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Daring to Date the Boss / The Tycoon Who Healed Her Heart: Daring to Date the Boss / The Tycoon Who Healed Her Heart
Melissa James

Barbara Wallace


The Tycoon Who Healed Her Heart Nestled away in the beautiful Swiss Alps, Armand’s exclusive resort is the perfect place for TV presenter Rachel to escape the media spotlight. Prickly Rachel’s so afraid of letting anyone close that she’s built a fortress around her heart. But Armand knows he’s the man who can help knock it down… Daring to Date the Boss As a busy single mum, Liz is the queen of control. But the arrival of new boss Charles sweeps the rug from under her feet. Suddenly she’s sharing sizzling kisses with the devastatingly handsome CEO. Yet she’s struggling to believe that beneath his frosty exterior lies a heart that will beat for her, for always…










The TycoonWho Healed HerHeart

Melissa James



Daring to Datethe Boss

Barbara Wallace














www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


The Tycoon Who Healed Her Heart

Melissa James




Dear Reader,

This is a book about new beginnings. Life forces changes on us all. What we do with those changes and how we grow with them is what makes us the people we are. And sometimes a very special person comes along and the journey becomes beautiful.

I hope you enjoy Rachel and Armand’s journey.

Melissa


To my lovely sister CP and confidante Mia.

We’ve always been there for each other, through all the ups and downs of life.




About the Author


MELISSA JAMES is a born-and-bred Sydneysider who swapped the beaches of the New South Wales Central Coast for the Alps of Switzerland a few years ago. Wife and mother of three, a former nurse, she fell into writing when her husband brought home an article about romance writers and suggested she should try it—and she became hooked. Switching from romantic espionage to the family stories of Mills & Boon


was the best move she ever made. Melissa loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at: authormelissajames@yahoo.com.




CHAPTER ONE


Graubünden Region, Swiss Alps

‘YOU’RE doing much better,’ Rachel Chase’s ski instructor said as he performed a smooth cross-country sliding ski across the final slope towards the Bollinger Alpine Resort.

‘It’s not true, Matt, but thank you for persisting with me.’ With a grateful smile, Rachel filled her lungs with crisp, clean mountain air, set her jaw, turned her face and kept sliding across the baby slope. It was humiliating, but she constantly had to grab hold of his hand.

Probably she just didn’t have the confidence to ski, but in every other way the Bollinger Alpine Resort had been the perfect hideout. The staff took excellent care of her in this lake-filled valley nestled beneath the Alps, and with complete discretion. When Max, the manager, had offered her refuge in a hideaway cabin at the back of the resort, she’d grabbed the chance.

For a week she’d refused to unpack, remaining ready to run again. The peace felt too good to be true after the nightmare of ringing phones and flashing cameras she’d endured in LA after Pete’s lies had hit the headlines. She shuddered to think what it was like now ‘Dr Pete’ had discovered he could only fix his failing ratings, and hang onto the fame and adulation he craved, by publicly reuniting with the wife he’d denounced as a cheater.

Rachel rubbed her wrist. It had long since healed, but it was symbolic. An hour after she’d seen a doctor privately and alone to have the broken limb put in a cast, she’d had the locks changed and filed for a temporary restraining-order. She hadn’t pressed charges—it would have destroyed Pete—but she’d go to court if he touched her again. Her lawyer had made that crystal clear.

Her phone had been off for weeks. He couldn’t use tracking, charm, love, guilt or even her mother and sister to get his way. She had enough to deal with learning how to survive alone, without the constant knowledge that her family loved Pete more than they’d ever loved her.

A soft voice asked from behind her, ‘Rachel, are you okay? Does the key not work?’

She started. Though Pete had only hit her twice before she’d left him, it had left its mark in a nervous reaction she hadn’t learned to control yet. After a deep breath she turned to the pretty brunette with the hint of willowy figure that Rachel had once had to starve herself to maintain. Apart from her second cousin Suzie—who’d arranged her new name, two new passports with different names and had given her thousands of dollars Pete couldn’t trace—the members of staff at Bollinger Alpine Resort were the only people she could trust.

She apologised in German and entered the cabin. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Monika.’ She unclipped and with both hands pulled off her snow boots and damp, tight ski socks.

Monika had brought her lunch. Jami and Max joined her soon after to listen to her stories about life as a celebrity wife in Tinsel Town. She dredged another story from the depths of all she wanted to forget for the sake of those who were risking their livelihoods to protect her.

