by India Grey
So, yes, he might be managing. He might be maintaining some semblance of a normal and independent life. But it wasn’t of any kind normality he recognised.
‘Hi.’
She spoke quietly, but, momentarily distracted, Orlando felt the knife slip slightly and cursed again under his breath.
‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’
Orlando felt anger rising inside him like acrid smoke.
It’s a bit late for that.
Hesitantly she came a little further into the room, and he could see that she had changed into something dark—the same sweater and jeans she had been wearing this morning, maybe? ‘I couldn’t find you. The kitchen was the last place I thought of looking.’
‘Really. Why’s that?’
‘I just thought that with a house like this you must have millions of staff. A chauffeur and a butler and all that—at the very least a cook.’
‘No.’
His voice was sharp, and as if realising this he took a deep breath and dragged a hand through his hair. When he spoke again his tone was slightly softer, but he still gave the impression of making a huge effort to be polite. ‘I have a housekeeper who comes in daily, and is in charge of a team of people who look after the house, and I employ a lot of people on the estate. But other than that, no. I chose to live here precisely because I wanted to be alone.’
Rachel came to a standstill in the centre of the room. He seemed to have placed an invisible exclusion zone around himself. Keep away.
‘In that case I’m sorry to intrude on you like this.’ Her voice was quiet, the emotion rigidly controlled. ‘It’s all such a nightmare, and I can’t quite get my head around what I’ve done, but I can see now how awkward it is for you too.’
‘You need to let someone know that you’re safe,’ he said curtly.
Rachel felt a small glow of surprise at his thoughtfulness. ‘I have. I phoned earlier and left a message.’ No need to mention that it had been on her own answer service at her agent’s office, and that after she’d done it she’d dropped her phone out of the window and heard it crash into the shrubbery below.
‘Good. The last thing I want is an irate fiancé turning up and accusing me of abduction.’
The glow was abruptly extinguished. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said stiffly. ‘If I could just stay for tonight, first thing in the morning I’ll…go.’
Orlando clenched his fingers around the knife, steeling himself against the reproachful whispers of his conscience.
‘Fine. As I said before, there’s plenty of room. Just don’t be surprised if you’re left to yourself—I’ve got a lot on at work at the moment.’
‘Of course not. What kind of work?’
‘I have a private defence consultancy business, advising the MoD on all aspects of air defence,’ he said with an edge of sarcasm. ‘I also run the Easton estate and all its subsidiary companies. Would you like to see my CV?’
Rachel felt the colour rush to her cheeks as she realised she’d strayed too far into forbidden territory. And been warned off.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I ask too many questions. It comes of spending far too long on my own. I’m insatiably curious about—Oh God, Orlando—you’re bleeding.’
For only a second did he falter, suddenly aware of the stickiness on his fingers. It must have happened when she’d come in to the kitchen and distracted him.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s not! There’s blood everywhere!’
Orlando glanced down. It was easy to see the bright flowering of red against the pale marble slab. Without a word he crossed to the sink and held his fingers under the tap. Jaw tensed, he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Hesitantly Rachel came to stand beside him. ‘Please, let me see. There’s so much blood—it must be a deep cut.’
‘It’s fine,’ he said savagely, but even he could see that the water swirling into the sink was deep pink. Too pink. Gritting his teeth, he kept his hand beneath the freezing stream of water.
He felt her fingers brush against his wrist. Warm, whisper-soft and infinitely tender, they closed around it and slowly drew his hand away from the tap.
For a moment Rachel felt him stiffen, and she thought he was going to snatch his hand away from her. Head tilted back, his eyes burned into hers with that angry intensity that betrayed the heat beneath his glacial exterior. She felt her stomach contract with that same powerful kick of emotion she had experienced upstairs as, for a shivering second, their gazes locked.
