by Andie Brock
But where was Orlando? The longer Isobel waited for him to arrive, the more her anxiety levels rose.
She had been bracing herself for this meeting all week, trying to prepare herself for the onslaught of emotions that she knew seeing Orlando again would unleash. For the six weeks they had been apart he had been constantly in her thoughts, especially at night, when he’d filled her head, twisting her heart with a longing so intense that she had thought she might burn with it.
But she was a sensible girl. She knew the score. She knew she had to banish any silly fantasies of happy-ever-after and accept Orlando for who he was. She could never make him love her. She doubted anyone could.
As the hours passed her nervousness increased, and by the time Maria served her a light supper in the echoing dining room Isobel wasn’t able to eat a thing.
By eleven o’clock, when Orlando had still not shown, her anxiety levels had gone through the roof—spreading from nervousness to outrage to a barely controlled fury that he had the audacity to keep her waiting like this. After all, this had all been his idea. And now, on their first night in the castello, he hadn’t even had the courtesy to turn up.
Finally, having run the exhausting gamut of emotions, Isobel settled on the most depressing idea of all. Orlando wasn’t coming. He had changed his mind. He had obviously realised that tying himself down to her and the baby was a sacrifice he was no longer prepared to make.
Rising stiffly from the antique sofa where she had been perched, frozen, for the last hour, Isobel held on to the back to steady herself. Tomorrow she would go back to England, put all this behind her, and concentrate on making the life for herself and her baby that she had intended to make from the start—before Orlando had crashed in with his demands and ultimatums.
She had got as far as the doorway when she heard a commotion on the other side. Flinging open the door, she saw Maria, ashen-faced, her shaking hands at her mouth, and behind her a middle-aged man wearing a full-length nightshirt, attempting to console her.
‘Maria?’
‘Oh, Isobella!’ At the sight of Isobel fat tears started to stream down her face.
‘Maria, what is it?’
‘It is the Marchese.’ A sob escaped her chest and Isobel had to wait for an agonising second for it to subside, fear gripping at her heart.
‘Orlando?’
‘Sì, Orlando. He has been in a terrible accident.’
* * *
Running down the hospital corridor, with the young doctor trying to keep up with her, Isobel desperately tried to take in the information he was giving her. But panic had set in, making the blood roar in her ears, shutting out all reason and feeling apart from the overwhelmingly urgent need to see Orlando for herself. As if she alone was the one person who could make him better.
He had been in a car accident and he was in hospital. That much Isobel had gleaned from Maria before a wave of sickness had washed over her and she had collapsed to the ground in a dead faint. She had woken, seconds later, shivering violently against the marble tiles, to hear Maria wailing and to feel the poor unknown man struggling to get her into sitting position.
Even through the daze of nausea it had been clear to her that she was going to have to take charge if she wanted to see Orlando straight away. So she had pulled herself up to stand, gripping the walls for support, and announced to the distraught couple that she had to get to the hospital, that she needed a taxi, or a driver, or a car that she could drive herself if necessary. In the end it had been the man, Pietro, who’d turned out to be Maria’s husband, who had come to her rescue, running to put on some clothes before bringing a car around to the front, whilst Maria had fussed over Isobel, insisting she took sips of water and arranging a blanket over her shoulders.
Now, as Isobel and the doctor stopped outside the door to what must be Orlando’s room, she could feel that wave of sickness threatening to engulf her again. She took in a shuddering breath.
‘Signor Cassano has received a significant head injury...’
She heard the doctor trying to prepare her but his well-meaning words only terrified her more.
‘He will be drowsy and may appear confused. This will be the result of the medication and not necessarily the result of any brain damage.’
‘Brain damage?’ The words lodged like ice in her throat.
‘The X-rays and scans have not revealed anything untoward, but we have no way of knowing how long Signor Cassano was unconscious. With head injuries, sometimes the damage does not show immediately. He will need to be closely monitored for the next twenty-four hours before we will be able to rule out the possibility completely.’
‘I understand.’ Isobel managed a small nod. ‘Please, can I see him now?’
Opening the door, the doctor ushered her in, following close behind.
Orlando was lying in bed, propped up by pillows, his eyes firmly closed. Even here, under the harsh hospital lights he managed to look magnificent, commanding, as if he owned the place.
Bare-chested, at first sight he appeared unscathed, with just a blood-pressure cuff and a wire leading from the patch below his collarbone to link him to the humming machines. But as Isobel went to stand beside him she could see the egg-shaped swelling on the side of his forehead, the skin there already starting to take on the colour of what was going to be an almighty bruise.
She leant over him, kissing him lightly on his brow that was furrowed, even in sleep. As her hair brushed against his face she saw him twitch, his eyes flickering beneath the closed lids.
Sitting down, she looked at the injury more closely, her fingers itching to touch it, to run over the swelling as if she could heal it. But instead she took hold of Orlando’s hand in hers, surprised to feel a quick, but very firm grip in response.
‘He is obviously sleeping now, which is good.’ The doctor smiled at Isobel. ‘If you want to leave and come back in the morning? We will of course let you know should there be any change in his condition.’