From the corner of the terrasse he watched the woman holding court, three members of staff watching her in adoring awe, as if she was an affable duchess. He’d watched her trying to ski before, pretending to stumble so she could hold the hand of a young, handsome ski instructor.

He’d known women like her before and he despised them—using wiles and fame to get their way. She charmed people into falling into her hand. Obviously she revelled in being the centre of attention. And she was good at it: the sweet, rueful manner combined with her fawn-like eyes and her ‘big as Texas, big as her heart’ smile was a lethal cocktail for the uninitiated.

What a shame for Mrs Rachel Rinaldi—the now-infamous ‘Mrs Dr Pete’ of chat-show legend—that he’d been initiated into how far one could fall when the fame bubble burst. He wasn’t naïve or stupid. He’d been taken, burned, lied to and left broken before she even left grade school—and he’d never let anyone do it to him since.

Mrs Rinaldi was about to discover just how far her charm would get her.

‘And so He That Shall Not Be Named insisted those ten seconds of footage be cut from the interview. Apparently a top-action hero’s being human enough to trip on a step and fall flat on his face could ruin his entire career and cause his wife to divorce him—quote, unquote.’

‘I assume my invitation to this party was lost in the post.’ The giggles and snorts of her friends died. Brow furrowed, Rachel turned to see what was wrong, but with one look her breath caught in her lungs.

A man of dark, dangerous male beauty stood in the doorway. His tight, brooding sensuality hit her in the solar plexus like a drive-by shot. His features weren’t quite classic, but his stormy eyes and sensuous mouth more than made up for the lack of perfection. His bearing had a loose-limbed elegance and his lean, strong body was encased in a dove-grey suit that complemented his eyes. She blinked hard once or twice. It felt as if the room was spinning around her—but this had happened to her once before …

I am not that girl now. She forced her eyes to remain open, focused on him. No man would ever make her close her eyes or fall to her knees again, physically or emotionally.

She held his gaze, returning it with an openness most men found unnerving. Yes, the man knew how to dress, to impress a woman with a glance, but it was probably all for show.

Definitely ‘been there, done that’—and she’d thrown out the T-shirt.

‘A shame, since it seems I’m the host.’ The new arrival spoke quietly, but small flickers of restrained lightning showed in each word. His dark-grey eyes rested upon the occupants of the cabin one by one. And she’d thought she knew how to unnerve others …

‘Herr Bollinger, uh, welcome back. We were not aware of your arrival.’ Max spoke in German, with a nervous twitch in his left eye. Monika squirmed, and Jami gazed at the door as if it held the secrets of life.

Bollinger. So this was the resort’s owner, the son of a French multi-millionaire and a French-Swiss movie star. She’d seen pictures of him from about twelve years ago, when he’d been in the top ten of the World’s Beautiful People, but she’d never seen him in the flesh. Armand Bollinger—the man nicknamed ‘the Wolf’ for his brilliance in business circles as well as in his love life. And, now she had seen him, she knew why. The leashed storm in him took Rachel’s breath anew.

He stepped inside the room, filling it with an air of absolute command, even as he spoke with exquisite courtesy. ‘I’d like to speak with our guest alone, thank you.’ He glanced at each of his staff in turn. Without a word, Jami, Max and Monika fled, and she couldn’t blame them.

The man turned to her with a smile that was perfect, welcoming and professional. ‘Ms Chase, I am Armand Bollinger.’ He didn’t waste words he didn’t need, such as ‘I am the owner of the resort’. His voice sounded like chocolate brandy ought to taste. In a suit whispering Savile Row, and a linen shirt two shades darker than the trousers, he was the epitome of European elegance.

So why did she sense such a dark cloud hovering inside him? He seemed the consummate beautiful stranger. Yet, looking just beneath the surface, she felt not the hunter but the wounded wolf, pushing ancient scars out of existence by force of sheer will. ‘Are all your needs being met? Is there anything you need?’

That’s not why you came.

Her years of psychology training and practice had kicked in at first sight of him, without consciously trying. The owners of resorts did not commonly knock on doors to check on service levels; that was left to the managers. The resort owners she’d met might come to visit her if they discovered who she was, but they wouldn’t have the haunted look of Armand Bollinger’s eyes. Beneath the exquisite manners he wore with the same comfort as his excellent clothing, whatever it was he’d come to say sat ill on him.

He knows who I am.

The thought panicked her—but she would not show any weakness. She would never give in to any man’s demands again.

‘Every need has been met, Herr Bollinger, thank you.’ She lifted her chin, kept her eyes fully on his. ‘Have you come to ask me to leave?’

