She didn’t need to spell it out. He wasn’t a desk jockey. He was action man, always on the move, always with new conquests to make.
‘Careful administration is what keeps these enterprises ticking over. Without oversight they could face disaster. This way we know the money is going where it’s needed.’
‘We?’
He sat back and rubbed his eyes. Poppy’s chest tightened in sympathy. Perhaps she should back off, but she sensed if she didn’t pursue this now she’d never learn more. Those impenetrable steel walls would slam down, shutting her out.
She didn’t stop to question why she needed to pry his secret loose.
‘The board that manages them.’
‘You’re on a management board?’
‘Several of them.’ His lips twisted in a wry grimace. ‘Unbelievable, huh?’
Poppy stared at the man she’d once thought she knew. Strong, determined, energetic, focused to the point of single-mindedness, a man who made things happen instead of sitting on the sidelines.
‘Not at all. I can see that you’d be a valuable addition.’
His eyes widened and his dark brows shot up.
‘How did you get involved?’
Orsino sat back, his gaze sliding towards the gathering darkness outside. Obviously this wasn’t something he often spoke about. The fact that he shared with
her
created a warm jiggle in the pit of her stomach.
‘I did a favour for a friend. He wanted a companion to paddle across the Timor Sea.’ Orsino paused, his mouth flattening. ‘I had time on my hands and agreed.’
Poppy frowned. ‘Paddle? As in canoes? That’s harebrained.’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Orsino’s lips curved up in a smile that bared his teeth and flashed her a look she couldn’t interpret.
‘That was my first visit to Timor-Leste, one of the world’s poorest countries. But the people couldn’t have been friendlier.’ He shrugged. ‘I stayed and got involved supporting a little hospital that’s understaffed and underfunded and does the most fantastic job.
‘I promised myself then that instead of just pursuing thrills, each of my trips would raise money for local people in need. The press was already following me and I’d done a couple of awareness-raising stunts for larger charities, but there was something about getting personally involved that appealed. As if I could make a difference.’
His head jerked up and his eyes met hers. ‘A god complex, maybe?’
Poppy shook her head, reeling as the import of his words sank in.
All those death-defying adventures of Orsino’s were
planned
specifically with the idea of raising funds?
The room dipped and spun. She’d assumed Orsino had simply done what he always had, finding new challenges for purely personal enjoyment. That the charity angle was a later addition—a happy coincidence. Of course it hadn’t been. Why hadn’t she realised?
How often had he risked his life for others?
She cleared her throat. ‘That’s a far cry from moving onto a management board.’
Orsino waved his hand. ‘Some places had the need but not the on-the-ground help, so I set about discovering how to get that started.’
Poppy stared. ‘You started your own charities?’
‘I prefer the word
enterprises.
The emphasis is on local people finding long-term solutions for themselves, with a bit of assistance.’ When she didn’t
respond he spread his hands wide. ‘It wasn’t me alone. I was connected with people who knew what they were doing. I was just a cog in the wheel.’
She looked down at the complex sheets before her.
‘Some wheel. There must be scores of
enterprises
here.’ No wonder he had a full-time secretary.
Poppy had the weirdest feeling, as if she’d turned around and the man she’d known—surely she
had
known him?—had revealed himself as someone different.
Orsino had always been charming and at ease in any social situation but there’d also been a sense of distance. A feeling he withdrew into himself sometimes, even when faced with an adoring throng.
Or his young, adoring wife.
Her heart stuttered then took up a tattered beat.
He’d always been self-sufficient and selfish. He’d wanted her with him when it suited him, yet turned his back with never a second glance when opportunity for adventure presented itself. And as for him fitting with her work priorities …!
Yet here was proof he felt strongly for others and connected with them in ways she’d never imagined. That he fitted his life around them.
He’d changed.
She banished the wish that he’d changed sooner. There was no going back.
‘As I said, many of them are small-scale, to fit local needs.’
