Even with his poor vision he saw Poppy was on edge, ramrod stiff, shoulders hunched and arms crossed. He still got under her skin.
But there was more. She also looked gorgeous: sexy and alluring in a bone-deep way that had nothing to do with makeup or lighting. To his chagrin he wasn’t impervious.
His gut tightened as dormant parts of his body stirred.
His gaze lingered on the elegant sweep of her throat and jaw. The lush mouth she’d bemoaned wasn’t wide enough and he’d always found perfect. The stunning eyes he’d lost himself in time and again when they’d climaxed together.
Something akin to shame flooded him that after all this time he still remembered.
‘I can see but not well,’ he finally admitted, turning his head away. How much did he see when he looked at Poppy and how much did memory superimpose? Looking towards the window he could make out dark and light, shapes and shadows, but there was none of the clarity with which he’d viewed her.
Damn! How long before he recovered?
‘What I see is distorted and I’m sensitive to light. So as I say, I won’t be driving for a while.’ Orsino shoved aside the fear that perhaps he’d never drive, or climb, or parachute again. He scrubbed his jaw with his unbandaged hand. He’d even needed help shaving!
‘I’m sure I’ll be able to manage for myself while you’re working.’ He was careful not to let doubt enter his voice. He would manage, even if it killed him.
His mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. Not so long ago he’d faced the prospect of death head-on. Was that why every moment now was so vivid and emotion so close to the surface?
‘And the wheelchair? Will you need that to board the plane?’ Poppy’s clipped questions scraped away at his pride. He hated being unable to manage for himself.
If he’d expected concern he should have known better. She didn’t ask because she cared but so she could work out how little assistance to give.
Orsino told himself that didn’t hurt. Hadn’t he always managed alone? As kids he and Lucca had been all but abandoned by their parents, given everything money could buy but left to fend for themselves.
His mouth curved derisively. Just as well he’d never learned to expect sympathy. He had as much chance of genuine caring from his wife as a heatwave on Everest.
Had she ever cared for him? Or had it all been a clever con to win her money and fame? The question was like a canker inside, eating away at him.
If nothing else, he intended to discover the answer.
‘You were imagining the photos, were you? The brave wife wheeling her incapacitated hero?’
Poppy didn’t rise to the bait. Just stood silent and unmoving and suddenly the urge to bait her died. Exhaustion tugged at his body, making him slump in the chair.
He sighed. ‘I can walk, but given my vision—’ and the lacerations and bruising ‘—I’m not as mobile as I was. The wheelchair is at the insistence of the staff—’ who’d continued to badger him about staying. ‘I’ll use it as far as the entrance but after that I’ll walk.’ He just hoped he didn’t make a fool of himself by collapsing in a heap. Getting ready had sapped more strength than he’d anticipated.
Abruptly Orsino gestured to the wheelchair. He’d had enough of this conversation. ‘Given the sling it’s hard to push. Do you mind?’
‘Of course.’ She hurried behind him and he caught a faint scent of berries on the air. He ignored it.
They had to run the gamut of staff who’d assembled to see him off. At the entrance Orsino carefully stood, his body creaking like an old man’s.
‘Are you sure you’re fit to walk?’ It was Amindra, his favourite nurse. Her concern was at odds with her usual brisk kindness and he found himself groping for her hand. This round dumpling of a woman had given him more care and concern than he remembered from his own mother.
Had Poppy really been jealous of her?
‘Of course I am, Amindra. Thanks to your care. When I’m healed I’ll be back to thank you all properly.’
He thought he caught a glimpse of a smile before she curled his hands around the head of a walking stick.
‘Good. Then you can bring this back to me.’ She squeezed his hand then melted into the gloom that was his peripheral vision.
‘This way.’ It was Poppy, beside him again, her voice as colourless as a mountain brook. She swept one arm in a wide gesture and he located the door.
Slowly he paced beside her, his good hand clenched around the walking stick, his body tense with effort.
The big door swung open with a whoosh of crisp air. He hesitated then stepped out, relishing the cocktail of smells bombarding him: exhaust fumes and dust, smoke and spicy cooking. It was so different to the scoured smell of the hospital. He heard bustling life surround him. Relief battered like a wave, making him light-headed.