Rebel's Bargain

Poppy stepped to the edge of the bed and watched him turn his head towards her.

‘You’ve got yourself a deal, Orsino. I’ll give you a couple of weeks for old times’ sake and then I never want to see you again.’

CHAPTER THREE

ORSINO GRIMACED AS the doctor probed gently and pain throbbed through him.

‘How long till I’m fit?’ he demanded, his voice hoarse from fighting pain and the unexpected emotion of meeting Poppy just hours before.

He felt raw inside, as if the slip of deadly ice and rock had crashed right through his innards instead of merely cracking a few bones and tearing skin.

Despite his injuries, death from exposure had, by comparison, been a strangely peaceful prospect. Numbness would lead to loss of consciousness then nothing. No pain, no struggle. Only his brain hadn’t let him give in. He’d heard a voice, Poppy’s voice, whenever he’d wanted to give up. He’d known he couldn’t just slip away until he’d finished what was between them.

‘For the arm, a month or so, though you could have lingering symptoms in this hand especially. You were in the ice too long for my liking.’

The doctor scrawled another note in his report and Orsino reminded himself he was lucky he could see the movement, no matter how poorly. The prospect of blindness had terrified him. He repressed fear that this distorted vision was the best he’d ever get.

‘I’d prefer that you stayed here longer.’

Orsino opened his mouth to protest but the doctor spoke again. ‘I know, I know. That’s not going to happen. Since you insist on leaving I’ll forward a report so your doctor can keep an eye on you. In the meantime you need rest and plenty of it.’

The doctor’s terseness was a welcome change. He’d grown sick of that unfailingly upbeat tone with which the nurses avoided answering questions about his recovery.

‘You’ll have to be careful of the ribs for some time. As for the lacerations and bruising, that’s all healing nicely.’

Orsino let himself sag against the pillows.

‘And my eyes?’

Orsino tried not to read significance into the pause before the doctor answered.

He’d come a long way from those hours half frozen as he dragged Michael from the avalanche. More than once he’d thought them both lost for ever.

Whatever the prognosis it was better than being another fatal statistic.

‘Ah. Your vision. That’s more difficult. As we discussed earlier, snow blindness usually doesn’t last. But in some cases, such as yours, there can be longer-term damage. The injury to your head hasn’t helped.’

‘But I will recover?’

Again that pause. Orsino drew a deep breath as he fought panic. These days of darkness had been the most taxing of his life. How would he cope if poor vision stopped him doing the things that made life worthwhile? He’d go insane.

‘I’m hopeful.’

‘But?’

‘But how long it takes and whether the recovery will be complete I can’t say. You’ll need regular monitoring. I’ve made a referral for you to see an excellent specialist in France.’

Orsino murmured his thanks as the doctor left.

Ironic that he’d damaged his vision while raising money for an eye clinic.

No, that wasn’t true. The clinic hadn’t been the real impetus for his perilous climb. It had been his father, and his own impetuous anger.

Five years ago Orsino had thrown himself into ever more reckless adventures, trying to escape the pain of loss and Poppy’s betrayal.

The media had loved his dangerous stunts, providing him with an opportunity to do something he actually felt proud of—making a difference in the lives of those who needed help. His exploits lured donors to support a range of causes and for the first time he’d had real purpose, not just an easy life of privilege.

Till his father, Gene Chatsfield, took an interest.

Orsino’s unbandaged hand clenched against the bedclothes, frustration rising.

If his father had wanted to reconcile Orsino would have met him halfway.

But Gene wasn’t interested in happy families. His interest was purely commercial.

Orsino gritted his teeth. Had he really hoped the old man was interested in more than making money?

To Gene Chatsfield his daredevil son was no more than a potential business asset. He wanted Orsino as the public face of his revamped luxury hotel chain, using his philanthropy as a draw card.

Heat seared Orsino’s belly. His father cheapened everything Orsino had built. What had given him such purpose and satisfaction was reduced to the level of tawdry circus stunts to draw a crowd.

And when Orsino had refused he’d been threatened with loss of income from the family trust.