Poppy’s gaze went to the computer. She returned to the index page and scanned the list of abbreviations. She stopped at one, blinking.
‘I know this one. The women’s shelter.’ It wasn’t in some far-flung place but a mere thirty miles from where she grew up. Learning about it had evoked a cavalcade of mixed emotions, primarily regret for the past that couldn’t be altered. ‘I hosted a fashion show fundraiser for it just two weeks ago.’
Poppy swung round. Instantly he was distracted by the sultry curve of her Cupid’s bow mouth, shimmering like ruby satin, and by the waft of tousled curls that trailed loose from her upswept hair.
She was so beautiful. How could he ever get enough of her?
Then he saw the curiosity on her face and cursed himself for letting her into this part of his life.
There were things she didn’t need to know. Like the fact he’d thrown himself into more dangerous challenges, like the sea crossing she called harebrained, to fill a void that had cracked wide open the night she betrayed him.
Adventure had always been solace for him in a world devoid of love. For a time he’d almost believed he’d found something different and precious with Poppy.
Until he discovered Poppy’s ‘love’ was fake.
That’s when the urge for thrills had turned darker—into a need to dice with death.
Old pain slashed with razor-sharp claws.
‘
You
hosted a charity event?’
The woman he’d married had been so focused on her career, following her beloved Mischa’s advice to the letter on how to raise her profile, that Orsino had never imagined her working for nothing.
‘You’re not the only one with a social conscience, Orsino.’ Her head angled higher and her bottom lip jutted belligerently, emphasising her natural pout.
Heat roared up, consuming Orsino. For four nights he’d had his fill of her. He’d taken her urgently, hungrily, slowly, tenderly. Every way he’d wanted. And
she’d
wanted, too. His heart crashed against his ribs as he remembered her passion.
For a pulse-beat fear battered him. Fear he’d been wrong to bed her. That it would be too hard to sever the link between them now they were lovers again.
Then logic reasserted itself. This sexual hunger resulted from prolonged abstinence. Once sated he’d move on and not look back.
He leaned forward, brushing the hair from her face, pushing it behind her delicate ear then trailing his finger over the sensitive spot just below her earlobe.
‘I’m sorry, Poppy. I shouldn’t have spoken like that.’
Her tongue swiped her lip and he almost groaned aloud. That mouth.
‘Let me make it up to you.’ His hand drifted to her shoulder then down to skim the hard nub of her nipple. He swallowed a sigh of satisfaction as she quivered. He couldn’t have stood being the only one affected by desire.
‘How will you do that?’ Her voice was a throaty purr as he stroked her again.
‘However you like.’
‘Anything?’ Her fine eyebrows arched.
‘Anything.’
‘In that case …’ Poppy rose to her knees and shuffled forward between his legs. One pale hand shoved at his chest and he let himself slump back into the chair. Her other hand touched his belt, dragging it undone before reaching for the button on his jeans.
Her eyes gleamed. The look of a woman who knew her own power. That sensuous mouth curved in a knowing smile as he felt the slow tug of his zip dragging down.
‘You’re going to kill me,’ he whispered, already rock hard.
Her smile widened. ‘And we’re both going to enjoy every minute of it.’
I
F OPULENCE AND GLAMOUR
could sell jewellery then the House of Baudin was onto a winner, Orsino decided.
The long ballroom jutted out from the chateau forming a bridge over the river. The black-and-white floor was a perfect counterpoint to the swirling, wide-skirted ball gowns of another century as dancers glided from one end of the room to the other. Discreet portable lights added to the illumination from hanging pendants and massive candelabras in each window embrasure.
The scene was rich, exotic and glamorous, a taste of luxury in the style of long ago.
At its heart, vibrant in a dress the colour of garnets, was Poppy. She stood out from the rest like the moon surrounded by faded stars.
When she whirled past him on the arm of her blond partner, Orsino’s breath snared. Her skin had the lustre of pearls and he caught the fleeting scent of crushed berries on the air.
