Rebel's Bargain

She reared back, needing distance, needing to see his face, but arms of steel clamped her to him. Her heart pounded as bile rose in her throat.

How could he ask that? Especially after this morning—after they’d shared so much?

She couldn’t ever remember feeling as attuned to Orsino as she had today, laughing at his stories, feeling his pain as he’d talked of his past.

Had it been an illusion? Some complicated trickery on his part to make her even more vulnerable to him?

Desperately she struggled for release. Orsino’s hot, slick skin slid against hers as she writhed and a flicker of sensual awareness flared into life, making her still instantly.

Gulping, she dragged in a sobbing breath of frustration and despair, inhaling as she did the earthy smell of male heat and sex.

Poppy shuddered. She’d never felt so trapped. Not just by Orsino’s uncompromising strength, but by her body and mind.

‘I have no idea what Mischa knows.’ Even to her own ears she sounded defeated.

‘I find that very hard to believe.’ Orsino’s voice rumbled up from deep in his chest. She felt the words as he locked her to him.

‘Frankly, Orsino, I don’t care what you believe.’

It was a lie. She cared too much. This interlude at the chateau had reawakened all those feelings for him she’d thought she’d banished. And more.

How could she feel more? She blinked and bit her lip so hard she tasted the salt tang of blood.

‘You didn’t tell me he was involved in this project. That he’d organised it.’

‘How was that relevant? I don’t remember you asking for details when you had me summoned to your hospital bed. Or when you blackmailed me into bringing you here.’ She breathed deep and tried to settle her ragged pulse. ‘I don’t remember you being so choosy then.’

‘So you’re saying he doesn’t mind sharing you with another man?’

Poppy told herself it wasn’t hurt she heard in Orsino’s voice. ‘I’m saying Mischa has no right to care who I sleep with.’

‘So you and he aren’t together any more? You got this job without his influence?’

Poppy hiccupped on rising hysteria. If only Orsino knew. But of course he’d never believe the truth.

She and Mischa had never been together in the sense Orsino meant. Though familiar, coruscating guilt sideswiped her as she thought of how perilously close they’d come to it. How close she’d let Mischa.

She remembered his hands on her breasts, his mouth on hers and that sudden jerk of sanity in a mind clouded by grief and alcohol. The instant certainty that it wasn’t Mischa she needed but her husband, Orsino, who’d left hours before on one of his precious climbing trips.

Poppy gagged, nausea rising in an unstoppable wave. She shoved at Orsino’s ribs and miraculously he let her go.

In a flurry of movement she was off the bed and into the bathroom. Hands braced on either side of the basin, she hung her head. Her body shook, her legs barely able to support her as she fought the need to lose her brunch.

With a few cruelly aimed words Orsino had made her feel like a cheap tart. He’d undercut everything good they’d shared these past weeks—the understanding, the empathy and what she’d thought was budding respect.

Great racking sobs rose in her chest and she forced them down, the pain exquisite as she fought for breath.

Large hands drew the hair back from her face then a strong arm wrapped around her middle, drawing her back against Orsino’s heat, holding her steady when her legs would have given way.

Stunned, Poppy stared into the mirror. Orsino looked as bad as she felt. His face was drawn, strain etching lines around his eyes. His mouth was a tight line of pain, as if he hurt as much as she did.

‘Why?’ Her voice cracked. ‘Why did you have to—?’

‘Because I can’t let it go. I can’t forget.’

Sweet pain pierced her at his words. She should want him to forget their past so they could both move on. But she could no more let go than he could.

‘Mischa and I never—’

‘You’re not going to try rewriting history, are you?’ Poppy felt Orsino tense behind her, his hold biting into her, his bitter tone harsh in her ears.

The truth died in her throat. The man who’d just accused her of juggling two lovers wasn’t ready to hear it, even if the pain in his face gave her hope that at some level he cared.

Despair and regret welled. There was no way out.

‘Mischa and I haven’t worked together since that night in London. There is no relationship.’ Poppy almost choked on the words, remembering how sick with guilt and regret she’d felt that night. Sick enough to turn her back on her friend and mentor, the man who’d stood by her through the early years of her career. The man who’d been there for her when Orsino hadn’t. But working with him again had been beyond her. Orsino’s pain and her wrecked marriage lay between them. And her guilt.