Armand stared at the diminutive woman before him, her warm curves encased in jeans, a fluffy pink pullover and hotel slippers. Very different from the tiny angles, designer outfits and high heels he’d seen when she was TV’s Mrs Dr Pete, the Texan sweetheart who’d made Dr Pete’s show the hit it was—or the hit it had been until he’d tossed her off the show. He’d heard it had been canned in the past few weeks.

He’d always been told the camera added ten pounds. It seemed real life did that to Rachel Rinaldi. In fact, if he hadn’t seen those fawn-like brown eyes, or her famous smile dazzling his staff through the terrasse windows, or heard her pretty, sing-song southern accent telling her story, he wouldn’t have recognised her at all. Gone were her trademark mahogany waist-length locks, the flawless make-up, the four-inch heels and the jewellery. In their place were a light-brown pixie haircut and clear, creamy skin with a light dusting of freckles … not to mention the bristling stance and the challenging flash in her eyes as she squared up to him. She was expecting him to throw her out, but she’d go down swinging. But surely she knew why he was here?

She hadn’t played the fame card yet to get what she wanted, or to railroad him with their respective positions. But she will, he thought cynically. Sooner or later they all did, which was part of the reason he’d left that world years ago. The world his parents had once dominated; oh yes, the Bollingers had been ‘beautiful people’.

Then their world had fallen apart, and no one knew it but them. Even now, no one knew the truth of his father’s death, or the things he’d done, the family shame.

‘If you’re going to ask me to leave, Herr Bollinger, I’d appreciate it if you’d get it over with rather than stringing it out this way.’

The aggressive tone seemed off-kilter in her pretty southern accent. Armand didn’t start at the somewhat acid return to the present; even his mental shake was unseen. Give nothing away, don’t hand your power to anyone. He’d learned that lesson long before he’d been kicked out of home at the age of twelve and he’d never forget it.

‘You are a paying guest, Ms Chase,’ he replied with all the practised smoothness of years, the acting training from young childhood. His father had called them ‘deportment classes’, but Armand knew them for what they were. Put on a show, look pretty, display perfect behaviour at all times. No anger, no sorrow, no remorse. And don’t ever be yourself. So he’d play the game she’d set up and see where it led. ‘We have just met. Why should you think I wish you to go?’

‘Well, you’re furious at me for some reason,’ she returned, notably less hostile, but with her famed perception.

This time it was harder not to physically react. Damn it, she knew what he wanted! Surely she’d known he’d come the moment he found out where she was hiding out? ‘Another assumption, given that I’ve only asked if you need anything,’ he said softly.

‘You’re lying.’ With an almost triumphant expression, she pointed at his eyes. ‘See, there it is again. It’s like lightning behind clouds, the look of fury hiding behind good manners. You’re mad at me for some reason, so why not just say so? The sooner you get it off your chest, the sooner I can get back to my lunch.’

Dissected and dismissed within three sentences. Armand wasn’t used to either happening to him. Rudeness from guests he could tolerate; stupidity he could ignore, certainly, though it irritated him. The superciliousness and constant demands of the super-rich were every-day life to him, his bread and butter. He’d been unfailingly polite, the perfect gentleman in all the years he’d spent rebuilding the resort and his reputation. The Wolf led the pack. Nobody got the best of him; nobody got to him.

How could this total stranger hop the barriers he’d erected twenty years ago with such ease? Damn it, she was laughing at him. Nobody had seen through him since he’d been sent to boarding school at the age of twelve. The day after he’d broken his father’s nose.

The night his fairy-tale world had risen up to the light, exposed for the ugly lie it was. The night his sisters had lost their innocence. The night they’d all lost each other. Though they’d gained some closeness since his father had died, somehow it was never the same again.

He caught himself rubbing his finger.

Shut down, turn off. He forced a smile. He was damned if he wouldn’t turn the tables. ‘All right, then, Ms Chase—or should I say, Mrs Rinaldi?’

Not a muscle moved in her face, but something flickered in her eyes—a fleeting expression he’d seen on a woman’s face before, and never wanted to see again. But she spoke calmly, almost bored. ‘I realised you’d recognised me the moment you broke into my cabin and heard me speak, Herr Bollinger. Would you mind getting to the point of your visit? My lettuce is wilting as we speak.’

