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Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire's Pleasure
India Grey
Step into a world of sophistication and glamour, where sinfully seductive heroes await you in luxurious international locations.Fast cars and glamorous socialites are everyday components of devastatingly handsome billionaire Orlando Winterton’s thrilling, decadent lifestyle… …then something changes, and Orlando closes himself off from the world. Until Rachel Campion arrives at Orlando’s remote country estate, desperately in need of shelter. Orlando cannot deny the pull of her fragile beauty, and takes her with passionate fury. The next morning his demons return to haunt him, and he knows he must ask Rachel to leave… But then a baby is found abandoned on his doorstep – allegedly his son!To Orlando, the solution is simple: he’ll hire Rachel to take care of the child – and as long as she’s under his roof he’ll keep on making love to her… Until he’s got her out of his system!


‘You’d better get out of that dress.’
He couldn’t mean…? Was her mother right? Did all men just want to…?
Rachel wrapped an arm around the thick wooden bedpost, half clinging to it, half shrinking behind it. Her mouth was dry, her stomach quivering with fear. Shaking violently, she turned, offering her back to him and bending her head forward so he could reach the top of the zip. It seemed to take an eternity. At last his long fingers brushed the hair off the nape of her neck and skimmed over the sensitised skin of her shoulders, leaving a shivering trail of sensation in their wake.
She’d thought she was afraid of his touch, but this was something quite different. Something she’d thought she was incapable of experiencing, which had been unfurling inside her since he’d first held her against him.
With a thud of shock and a rush of liquid heat she realised the sensation that was quickening her pulse and filling her limbs with honeyed warmth was not fear.
It was arousal.
A self-confessed romance junkie, India Grey was just thirteen years old when she first sent off for the Mills & Boon writers’ guidelines. She can still recall the thrill of getting the large brown envelope with its distinctive logo through the letterbox, and subsequently whiled away many a dull school day staring out of the window and dreaming of the perfect hero. She kept those guidelines with her for the next ten years, tucking them carefully inside the cover of each new diary in January, and beginning every list of New Year’s Resolutions with the words Start Novel. In the meantime she gained a degree in English Literature from Manchester University and, in a stroke of genius on the part of the gods of romance, met her gorgeous future husband on the very last night of their three years there. The last fifteen years have been spent blissfully buried in domesticity, and heaps of pink washing generated by three small daughters, but she has never really stopped daydreaming about romance. She’s just profoundly grateful to have finally got an excuse to do it legitimately!
Recent titles by the same author:
THE ITALIAN’S CAPTIVE VIRGIN
THE ITALIAN’S DEFIANT MISTRESS

MISTRESS: HIRED FOR THE BILLIONAIRE’S PLEASURE
BY
INDIA GREY

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For all the heroes of the RAF…and for one in particular. F.W.—with thanks.

PROLOGUE
‘IT’S not good news, I’m afraid.’
Orlando Winterton didn’t flinch. A thousand years of aristocratic breeding and a lifetime of ruthless self-control made his lean, dark face perfectly expressionless as the ophthalmic consultant looked down at the file on the mirror-shiny expanse of Victorian mahogany that separated them.
‘The test results show that your field of vision is significantly impaired in the central section, indicating that the cells of the macula may be prematurely breaking down…’
‘Spare me the science, Andrew.’ Orlando’s voice was harsh. ‘Let’s just cut straight to the bit where you tell me what you can do about it.’
There was a small pause. Orlando felt his hands tighten on the arms of the discreetly expensive leather chair as he tried to read the expression on Andrew Parkes’s clever, careful face. But the blurring in the centre of his vision that had brought him here was already advanced enough to make this kind of sensitive judgement difficult. He waited, listening for clues in the other man’s tone.
‘Ah. Well, I’m afraid the answer to that is not very much.’
Orlando said nothing, but he felt his head jerk back slightly, as if he had been struck. There it was, that soft note of pity he had dreaded. A quiet death knell.
‘I’m sorry, Orlando.’
‘Don’t be. Just tell me what’s going to happen. Will I still be able to fly?’
Andrew Parkes sighed. It was never easy being the bearer of news like this, but in Orlando Winterton’s case it was particularly cruel. Andrew had been a friend of Orlando’s father, Lord Ashbroke, until his death four years ago, and understood that in joining the RAF both of Ashbroke’s sons were following a long and distinguished family tradition. He also knew of the intense rivalry that burned between Orlando and his younger brother Felix. Both were exceptional pilots, both had risen through the ranks with astonishing speed to hold one of the most envied roles in the Royal Air Force—that of flight commander on the cutting-edge, controversial Typhoon Squadron. Orlando, the elder, had recently surpassed Felix by achieving the status of Officer Commanding Weapons Flight—the highest flying position.
To cut short such a glittering career was a terrible blow to have to deal. There was no pleasant way of doing it, so he was left only with the option of being honest.
‘No. Given the information I have in front of me I have no choice but to sign you off with immediate effect. It’ll take a while for a firm diagnosis to be made, but at the moment all the signs point to a condition called Stargardt’s Macular Dystrophy.’
Still Orlando didn’t move. Only the muscle flickering beneath the lean, tanned plane of his cheek hinted at the emotion that must be raging beneath his impassive exterior.
‘I can still see. I can still fly. Surely this can remain confidential?’
The consultant shook his head. ‘Not as far as the RAF are concerned. Who you choose to tell in your personal life is your decision. Your ability to live a completely normal life will be unaffected, for the moment at least, so no one will need to know until you feel able to tell them.’
‘I see.’ Orlando gave a short, bitter laugh which was edged with despair. ‘My life will be normal “for the moment at least.” I guess you’re about to tell me all that’s going to change?’
‘I’m afraid it’s a degenerative condition.’
Orlando stood up abruptly. ‘Thanks for your time, Andrew.’
‘Orlando, wait—please—there must be questions you need to ask…other things you want to know…?’
His voice trailed off as Orlando turned back to face him. His height and the powerful breadth of his shoulders made the desolation on his face all the more terrible.
‘No. You’ve told me all I need to hear.’