Tearing her eyes, from his she looked down at his hand. On the tips of both his index and middle fingers the blood welled darkly, and as she watched it fell in glistening beads which shattered on the pale stone floor. She sucked in a breath and bent her head, ashamed of her sudden urge to press her lips to his upturned palm. Wincing, she ran her thumb over the clean slice in the skin on his first finger.
It was deep.
His face was like stone, betraying not the faintest hint of emotion as the blood ran into her hand, dripping between her fingers onto the floor.
‘We need to stop the bleeding,’ she said weakly.
She looked up at him. He seemed a long way away, towering over her, scowling darkly…
He swore abruptly, succinctly, and Rachel felt his hands on her shoulders, guiding her backwards and pushing her into a chair, pressing her head down onto her knees. Then, holding the blood-soaked hand aloft, he turned away and in one swift movement pulled his shirt over his head. Bunching the soft cotton in one hand, he attempted to twist it around his damaged fingers.
The roaring in her ears gradually subsided, and Rachel lifted her head. Instantly she felt dizzy again. He was standing a few feet away with his back to her.
His bare back.
Breathlessly, helplessly, she let her eyes wander over the broad expanse of silken skin gleaming in the harsh spotlights, the ripple of taut muscles beneath it. Suddenly she could see exactly where that aura of barely concealed strength and power came from.
He was like a jungle animal—raw, physical, finely honed. But here, in this dark house, this sterile kitchen, it was as if he was caged.
Wounded.
Damaged.
One question filled her head. Why?
Dazedly she watched him make for the door, and half-stood. ‘Orlando—I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?’
The look he cast her was one of icy disdain. ‘Sure. Finish cooking dinner.’
Shakily she opened the door of the vast, state-of-the-art fridge and stood motionless for long moments, clinging to the cool steel as she waited for normality to reassert itself.
Nothing looked remotely familiar, she thought dimly, gathering up what looked like a forlorn bunch of bloomless flowers, some slim greenish wands, some lumpen, unpromising-looking root vegetables. It was as if she’d been transported from Planet Normal to some alternative universe where everything was different.
Where a glance could make you tremble—not from fear, but with longing.
Where a touch could make you shiver—not with revulsion, but ecstasy…
She was suddenly aware that she’d come to a standstill in the middle of the kitchen, her arms full of produce. This was totally ridiculous, she thought wildly, giving herself a hard mental shake. Her life was in turmoil, and all she could do was fantasise about a man she hardly knew.
A man she hardly knew who was expecting her to cook dinner for him.
As if waking from a trance, she looked down at the bizarre items in her arms and let out a small exhalation of outrage. What was she thinking of? What the hell was she supposed to do with all this stuff? She was a pianist, for God’s sake—a highly trained professional whose hands were exceptionally precious instruments, insured for thousands of pounds. She didn’t cook…
Tossing her hair back from her face, she marched defiantly across to the island unit, intending to deposit the stupid green stuff and hunt down
a takeaway menu instead. But as she approached she felt herself falter. The precariously balanced armful of ingredients slipped and tumbled onto the worktop, rolling to the floor as she saw the crimson pool of Orlando’s blood still on the marble slab.
She stopped dead. And then stepped closer, stretched out a hand, and trailed her finger slowly through the dark red. She looked at her finger, at the glossy bead of his blood shining on its tip, as dark and precious as a ruby. There was something agonisingly intimate about it.
His blood.
The essence of him.
A shudder rippled through her.
‘Everything all right?’
Orlando’s voice from the doorway startled her from her thoughts, sent her hand flying to her throat in terror and confusion and shame.
‘Yes…yes, of course.’
He came forward, dressed in a faded checked shirt, two fingers of his left hand bound up with gauze. ‘You don’t seem to have got very far.’
‘No.’ Making a conscious effort to steady her breathing, she lifted her chin and met his eye. ‘I’m still clearing up. And I’m afraid I have no idea where to start with this. I’ve never cooked anything in my life, I don’t know how to—’
He cut her off with a sharp, scornful sound. ‘Then it’s high time you learned.’