His moment of perception fled beneath the sheer gall of the woman. Now he was less important than lettuce. If Rachel Rinaldi was famed for her loving empathy with strangers, he surely wasn’t seeing a sign of it. But, by God, he wouldn’t let her get to him—or, more accurately, keep getting to him. ‘By all means, Ms Chase, return to your lunch. It seems that you need it. Would you mind if I join you?’

The hesitation was so long it was almost as visible as the look in her eyes. She didn’t want him here. Never once in his life had a woman refused his company, or even hesitated; always it had been women inviting him, women watching him hesitate. Women always had to watch as he walked through his invisible exit sign and never looked back.

He shrugged off the momentary irritation and waited for her to speak. What did he care? This woman was far from his type, and he wasn’t looking. He had more than enough to fill his life without coping with a weak, tearful woman’s sensitivity, or the ego-filled demands of self-proclaimed strong women hitting him like an axe to the head.

That was the way it always went. His last relationship—if it could be called that—had put him off for a long time to come. Behind her dark, sinuous beauty, Selina had used tantrums, tears, other men and sexual manipulation, all aimed at one thing: to gain the fame of being the woman to tame the Wolf and wear his ring. She’d nearly scratched his eyes out when he’d said only one thing to her as he’d packed his things: ‘I don’t do cheating women.’

‘Certainly, Herr Bollinger,’ Rachel Chase said after what seemed an inordinately long time. ‘I’m getting a crick in my neck from looking up at you, anyway. Do come in.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, holding onto his courtesy, seething beneath. This woman wanted him to leave. She didn’t feel his famed charm, and his manners only seemed to bring out an irritated acerbity in her he’d never seen on TV.

He didn’t care—of course he didn’t—but he couldn’t help asking himself why.

Thrusting the thought away, he called the chef and asked for his lunch to be delivered to the cabin. He held out the dining chair in front of the salad Nicoise which was, indeed, wilting. Once he’d seated her, he called the chef again and ordered a new one despite her protests that it was fine to eat. She sighed and waved a hand around, vaguely indicating all five of the other chairs at the table, as if she didn’t care where he sat. ‘Please sit, Herr Bollinger.’ Inviting him to sit at his own table; he felt the cold fury rack up a notch.

He took the plate of salad away, placing it on the kitchen counter before returning to her, deliberately sitting opposite her. ‘The salad was sub-standard, Ms Chase. Of course I must replace it with a fresh one. We never serve stale salad in the restaurants, or in the actual hotel rooms.’

‘Well, since it was …’ And her sentence trailed off. She stared at him, her brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean by “actual hotel rooms”? Isn’t this cabin reserved for guests?’

He frowned. ‘I assumed my manager would have told you—this cabin is only for my private guests, as it’s my home.’

If there was one thing he hadn’t counted would discompose her, it was that. But there was no way she could fake a face pale to the point of whiteness. No way to darken those big, wistful eyes until they were pure black, pupils dilated with unadulterated fear and horror. ‘Oh … Oh, no, no. I didn’t … Um, I—I’m so sorry!’ she stammered.

No, she couldn’t be that good an actress. ‘You mean Max didn’t tell you when you asked to move in here?’ he asked, feeling the inadequacy of the words.

Now it was panic flaring in those easy-to-read eyes. ‘I—I must have forgotten. It wasn’t Max’s fault! He would have told me, certainly. I—I bullied him into it.’

She was babbling. Armand’s eyes narrowed as he kept his gaze fixed on her. He’d often found waiting an effective way to make women talk.

She was waiting in her turn, but not to unsettle him. She watched him with the air of one awaiting the guillotine. After a long pause, she whispered, ‘Please don’t blame your staff, Herr Bollinger. It—it was my fault. I saw the cabin, and—and I wanted more privacy, so I …’

‘You bullied Max into it. I see,’ he said, trying not to laugh. Half an hour ago, he might have believed it, but now he could no more see her bullying anyone than he could see her drowning a kitten. He didn’t have a psychology degree, but his profession required an ability to read people, and something disturbed him about Rachel Chase-Rinaldi.

‘And are you aware that other guests are complaining of neglect while at least three members of my staff come here at a time to be regaled with your amusing tales of the life and times of a Hollywood wife?’

Now she looked like a hunted deer, trapped in the headlights of his interrogation. She licked her lips; her eyes darted around the room, obviously finding no ready answer. At least ten seconds too late, she said, ‘It was me, all me. I’ve … been lonely and, um, they’ve been doing what your brochure says—taking excellent care of me.’

Every word came out with the fumbling of an honest woman trying to find an excuse. She couldn’t meet his eyes as she had so easily while she’d been fighting only for herself.