Avidly he traced the thrust of her breasts, barely
restrained by the dress’s low décolletage, the perfect slope of her bare shoulders and the delectable curve of her waist. A king’s ransom in gold and rubies glittered at her throat and wrists, yet she outshone them easily.
Every man here desired her. He knew it, felt it in their rapt attention. But, he reminded himself, she’d been even sexier last night as she’d seduced him before the fire in the privacy of their shared sitting room.
Heat poured through him and it took a moment to realise the dancing had stopped and the director was giving instructions at the far end of the room.
He shouldn’t be here. He should be wrestling with those figures on the computer, but after last night Orsino couldn’t settle to work. Last night something had happened. He wasn’t sure what, except that he felt
different.
Because Poppy hadn’t scoffed at his work? Because she’d been interested and helpful? No, the difference had more to do with a slip-through-the-fingers sense that
they
, the two of them, had changed.
He shook his head. His imagination was working overtime. That’s what came of sitting around, inactive, for so long.
‘You’re back.’ He turned to see a man emerge from the throng of extras and join him on the sidelines. It was the one he’d chatted to on the riverbank.
‘You’re a hairdresser?’ Orsino gestured to the bag of supplies in his hand.
‘Stylist, we prefer to be called.’ Then he grinned. ‘Keeping busy with this scene, too. Most of the models don’t have hair long enough to be worn up like they did a few hundred years ago, so we’ve had to improvise. Your Poppy is the exception.’
Orsino ignored the trickle of warmth across his breastbone at the sound of ‘your Poppy’.
‘But her hair’s down around her shoulders.’ Had he missed something?
The other man shrugged. ‘Technically, to fit the time period, she should wear it up, too, but what a waste that would be. Besides, Mischa insisted that in this scene she had to look sultry. As if she’d just got out of bed with her lover.’
Orsino stared, watching as Poppy draped herself closer to her partner while the lighting was adjusted again.
‘Mischa?’ His voice seemed to come from far away.
His companion gave him a curious look. ‘The one who discovered Poppy when she was fifteen. Of course he was a photographer then, not Baudin’s creative director, but they’ve worked together for years.’
Orsino choked down a tide of bile and fury. Mischa and Poppy.
Oh, yes, he knew exactly how close they were.
‘I know Mischa.’ Did the other guy realise he
spoke through gritted teeth? It was a wonder he got the words out, given the swamping fury that blindsided him. ‘I hadn’t realised he was involved in this project.’
‘Involved? He brought it all together. That’s how Baudin got Poppy Graham—through Mischa. This series of advertisements is his baby.’
Through a rising red mist Orsino watched Poppy smile up at her partner on the dance floor. He catalogued the man’s tall, slim build. His high, Slavic cheekbones and ash-blond hair. Suddenly so much made sense.
Mischa’s pet project.
Mischa’s model.
Finally Orsino made the connection. The guy with Poppy bore a striking resemblance to the man who’d stolen Orsino’s wife: Mischa. Her old ‘friend’ Mischa, who’d always been jealous of Orsino and hated him for diverting her attention from their work together.
Was the bastard reliving his affair with Poppy vicariously through the male model? Turning it into some twisted fantasy on film he could revisit again and again?
Orsino’s breath hissed into lungs that clamped too tight. He fought for breath, his vision tunnelling to nothing as a long-banished image unfurled in his head.
The street outside their London apartment. A cab’s lights illuminated parked cars and the murky
piles of ice that passed for snow in the city. Orsino heard it crunch under his boots as he stepped off the pavement to cross the road.
Ahead a figure exited the lobby’s glass doors, walking at right angles to him. A tall man, his pale hair rumpled. He shrugged into a jacket and, as he passed under a streetlight, Orsino recognised him. Mischa, Poppy’s guide and guru in her modelling career.
