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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 in experience? 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