‘I have some literature for you to read when you’re ready.’ Andrew slid a leaflet across the desk and continued in a tone of forced optimism. ‘A diagnosis like this can take some time to sink in, and it helps if you have someone to talk to. Are you still seeing that super girl? Quite a high-flyer—lawyer, wasn’t she?’
Orlando paused, seeming to weigh up his answer. ‘Arabella. She’s a corporate financier. Yes, we’re still…seeing each other.’
‘Good.’ Andrew gave a relieved smile, and added carefully, ‘And Felix? He’s home at the moment, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. We were both taking some time out at Easton before beginning another tour of duty next week.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘It looks like he’ll be going alone.’
Emerging from the consulting room into the London street, Orlando blinked.
It was an overcast January day, but even the cold grey light filtering through the dark clouds hurt his eyes. He didn’t let himself hesitate, refused to reach out for the reassurance of the handrail at the side of the stone steps.
He would do this without support of any kind. From anyone.
There was a hiss of air brakes and a bus moved away from the kerb in front of him, just as a shaft of thin sunlight broke through the cloud. Right ahead, high up on the building opposite, was an advertising hoarding, displaying a huge poster for some classical music CD. It showed a red-haired girl in a billowing ivy-green evening dress.
It was a picture he’d noticed countless times around London since he’d been on leave, but he was suddenly struck by the realisation that until now he’d never really seen it. Like so much else. Letting out a deep, shuddering breath, he tipped his head back and gazed up at her. Her huge, luminous amber-coloured eyes seemed to be full of sadness as they locked with his, and though her pale pink lips were curved into the ghost of a smile they seemed to tremble with uncertainty.
At that moment it hit him.
Gazing up at her, he saw with brutal clarity everything he was losing. And he felt the darkness that would soon engulf his vision wrap itself around his heart.
CHAPTER ONE
One year later
IT WAS barely light as Rachel let herself out of the front door of The Old Rectory and closed it silently behind her. The damp chill of early morning curled itself around her, and her slow outdrawn breath made misty plumes in the bitter February air.
Already the house was stirring, but only with the impersonal band of cleaners and caterers who had come in early to obliterate the traces of last night’s party and prepare for today’s celebrations. Even so, making her way carefully across the grass, Rachel felt the back of her neck prickle with fear that she was being watched. Swiftly she headed in the direction of the high hedge that separated the old house from the churchyard, not really knowing why—only that she had to escape from the house and try to find somewhere where she could think.
And breathe. And step outside of the relentless march of events towards the moment she couldn’t even bear to contemplate.
In her hand she carried a half empty bottle of champagne that she had picked up from the table in the hall on the way out. Last night’s pre-wedding party, for a handful of the most influential of Carlos’s music industry friends, had apparently gone on into the small hours—although she herself had gone to bed around midnight. No doubt he’d be furious with her for not staying and ‘making an impression’, or chatting up the right people, but her head had ached and her heart had been leaden with dread at the coming day. She’d pleaded tiredness, but had ended up lying awake until the last cars had left in a noisy series of slamming doors and shouted farewells at about three a.m., bearing Carlos off to the plush country house hotel where he was to spend the final night of his long years of bachelor freedom.
And in the darkness Rachel had wrapped her arms around herself and shivered with horror at the thought of what the following night would bring.
Ducking though a low archway cut into the beech hedge, she found herself in the churchyard. A thin mist hung low over the ground, giving the place an eerie air of melancholy which suited her mood perfectly. Tugging the sleeves of her thick cashmere sweater down over her hands, she hugged the bottle to her and walked slowly around to the other side of the church, out of sight of the house. Everything was grey, black, silver in the early morning light. She tipped her face up to the leaden sky, watching the rooks circling above the spire of the church, and felt nothing but despair.
A gust of icy wind whipped her hair over her face and made her shiver. Up ahead, in the shadow of an ancient yew tree, stood the largest grave of all, set slightly apart from the rest, topped by an imposing stone angel with its carved wings partly furled and its pale face downturned. Rachel found herself drawn towards it.
Beneath the canopy of the yew it was sheltered from the wind. The angel gazed down at her with blank eyes, and the expression on its sculpted face was one of infinite compassion and resignation.
He’s seen it all before, she thought bleakly. Those pale, sightless eyes must have witnessed countless weddings and funerals, extremes of joy and tragedy. She wondered whether there had ever been another bride who would rather be going to her own funeral than her wedding.
Sinking down onto the dry earth beneath the angel’s cold, pale feet, she took a swig of champagne, then leaned her cheek against the lichened stone. The sides of the tomb were carved with rows of names and dates, some of which were worn away almost to illegibility and obscured by moss. But the name nearest to her was still sharp and clear. Tracing her fingers over it, she read the words.
The Hon. Felix Alexander Winterton
of Easton Hall
Killed in active service to his country
HE GAVE HIS TODAY THAT WE MIGHT HAVE
OUR TOMORROW
She looked up at the angel with a watery smile and raised the champagne bottle. ‘Cheers, Felix,’ she whispered. ‘But in my case that was a real wasted gesture.’
Orlando hardly noticed the cold as he got out of the car and walked towards the churchyard. Cold seemed to be his natural element these days. Cold, and gathering darkness, of course.
His last visit to Andrew Parkes had not brought any positive news. His sight was deteriorating more rapidly than Parkes had initially predicted, and he’d advised Orlando that it was now imperative he gave up driving.
He would. Today was the last time. The anniversary of Felix’s death. He’d come down to his grave early enough to avoid any traffic, taking the private lanes through the estate. At high speed.
The nature of the condition was that his peripheral vision was pretty much unaffected, while his central field of vision was nothing more than a blur—like a dark fingerprint on a camera lens. Getting around wasn’t yet a problem, but it was the finer details that were quickly slipping away from him. He could no longer read faces, recognise people without them announcing themselves, or carry out easily the million small things he had once done without even thinking. Fastening the buttons on a shirt. Making coffee. Reading his mail.
But he would die before he let other people see that. Which was why he had come back to Easton, and solitude.
Pausing in the shelter of the lychgate, he looked up to where a group of rooks circled above the church, their ragged wings black against a grey sky. Everything was fading to the same monochrome, he thought bleakly, screwing up his eyes to scan the churchyard, where the headstones looked bone white against the dark fringe of bare trees and the shadowy bulk of the yew over the Winterton plot.
