Rebel's Bargain

She’d told herself she felt nothing for Orsino Chatsfield. The burn of negative feelings had died long ago, buried under the overload of sheer hard work that had taken her to the top of her profession. No time to feel hurt, regret or guilt when every waking hour was occupied. That’s what she’d told herself for five years. What she’d believed. Till yesterday.

The fact he’d almost died on one of the world’s most inhospitable mountains, might even now be dying, made her swallow convulsively, her throat clogging.

He couldn’t die.

Poppy stumbled. She who never faltered, not even in six-inch stilettos, navigating a catwalk artistically obscured by dry-ice vapour.

Finally she reached the last room. Taking a shaky breath she stepped in, only to halt as she spied the figure unmoving in the hospital bed.

He was so still that for a horrible few seconds she wondered if he breathed.

Poppy pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart battered her ribs so hard it felt like it might jump free.

Her gaze riveted on the bed. She couldn’t remember Orsino being still. He was always on the move, as if his life force was greater than everyone else’s. The only time she’d seen him unmoving was when she’d woken before him. She remembered drinking in the sight of him, heart-stoppingly gorgeous, so precious as he sprawled beside her. The desperate intensity of her feelings had terrified her.

With good reason.

She should have trusted her instincts and run for her life.

Except she’d been hooked from the first look.

Orsino lay swathed in bandages—glaring white against his tan. One arm was in a sling, covered from fingers to elbow. The other, bare on the cotton blanket, bore livid bruises. His head was bandaged, as well. Not just his scalp but his eyes, too.

Poppy’s heart plunged to the toes of her soft kid boots.

Only the darkened jawline and column of bronzed throat were familiar. They were strong, beautifully formed and powerful. And his mouth—she surveyed those thin lips that could quirk in a smile guaranteed to make a woman’s heart soar.

She blinked, trying not to remember the words that had shot from those sculpted lips five years ago. But time hadn’t diminished her memory. They slashed her anew, reviving guilt, indignation and tearing pain.

Poppy swallowed convulsively. How bad was he? The news reports had been sensational but unreliable. Those head wounds—

‘Amindra? Is that you?’

Everything in her froze at the low words, gravelly as if he wasn’t used to speaking. She remembered that early-morning voice, how it had woken her so often, murmuring outrageous suggestions as his marauding hands played her body like a maestro tuning an instrument.

Relief flooded her that he was well enough to speak, and horror, too, at her tumbling rush of emotions.

Poppy bit her cheek, summoning strength. She felt wobbly but after more than a decade modelling she was an expert at hiding behind an impassive mask.

Her gaze went to his bandaged eyes and she shivered. Fear iced her spine.

‘Nurse?’ His voice was sharper. ‘Is that you?’

‘Hello, Orsino.’ Her voice was like smooth, golden honey, as rich and seductive as in his dreams.

He stiffened, fingers stilling as they groped for the call button. He registered the familiar disinfectant hospital scent and realised this was no dream.

Something whacked him hard in the chest, a jolt of pain as his bruised ribs expanded then eased when he remembered to breathe again.

She’d come.

Even trussed up like a turkey dinner and blind to boot, he knew her voice. He’d know it anywhere. He’d even thought he’d heard it beneath half a tonne of snow. It had bullied and cajoled him into not giving up. How was that for ironic? He must have been out of his mind.

‘Who is it?’

Orsino heard her soft gasp. Obviously she expected him to recognise her voice but he’d be damned if he’d give her that satisfaction.

She’d come too soon! They’d promised to take the bandages off his eyes today. He hadn’t wanted her seeing him like this—helpless and light-headed from medication that kept pain to a dull throb.

How had she got here so fast when he wasn’t expecting her for another couple of days?

‘It’s Poppy.’ She was at the end of the bed.

‘Poppy?’ His voice thickened unexpectedly on the second syllable, turning it into a question. Orsino flinched, detesting the emotion he heard in that single word. Where had that come from?

Heat flared under his skin and he knew in his gut it wasn’t just hurt pride because she saw him like this—so much less than the man he’d been. It was something blood-deep and disturbing. Something he no longer wanted to feel.

He’d finally acknowledged they had loose ends to tie up but nothing had prepared him for the explosion of unwanted emotion her presence ignited.

Had he made a mistake, getting her here?

It wouldn’t be his first where she was concerned.

‘Yes, it’s me.’ Her voice came from right beside him. ‘How are you?’

Orsino groped for the bed controls. He hated being flat on his back while she hovered over him. Bad enough with the nurses …

‘Let me. What did you want?’ Soft fingers brushed his and he jerked away. He told himself it was because he didn’t like the pity in her voice. The tingling in his fingers was a legacy of frostbite, no more.

‘Orsino?’

His lips compressed as his body responded to her husky whisper. It reminded him of the last time they’d been together. The memory caught him up short, smashing his composure.

Damn! This wasn’t supposed to happen.

‘I can do it myself.’ This time when he reached for the controls her hand was gone. Seconds later he was sitting up, the bed supporting him.

He shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable.

‘Here, I can help.’ No huskiness this time. Just cool efficiency. Orsino told himself he welcomed it.

Then the scent of raspberries reached him—tangy and sweet—and she tugged the pillows behind him so he sat more comfortably. Something soft brushed his jaw and he reached up, catching it.

It was a lock of hair. Soft and springy, tickling his palm, twisting around his finger. He tugged lightly and felt warmth surround him, as if she’d leaned close. The light raspberry-and-woman scent deepened in his nostrils and he swallowed hard as the past rose in a consuming wave.

He told himself to release his grip but his hold tightened on the silk skein of her hair. He tried to imagine it cascading in dark red waves around her pale shoulders and was disturbed to find he pictured it too clearly.

‘You’ve grown your hair.’ The whole time he’d known her it had been gamine short. Poppy’s air of youthful fragility, reinforced by her stunning eyes in that sculpted face, had caught the public’s imagination. She’d been the fresh, innocently sexy face of fashion.