This was not the woman on the TV who always had the right words to hand, who always knew how to comfort others. So which of the two was the real woman and which was the fake?

‘I’ll have to commend them, then—but the arrangements will have to change, Ms Chase,’ he said quietly. ‘The current situation is unacceptable to me, and to my guests and, now I’m here, it will draw the kind of attention I think you wish least.’

The chair opposite him scraped back hard. She got to her feet, sickly pale but with determination in those speaking eyes. ‘Of course, I understand. I’ll leave on the first train. Do you know if there’s one leaving tonight?’

Armand had to fight the urge to blink. Nothing had happened the way he’d thought it would. There was no triumph in running off a woman who looked like a shot fawn.

‘You don’t need to leave, Ms Chase. If we move you into a suite late tonight, when no one will see, the woman here disappears and you return to being just another guest.’

She shook her head. ‘I think it’s best if I just go. I’ve caused enough trouble for you and your people.’

He’d never know later what changed his mind, unless it was the hunted look on her face, the fear she was trying to hide beneath defiance and determination: a sham of strength beneath her pride. The wall surrounding her was crumbling, and she was falling apart behind it. I have nowhere to go, her eyes said. Just as his mother had looked the day his father had sent Armand to boarding school. Just as she’d looked the night before he’d left, as she’d watched him taking the blows for her.

‘You don’t need to leave, Ms Chase,’ he said abruptly, wondering what the hell he was saying even as he spoke. ‘I have a proposition for you.’




CHAPTER TWO


RACHEL’S jaw dropped. ‘What did you just say?’ she demanded when she found her voice. ‘No, you couldn’t have meant—it’s a language miscommunication, right? I’m sure you didn’t mean that to sound like …’ You’re babbling. Abruptly she shut her mouth.

For the first time, Armand Bollinger’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘I should have said a business proposition. I beg your pardon for the confusion, Ms Chase.’

Though the words were smoothly said, his tone was filled with mirth. He was laughing at her for even thinking he could be attracted to her.

She felt her cheeks heat. ‘No, I’m sorry I thought that you could … I realise I’m not …’ Once more she broke off. The turbulent confusion inside her had grown to mammoth proportions in the space of seconds. ‘Forget I said it,’ she muttered, and closed her mouth.

‘The word proposition is a double entendre in itself,’ he said, and ended on that odd note. It felt to her as if he wanted to say more, but thought better of it.

The silences were becoming awkward, but she’d only make a mess of it if she spoke.

A knock sounded, and they both jumped to their feet. ‘It’s all right, I’m closer.’ She ran for the door before he could.

His voice came from behind her as she opened the door. ‘There are two trays.’ He took the heavier one from one of the two staff members at the door, neither of whom were her usual friends. Rachel took the other tray, and with a brief thanks closed the door. Much as she wanted to have a buffer, she was not asking any of his staff to come in. She’d put them all in enough trouble as it was. Disturbed by something, but not sure by what, she returned to the dining room.

‘I ordered a white wine. Will you take some?’ he asked in a European way as he poured a glass. Looking up with a smile, he held it out to her.

As she took the glass—she loved a good Chardonnay—it occurred to her what she’d seen behind the waiter holding her tray. ‘There were people watching us from the restaurant terrace.’

Herr Bollinger nodded as he sat again. ‘Naturally, Ms Chase. My regular visitors have worked out that some VIP must have taken over my cabin in my absence—but I saw no one with a telephoto lens, so I doubt they saw you clearly. The cabin’s over three-hundred metres from the main resort.’ He began eating, seeming unperturbed. ‘And that leads me to my original subject. We have a mutual problem, and we need to work out a solution that works for both of us.’

Rachel tilted her head. ‘Why is my presence such a problem for you?’

He looked up. ‘I don’t bring lovers to my home, Ms Chase,’ he said, cool as the snow outside. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The lone wolf didn’t want to deal with the complications that arose from this: the expectations from the women he dated. ‘I expect it will be worse for you, with your husband publicly claiming your reconciliation. The pictures showing you together are obviously a mock-up, since he’s in LA and you’re here.’

If there was a question in his words, she wasn’t answering. She picked up her fork and began spearing lettuce and tuna.

‘Rebuke accepted, Ms Chase,’ he said dryly, ‘But you can’t just hide from the issue this time. We share this problem. I can’t sort it out without some sort of communication.’

‘Mutual confidences, you mean?’ she retorted. ‘No thanks. You decide what you want to do. You own the place.’ She popped the food in her mouth before she said too much.