Something caught the corner of his eye. A flash of red in the gloom. He tilted his head, standing very still as he tried to work out what it was.
A fox? Slinking back to its earth after a night out hunting?
And then he located it again,
A girl. A red-headed girl was sitting on Felix’s grave.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Rachel’s head snapped upwards. A man stood in front of her, towering over her, his long dark coat and dishevelled black hair making him look both beautiful and menacing. His face was every bit as hard and cold as that of the stone angel, but without any trace of compassion.
‘I—nothing! I was just…’
She struggled to stand up, but her legs were cramped from sitting on the ground, her feet numb with cold. Instantly she felt his hands close around her arms as he pulled her to her feet. For a moment she was crushed against him, and she felt the wonderful warmth and strength that radiated from his body before he thrust her away. Still keeping his vice-like grip on her upper arm with one hand, he removed the champagne bottle with the other, swilling the contents around as if gauging how much was left.
‘I think that explains it.’ His lip curled in distaste. ‘Isn’t it a little early? Or do you have something particularly pressing to celebrate?’
‘No.’ She gave a short laugh, and had to clap her hand to her mouth as it threatened to turn into a sob. ‘I have absolutely nothing at all to celebrate. I was aiming more for Dutch courage. Or oblivion.’ She could feel embarrassing tears begin to slide down her cold cheeks and gave an apologetic smile, stroking a hand over the weathered stone. ‘Peaceful oblivion. With lovely, heroic Felix here.’
The dark man didn’t return the smile, letting go of her so abruptly that she stumbled backwards and had to lean on the gravestone for support.
‘He’ll be thrilled to know that a little thing like death hasn’t made him lose his touch with women.’
The bitterness etched into the lean planes of his face made Rachel wince. She took in the dark shadows under his slanting eyes, the crease of anguish between his highly arched black brows. Horrified realisation dawned.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry…you knew him?’
There was a pause. And then he held out his hand with a bleak smile that briefly illuminated the stark beauty of his face.
‘Orlando Winterton. Felix’s brother.’
She took his hand and, registering the warmth and steadiness of his grip, felt a sudden irrational urge to hold on for dear life. For a brief moment his fingers closed around hers, strong and steady, and she found herself wishing he would never let go.
He withdrew his hand, and she felt the colour surge into her cheeks.
‘I’m Rachel. And I’m sorry…about your brother. Was he a soldier?’
‘Pilot. RAF. Shot down in the Middle East,’ Orlando said tersely.
‘How terrible,’ she said quietly, curling up her fingers. They tingled where his skin had warmed them.
He shrugged. ‘It happens. It’s all part of the job.’
‘You’re a pilot too?’
‘Was.’
‘It must take incredible courage. To know that every day when you go to work you’re staring death in the face.’
He let out a harsh laugh. ‘I think there are worse things to stare at than death.’
Rachel sighed, sinking down onto the dry earth at the foot of the tomb again. ‘Tell me about it.’
Above her, Orlando Winterton and Felix’s angel towered like twin protectors. She leaned her head back against the stone and lifted the bottle towards them before taking a long swig. ‘To courage—the real kind. And to Dutch courage—which isn’t nearly so honourable, but sometimes has to suffice.’
From the edge of his vision Orlando had an impression of dark eyes in a pale face, a generous trembling mouth, a glorious tumble of fiery hair that stirred a memory in the back of his mind and left him with a sudden fierce longing to see her properly. He could sense the despair rising from her like a scent, but whether this was due to the peculiar instinct that had developed as his sight deserted him or because the feeling was so bloody familiar he couldn’t be sure.
She held out the bottle to him. He took it, but didn’t drink, instead setting it down on top of the Winterton tomb. ‘So, Rachel, what’s so bad that you’re reduced to sitting out here in the freezing cold drinking with the dead?’
She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘You do not want to know.’
She was right. He didn’t. His own suffering was enough to occupy him on a full-time basis. So why did he find himself saying, ‘I usually decide for myself what I want and what I don’t want.’
Rachel looked up at him. He was staring straight ahead, and there was something in the dark stillness of his face that made her want very much to confide in him.
‘I’m getting married,’ she said desolately. ‘Today.’
She saw one dark brow shoot up before his face regained its habitual blankness. ‘Is that all? Congratulations.’
‘Uh-uh. It’s not a “congratulations” situation. It’s…’
Her voice trailed off as she tried to convey the awfulness of what lay ahead. This afternoon, standing in church before people she mostly neither knew nor cared about making vows she didn’t mean… And worse, much worse, knowing that tonight she and Carlos would be man and wife, with all the expectations that carried.
Orlando Winterton shrugged his broad, dark shoulders, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He looked so distant, so controlled, so very, very strong that she felt her chest lurch. How could he understand? She couldn’t imagine that this man had ever bowed to the will of anyone else in his life.
‘Weddings don’t generally happen by accident or without warning. Presumably you had some say in it?’ He levered himself up from the gravestone and, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, began to move away.
‘No,’ she said in a low voice.
There was something in the way that she said it that made Orlando stop, turn, and walk back towards her. His deep-set slanting eyes were the most extraordinary clear green, she noticed, and he had a strange, intense way of looking at her, his head tilted backwards slightly in an attitude of distant hauteur.
‘You’re being forced into this?’
Rachel sighed heavily. ‘Well, there’s no gun against my head… But, yes. Forced pretty much covers it.’
The last thing he wanted to do was get involved, but his sense of duty, dormant for a year beneath self-pity and bitterness, had seemingly chosen this moment to rouse itself. Wearily he rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘In what way?’
‘There’s no way out,’ she said slowly. ‘No Plan B. No choice. This wedding is the culmination of a lifetime of work by my mother.’ She laughed. ‘If I don’t go through with it she’ll probably kill me.’
But that was almost preferable to what Carlos would do to her if she stayed and married him. She knew, because he’d done it to her already.
‘You can’t get married to please your mother.’
The words were laced with scorn, and Rachel felt her head snap back as if she’d just had an ice cube dropped down her spine.