The glare of light revealed two other things. First, his shirt flopped loose from his trousers, the buttons askew as if he’d been too distracted to dress properly. This, the man whose world view was driven by the need to look perfect!
Second, what appeared to be lipstick smeared across his collar. And another smudge on his cheek.
‘Sorry? Did you say something?’
Orsino swallowed the growl vibrating in his throat and fought his way back to the present. The ballroom. The man beside him. Poppy looking impossibly sexy, wrapped in the arms of a stranger who looked like the one man on earth he truly hated.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
Orsino needed space, action, movement. Something to
do.
Something to focus on other than the buzz of emotion rippling under his skin like swarming ants.
But he couldn’t simply hop in a fast car and drive
through the night. His damned faulty eyesight kept him prisoner here.
Watching the filming was the only distraction on offer. If he concentrated hard maybe he’d remember he wasn’t supposed to feel anything but lust for Poppy.
It took hours, testing his patience to screaming point. The evening progressed and it grew cold. His bad hand curled into a useless claw at his side, a legacy of the frostbite. A number of extras sneaked tipples from a flask.
Finally it was over: people everywhere, a bustle as equipment was turned off and moved. Cords were rolled up, instructions shouted, weary shoulders slumping as models in rich silks and velvets streamed past.
Orsino stood waiting.
The tall blond who’d been at Poppy’s side all night walked past, resplendent in a colourful officer’s uniform of another age. Orsino barely spared him a glance. The dresser responsible for Poppy’s jewellery hurried by, clutching a stack of flat leather cases.
The huge room emptied but still she didn’t come when the overhead lights were switched off.
It was dark at the far end of the vast ballroom yet he made out movement, the sound of voices.
Orsino headed towards them.
‘I didn’t, I tell you! You don’t know what you’re
talking about. You’re drunk.’ He heard the woman’s urgent voice from afar.
‘Don’t lie to me! I saw you with him. You were all over him.’ The man’s words were a slurred roar of rage.
Orsino quickened his pace.
‘It’s the part I’m playing. That’s all. You know I’d never—’
‘Of course you would! You’re all the same, teasing and leading a guy on then dumping him.’
There was a blur of movement and Orsino cursed, lengthening his stride and hoping he didn’t trip over something in the gloom.
‘Ow! You’re hurting me. Let me go.’ Fear threaded the woman’s voice.
The shadows ahead resolved into figures. A man looming over a woman in a shimmery dress, his hand around her wrist as she struggled, her long skirt billowing. And at her side, another woman in a dress he knew to be the colour of dark rubies, her bare shoulders and breasts gleaming in the moonlight from a nearby window.
‘Let her go.’ It was Poppy who spoke, her voice hard and low, vibrating fierce energy.
‘You keep out of this!’ The man released the other woman and swung violently towards Poppy. She backed a step, ducked and in a flash of movement somehow tipped the aggressor over her to sprawl on the floor.
Orsino pounded forward, the taste of fear, like
hot metal, searing his mouth. He stumbled over something but righted himself and surged forward, fury and adrenaline powering him.
Poppy stepped back, spreading her arms wide as if to protect the other woman. The man staggered to his feet, spewing a stream of vicious threats. Head down, he barrelled towards her.
Orsino launched himself, cannoning into him with a bone-jarring thump that made stars wink and spin behind his eyes and pain hammer through every part of him. Half-healed injuries throbbed anew.
Blood roared in his ears as they grappled. He smelled alcohol and sweat, and the rusty tang of blood. Excruciating pain lanced as fists pummelled and a vicious kick connected with his knee.
Sheer rage kept him going.
This … scum had attacked Poppy.
His fist connected with soft belly and again with a hard jaw in a crunch of bone on bone that blasted his good hand into agony.
Then there was nothing except his ragged breathing and the blood pounding like a jackhammer in his head, throbbing fire through his body with every beat.
He staggered to his feet, his knee barely taking his weight. Soft hands reached for him, running over him as if making sure he was all there.