After a little silence, he asked quietly, ‘Are you always so impetuous? You don’t know me. My solution might not suit you at all.’

‘You have almost as much to lose as I do,’ she said when she’d swallowed her food. She took a gulp of wine—a crime, really, given that it was true Burgundian Chardonnay. ‘We both need this resolved with discretion. It’s not as if you’re going to ask me to be your mistress.’

‘Is that so impossible?’ he asked with an elliptical smile that set her nerves on edge.

‘Given your anger over keeping this as your private hideaway without your future lovers invading? Yes, of course it is.’ She shoved a forkful in her mouth, letting him deal with her insights. She was curious to know if he’d be as sarcastic as Pete when she’d out-talked him.

At least I know he won’t hit me. I’m a paying guest, and he wants discretion as much as I do. He can’t afford to antagonise me.

And the truth of it gave her the courage to speak her mind. She need not fear this man, and that was so liberating, she wanted to laugh with the joy of it. She barely remembered the last time she hadn’t been afraid of someone’s disapproval.

‘I don’t know whether to say touché or en garde,’ he murmured, his voice rich with enjoyment. Was he enjoying this crazy seesaw of a conversation?

It was almost a revelation to her—or a revolution; she wasn’t sure. Because she discovered, on thinking about it, that she was enjoying it too.

‘Feel free to use either,’ she said, waving a hand around, mock sword-fighting. She smiled at him.

It felt like a sock in the stomach, seeing that mega-watt, big-as-her-heart smile tossed his way. Armand stopped in his tracks, abruptly lost in it. She wasn’t flirting or trying to make a connection. There was no agenda, no personal gain; she was smiling just because she wanted to. And it was like seeing a blazing blue sky after a long, dull winter. The absolute lift of his spirits started low down and finished with a light, silvery feeling in his head, as if he could fly.

Why her effect on him amazed him so much, he wasn’t sure, when he’d met a thousand beautiful women—but he definitely didn’t want to explore the issue. ‘Can we work out stratagems before we duel?’ he asked with deliberate lightness. Any kind of probing sent her into tight-lipped silence. He could think of far better uses for that gorgeously smiling mouth the colour of a pink rose.

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ she mock-complained, her eyes shining like sunlight in dark wine.

Damn it, he had to watch his thoughts or he’d be in trouble. The last thing he’d ever do was start up a flirtation with a guest. It led to a hundred different routes, all marked ‘danger’.

‘You prefer to wing it?’ he asked, a deliberate probe. If nothing else, it would cut her friendliness, make her keep her distance again.

And it did. One shoulder lifted in a careless shrug. ‘Too many plans ruin the fun. Believe me, I know.’ Her voice was wry, and her smile slipped a little.

Armand didn’t bother asking the next question he was sure she wouldn’t answer. Besides, something about this woman lit places inside him that had been dark for too long. Though it scared the living daylights out of him, he had to know if it would work more than once. ‘Can we at least finish lunch before we begin our riposte?’

She blinked and chuckled. And that damned smile sent warmth and light into him so bright it hurt, little rainbow prism-shots. ‘I’m always braver after a glass.’ She lifted the wine glass but drank before he could raise his, make a toast or say anything remotely personal.

Why did so much about this woman seem to catch him out? Right now he only knew one thing: he barely knew her. So if he showed any sign of what she was capable of doing to him with a simple smile she’d bolt on the first train. Damn it, she wasn’t his type, so why was his body reacting so strongly?

‘This wine is heavenly. May I have more?’

Recalled by her abrupt words, Armand realised she’d caught him staring at her; she was blushing, biting her lip. Had his face shown what he’d been thinking? He poured the wine, drank his off and then refilled. ‘The vineyard is eight-hundred years old,’ he said to fill the silence. ‘The grapevines are almost as old.’

‘Amazing … Where I come from, anything a hundred years old is historic.’ She gulped the entire glass of wine down so fast Armand doubted it touched the edges before she looked at him with hard-earned resolve. ‘Look, can you please say what you came to say? The suspense is putting me off my lunch.’

How did she manage it, putting him in his place and making him want to smile at once, so dramatic over a salad? Not to mention the other parts of him that were breaking into an unwanted ‘hallelujah’ chorus whenever she looked at him or smiled.