‘You don’t know my mother. She’s…’
She hesitated, shaking her head, trying to find a word for Elizabeth Campion’s single-minded obsession with her daughter’s musical career; the combination of guile and icy manipulation that would have made Machiavelli green with envy, which had enabled her to bring about the ultimate coup in the form of Rachel’s engagement to Carlos Vincente, one of the industry’s most influential conductors.
‘What? A convicted killer?’ Orlando’s voice was hard and mocking. ‘A cold-blooded psychopath? Head of a crack team of hired assassins?’
His cruelty made her gasp. ‘No, of course not. But—’ It was impossible to keep the desperation out of her voice. She so badly wanted to make him see what she was up against, but the words darted around in her head, refusing to be pinned down, while all the time he held her in that cool, detached gaze. ‘Oh, what’s the point? Just forget it. I can’t make you understand, so there’s no point in trying. Please, just leave me alone!’
‘To drink yourself into a stupor? If that’s what you want…’
He turned away, and Rachel felt a surge of panic. She had to grip the stony folds of the angel’s robes to stop herself from reaching out to hold him back. It was ridiculous, of course; he was nothing more than a passing stranger. But something about the intensity in his face, the bleak self-control in his voice, the immense strength in his shoulders, had made her believe for a moment that he could help her.
Rescue her.
‘It’s not what I want, but I have no choice!’
He stopped and slowly faced her again. He seemed to look right past her face and into her soul.
‘Of course you do. You’re young. You’re alive,’ he said with ironic emphasis, gesturing with one elegant hand towards his brother’s grave. ‘I’d say you have a choice. What you really lack, Rachel, is courage.’
Rachel felt her mouth open in shock and outrage as she watched him walk away. He moved slowly, almost wearily, in spite of his endlessly long legs and athletic build.
He knew nothing—nothing about her. How dared he say she lacked courage?
He was way off the mark. Wasn’t he?
Courage. Mentally she examined the word. It wasn’t a quality she’d ever been taught to value or develop. Obedience, yes. Discipline, perseverance, patience, selflessness—yes, yes, yes, yes…
Not courage. Courage had always seemed like just another word for selfishness.
Orlando Winterton disappeared from view through the gate to the road, and a moment later she heard the roar of a car engine starting up. Straining forwards, she saw a low dark sports car speed past in a shower of gravel and take the unmarked turning to the left of the churchyard. In the silence following its disappearance she was suddenly aware that she was gripping the carved robes of the angel so hard her short fingernails ached.
She felt bereft.
Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to remember the feeling of his hands on her arms, and the moment when she had been held against his chest. She felt again the roughness of his thick woollen sweater against her cheek, smelled the warm, faint tang of expensive aftershave that had clung to the collar of his long, exquisitely tailored black coat.
In that moment she’d felt as if she was safe. As if she’d come home. As if she’d finally found the shadowy figure she’d spent her childhood yearning for—the one man who would protect her from—
‘Rachel!’
Her eyes flew open as she recognised her mother’s voice, and without thinking she darted back into the cover of the yew tree, hiding behind the vast slab of stone beside her. For a moment all was silent as she crouched there, her heart pounding inside her chest, her cheek resting against the chilly stone where Felix Winterton’s name was carved.
‘Rachel!’
The voice was closer now, and Rachel knew only too well its shrill note of exasperation. I’m twenty-three years old and here I am, hiding from my mother like a naughty child. She squeezed her eyes shut and suddenly the face of Orlando Winterton swam into focus in the darkness, with that hard, bleak smile of his.
What you really lack is courage.
She hesitated, then stood up slowly.
Dressed in a figure-hugging pink velour tracksuit and last night’s high-heeled mules, Elizabeth Campion was making her way in Rachel’s direction with unerring accuracy, and the expression on her well-maintained face was murderous.
‘I’m here.’
For a wonderful moment Elizabeth was lost for words as she watched her daughter emerge from the shadow of the monument, then the full force of her fury was unleashed.
‘What in heaven’s name are you doing?’
Rachel steeled herself against Elizabeth’s indignant screech, letting her mind return to the last person who had asked her that. Except that Orlando Winterton hadn’t said ‘heaven’. She pictured his dark, tormented expression, concentrated on reproducing in her mind the exact gritty rasp of his voice as he had said ‘hell’.
‘Well? I’m waiting!’
With huge effort Rachel dragged herself back to her mother. ‘I went for a walk.’
‘You went for a walk?’ repeated Elizabeth, like an apoplectic parrot. ‘Saints preserve us! Why do you have to be so selfish, Rachel? Today of all days? Haven’t I got enough to do with all the wedding arrangements, without having to chase around after you as well because you’re just too selfish and immature to get yourself organised? Hmm?’
Reaching the path, Rachel opened her mouth to reply, but her mother had only paused for breath and wasn’t actually expecting an answer.
‘Carlos phoned. I had to tell him you were in the bath. Lord only knows what he’d say if he knew that you’d gone for awalk.’ She made it sound as if Rachel had been skateboarding down the motorway.
‘I thought it was bad luck for the groom to speak to the bride before the wedding?’ said Rachel sarcastically. ‘I’d hate anything to spoil our chances of a wonderful happy-ever-after.’
Her mother threw her a venomous glance. ‘Don’t you dare start all that now, young lady,’ she hissed. ‘You’ll do well to remember how lucky you are to be marrying Carlos.’
Rachel stopped and swung round to face her mother. ‘Rubbish! He couldn’t give a damn about me! He doesn’t love—’
‘Shut up! Just shut up!’ Elizabeth’s face was contorted with rage. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something, Rachel. Love is nothing but a silly fantasy. It means nothing. Nothing! Your father told me he loved me, and where did that get me? I nearly died giving him a baby he didn’t even stay around to watch grow up. Love doesn’t bring you security.’
Rachel felt a jolt as the word lodged in her brain like a bullet hitting the bullseye. For a moment she felt dazed and disorientated as conflicting images and sensations raced through her head. Orlando’s hands on her arms, holding her up. Carlos’s fingers digging into her thighs, hard and insistent, on that awful night in Vienna when he—
She had survived by ruthlessly separating herself from the person who had endured all that. That was Rachel Campion, disciplined pianist, obedient fiancée, dutiful daughter. Not the real her. But the trouble was it was getting increasingly difficult to remember who the real Rachel was.
