Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands. Jane PorterЧитать онлайн книгу.
hospital, six in ICU, being seen by cardiac specialists. The specialists explained that her extreme weight loss had damaged her heart, and they warned her that if she didn’t make immediate and drastic changes, she could die of heart failure.
But Morgan hadn’t been dieting. She didn’t want to lose weight. She had just found it impossible to eat when her heart was broken. But she wasn’t a fool, she understood the gravity of her situation, and recognized she was in trouble.
During the day they’d fed her special shakes and meals and at night she’d dreamed of Drakon, and the dreams had been so vivid and intense that she’d woke desperate each morning to actually see him. She made the mistake of telling Logan that she was dreaming about Drakon every night, and Logan had told their mother, who then told the doctors, and before Morgan knew it, the psychiatrists were back with their pills and questions and notepads.
Did she understand the difference between reality and fantasy?
Did she understand the meaning of wish fulfillment?
Did she want to die?
It would have been puzzling if she hadn’t been through all this before at McLean Hospital in Massachusetts, and then at the Wallace Home for a year after that. But she had been through it before so she found the doctors with their clipboards and questions and colorful assortment of pills annoying and even somewhat amusing.
She’d refused the pills. She’d answered some questions. She’d refused to answer others.
She wasn’t sick or crazy this time. She was just pushing herself too hard, working too many hours, not eating and sleeping enough.
Morgan had promised her medical team and her family she’d slow down, and eat better, and sleep more and enjoy life more, and for the next two plus years she did. She began to take vacations, joining her sisters for long holidays at the family’s Caribbean island, or skiing in Sun Valley or Chamonix, and sometimes she just went off on her own, visiting exotic locations for inspiration for her jewelry designs.
She’d also learned her lesson. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, mention Drakon again.
Those ten days in the hospital, and her vivid, shattering dreams at night, had inspired her third collection, the Black Prince, a glamorous, dramatic collection built of ruby hues—garnets, red spinels, pink sapphires, diamonds, pave garnets, watermelon tourmaline, pink tourmaline. The collection was a tribute to her brief marriage and the years that followed, mad love, accompanied by mad grief. In her imagination, the Black Prince was Drakon, and the bloodred jewels represented her heart, which she’d cut and handed to him, while the pink sapphires and delicate tourmalines were the tears she’d cried leaving him.
But, of course, she had to keep that inspiration to herself, and so she came up with a more acceptable story for the public, claiming that her newest collection was inspired by the Black Prince’s ruby, a 170-carat red spinel once worn in Henry V’s battle helmet.
The collection was romantic and over-the-top and wildly passionate, and early feedback had seemed promising with orders pouring in for the large rings, and jeweled cuffs, and stunning pendulum necklaces made of eye-popping pale pink tourmaline—but then a week before the official launch of her collection, news of the Michael Amery scandal broke and she knew she was in trouble. It was too late to pull any of her ads, or change the focus of the marketing for her latest Morgan Copeland collection.
It was absolutely the wrong collection to be launched in the middle of a scandal implicating Daniel Copeland, and thereby tarnishing the Copeland name. The Black Prince Collection had been over-the-top even at conception, and the finished pieces were sensual and emotional, extravagant and dramatic, and at any other time, the press and fashion darlings would have embraced her boldness, but in the wake of the scandal where hundreds of thousands of people had been robbed by Michael Amery and Daniel Copeland, the media turned on her, criticizing her for being insensitive and hopelessly out of touch with mainstream America. One critic went so far as to compare her to Marie Antoinette, saying that the Black Prince Collection was as “frivolous and useless” as Morgan Copeland herself.
Morgan had tried to prepare herself for the worst, but the viciousness of the criticism, and the weeks of vitriolic attacks, had been unending. Her brother, Branson, a media magnate residing in London, had sent her an email early on, advising her to avoid the press, and to not read the things being written about her. But she did read them. She couldn’t seem to help herself.
In the fallout following the Amery Ponzi scandal, the orders that had been placed for her lush Black Prince Collection were canceled, and stores that had trumpeted her earlier collections quietly returned her remaining pieces and closed their accounts with her. No one wanted to carry anything with the Copeland name. No one wanted to have an association with her.
It was crushing, financially and psychologically. She’d invested hundreds of thousands of dollars into the stones, as well as thousands and thousands into the labor, and thousands more into the marketing and sales. The entire collection was a bust, as was her business.
Fortunately, there was no time to wallow in self-pity. The phone call from Northern Africa, alerting her that her father had been kidnapped, had forced her to prioritize issues. She could grieve the loss of her business later. Now, she had to focus on her father.
And yet … standing here, on the balcony, with the bright sun glittering on the sapphire water, Morgan knew she wouldn’t have had any success as a designer, or any confidence in her creative ability, if it hadn’t been for her honeymoon here in this villa.
And Drakon.
But that went without saying.
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