‘As I said, Orsino, I’m not your wife. It won’t be me caring for you. Ask someone else.’
Then a horrible thought struck. Had his head injury affected his memory? Didn’t he recall what had happened between them? Poppy swayed. The possibility of brain damage was too much on top of exhaustion.
‘Of course you’re my wife. You never filed for divorce.’ He paused. ‘Why is that, Poppy? Because there was still publicity to be milked from my name?’
His icy tone grazed her skin, making her shudder.
Relief battered her, and anger. No memory loss after all. Orsino recalled everything. And still blamed her.
Poppy stiffened her backbone, setting her jaw and telling herself she’d been a fool to think he’d ever be glad to see her.
She didn’t want this man in her life. She was glad to be rid of him.
Yet his question rang in her ears. Why hadn’t she divorced him?
‘You didn’t file for divorce, either.’ Poppy stopped, hating how scratchy and thin her voice sounded, revealing her turmoil. She breathed deep, clasping her hands before her. They trembled.
Orsino had always made her feel too deeply.
Time hadn’t cauterised the wounds at all. She’d just pretended it had. That knowledge scared her as nothing had in years.
‘Our marriage ended when you walked out.’ Though it had taken her far longer to realise it. The memory of her desperate hopes and frantic phone calls, all unanswered, made her itch with embarrassment.
‘When I walked out? Talk about selective memory!’ Orsino shook his head. ‘There’s no mistake. I gave the hospital your name.’
Poppy blinked owlishly at the man before her. He’d orchestrated this?
She darted a glance towards the door. Why stay and let him manipulate her?
Yet something welded her to the spot. Pity for his injuries? Better that than the alternative, that somewhere, deep down, she still cared. That she didn’t want to leave till she found out how badly he was hurt and whether he’d see again.
‘You had no business giving them my name.’
He shrugged and Poppy hated herself for noticing the way his broad shoulders moved against the white bed linen, as if she were some love-struck teenager, transfixed by his athletic physique.
Been there, got the T-shirt, over it now.
If only she believed it. The thread of unexpected heat twisting deep inside belied her certainty.
‘The hospital needed my next of kin. That’s you, Poppy. It has been ever since we left that registry office together.’
She shook her head. ‘What about Lucca? What about Lucilla? You’ve got all those brothers and sisters. Plus your father. Any one of them—’
‘They’re all tied up at the moment. Besides, by law you’re my next of kin.’
‘And you thought I wouldn’t be busy?’ Her hands slipped to her hips as anger hiked. ‘Unlike you, I have to work for my living. I’m in the middle of a photo shoot. I can’t simply drop everything to nurse you.’
‘But you just did, didn’t you?’ His words punctured her fury, pulling her up short. Poppy bit her lip, the salt tang of blood filling her mouth.
He was right. She’d thrown over everything in the rush to get to him.
Would she have a job to return to? There’d been talk of working around her absence, shooting without her for a few days, but she’d barely taken it in.
Poppy chewed her lip. Of course she’d have a job. Hers was the new face of Baudin.
But she’d left them in the lurch. Never had she behaved so. Poppy Graham was always a consummate professional, punctual and reliable. Until now. She spun on her heel and marched to the window, pushing her hair back over a shoulder that slumped with weariness.
Looking up she saw the dark bulk of the Himalayas, enormous as a crouching giant. Her heart plunged at the thought of what might have happened.
‘What were you doing up there?’ She shivered and wrapped her arms around her middle, wishing she could warm the part of her that was still frozen from lingering fear. ‘You must have known it was ridiculously dangerous, especially at this time of year!’
‘Why, Poppy, if I didn’t know better I’d almost believe you were worried about me.’
She swung around, fingers biting into her arms through her cashmere sweater. ‘Spare me the act, Orsino. I’m not in the mood.’ She breathed deep. ‘Much as I … dislike you, I never wished you dead.’
His tight smile disappeared. The lines bracketing his mouth scored deeper than she remembered. What was the rest of his face like beneath those bandages? Grim like his mouth?
‘Really? But you’d look superb in widow’s weeds.’ His voice grated on stretched nerves. ‘You’d do stoic vulnerability with such panache. Think of all the lovely media sympathy to boost your profile.’