Somehow he couldn’t dismiss it as a normal male reaction. Probably because this strange connection felt too intimate for just an hour’s acquaintance. With her stubborn courage and her willingness to shoulder her own burdens, Rachel Chase touched him somewhere he hadn’t felt before. It wasn’t normal for him. Usually when he felt something like this it was simple attraction. He’d ask them to dinner, enjoy hearing about the woman’s life, take it further at his leisure if she was willing, become bored in weeks and then give the nice kiss-off.

Rachel wasn’t anything like the usual women he was attracted to. Yet he was hurting, remembering, thinking—and, yes, he was enjoying himself, merely sitting here talking to her. Within half an hour she’d made him feel more than he had since he’d been twelve.

It only added piquant spice, knowing Rachel didn’t seem aware. No feminine antennae were on at all, looking for a man to fill the blank time in her life. She didn’t want him at all, barely thought of him as a man.

Then there was the flash he’d seen in her eyes, unmistakable, almost horrifying. For a single moment she’d been afraid of him; she’d been willing to run rather than be near him.

He had to tread lightly here. Just by crossing his own threshold he’d been dragged into undercurrents he wasn’t prepared to swim.

‘As I said, I know you’re Mrs Pete,’ he said. ‘Given what the media’s printed about your personal life, your need for privacy at this time is perfectly understandable.’

One by one, Rachel’s vertebrae relaxed. It seemed she wouldn’t have to find a new place to go—at least, not yet. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

‘But I need to make some amendments to the current arrangements.’ His voice was smooth and even but she almost heard his heartbeat picking up, felt that unknown but strong emotion vibrating through him. ‘I have assigned Monika to make up your room and bring your meals while you stay with us.’

Rachel felt the blush stain her cheeks. ‘Have there been many complaints against the staff spending time with me?’

Armand Bollinger nodded curtly, and she knew they’d reached the heart of his problem. From what she’d read of him on the plane coming over to Europe, he had rebuilt this place from the ground up after a fire had destroyed almost everything about eighteen years ago—the same fire that had taken the life of his father. The enormous amount of high-flying Guillaume Bollinger’s debt only became clear after his death, and speculation was rife on whether his death had been deliberate. Armand Bollinger had just turned seventeen at the time, but he’d taken control of his family finances. With years of hard work and dedication, he’d paid his father’s debts before he recreated this five-star resort. He obviously didn’t take his success for granted.

Thanks to her, his professional prestige had taken a hit. She knew too well how that felt.

‘This situation is my fault.’ She gazed at him in determined apology, trying to ignore that odd thrill racing through her body, just by looking into those dark-lashed, storm-grey eyes. An article from about a decade ago floated into her memory: the hypnotic eyes of the Wolf … ‘Please don’t fire anyone, Herr Bollinger. It wasn’t their fault. It was mine.’

‘I have no need or desire to fire anyone, Ms Chase. All my staff have given me complete satisfaction until now. I believe everyone deserves a second chance.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed fervently, though he’d spoken in a voice almost as cold as the snow outside. ‘They do. And it really was my fault.’

‘So you’ve now said three times.’ As slow as the nod he’d given her moments before, a smile was born. Not the perfunctory stretching of lips she’d seen on rare pictures of him during the past decade, but a real, warm smile. The silly little thrill became outright shivers racing through her as fast as a Daytona driver. She’d seen loads of pretty boys in LA: models, actors and the rest. But she’d never seen such true, strong masculine beauty close up before. When he smiled, Armand Bollinger was devastating.

‘Moreover, I understand their fascination.’ Either not noticing her reaction, or not caring, he lifted the painted china coffee-pot sitting on a matching stand with a candle to keep it warm and offered it to her. Trying her best not to stare at him, she nodded and he poured it into her cup. ‘Having a real Hollywood star hiding out in our quiet resort is a scandal too delicious not to take part in.’ He held out the coffee cup to her.

She stiffened. ‘I thought you of all people would know the truth, Herr Bollinger, given your brief stint as both a French and international noir actor, years ago though it was. Stars belong in the sky.’ She took the cup and put it down fast; her hands were trembling. ‘But I agree that the whole world knows about my life.’

‘Or think they do,’ he said with a wryness that seemed to come from the heart. ‘But, as you know nothing about my real life, I know nothing of yours, Ms Chase. I merely made a generalisation on how average people feel about meeting the rich and famous.’

Startled, she looked up, but his concentration was on his refilled coffee, watching the steam rise. She opened her mouth and then shut it hard. Something about Armand Bollinger was dangerous … and seductive. Oh, he was good, if he could make her yearn to unburden herself within an hour of meeting.