Isobel felt Orlando’s grip tighten again.
‘Thank you, but I would like to stay.’
‘Of course. Then I will leave you alone. Please press the buzzer if you require anything or have any concerns.’
‘Thank you, I will.’
As the door clicked softly behind the doctor Isobel turned back to Orlando, just in time to see one eye open, then the other.
‘Isobel. Meno male—thank God. Pass me my clothes.’
‘What?’ Releasing his hand, Isobel shot back.
‘I said pass me my clothes. We are leaving.’
‘What are you talking about, Orlando? The doctor has just told me...’
‘I don’t care what he told you. It’s just a bump on the head. We are out of here—now.’
Isobel watched in horror as Orlando swung his legs over the bed, pulling off the wires and reaching for the clothes that were neatly folded on a chair.
‘How did you get here? By taxi?’
‘No, Pietro brought me.’
‘Is he still here?’ He was pulling on his jeans now, buttoning the fly.
‘Yes.’ She had left Pietro waiting outside in the car.
‘Eccellente. We just need to slip out without being noticed.’
‘We will do no such thing.’ Leaping to her feet, Isobel made for the buzzer above the bed. ‘If you don’t get back into bed I am going to press this buzzer and get help.’
‘And if you don’t step away from the buzzer I won’t be responsible for my actions.’
They faced each other from either side of the bed, eyes flashing. Outrage at Orlando’s plan was making the breath heave in Isobel’s chest. He couldn’t just walk out—not after what the doctor had told her.
‘Come on, Isobel.’ Orlando stretched out his arms wide. ‘See for yourself. There is nothing wrong with me.’
Isobel blinked, determined not to be swayed by his blatant display of masculinity. ‘And that huge swelling on your head is “nothing”, is it?’
&nbs
p; ‘Just a bump.’ Raising his hand, Orlando touched the injury, suppressing a sharp wince. ‘That’s all.’
‘You need to be monitored for twenty-four hours, Orlando. That’s what the doctor said.’
‘Fine.’
As he pulled his shirt over his head Isobel saw him grimace again, and when he bent to tug on his boots, stuffing his socks into his pockets, it was obvious that he was in a lot more pain than he was ever going to admit.
‘I hereby appoint you my chief monitor. Now, let’s go.’
‘You can’t do this, Orlando.’
But Orlando had already reached the door and, opening it quietly, he lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. ‘Here’s the deal, Isobel.’ He shot her a piercing stare. ‘Either you agree to watch over me or I take my chances and hope for the best. The choice is yours.’
* * *
Shifting his position slightly, Orlando tentatively moved his legs across the bed, then pushed his shoulders back into the mattress to try and relieve the stiffness.
‘Are you okay? Do you need another pillow?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Fine’ didn’t exactly sum up how he felt. Although determined not to show it, Orlando was feeling pretty murderous. This was not how he had intended to spend his first night in the master bedroom of the castello. Quite apart from the thumping headache and the aching bones, he was furious to find himself in this position of weakness. Furious with himself for driving too fast, furious with the wretched stag that had bounded across his path, and with the gods that had seen fit to bring the two elements together.
The violent impact had been enough to see him career off the road and into a ditch, banging his head against the windscreen. Someone had called an ambulance before he’d regained consciousness, otherwise he would have insisted on being taken the short distance to the castello rather than being carted off to hospital. Still, he was here now—he had made sure of that.
There had been no way he was going to spend the night in hospital, attached to machines and being fussed over by well-meaning nurses. Being a good patient meant doing as you were told—something Orlando had always struggled with. And besides, there was nothing wrong with him.
Although being watched like a hawk by Isobel, who was perched on a chair by the side of the bed, was doing nothing for his blood pressure.
Orlando turned his head to see her better as she sat there in the dim glow of the single bedside lamp. She looked so fragile, her eyes unnaturally large, wide green pools of concern that were trained on him, hardly even permitting herself to blink for fear that she might miss some sign that meant he was suffering the onset of catastrophic brain damage.
He hardened his heart. He didn’t want her here—not seeing him like this. He hated the way she was making him feel—not just the carnal lust that he had come to accept as a given where Isobel was concerned, but something deeper, something more profound. Something that stirred inside him when he thought about her.
Strong, independent Isobel, who had faced his demands with courage and determination. Beautiful Isobel, who was looking at him now with such tenderness that it made him want to...to what? Throw back the covers and march away, off into the darkness, to put as much space between them as he could? Or to take her in his arms and tenderly make love to her all night long? Regrettably, neither of those things would be happening.
‘I want you to go, Isobel, leave me in peace.’ His voice sounded harsh—cruel, even. ‘You need to get some sleep...you look exhausted.’
‘I’m not leaving you, Orlando.’ There she went again, displaying that stubborn, wilful streak that drove him so crazy. ‘You have to be watched for twenty-four hours.’
‘And what exactly are you watching for?’ Irritation spiked inside him as he gazed at the soft pout of her lips, the drugging depths of her eyes.
‘Loss of consciousness, deafness, weakness in arms or legs, vomiting...’ She counted off the symptoms on the slender white fingers held up before her. Somehow she even managed to make those words sound sexy. ‘Oh, and drowsiness—though I suppose that would be expected at this time of night.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it.’ He spoke with weary sarcasm, turning his head on the pillow.
