Whether he could climb again had yet to be tested.
He waited for frustration to consume him, fear that his greatest joy could be denied him.
Instead the thought filling his head was that with the shoot ending he had no reason to stay with Poppy.
If he couldn’t climb he’d find some other challenge. But deep in his soul lurked the disturbing thought that there was no challenge in the world to match the thrill of being with Poppy, watching her delight in new experiences like sailing above the workaday world in a hot air balloon.
Or watching her brow knit as she deciphered his scrawl and entered notations on a spreadsheet, all the while peppering him with questions about why and how a particular enterprise was run.
Or seeing her come apart in his arms, the sound of his name on her lips.
How could he feel so much for a woman he couldn’t trust?
‘Orsino?’ A hand touched his arm and he looked down, disappointment flaring as he recognised a beautiful brunette he’d spoken to earlier. ‘It’s time to go in.’
He nodded and joined the crowd heading to the red carpet that led across the arched bridge to the chateau. Floodlit against the inky night it was a fantasy of pure white stone and romantic towers. Flambeaux set along either side of the bridge recalled an earlier age, but the women posing for press photographs on the red carpet were absolutely contemporary.
One, with blond hair and a dress of ice green, he recognised as the model whose drunken boyfriend had caused such a scene. The other …
Orsino’s feet welded to the cobblestones as she turned, her rich dark red hair cascading around a face as pale and luminous as moonlight.
Something clawed at his throat as Poppy smiled for the media. The sight of her undid something in his chest, like a long spool unwinding.
Her dress was the colour of wild violets, the purple so dark it looked black till she moved and the light caught. It clung lovingly to each superb inch. Full-length with long, fitted sleeves, it had a deep V neckline at the back and at the front, where it plunged low between her breasts.
His breath stalled and he waited for the fabric to slide aside, revealing one perfect, rose-tipped breast. But by some designer magic he didn’t understand, the dress stayed in place, barely.
Around her throat wound a choker of amethysts and pink diamonds. A single, gem-studded strand fell down between her breasts, drawing the eye to all that creamy skin. More stones glittered at her wrists and ears.
She laughed and something dived inside him, arrowing to the very centre of his being.
How was he going to walk away tomorrow, now the shoot, and their deal, was over?
The first time he’d left her had nearly killed him. How could he do it a second time?
Behind the cameras light glinted on pale blond hair. The man wore a dinner suit like the rest of the guests but walked with a lanky stride that unlocked bitter memory. He made a beeline for Poppy.
Mischa.
Orsino felt rage roar to life as Poppy’s old friend descended on the models, arms wide, kissing their cheeks.
His hands clenched as Mischa touched Poppy’s shoulder, leaning close. Poppy smiled back, angling her head for the cameras and a cold, hard weight dropped like a stone in Orsino’s gut.
He strode forward then slammed to a halt, eyes narrowing as he saw Poppy urge the other woman closer to Mischa, turning to call the rest of the models. Moments later the cameras were snapping group shots of a dozen dazzling models with Mischa at their centre and Poppy far away on the edge of the group.
From deep inside Orsino’s churning gut a tiny sliver of warmth rose and spread.
His mouth tipped in a sharp smile of satisfaction as Mischa turned his head to the red-headed siren at the end of the group but failed to catch her eye.
A ripple of relief and pleasure filled Orsino as the group broke up and Poppy turned away so swiftly her long skirt flared behind her.
She looked up. Her eyes caught his and Orsino’s heart thudded at what he thought he read there.
Orsino strode towards her like a man on a mission and Poppy’s heart leapt. The strain of keeping a smile on her face this past hour through the preparty photos had been almost too much to bear.
Seeing Mischa had brought it all home again. That dreadful night when, distraught and alone, she’d turned to him because Orsino hadn’t been there.
The things Mischa had whispered in her ear, about always desiring her, wanting a future with her, about how her husband had never been right for her.
The awful shame she felt when she’d emerged later from the shower after trying to scrub Mischa’s touch from her skin, to find the man she loved staring at her as if she’d crawled out from under a rock.
Worst of all, the way Orsino had turned on his heel when she’d started to explain. He’d left her bereft and ashamed.