She’d caught a glimpse of her back there in the graveyard. She was someone who wanted to be courageous. And secure.
She went back into the house and closed the door very quietly behind her.
CHAPTER TWO
AS HE passed the gatehouse into the long straight drive up to Easton Hall, Orlando put his foot down and felt the world fall away in a dizzying rush. The frustration and fury that had needled him on the short drive home was temporarily anaesthetised in the blissful blur of speed.
This was the place where he and Felix had raced—first on their bikes as small boys, then later on horseback and motorbikes. It was here that, returning home for his twenty-first, Felix’s brand-new Alpha Romeo had been written off as Orlando had overtaken him and forced him into the moat.
Their rivalry had been as strong as their love for each other.
Protected by birth and privilege, made arrogant by wealth and good looks, they had thought they were invincible. But all it had meant in the end was that they’d had further to fall. All the money in the world, an unblemished bloodline and the looks of an angel hadn’t protected Felix from a rocket attack in his Typhoon, and the lottery of genes that had made up Orlando’s perfect face was now destroying his sight.
There was a certain biblical morality to it.
All too soon Orlando reached the bridge across the old moat and had to slow down. The drive narrowed as it passed through the high gateposts to Easton Hall, and he drove more carefully round the house to the garages at the back. Bringing the car to a standstill in the brick-paved courtyard that had once housed grand carriages, he let his head fall forward to rest on the steering wheel. His hands still held it, as if he couldn’t bear to let go, to take the keys out of the ignition for the last time.
He was giving up his independence.
He felt his mouth jerk into an ironic smile as he thought of the girl in the graveyard. He’d been harsh with her, but her helpless distress had been like acid in his own open wounds. She could take control of her situation. For him, control was inexorably slipping from him, with the inevitability of day sliding into night; there was nothing, nothing he could do. And this was the first measure of his failure. Slowly he opened the door and got stiffly out, blinking in the thin grey light.
‘Will you be needing the car again today, sir?’
Orlando hadn’t seen the man emerge from the doorway of one of the outbuildings, but he recognised his voice easily enough. George had worked for Lord Ashbroke since Orlando and Felix were children.
‘No.’ Not today. Not ever.
Soon, Orlando supposed, he would have to tell George. Ask him to take on the duties of a chauffeur.
‘Shall I put her away for you?’
‘Thanks.’ Orlando took the keys from the ignition and let his fingers close around them tightly for a moment. Then he tossed them in George’s direction and walked across the yard into the house.
‘There. You look lovely, darling.’ Elizabeth Campion’s hands fluttered around Rachel’s face like tiny birds, smoothing a wayward curl here, teasing a fold of frothy lace there. The church bells seemed horribly loud, pealing out their tumbling scales with a threatening leer, but at least it made conversation unnecessary.
Beneath the shroud of her veil Rachel stood impassive.
She was glad of the veil. It separated her from the rest of the world in a way that seemed particularly appropriate, filtering out the unwelcome ministrations of her mother, screening her own increasingly desperate thoughts and emotions from view. In the mirror her reflection was smooth and expressionless, with its pure, blanked-out face.
‘Right, then. I’d better go over to church,’ Elizabeth said brightly, as she checked her watch and gave Rachel’s dress a last little tweak. Chosen by Carlos, it was cut in the Empire style of a regency heroine—which, Carlos had said, would charm the Americans when she sat at the piano later. Elizabeth handed her a bouquet of waxy white flowers. ‘Here, don’t forget these. Now, wait until the verger comes across to get you. And then it’s your big moment! For God’s sake see if you can manage a smile, darling, please…’
The shrouded figure in the mirror nodded almost imperceptibly. Elizabeth bustled around, adjusting her large peacock-blue hat, spritzing on another cloud of perfume, picking up a pair of black gloves and thrusting her hands into them like a surgeon preparing to cut, before finally reaching the door.
She stopped, and Rachel felt herself go very still, waiting for a sign or a word that would mean all this could be stopped. Elizabeth’s face was thoughtful.
‘Such a shame your father didn’t have the decency to stay around for this. It’s the one day of his life when he could have made himself useful. Oh, well, darling. The verger’s a very nice man. He’ll be about ten minutes, I should think.’
Then she was gone.
A gust of air from the door rippled Rachel’s veil.
Beneath it, Rachel felt as if she was choking. Fury and despair swelled inside her, and without thinking what she was doing she found herself tearing off the veil as a series of shuddering sobs ripped through her.
She had to get away.
Glancing wildly around her, she picked up the keys to the car Carlos had bought her as an engagement present. She had always felt the gesture had been akin to putting a caged bird beside an open window, but suddenly it was as if the door to her cage had been left open and she had one fleeting chance to fly.
She ran down the stairs, her wedding shoes clattering on the polished wood, her breath coming in shaky gasps. Fumbling with the catch on the front door, she peered out for a second, before throwing it open and rushing across the gravel to the car.
Her hands were shaking so much she could hardly turn the key in the ignition, and then, when she did manage to start the engine, she shot forward with a sickeningly loud shower of gravel. She didn’t dare look up at the house as she accelerated out of the drive and onto the road, wincing as she made the tyres squeal on the tarmac in her panic to get away. Whimpering quietly, she cast an anxious glance in the mirror, half expecting to see Carlos run out onto the drive of The Old Rectory, or her mother appear at the roadside, a bright flash of peacock-blue in the February gloom.
The main entrance to the church where all the guests had gathered was around the other side, but still the road seemed horribly exposed, and almost without thinking she found herself taking the narrow turning alongside the church, down which she’d watched Orlando Winterton drive that morning.
It was a single-track road, overhung with high hedges and spiked, naked branches of hawthorn that made it almost like driving through a tunnel. She leaned forward over the steering wheel, gripping it so hard that sharp arrows of pain vibrated along the taut tendons of her hands and down her wrists.
Behind her, the peal of bells echoed eerily through the leaden air, and the sound made her press her foot harder on the accelerator, trying to put as much distance between her and the church as quickly as possible. Ahead of her the lane twisted around blind bends, making it impossible to get any idea of where she was going.
