The Fallen Greek Bride. Jane Porter

      She just stared at him, confused. “What does that mean?”

      “The only time I hear from you, or your father, is when one of the Copelands needs money. But I’m not a bank, or an ATM machine, and I’m tired of being used.”

      Morgan struggled to speak. “I never meant to use you, Drakon. And I certainly didn’t marry you for money, and I’m ashamed my father asked you to invest in his company, ashamed that he’d put you in that position. I didn’t agree with it then, and I’m shattered now that he lost so much of your personal wealth, but he is my father, and I can’t leave him in Somalia. It might be acceptable … even fiscally responsible, but it’s not morally responsible, not to me. And so I’m here, begging for your help because you are the only one who can help me.”

      She paused, swallowed, her gaze searching his face, trying to see a hint of softening on his part. “You might not want to hear this right now, Drakon, but you’d do the same if it were your family. I know you … I know who you are, and I know you’d sacrifice everything if you had to.”

      Drakon looked at her hard, his features harsh, expression shuttered, and then turned away, and walked to the window where he put his hand on the glass, his gaze fixed on the blue horizon. Silence stretched. Morgan waited for him to speak, not wanting to say more, or rush him to a decision, because she knew in her heart, he couldn’t tell her no … it’d go against his values, go against his ethics as a man, and a protective Greek male.

      But it was hard to wait, and her jaw ached from biting down so hard, and her stomach churned and her head throbbed, but she had to wait. The ball was in Drakon’s court now.

      It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was pitched so low she had to strain to hear. “I have sacrificed everything for my family,” he said roughly. “And it taught me that no good deed goes unpunished.”

      Her eyes burned, gritty, and her chest squeezed tight with hot emotion. “Please tell me I wasn’t the one who taught you that!”

      His hand turned into a fist on the window.

      Morgan closed her eyes, held her breath, her heart livid with pain. She had loved him … so much … too much….

      “I need to think, and want some time,” Drakon said, still staring out the window, after another long, tense silence. “Go downstairs. Wait for me there.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      DRAKON WAITED FOR the bedroom door to close behind Morgan before turning around.

      His gut churned with acid and every breath he drew hurt.

      He wasn’t going to do it. There was no way in hell he’d actually help her free her father. For one—he hated her father. For another—Drakon had washed his hands of her. The beard was gone. The vigil was over. Time to move forward.

      There was no reason he needed to be involved. No reason to do more than he had. As it was, he’d gone above and beyond the call of duty. He’d given her the money, he’d told her what to do, he’d made it clear that there were those who knew exactly what to do, he’d named the people to call … he’d done everything for her, short of actually dialing Dunamas on his cell phone, and good God, he would not do that.

      Drakon stalked back to the bathroom, stared at his reflection, seeing the grim features, the cold, dead eyes, and then suddenly his face dissolved in the mirror and he saw Morgan’s instead.

      He saw that perfect pale oval with its fine, elegant features, but her loveliness was overshadowed by the worry in her blue eyes, and the dark purple smudges beneath her eyes, and her unnatural pallor. Worse, even here, in the expansive marble bathroom, he could still feel her exhaustion and fatigue.

      She’d practically trembled while talking to him, her thin arms and legs still too frail for his liking and he flashed back to that day in New York where he’d spotted her walking out of her shop with Jemma. Morgan might not be sick now, but she didn’t look well.