Rebel's Bargain

Orsino opened his mouth to protest but the doctor spoke again. ‘I know, I know. That’s not going to happen. Since you insist on leaving I’ll forward a report so your doctor can keep an eye on you. In the meantime you need rest and plenty of it.’

The doctor’s terseness was a welcome change. He’d grown sick of that unfailingly upbeat tone with which the nurses avoided answering questions about his recovery.

‘You’ll have to be careful of the ribs for some time. As for the lacerations and bruising, that’s all healing nicely.’

Orsino let himself sag against the pillows.

‘And my eyes?’

Orsino tried not to read significance into the pause before the doctor answered.

He’d come a long way from those hours half frozen as he dragged Michael from the avalanche. More than once he’d thought them both lost for ever.

Whatever the prognosis it was better than being another fatal statistic.

‘Ah. Your vision. That’s more difficult. As we discussed earlier, snow blindness usually doesn’t last. But in some cases, such as yours, there can be longer-term damage. The injury to your head hasn’t helped.’

‘But I will recover?’

Again that pause. Orsino drew a deep breath as he fought panic. These days of darkness had been the most taxing of his life. How would he cope if poor vision stopped him doing the things that made life worthwhile? He’d go insane.

‘I’m hopeful.’

‘But?’

‘But how long it takes and whether the recovery will be complete I can’t say. You’ll need regular monitoring. I’ve made a referral for you to see an excellent specialist in France.’

Orsino murmured his thanks as the doctor left.

Ironic that he’d damaged his vision while raising money for an eye clinic.

No, that wasn’t true. The clinic hadn’t been the real impetus for his perilous climb. It had been his father, and his own impetuous anger.

Five years ago Orsino had thrown himself into ever more reckless adventures, trying to escape the pain of loss and Poppy’s betrayal.

The media had loved his dangerous stunts, providing him with an opportunity to do something he actually felt proud of—making a difference in the lives of those who needed help. His exploits lured donors to support a range of causes and for the first time he’d had real purpose, not just an easy life of privilege.

Till his father, Gene Chatsfield, took an interest.

Orsino’s unbandaged hand clenched against the bedclothes, frustration rising.

If his father had wanted to reconcile Orsino would have met him halfway.

But Gene wasn’t interested in happy families. His interest was purely commercial.

Orsino gritted his teeth. Had he really hoped the old man was interested in more than making money?

To Gene Chatsfield his daredevil son was no more than a potential business asset. He wanted Orsino as the public face of his revamped luxury hotel chain, using his philanthropy as a draw card.

Heat seared Orsino’s belly. His father cheapened everything Orsino had built. What had given him such purpose and satisfaction was reduced to the level of tawdry circus stunts to draw a crowd.

And when Orsino had refused he’d been threatened with loss of income from the family trust.

As if he was some callow kid, to be manipulated and brought to heel!

His father didn’t know him at all. In twenty-eight years he’d learned enough about investment to build his own fortune separate from his family trust fund. These days Orsino lived off his own earnings and the trust monies were channelled into charitable programs.

Sure he’d been wild in his youth, not surprising given his family background. But his father made the mistake of thinking he was still eighteen.

Orsino shook his head, his mouth twisting. Who was he kidding?

His decision to make this last climb had been pure defiance, thumbing his nose at his father’s manipulations.

Orsino shoved away the covers and sat up, sick of being confined.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, vowing to be done with emotion. Look where it had got him. Disappointment and, yes, hurt at his father’s attitude had sent him on a climb that had been a hairsbreadth from suicidal.

As for Poppy … Orsino paused, pain lancing as he forgot his ribs and took a deep breath.

Poppy made him feel out of control, no longer master of his own destiny. She threatened him in ways his father could never manage.

This vulnerability had to be faced, defeated and destroyed. Then he could get on with his life.

He drew a slow breath and levered himself to his feet, ignoring another sharp throb of pain.

It was time to put his plan into action.

The group of reporters outside the hospital had grown when Poppy returned. Years of practice kept her moving at a steady clip but their shouted questions about a reconciliation with Orsino jarred like physical blows. Every strident call was a lash on tender skin.

Once inside she paused, barely resisting the need to lean against the wall for support.

Reconciliation with Orsino? No way!

He’s still your husband, a tiny voice chided.

All at once she felt like the Poppy she’d told herself no longer existed. The one who’d responded to Orsino’s shivery deep voice yesterday as she had all those years ago. The Poppy whose pulse had leapt into a jittering rhythm when he’d touched her. The Poppy who’d been devastated when he’d turned on his heel and left her bereft.

A shudder of unadulterated terror ripped through her.

She wasn’t that girl any more.

She’d rebuilt herself into someone stronger. Into the woman she’d wanted to be for as long as she could remember—independent and successful. No man would ever take over her life again. She’d seen that side of the coin with her mother. For an awful time she’d been there herself. She wouldn’t let herself be so vulnerable again.

Her relationship with Orsino had been an aberration—proof she’d been right in not wanting romantic love.

Love made you weak.

Poppy straightened, her tattered confidence growing.