She hadn’t even thought of that. Where was she going?
In fact, where was she? Panic pumped through her in icy bursts. Looking around her wildly, she wondered whether anyone had realised she was gone yet. Would the verger have found her missing by now? Maybe it wasn’t too late to go back. No one would have to know. All she had to do was find somewhere to turn round in this godforsaken lane. She could slip in as quietly as she’d left, replace the veil, and let the rest of her life continue as planned.
Carlos and her mother were right. She couldn’t possibly cut it on her own. She couldn’t even run away without getting lost.
It had started to rain, a thin mist of drops that beaded the windscreen and blurred the world beyond to a watery grey. Frantically trying to remember how to work the windscreen wipers, Rachel eventually located the right lever, only to discover that the blur was caused not by rain but by tears.
The road was bumpy and potholed, and there was nowhere to turn. She pressed her foot harder to the accelerator, trying to make the noise of the engine drown out the sound of the church bells in the distance. They were fainter now, drifting eerily over the dank, drab fields with a ghostly melancholy that was horribly funereal. The hairs rose on the back of her neck. Suddenly everything seemed sinister—loaded with menace. Her heart thudded madly as she glanced again and again in the rearview mirror, expecting to see the headlamps of Carlos’s huge black car getting closer, dazzling, hypnotising, until they engulfed her.
Someone must have seen her go. Someone must have heard. He would have guessed that she had gone with that terrifying instinct he had for sensing her fear and exploiting it until she was helpless to do anything but submit to him…
She could almost feel his hot breath on her neck, and, letting out a whimper of terror, had to look quickly over her shoulder to reassure herself she was imagining it.
Twisting her head back again, she saw that the road in front had narrowed suddenly into a low-sided bridge. She swerved, but did so too sharply, cringing at the sickening sound of metal against stone as the nearside wing glanced off the wall. Numb with horror, she kept going, accelerating off the bridge with a screech of tyres and swinging out onto a straight stretch of road. She should stop, check the damage to the car, but darkness crouched menacingly in the hedges and fields beyond, harbouring all manner of nameless horrors—all of which paled into insignificance at the thought of Carlos gaining on her. She imagined him pulling up alongside her as she stood in the deserted, darkling lane, getting out of the car and coming towards her with that look in his eyes that she would never be able to forget…
A sob tore through her, and she felt herself buckle, as if she’d been punched in the stomach, as the memories bubbled up through the thin crust that had sealed them in, like a mental scab. Her lungs screamed for air. It was all she could do to keep her hands on the wheel and not fall into the yawning chasm of panic that had opened up beneath her.
What you lack, Rachel, is courage.
Orlando’s voice cut through the fog—calm, steady, reassuringly blank. And then suddenly up ahead she saw the shape of a large building, dark against the pewter sky, and twin gateposts reared up on either side of the road. Weeping with relief, she sped towards them as a dim memory of a story she’d read as a child came back to her—where someone had had to race across a bridge to safety before a headless horseman caught them and all was lost.
She screeched through the gates and slewed the car round on the gravel in front of the huge, dark house, praying there was someone home. Someone who could help her—hide her—in case Carlos was making his way through the dark, dripping lanes towards her.
Turning off the ignition, she sank down in the driver’s seat, waiting for her heartbeat to stop reverberating through her entire body and for enough strength to return to her trembling legs to allow her to walk up to that imposing front door. What if there was no answer? She pictured herself knocking, hammering with all her strength as the sound echoed through vast, empty rooms, and all the time the headlights in the distance were growing closer…
And then, as she watched, a soft light spilled out across the gravel as the door opened and a figure appeared. Scrabbling at the door handle with shaking, bloodless fingers, she threw herself out and had to lean against the car for a moment as relief cascaded through her.
A second later relief had turned to anguished recognition.
There in the doorway, like a dark negative image of the angel in the churchyard, stood Orlando Winterton.
Orlando flung open the door and frowned into the gathering darkness. He had heard the sound of tyres skidding on gravel but it took a few seconds for him to bring into focus the very expensive, very damaged silver sports car which looked as if it had been abandoned in front of the house.
Arabella.
She’d phoned last night and announced in that cold, efficient way of hers that she wanted to see him. He couldn’t imagine why: everything in Arabella’s life was glamorous and high-functioning. She had no room for weakness—a fact which she had made perfectly plain at the time of Orlando’s diagnosis. Maybe she’d developed a conscience? he’d thought cynically as he’d slammed the phone down, having told her exactly what she could do.
But she always had liked to have the last word. Orlando’s face was like stone as he stood in the doorway, waiting for her to get out of the car. He wondered what tack she would take this time—mockery or seductiveness? Either way, he was immune. That was one thing he could be grateful for: when you lived in hell already, no one could make it any worse.
The car door opened and a slender figure sprang out, ghostly white in the winter gloom. Orlando felt his head jerk upwards slightly as he desperately sought to bring her into his field of vision.
Not Arabella.
She stood against the car, and even with his failing sight, even in the gathering February dusk, he could see that she was trembling. She was wearing a thin white dress that blew against her long legs, and her bright hair was like a beacon in the blurred centre of his vision. It lit up the darkness. Red for danger.
Red for passion.
The girl from the graveyard.
Slowly he walked down the steps towards her. Frozen by the icy wind that stung her bare arms and whipped her hair across her numb cheeks, Rachel watched him helplessly, suddenly finding that her brain was as frozen as the rest of her, but that something, somewhere deep inside of her just wanted to fling herself into this man’s arms.
In the distance she could still hear the discordant peal of the church bells, and she gave her head a little shake, trying to regain a rational hold on the situation. The trouble was, she wasn’t sure there was one.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in a voice that was little more than a hoarse croak. ‘I didn’t mean to come here. I didn’t know… The road—I didn’t know where it went—I was just…driving…’
He looked down on her from his great height. His massive shoulders were rigid with tension, but his face gave nothing away. ‘Driving away from your wedding, I take it?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t…do it.’ She spoke very carefully, breathing slowly and deliberately to keep herself together. ‘I waited until the last possible minute to see if something would happen to stop it, but it didn’t…and then…I knew I couldn’t do it. I ran away…because you were right, I…’
She took another steadying breath, but at that moment the church bells stopped abruptly. Silence seemed to fold around them like fog. Rachel felt her hands fly to her mouth, her eyes widening in horror as the implications of that silence sank in.
