Bronwyn sat down and crossed one leg over the other, then gave her head a small toss, sending her long, artfully layered blond hair spilling over her shoulders down to the tops of her high full breasts. “Drakon, next time, send the helicopter for me, not a driver. I was nauseous from Sorrento on. Such a grueling drive. So many hairpin curves.”

Drakon didn’t respond; too busy speaking to one of the kitchen staff, requesting Bronwyn’s wine.

Bronwyn turned to Rowan. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

“Busy,” he answered flatly, expression hard.

“But it must be nice to be in a business that is booming,” she retorted.

“Not if there are people’s lives at stake,” Morgan said, unable to remain silent.

Bronwyn waved her hand in a careless gesture. “Most crews on hijacked ships aren’t hurt. Most are eventually released when the ransom’s paid.”

“Most,” Morgan said, hanging on to her temper by a thread. “But that’s not all, and not a cause to celebrate.”

Bronwyn smiled, her long lashes dropping over her eyes, but not before Morgan caught the glittering animosity in the blue depths. “Was I celebrating? I hope not. That would be most insensitive of me, considering your father is being held hostage as we speak.”

For a moment Morgan couldn’t breathe. The air caught in her throat and she balled her hands into fists. “We’ll have him home soon, though,” she answered, struggling to sound calm. “Drakon’s brought in the best to secure his release.”

Bronwyn flashed Rowan an amused glance. “The best, yes, as well as the most expensive. What will the job cost Drakon this time, Rowan? Seven million? Ten? More?”

“That’s none of your business, Bronwyn,” Drakon said gruffly.

The Australian turned wide blue eyes on him. “You assigned me the task of improving the corporation’s bottom line, which includes cutting unnecessary spending—”

“And you know perfectly well that I will pay Dunamas Maritime Intelligence from my personal account, not the corporation, so enough.” Drakon’s tone was cool and firm, but not cold or firm enough for Morgan.

Why did he put up with Bronwyn? Why did he allow his vice president to speak to him the way he did? He wouldn’t tolerate it from anyone else, Morgan was sure of that.

“Yes, boss,” Bronwyn answered, rolling her eyes even as she glanced in Morgan’s direction, the exasperation in Bronwyn’s eyes replaced by bruising disdain.

Interesting, Morgan thought, air catching in her throat. Bronwyn doesn’t like me, either.

Morgan had sensed it five years ago, and had mentioned her concern to Drakon, but Drakon had brushed Morgan off, telling her not to be petty, that Bronwyn was far too professional to have any ill will toward his new wife. Morgan had felt ashamed for being petty—if that’s what how she was behaving—and properly chastised, tried not to object to Bronwyn’s frequent intrusions into their personal life, but it was almost impossible. Bronwyn called constantly, appeared on their doorstep at strange moments, felt perfectly comfortable drawing Drakon out of the living room and off into his study for long, private business conversations.