The Fallen Greek Bride

“Help me, Drakon,” Morgan said, her voice pitched low, hoarse. “Do you want me to beg? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”

Her chin lifted and tears sparkled in her eyes, even as her heart burned as if it had been torched with fire. “Am I to go onto my knees in front of you and plead my case?”

He didn’t move a muscle. “I do like you on your knees,” he said cordially.

She drew a ragged breath, locked her knees, praying for strength. “I haven’t forgotten,” she said, aware that she was in trouble here, aware that she ought to go. Now. “So on my knees it is,” she said mockingly, lifting the hem of her pale blue skirt to kneel on his limestone floor.

Her mind was whirling, her insides churning. She felt sick, dizzy, off-balance by the contradictions and the intensity and her own desperation.

He had to help her.

He had to.

About the Author

JANE PORTER grew up on a diet of Mills & Boon^® romances, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight, and spent many of her high school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now Jane splits her time between rugged Seattle, Washington, and the beautiful beaches of Hawaii, with her sexy surfer and three very active sons. Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, USA. Or visit her website at www.janeporter.com

THE
FALLEN GREEK
BRIDE

Jane Porter

www.millsandboon.com.au

For Randall Toye—
thank you for the friendship and support.

CHAPTER ONE

“WELCOME HOME, MY WIFE.”

Morgan froze inside Villa Angelica’s expansive marble and limestone living room with its spectacular floor-to-ceiling view of blue sky and sea, but saw none of the view, and only Drakon’s face.

It had been five years since she’d last seen him. Five and a half years since their extravagant two-million-dollar wedding, for a marriage that had lasted just six months.

She’d dreaded this moment. Feared it. And yet Drakon sounded so relaxed and warm, so normal, as if he were welcoming her back from a little holiday instead of her walking out on him.

“Not your wife, Drakon,” she said softly, huskily, because they both knew she hadn’t been his anything for years. There had been nothing, no word, no contact, not after the flurry of legal missives that followed her filing for divorce.

He’d refused to grant her the divorce and she’d spent a fortune fighting him. But no attorney, no lawsuit, no amount of money could persuade him to let her go. Marriage vows, he’d said, were sacred and binding. She was his. And apparently the courts in Greece agreed with him. Or were bought by him. Probably the latter.