Rachel swallowed hard. Reaching for a cloth, she briskly wiped up the blood from the chopping board and shook her head. ‘No. I’m no good at things like that…practical things.’
He gave a curse of pure, undisguised exasperation. OK, so Arabella might have been something of an über-achiever, but this girl seemed to take the word incompetent to a whole new level.
‘What on earth makes you say that?’ he said scathingly.
‘How about twenty-three years of experience?’ she retorted hotly. ‘Or should that be twenty-three years of inexperience? I’ve never done anything remotely domesticated!’
He couldn’t see her toss her head, but he could certainly imagine it from the indignant tone of her voice, and maybe a little from the rustle of her heavy hair. Turning his mind resolutely from the mental images that instantly flared into life, he smothered a sneer.
‘So now’s your chance.’ He picked up the knife. ‘Come here.’
‘No!’
Orlando froze. There was no mistaking the genuine anguish in her voice. For a long moment neither of them moved. He suddenly felt very, very tired.
‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked heavily, and then he remembered he was still holding the knife. ‘Jeez, Rachel, I’m not going to hurt you for God’s sake…!’
‘I didn’t think you were,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just…’ How could she explain that it wasn’t that kind of fear, the fear of harm, that was causing her to tremble so violently, but fear of losing control. How could she explain that when she could hardly understand it herself?
He sighed. ‘Come and stand here…’
Tentatively she took a step towards him, stopping a few feet away so he had to take her hand and draw her forwards. Gently, firmly, he positioned her in front of the marble chopping board and replaced the pepper he’d started to slice. She wondered if he could feel the frantic beat of her heart throbbing through her body, vibrating in the tiny space that separated them.
‘Now…take hold of the pepper,’ he said tonelessly. He was standing right behind her, and his voice close to her ear made a shiver run through her. She picked up the pepper in one shaking hand, holding onto it as if it was her last connection with reality.
‘Good. Now, in the other hand pick up the knife.’ His tone was carefully blank, but she could sense the tightly controlled frustration behind his words. Biting her lip in shame, she picked up the knife, watching the blade quiver in her uncertain grip until Orlando’s hand closed over hers.
She gasped.
His arms encircled her, safe, strong, and she had to muster every inch of self-control she had to prevent her from leaning back into his embrace and letting her head fall on to his chest.
‘No, I can’t!’
She dropped the knife with a clatter and clenched her fists. Instantly he stepped backwards, and she turned round in time to see his uninjured hand go to his head, his fingers raking through his hair in a gesture of wordless exasperation.
‘I’m sorry…’ she said lamely. ‘It’s just…it’s my hands. I have to be careful. They’re…precious…’
He suddenly went very still.
‘Precious?’
For a moment she watched as he half-raised his own hands, gazing downwards at them, at the fingers of the left one held rigidly in place by the bloodstained gauze. And then he turned away.
Precious. God, her shallowness took his breath away. Her hands were precious. Jeez.
She was unreal. His hands…His hands weren’t just precious, they were his lifeline. This spoiled little girl would never understand that.
Not that he had any intention of her finding out.
CHAPTER FOUR
RACHEL’S eyes snapped open, and for a moment she felt suffocating fear as she stared into black nothingness. Her hands were twisted in the soft duvet, her fingers cramped, and the darkness was filled with the sickening thud of her heart.
Whimpering quietly, she unravelled her hands from the bedcovers and held them out in front of her as her eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom. She had dreamed of Carlos—a bizarre, terrible dream, where he chased her down a labyrinth of narrow lanes in her wedding dress, a knife flashing in his hand. And she knew with the terrible certainty that came in sleep that he intended to damage her hands with it, in revenge for humiliating him.
And then suddenly Orlando was there, naked to the waist and standing between her and Carlos, shielding her, until the next thing she knew her wedding dress was scarlet with his blood. All she could do was hold his lacerated hands, knowing as the blood kept flowing that she had brought this on him.
