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
