Rumours: The Dishonoured Copelands. Jane PorterЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.”
MORGAN PASSED ON coffee and returned to her room, finding it far too painful to sit across from Drakon and look at him, and be so close to him, and yet not be part of his life anymore. Better to return to her suite and pace the floor in privacy, where he couldn’t read her face or know how confused she felt.
How could she still want him so much even now? How could she want him when she knew how dangerous he was for her?
She needed to go home, back to New York, back to her family. There was no reason to remain here. Surely this man, Rowan whatever-his-name-was, from Dunamas Intelligence, didn’t need her here for his work. He could email her, or call, when he had news….
Morgan nearly returned downstairs