I came here today.”
“A point you made abundantly clear.” He smiled at her but his amber gaze looked icy, the golden depths tinged with frost. “So I am giving you what you wanted, freedom and financial security, which fulfills my obligation to you.”
She shivered at the hardness in his voice. She had never heard him speak to her with so much coldness and disdain and it crushed her to think they were ending it like this—with contempt and anger.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her heart beating too fast and aching far too much.
He didn’t answer her, his gaze fixed on the helicopter slowly descending. Morgan watched him and not the helicopter, aware that this just might be the last time she would see Drakon and was drinking him in, trying to memorize every detail, trying to remember him. This.
“Thank you,” she added, wanting him to just look at her, acknowledge her, without this new terrible coldness.
But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. “I’ll walk you to the landing pad,” he said, putting his hand out to gesture the way without touching her or looking at her.
Perhaps it was better this way, she told herself, forcing herself to move. It was hard enough being near him without wanting
