Ahead a figure exited the lobby’s glass doors, walking at right angles to him. A tall man, his pale hair rumpled. He shrugged into a jacket and, as he passed under a streetlight, Orsino recognised him. Mischa, Poppy’s guide and guru in her modelling career.
The glare of light revealed two other things. First, his shirt flopped loose from his trousers, the buttons askew as if he’d been too distracted to dress properly. This, the man whose world view was driven by the need to look perfect!
Second, what appeared to be lipstick smeared across his collar. And another smudge on his cheek.
‘Sorry? Did you say something?’
Orsino swallowed the growl vibrating in his throat and fought his way back to the present. The ballroom. The man beside him. Poppy looking impossibly sexy, wrapped in the arms of a stranger who looked like the one man on earth he truly hated.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
Orsino needed space, action, movement. Something to do. Something to focus on other than the buzz of emotion rippling under his skin like swarming ants.
But he couldn’t simply hop in a fast car and drive through the night. His damned faulty eyesight kept him prisoner here.
Watching the filming was the only distraction on offer. If he concentrated hard maybe he’d remember he wasn’t supposed to feel anything but lust for Poppy.
It took hours, testing his patience to screaming point. The evening progressed and it grew cold. His bad hand curled into a useless claw at his side, a legacy of the frostbite. A number of extras sneaked tipples from a flask.
Finally it was over: people everywhere, a bustle as equipment was turned off and moved. Cords were rolled up, instructions shouted, weary shoulders slumping as models in rich silks and velvets streamed past.
Orsino stood waiting.
The tall blond who’d been at Poppy’s side all night walked past, resplendent in a colourful officer’s uniform of another age. Orsino barely spared him a glance. The dresser responsible for Poppy’s jewellery hurried by, clutching a stack of flat leather cases.
The huge room emptied but still she didn’t come when the overhead lights were switched off.
It was dark at the far end of the vast ballroom yet he made out movement, the sound of voices.
Orsino headed towards them.
‘I didn’t, I tell you! You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re drunk.’ He heard the woman’s urgent voice from afar.
‘Don’t lie to me! I saw you with him. You were all over him.’ The man’s words were a slurred roar of rage.
Orsino quickened his pace.
‘It’s the part I’m playing. That’s all. You know I’d never—’
‘Of course you would! You’re all the same, teasing and leading a guy on then dumping him.’
There was a blur of movement and Orsino cursed, lengthening his stride and hoping he didn’t trip over something in the gloom.
‘Ow! You’re hurting me. Let me go.’ Fear threaded the woman’s voice.
The shadows ahead resolved into figures. A man looming over a woman in a shimmery dress, his hand around her wrist as she struggled, her long skirt billowing. And at her side, another woman in a dress he knew to be the colour of dark rubies, her bare shoulders and breasts gleaming in the moonlight from a nearby window.
‘Let her go.’ It was Poppy who spoke, her voice hard and low, vibrating fierce energy.
‘You keep out of this!’ The man released the other woman and swung violently towards Poppy. She backed a step, ducked and in a flash of movement somehow tipped the aggressor over her to sprawl on the floor.
Orsino pounded forward, the taste of fear, like hot metal, searing his mouth. He stumbled over something but righted himself and surged forward, fury and adrenaline powering him.
Poppy stepped back, spreading her arms wide as if to protect the other woman. The man staggered to his feet, spewing a stream of vicious threats. Head down, he barrelled towards her.
Orsino launched himself, cannoning into him with a bone-jarring thump that made stars wink and spin behind his eyes and pain hammer through every part of him. Half-healed injuries throbbed anew.
Blood roared in his ears as they grappled. He smelled alcohol and sweat, and the rusty tang of blood. Excruciating pain lanced as fists pummelled and a vicious kick connected with his knee.
Sheer rage kept him going.
This … scum had attacked Poppy.
His fist connected with soft belly and again with a hard jaw in a crunch of bone on bone that blasted his good hand into agony.
Then there was nothing except his ragged breathing and the blood pounding like a jackhammer in his head, throbbing fire through his body with every beat.
He staggered to his feet, his knee barely taking his weight. Soft hands reached for him, running over him as if making sure he was all there.