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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