Isobel hesitated, her shoulders dropping as she leant back in the chair. ‘I should do.’ Her voice dropped low. ‘I’ve had concussion myself.’
‘You have? ‘Orlando narrowed his eyes, grateful to switch the focus to Isobel. ‘When was that?’
‘Um...a car crash, when I was seventeen.’ Her hands twisted in her lap.
‘What happened?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘What happened, Isobel?’
Isobel hesitated, anguish flooding her face. ‘My father died.’ Her voice was soft but defiant. ‘That’s what happened.’
‘Dio, I’m very sorry to hear that.’ Orlando eased himself more upright. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Look, this is going to be a long night.’ He paused, judging how best to continue. ‘We might as well use it to get to know one another.’
‘Even if we don’t like what we discover?’
‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take.’
Bold words, because Orlando knew full well he had no intention of baring his soul to this young woman. But he did want to know more about the enigma that was Isobel—much more. The virgin temptress who had driven him mad with desire from their very first meeting...the hotshot business woman whose ambition and determination shone through, but whose vulnerability was only beginning to come to the surface... Suddenly he wanted to find out everything he could about the mother of his child.
‘You might change your mind when you find out what I did. Because I caused the accident—it was all my fault.’ The words came out in a rush of pain and she raised her chin, daring him to challenge her.
‘Your fault?’ He repeated the words, watching the suffering that was contorting Isobel’s features. But he wasn’t going to ignore the challenge—especially as his every instinct was telling him she had to be mistaken.
‘Yes. The car crash, my father’s death, my mother’s subsequent disabilities—it was all my fault.’
‘Go on.’
Isobel shot him a rebellious, grief-stricken stare. He could see her tussling with her conscience and her pride, sense just how painful it was for her to talk about this. But he wasn’t going to let her off the hook. They had come this far. He had no intention of letting the moment pass.
‘I’m waiting.’
‘We were travelling on the motorway.’ Finally Isobel let herself begin, dropping her shoulders, lowering her eyes to her lap. ‘My parents were arguing. They argued a lot. I don’t even remember what this one was about.’
Her voice was hollow, cutting through the shadows of the room.
‘Anger was making my father drive far too fast, and then my mother started to hit him, beating her fists against him so that the car started to swerve into the path of a bus full of passengers. I shouted at them from the back seat, but they took no notice. I thought I had to do something, so I...’
‘What did you do, Isobel?’
‘I unbuckled my seat belt and leant forward to grab the steering wheel. I thought I could get the car back into the right lane, but my angle was wrong, and the speed was too great, and we crashed straight into the central reservation. My father was killed instantly.’
Her voice cracked into silence.
Several seconds passed. The terror of the ordeal Isobel had suffered was playing across her shadowed features as clearly as if it were happening now. Orlando felt a strange helplessness, a plunging sensation, like an elevator in free fall. He didn’t know how or why, but suddenly he knew he had to do something to try to ease that pain. But first he needed all the facts.
He cleared his throat. ‘And what about you?’ He kept his tone deliberately neutral. ‘Apart from the concussion, did you have any other injuries?’
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‘A few cuts and bruises.’ She attempted a throwaway shrug. ‘Remarkably little, considering. My mother was not so lucky. She had to have several operations on her legs. Physically she should have recovered, but mentally she couldn’t cope with the trauma. She has been in a wheelchair ever since.’
‘And the bus? Were any other vehicles involved?’ Still he delved for the truth.
‘No.’
‘And supposing you hadn’t taken the wheel when you did? Supposing you had crashed into the bus? Wouldn’t that have been far worse?
‘Well, nobody knows, but—’
‘Listen to me, Isobel. In no way am I trying to denigrate your father’s death, or underestimate the hideous trauma that you have suffered, but this guilt...you have to let it go.’ He was sitting upright now, his back straight, the pains of his bruised body forgotten, as nothing compared to Isobel’s suffering. He reached forward to take one of her hands in his. It felt very small and light, almost lifeless. ‘Do you hear me?’
Isobel looked down at her hand, then raised her sea-green eyes to meet his.
‘But how can I ever forgive myself when even my own mother cannot forgive me?’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes. She blames me for what happened. For killing her husband, for ruining her life.’
‘That’s ridiculous. If they hadn’t been fighting the accident would never have happened.’
Isobel gave a light shrug. ‘It was my fault, Orlando. You have no idea how this feels—how could you?’
Oh, but he could. He knew how it felt, all right. Wasn’t he eaten up with guilt himself? Hadn’t he been carrying the burden of Sophia’s death all these years, no matter how much he had tried to ignore it? Come to that, wasn’t he the worst person to be offering Isobel advice?
And now Isobel was looking at him with beseeching eyes, wanting him to ease her suffering, to heal her pain. Didn’t she realise that he could never be that person? Didn’t she realise that getting close to him—emotionally close—would only bring more sorrow and despair?
Dropping her hand, he lay back against the pillow and closed his eyes, determined to blot her out, to protect her from himself.