They knew. They’d found she was missing. And Carlos… Carlos would be…
Frantically she pushed her fingers through her hair, looking wildly about her as terror gripped her once again. Without knowing what she was doing, she wrenched open the car door.
Orlando was beside her in a flash, his arms closing around her waist, pinning her own arms to her sides and stopping her escape. She struggled against him, twisting her shoulders frantically, but his strength was enormous. Effortlessly he held her against him.
‘Let me go! I have to go now! They’ll come after me and—’
‘No!’ His voice was like sandpaper. He swung her round to face him, his hands holding her upper arms again, as they had this morning in the churchyard. ‘You’re not going anywhere in this state. You’re staying here.’
He felt the fight go out of her. She slumped into his hands, so that he was holding her up. Over her head his eyes were fixed on an unseen point in the distance as he gritted his teeth and fought to control the emotions that warred within him—impatience, hostility, exasperation, resentment.
And the prickle of arousal that had fuelled at least some of those.
He felt his mind shut like a steel trap against it. Those feelings had no place in his life now. But it was the scent of her hair that had done it, the weight and warmth of it as she thrashed in his arms that had made him feel momentarily as if he had been punched in the solar plexus.
She raised her head, so he could make out the milk-white curve of her cheek. ‘I couldn’t stay…’ she said dully. ‘It’s too much to ask…I can’t…’
He let her go and took a step away, slamming the car door with unnecessary force. ‘Do you have anywhere else to go?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then,’ he said with biting sarcasm, ‘let’s skip the part where you put up some token resistance, shall we? I think this is one instance where you really don’t have a choice, and it’s not as if I don’t have room.’
Rachel looked up at the house, noticing it properly for the first time. Built of red brick, with a central grey stone porch, its blank windows stretched away from her on both sides, and she could make out a steeply pitched roofline and vast elaborate chimneys against the heavy sky. It was beautiful, but huge and dark and utterly forbidding. Just like its owner.
He had started back towards it, and now looked impatiently over his shoulder.
‘What are you waiting for?’
The acid in his tone stung her raw emotions. ‘I can’t leave the car here…someone might see it… And my things…’ she wailed, aware that she sounded like a hysterical child, but too distressed to care.
He stopped and came wearily back towards her, his hand outstretched. ‘Give me the keys and I’ll get someone to move the car.’
She handed them to him and watched numbly as he went round to the boot and took out her large designer case.
‘You planned your escape well,’ he said wryly.
‘No…I didn’t plan it at all. This was packed yesterday. For tonight…’ Her voice trailed off and he gave her a wintry smile.
‘Your wedding night. Of course.’
He had to consciously turn his thoughts away from imagining what was in there, selected in anticipation of a very different night from the one that now awaited her. Whatever it was, whatever expensive, seductive confections of silk and lace lay folded carefully inside, she’d have no need of them here. The wing where he intended to put her hadn’t been used in a year at least. It was freezing.
It was also as far away from his room as possible.
Following him up a flight of steps and through a hugely high door, Rachel shivered. She felt like Beauty entering the castle of the Beast.
And then she caught sight of her dim reflection in an ornate gilt mirror in the hallway and let out a breath of ironic laughter at the thought.
Beauty? Who was she kidding? Her hair, brushed and tamed by dedicated professionals only a couple of hours ago, had since been swept by both wind and her own frantic fingers, and was now tumbling over her shoulders and around her face, giving her a slightly deranged appearance. Her eyes, expertly made up by a make-up artist, were huge and glittering with unfamiliar shadow in the ashen oval of her face. The dress only added to her appearance of a nineteenth-century waif on her way to the asylum.
Ahead of her, Orlando hesitated in a doorway at the end of the dark hallway, tall, effortlessly elegant, with broad, straight shoulders and that aristocratic upward tilt of his head. She felt a sharp twist somewhere inside her as she glanced up at him.
There was something about him that touched nerves in her that were too sensitive. Too sensual. And that terrified her.
Courage…
‘This way.’
The imposing entrance hall opened onto a smaller hallway from which the stairs rose in a graceful sweep around two walls. He had started to ascend, keeping close to the wall and brushing his fingers against the painted panelling as he went. Mesmerised, she watched, feeling her flesh tingle almost as if it could feel that feathery touch. At the top of the stairs he turned to the right, along a dark corridor. Rachel glanced around her, noticing the silk-shaded wall-lights at intervals on the emerald-green walls, wondering why he didn’t turn them on. At least the gloom inside allowed her to get a good view of what lay outside, and she paused to look out of one of the windows. It overlooked a courtyard whose walls were formed by the house, built in a square around it. The courtyard was divided into quarters by four dark, square flowerbeds in which nothing grew.
He’d gone ahead, and she had to hurry to catch up, guided only by the echo of his footsteps on the polished oak floorboards. Even in her frozen mental state she was stunned by her surroundings. The house was astonishing.
‘In here,’ he said curtly, opening a door. Rachel followed him into a large room dominated by a huge marble fireplace and containing little more than a vast canopied bed upon which he threw her case.
‘You’d better get out of that dress.’
The dusky afternoon threw deep shadows into the edges of the room. Instantly alarmed and on her guard, she let her gaze fly to his face questioningly. His expression was glacial.
Seemingly oblivious to her distress he strode over to the windows and pulled the curtains shut, plunging the room into velvet blackness.
Inside her chest, her heart hammered a frenzied tattoo.
He couldn’t mean…? Was her mother right? Did all men just want to…like Carlos?
She wrapped an arm around a thick wooden bedpost, half clinging to it, half shrinking behind it. Her mouth was dry, her stomach quivering with fear. She felt the air vibrate with his nearness as he passed her in the darkness, heard the soft rustle of his movements, and couldn’t quite smother her small whimper.
Then the bedside light clicked on, bathing the room in a welcoming glow and illuminating for a second the hard angles of his face before he moved purposefully towards the door.
