Rebel's Bargain

His gut tightened as dormant parts of his body stirred.

His gaze lingered on the elegant sweep of her throat and jaw. The lush mouth she’d bemoaned wasn’t wide enough and he’d always found perfect. The stunning eyes he’d lost himself in time and again when they’d climaxed together.

Something akin to shame flooded him that after all this time he still remembered.

‘I can see but not well,’ he finally admitted, turning his head away. How much did he see when he looked at Poppy and how much did memory superimpose? Looking towards the window he could make out dark and light, shapes and shadows, but there was none of the clarity with which he’d viewed her.

Damn! How long before he recovered?

‘What I see is distorted and I’m sensitive to light. So as I say, I won’t be driving for a while.’ Orsino shoved aside the fear that perhaps he’d never drive, or climb, or parachute again. He scrubbed his jaw with his unbandaged hand. He’d even needed help shaving!

‘I’m sure I’ll be able to manage for myself while you’re working.’ He was careful not to let doubt enter his voice. He would manage, even if it killed him.

His mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. Not so long ago he’d faced the prospect of death head-on. Was that why every moment now was so vivid and emotion so close to the surface?

‘And the wheelchair? Will you need that to board the plane?’ Poppy’s clipped questions scraped away at his pride. He hated being unable to manage for himself.

If he’d expected concern he should have known better. She didn’t ask because she cared but so she could work out how little assistance to give.

Orsino told himself that didn’t hurt. Hadn’t he always managed alone? As kids he and Lucca had been all but abandoned by their parents, given everything money could buy but left to fend for themselves.

His mouth curved derisively. Just as well he’d never learned to expect sympathy. He had as much chance of genuine caring from his wife as a heatwave on Everest.

Had she ever cared for him? Or had it all been a clever con to win her money and fame? The question was like a canker inside, eating away at him.

If nothing else, he intended to discover the answer.

‘You were imagining the photos, were you? The brave wife wheeling her incapacitated hero?’

Poppy didn’t rise to the bait. Just stood silent and unmoving and suddenly the urge to bait her died. Exhaustion tugged at his body, making him slump in the chair.

He sighed. ‘I can walk, but given my vision—’ and the lacerations and bruising ‘—I’m not as mobile as I was. The wheelchair is at the insistence of the staff—’ who’d continued to badger him about staying. ‘I’ll use it as far as the entrance but after that I’ll walk.’ He just hoped he didn’t make a fool of himself by collapsing in a heap. Getting ready had sapped more strength than he’d anticipated.

Abruptly Orsino gestured to the wheelchair. He’d had enough of this conversation. ‘Given the sling it’s hard to push. Do you mind?’

‘Of course.’ She hurried behind him and he caught a faint scent of berries on the air. He ignored it.

They had to run the gamut of staff who’d assembled to see him off. At the entrance Orsino carefully stood, his body creaking like an old man’s.

‘Are you sure you’re fit to walk?’ It was Amindra, his favourite nurse. Her concern was at odds with her usual brisk kindness and he found himself groping for her hand. This round dumpling of a woman had given him more care and concern than he remembered from his own mother.

Had Poppy really been jealous of her?

‘Of course I am, Amindra. Thanks to your care. When I’m healed I’ll be back to thank you all properly.’

He thought he caught a glimpse of a smile before she curled his hands around the head of a walking stick.

‘Good. Then you can bring this back to me.’ She squeezed his hand then melted into the gloom that was his peripheral vision.

‘This way.’ It was Poppy, beside him again, her voice as colourless as a mountain brook. She swept one arm in a wide gesture and he located the door.

Slowly he paced beside her, his good hand clenched around the walking stick, his body tense with effort.

The big door swung open with a whoosh of crisp air. He hesitated then stepped out, relishing the cocktail of smells bombarding him: exhaust fumes and dust, smoke and spicy cooking. It was so different to the scoured smell of the hospital. He heard bustling life surround him. Relief battered like a wave, making him light-headed.

Not even to himself had he admitted to fear that he’d never leave the hospital. Yet he felt a weight slide off his shoulders.

‘Orsino! Orsino! Over here!’

He blinked, trying and failing to focus on the faces surrounding him. His heart drummed in his chest and a cold sweat broke out on his brow. Something suspiciously like panic twisted in his gut.

A hand closed around his sleeve.

Poppy. She was there beside him.

He breathed deep, hating the way tension eased because he wasn’t alone. Hating the fact that she felt the way his arm shook. She of all women.

It was one thing to imagine her pandering to his every whim while he regained his strength. It was another to have her guess how much this cost him. To know how much he needed her right now. His pride smarted.

Gritting his teeth, Orsino walked on, aware of the warmth of her hand through the sleeve of his jacket. Aware, too, of the curious leap of excitement he felt being close to her again.

As they walked slowly the voices grew strident and blurred faces crowded close.

‘Can you see, Orsino?’

‘How close did you come to death?’

‘Are you and Poppy reconciling? Are you in love after all this time? How about a kiss for the camera?’

Poppy spoke. ‘The car is straight ahead.’ There was nothing in her tone, neither stress nor sympathy. She might have been talking to a stranger.

He hadn’t expected her to feel anything. He’d had her measure since the night five years ago when he’d discovered what she really was.

Why did it matter that he’d been mistaken in the hospital, imagining he’d got under her skin? Why did it matter that he meant nothing to her?

Yet it did.

Because almost dying out there on the mountain, he’d faced the terrible truth that some part of him was still connected to her.

The realisation was like salt poured on an open wound. A wound he’d believed healed. His gut churned with the force of his reaction as years of resentment came flooding free.

Someone jostled them and his stick clattered to the ground. He reached out and found himself grasping soft cashmere and even softer hair. His fingers tightened.

‘That’s it, Orsino. Just one kiss!’ Around them the paparazzi pressed closer.

‘Can you stand while I reach for your stick?’ Poppy’s words were innocent enough but her ice-cool tone struck him again. To her he was an encumbrance till the divorce, a necessary responsibility. No more.

Five years ago she’d made a fool of him. Even now, when he’d blackmailed her into dancing to his tune, he hadn’t dented her self-assurance, much less her emotions.