‘My jaw. You’ve broken my jaw.’
Orsino looked at the man sprawled at his feet
He recognised him—the guy who’d badmouthed Poppy by the river.
A ripple of bloodlust shuddered through Orsino and he surged forward, only to pull up short when Poppy’s hold on his arm tightened. She dragged at him with all her weight.
Orsino drew a juddering breath and forced himself to stand back.
‘If it was broken you wouldn’t be able to talk.’ It was Poppy’s voice, crisp and unsympathetic.
Orsino swung round to her. His hand trembled as it cupped her face, slipped over the satin perfection of her cheek and brushed the soft richness of her hair.
She looked unharmed.
His heart clenched around a single shaky beat of relief that rose to his throat and shut down his larynx.
He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t. Something welled up inside, like a hot tide, filling him and spilling over.
‘Orsino. Are you all right?’ Then she was warm against him, hands clutching so hard he winced as pain awoke. The rustle of her dress almost drowned out her little cry, half sob, half gasp, as she lifted his bruised knuckles to her lips.
‘You really need to see a doctor.’ Poppy worked to keep her voice firm as she dipped the face cloth into warm water and wrung it out.
Her hands were unsteady, she realised. Her bones had turned to water when she’d seen Orsino locked in that writhing, vicious brawl and they still hadn’t recovered. How she’d found strength to support him back to their rooms she didn’t know.
That he’d managed to limp here defied logic. By rights he should be lying down, waiting for medical attention.
When he’d flown through the air to take down her attacker, fear had held her frozen and disbelieving.
She shook her head. Orsino had fought for her. Disabled as he was he’d thrown himself into danger.
To protect her.
The cloth slipped back into the bowl, her nerveless fingers shaking like silk ribbons before a wind machine.
No one had ever protected her like that.
No one but her mother, whose efforts had been ineffectual against an enraged, drunken brute.
Poppy squeezed her eyes shut, reliving those heart-in-mouth moments when Orsino had put himself between her and danger. When he’d absorbed the blows of a man made unnaturally strong by drink and jealousy.
She knew exactly how powerful drink could make an angry man.
‘Poppy? What is it?’
Her eyes snapped open and she saw her hands
twined together so hard the knuckles gleamed white.
‘Why did you do it?’ She whipped round, her full skirt swishing around her legs.
Orsino sat on the edge of the bed wearing only jeans and boots, hair tousled and dark features brooding. Blood oozed from a cut on his collarbone and his lip was swollen. Red marks, soon to be more bruises, marred his body and the hand cradling his plaster cast was bloody.
He’d never looked more devastatingly charismatic, more potently male. Deep, deep inside, something vital melted as her gaze skittered over him.
‘What do you mean?’ His brows drew together.
‘Why did you tackle him?’ Her voice wasn’t her own. It wobbled uncontrollably, like the trembling that started up in her knees.
Orsino reared back, his eyes widening.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Look at you!’ Her voice rose despite her effort to keep it even. ‘You’re still recuperating from being crushed in an
avalanche
! No one thought you’d survive. And now you … you …’
Poppy shook her head, her unbound hair swirling around her in a dark cloud. She couldn’t find words because she didn’t understand what it was she felt.
Fear for him, yes. Worry that he’d damaged that arm again, or his ribs, or worse still, his eyes. But something else, too. Something so huge and inexplicable
she couldn’t begin to analyse it. It pressed down on her chest, an immovable weight, and clogged her throat when she tried to swallow. Her head reeled as if she’d been clouted in the head—her and not Orsino.
‘I didn’t need you to rescue me. I’m not your responsibility, remember?’ Her breath shuddered into her lungs. ‘It’s not as if you’re …’ She waved a hand in the air.
‘Your husband?’
Her eyes snapped to his. Ebony dark, they stripped her to the core. Despite her ball gown she felt as if she was naked before him. Worse, as if he saw the confused, distraught woman she hid inside.