‘I’ll be downstairs.’
She blinked, inhaling sharply in surprise. ‘No—Orlando! Wait!’
He stood still. His broad shoulders filled the doorframe as he waited for her to continue, but her throat seemed suddenly to be full of sand. She looked helplessly at him, feeling her mouth open soundlessly for a second before the words came out in a dry croak.
‘I…I…need help. With the dress.’
She saw him hesitate, then put a hand up to his head. ‘Jeez….’ It was something between an exhalation and a curse. And then he was coming back towards her, his face terrifyingly bleak.
Shaking violently, she turned, offering her back to him and bending her head forward so he could reach the top of the zip. She waited, feeling the goosebumps rise on the back of her neck as she anticipated his touch.
It seemed to take an eternity, during which she felt the tension building inside her like water coming to the boil. At last his long fingers brushed the hair off the nape of her neck and skimmed over the sensitised skin of her shoulders, leaving a shivering trail of sensation in their wake. He found the zip, tugged it halfway down, then stepped away, leaving her clinging to the carved bedpost as he wordlessly left the room.
She closed her eyes, desperately wanting to feel some sense of relief, and had to bite her lip against the wave of desolation and longing that washed over her instead.
She’d thought she’d be afraid of his touch, but that was because she was so used to being frightened she almost expected it. But this was something quite different. Something she’d thought she was incapable of experiencing, which had been unfurling inside her since he’d first held her against him in the churchyard.
With a thud of shock and a rush of liquid heat she realised the sensation that was quickening her pulse and filling her limbs with honeyed warmth was not fear.
It was arousal.
CHAPTER THREE
ORLANDO slammed a couple of peppers down onto the marble slab in the kitchen, took a knife from the block, and then reached to switch on the powerful spotlights that were angled down onto the worktop.
The bright light made him flinch.
He frowned, a muscle flickering in his jaw as he balanced the knife in one hand and held a pepper in the other. For a second he hesitated, steadying himself, before he began slicing with swift, savage strokes.
He had made a deliberate decision to accustom himself to the darkness that was fast closing in on him while he still had some sight left. He used artificial light as little as possible, but the kitchen was one place where he could not yet afford to let his fingers take the place of his eyes. His determination to maintain his independence meant that it was vital for him to be able to do as much as possible for himself—without asking for help or admitting weakness. Cooking had been of no interest to him in his old life—Arabella had seen to all of that with flawless competence—but a lot had changed in a year.
Not having to cook was one thing. Not being able to was quite another.
It was easy, he thought brutally, to lock himself up here alone and kid himself that he was doing OK. Managing. So easy to believe he was the person he’d always been when there was no one here to fool.
The arrival of this girl had made him see how mistaken he was.
Upstairs earlier…when she had asked him to unfasten her dress. That was the moment he had been forced to admit that the Orlando Winterton of a year ago was as dead and gone as his brother.
The old Orlando Winterton had been a master in the art of undressing women. The smooth, effortless removal of every kind of feminine garment was something he had excelled at, like everything else. But upstairs just then he had been assailed by panic as his mind had conjured tormenting images of tiny buttons, delicate hooks, and he had opened his mouth to tell her he couldn’t possibly do it. The words hadn’t come. He’d been afraid to tell her. Unable to deal with sensing her recoil, as Arabella had.
He swore with quiet venom.
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.
Thankfully, much of his business was conducted internationally, so the long hours of the night when sleep would often evade him could be usefully spent working. His computer was state-of-the-art, fitted with the very latest in screen-reading software, which he had always refused to use, preferring instead to type by touch and magnify the words to a size that made it possible for him to read them.
Technically.
Tonight they seemed to slide across the edges of his vision and dissolve without penetrating his mind.
The Middle Eastern border situation he was dealing with was balanced on a knife-edge. Hired as a consultant on aerial tactics and weapons deployment by the government, he was monitoring the situation on an hour-by-hour basis, grimly holding out against sending planes into an area where they had about as much chance of surviving as a pheasant over the Easton beech woods in shooting season.
As he knew all too well. It had been on a similar raid that Felix had been shot down. Or that was the supposition: they’d never even recovered his plane.
Sighing, Orlando got up and went to stand at one of the long windows, feeling a gust of cold air as he pulled back the curtain and looked out. Around the relentless blackness in the centre of his vision he could see the courtyard was bathed in moonlight.
With something that felt almost like a physical blow he recalled Felix’s kindness that last time when he’d come home on leave, at the time when Andrew Parkes had given Orlando his diagnosis. Felix had accepted it with resignation, and for the remainder of his leave had treated Orlando with a horrible gentleness bordering on respect. When he had said goodbye it had almost as if he knew it would be the last time.
He’d had no intention of their relationship carrying on as before, Orlando realised now. As far as Felix had been concerned, if Orlando wasn’t the big brother he could compete with and look up to, he was no brother at all. Nothing.
Orlando leaned back against the wooden shutter, tipping his head back and banging it softly, rhythmically, against the paneling. The pain reminded him that he was still alive. Sometimes he felt that he was disappearing, that just as the world was fading before his eyes, so he was fading from the eyes of the world.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear music. Maybe he’d finally lost it? he thought with savage desolation, striding to the door and pulling it open.
But he hadn’t imagined it. Music was rippling through the dark rooms of the sleeping house, filling the empty spaces with sweet, sad resonance. With emotion. With life.
In the doorway of the grand salon he stopped, his breath catching in his throat. The effect of the music in the moonlit stillness was profound—it vibrated through him, smashing down defences he had spent the last year building. The room was ink-black washed with silver, and he turned his head, so that at the edge of his vision he could see her.
She had her back to him, her head tilted up so that her glowing red hair cascaded down over the thin slip of pale silk she was wearing. He could see with startling clarity the gleam of her bare shoulder in the moonlight, the shadowed drape of silk at the narrow part of her waist, just before it swelled out into sumptuous fullness. Hungrily, helplessly, his eyes sought her, desperate for more; but, as always, the instant he looked directly at her she disappeared into the black vortex in the centre of his vision. He felt his hands ball into fists of frustration as the music tugged invisible chords inside him, reawakening the feelings and needs he strove so hard to annihilate.

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