“That’s none of your business,” he answered, giving her a look that would have crushed Morgan, but Bronwyn wasn’t crushed.

“Funny how different you are when she’s around.” Bronwyn’s blue gaze met his and held.

Drakon’s jaw thickened. “I’m exactly the same.”

“No. You’re not. Normally Drakon Xanthis rules his shipping empire with a cool head, a critical eye and shrewd sense … always fiscally conservative, and cautious when it comes to expenses and investments.” Bronwyn’s lips pursed. “But the moment Morgan Copeland enters the picture, smart, insightful, strategic Drakon Xanthis loses his head. Suddenly money is no object, and common sense is thrown out the window—”

“Bronwyn,” he growled.

The Australian jerked her chin up, her expression a curious mixture of anger and pain. “You’re just a fool for love, aren’t you?”

Drakon looked away, his jaw tight, his amber gaze strangely bleak. Morgan glanced from Drakon to Bronwyn and back again, feeling the tension humming in the room, but this wasn’t the sparky, sexy kind of tension that zinged between her and Drakon, but something altogether different. This tension was dark and heavy and overwhelming….

It felt like death … loss …

Why? What had happened between them? And what bound Drakon to Bronwyn, a woman Morgan disliked so very intensely.

But then on her own accord, Bronwyn walked out, pausing in the doorway to look at Drakon. “Don’t be putty in her hands,” she said. “You know what happens to putty.”

The pressure in Morgan’s chest should have eased after Bronwyn left. There should have been a subtle shift in mood, an easing of the tension, some kind of relief.

But Morgan felt no relief, and from Drakon’s taut features, she knew there would be no relief.

Whatever it was that Bronwyn had just said to Drakon—and Morgan had heard her, but hadn’t understood the significance, only felt the biting sarcasm—it’d hit the mark. Drakon had paled and was now ashen, his strong jaw clenched so tightly the skin along the bone had gone white.

“What just happened?” Morgan asked, her voice cracking.

Drakon didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her.

She flushed as silence stretched and it became evident that he wasn’t going to answer her, either.

“What was she saying, Drakon?” Morgan whispered, hating the way shame crept through her, shame and fear and that terrible green-eyed monster called jealousy, because she was jealous of Bronwyn, jealous that Bronwyn could have such a powerful effect on Drakon.

But once again Morgan’s question was met with stony silence. And the silence hurt. Not merely because he wasn’t talking to her, but because Bronwyn had done this to him—to them—again.

Again.

Morgan’s hands fisted at her sides. What was Bronwyn’s power? Because she certainly had something … some strange and rather frightening influence over Drakon….

Something had to have happened between Drakon and Bronwyn. Something big.

Something private and powerful.

Morgan’s head pounded as she left the living room. She needed space and quiet, and headed downstairs to the sunroom, and then outside to the broad terrace beyond. But the terrace still felt too confining and Morgan kept walking, down more stairs, to the lower garden, through manicured boxwood and fanciful hedges to the old rose garden and the herb garden and then to the miniature orchard with its peekaboo views of the sea.