Earlier on in the kitchen she had felt dizzy as his bare chest had been revealed…too shocked and too shy to take in what she was seeing. But while her conscious mind had been having a fit of the vapours it seemed her eyes had missed nothing—noting every muscle, every sinew, every inch of delicious flesh. And they had chosen the dead hours of the night to revisit them all in disturbing detail.
Her pulse raced, and her body twitched and throbbed with strange, uncomfortable sensations. In the thick silence she could hear nothing but the thudding of her heart.
Until her stomach gave a deafening rumble.
The sound broke the spell and made her laugh out loud with relief. Of course—she’d eaten virtually nothing all day, which totally explained the bizarre feelings that buzzed through her nerve-endings.
She was hungry, that was all. So hungry.
She had no idea what time it was, but food suddenly seemed like an imperative. She longed for the normality of hot buttered toast or a cup of tea. God, a chocolate biscuit seemed like the most desirable thing in the entire world…
Apart from Orlando Winterton’s chest. And his sinuous back. And his green, green eyes…
No! Resolutely she swung her legs out of bed and strode to the door.
It was bitterly, bitterly cold, but she kept going, too nervous and jumpy to want to take the time to retrace her steps and retrieve her clothes. Silver light flooded the corridor, and passing window after window she saw a full moon, swathed in diaphanous drifts of cloud trailing languidly across the star-spiked sky. Rachel slipped noiselessly down the stairs and stopped, suddenly disorientated and wishing she had paid more attention earlier, instead of concentrating on Orlando Winterton’s bloody hands…
Bloody hands. The words made images she was trying to forget come flooding back, and again she experienced that painful fizz inside her, as if someone had just pressed an electrode to her heart.
Blindly she stumbled in what she thought was the right direction for the kitchen. But there were so many doors. She opened one door and hesitated on the threshold, trying to get her bearings. The
room was huge—surely running the whole length of one side of the house—and in the silver-blue shadows nothing looked familiar. The walls were high and dark—possibly black—the furniture a mixture of beautiful antiques and startlingly modern pieces. But all of this faded into the background as her eye was drawn to a curved bay window in the middle.
In it, bathed in moonlight as if spotlit on a stage, stood a piano. A grand piano.
Without thinking she found herself crossing the room towards it on cold, silent feet, tentatively reaching out a finger and running it gently down the keys, so that a soft rattle was the only sound that resulted. They felt smooth, solid, expensive…everything that a good piano should be.
She let her finger come to rest on Middle C. And pressed.
The sound was rich and mellow, and it flowed right through her, reverberating against her tautly stretched nerves. Her stomach tightened, but her hunger was forgotten. Suddenly all that mattered was this instrument and the need to lose herself in its exquisite familiarity. Heedless of the biting cold, she sat down, placing her bare feet on the chill metal pedals, letting her fingers rest deliciously on the keys for a second and closing her eyes in relief.
After a day of confusion, this, at last, was something she could understand and control. This was her way of interpreting the world, expressing emotion—the only way she had ever been shown and the only way she knew.
The moonlight turned her hands a bloodless blue as they began very quietly, very tentatively, to play. Without thinking she found the piece that was flowing from her fingers was Chopin’s Nocturne in E Minor, its haunting notes flooding the night and filling her head with memories.
Memories she hadn’t allowed to surface before, but suddenly wouldn’t be suppressed any longer.
Closing her eyes, she gave in to them. Gradually she became aware that the keys were slippery with wetness and she realised she was crying, her tears dripping down onto her hands. She played on, not feeling the cold.
Compared to the ice inside her, it was nothing.
Sitting at his desk in the library, Orlando rubbed a hand over his tired eyes and leaned back in his chair. Apart from the soft red glow of the dying fire, the computer screen in front of him was the only source of light in the massive room, and he had been looking at it for too long. His eyes stung.