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.
She could deal with Orsino. Besides, for all his faults and the anger that stirred when she remembered the past, she pitied him those injuries.
Setting her shoulders she knocked and entered Orsino’s room. He wasn’t there and for one heart-stopping moment Poppy wondered if he’d taken a turn for the worse.
‘You’re late.’
Hand to chest, she spun around, her heart catapulting.
Orsino sat in a wheelchair, surveying her. The bandages around his eyes were gone, replaced by glasses so black she caught no hint of his eyes behind them.
‘Your eyes.’ It was more question than statement, but he said nothing, merely sat statue still, facing her.
Was he blind? Infuriatingly he said nothing, shutting her out completely.
Her belly cramped. He was an expert at that.
Most of the bandages on his head had been removed, except for one at a rakish angle that made him look like a stranger. A tough stranger you wouldn’t want to mess with.
Yet she’d know the angle of that cheekbone, the strong thrust of his nose and that square jaw even in her sleep.
Poppy told herself it was natural to remember so much. He’d been her first lover, after all.
Though the plan was to leave for France today, it was a shock to see him in street clothes. The image of Orsino buried in bandages had haunted her through the long, sleepless night.
Now a casual jacket hung loose from one shoulder, partly covering his sling, and he wore a pale chambray shirt. Jeans clung to his long, solid thighs. Hiking boots encased his feet on the wheelchair’s footrest.
Poppy worked to smother unwilling sympathy.
‘They must have cut the sleeve to get that shirt on.’ Her voice emerged just right, even and easy.
‘Trust a model to consider the clothes first and foremost.’ The words were an accusation that sliced straight through her. And the way he said model as if it was a euphemism for something ugly …
Her lips firmed as indignation ignited. Did she really want to deal with Orsino in condescending mode?