‘I guess nobody knows anyone’s true story but those involved, unless their publicist gives a quote,’ she said lightly. ‘But you know the first rule of the media: never let truth get in the way of good sales for the tabloids.’ From staring at the curls of steam from her coffee, she looked up with a smile that was its own barrier, daring him to ask.

‘So I’ve heard.’ His tone sounded half a million miles away, a lifetime ago.

She found herself staring at him again against her will and even her need. It was as if he’d put her under hypnosis. He had a knack of being able to say so much with a few words, leaving her with the feeling of things unfinished, wanting more. It was as if an asteroid was flying by her, dragging her into its orbit as it passed.

This was the last thing she needed. All she’d wanted was her privacy, to pay her bills when she’d found the strength to face her life. He’d been the one to barge in here, expose her and then say everything and nothing at once. And she still didn’t know why he was here.

‘I think I’ve asked enough times, Herr Bollinger.’ She put down her cutlery and pushed the rest of the salad away from her. More trembling little thrills, more resolute denial. She said calmly enough, ‘What is it you’re asking of me?’




CHAPTER THREE


AFTER a long moment Armand leaned forward, looking into her face. Those eyes had a power he couldn’t define—unless it lay in their utter guilelessness. He’d played the game of love so long with other players, being straightforward with a strange woman felt almost unfamiliar. He followed her suit, pushing his half-eaten lunch away. This discussion was too important to blur with food. ‘It’s obvious that the past few months have been harder on you than most people know.’

He waited for an answer but, as if refusing to hand her power over even in confirmation or denial, she kept her chin high and said nothing but merely waited.

When it was obvious she wasn’t going to answer his unspoken question, to make his task any easier, he decided to plunge ahead. ‘You need a place to stay with discreet staff, without needing to go out in public, or do your own shopping, et cetera. My resort is the right place for you. We offer you all the services you need.’

After what seemed like minutes of waiting, she bowed her head, stiff and cold. Just as he’d have done—in fact it was what he had done when he’d been barely seventeen, a rising star in the art-house industry and the secrets surrounding his father’s death had been resurrected in the name of public entertainment. ‘Go on.’

‘But this cabin is my home. If I don’t stay in it while I’m here, it will cause the kind of remark and speculation you need least at the moment—but, again, if anyone sees you here and recognises you, you end up with the same problem.’

He saw the flash of fear cross her face before it disappeared. There was something deeper here she was worried about than just her public reputation. ‘I don’t know whether I caused your problem, you caused mine, or both,’ she said, with a slow kind of horror.

‘Both,’ he replied dryly. ‘Mine is but a minor nuisance, Ms Chase. I believe your problem to be more serious.’ He left the air filled with the question unspoken. The women he’d known usually rushed to fill a conversational gap if he made it intriguing enough.

This woman didn’t even look up, or seem to notice he’d left a half-question dangling there. ‘But I caused it. If I hadn’t left my room …’ Frowning hard, she shook her head.

If he was reading the look in her half-fallen eyes correctly, she felt as guilty as she did fearful—and he had her right where he wanted her. The future of his resorts could be smooth, and her life set back on the right course, with just a little manipulation.

But he’d been hurt and manipulated when he was a boy. Long ago, he’d sworn he would never inflict his will on another, no matter what benefits it could bring him. Yet here he was, playing the worst kind of game, being his father’s son. Was history repeating itself—the one thing he’d believed would never happen?

He refused to give in to the guilt coursing through him. Damn it, this time it’s right.

‘All the regular guests will wonder if I don’t stay here,’ he said, drowning the guilt beneath the weight of arguments he thought would convince her. Yes, he wanted something from her, but he was giving as much as he got, relatively speaking. He might gain financial rewards, but she got what she seemed to need desperately—peace and quiet. ‘Apart from family, I’ve never had any woman here so your presence has already caused speculation.’

Another look crossed her face, similar to when she’d asked about the complaints against the staff. ‘I didn’t realise …’ Her eyes squeezed shut. Her mouth opened, made soundless motions, and then she said faintly, ‘Again, I can only apologise for the trouble I’ve caused you.’

Her embarrassment was too genuine to deny. Armand felt a crazy urge to run out of the cabin, get some fresh air to clear his head. The spoiled-brat media darling he’d assumed her to be an hour ago might have railroaded his staff into bowing to her will, but this woman’s conscience seemed even more radiant than her smile. She reminded him of a clawless kitten. Whatever the truth was inside Dr Pete’s press releases, a Delilah this woman definitely was not.

This could be almost too easy, except that Armand refused to stoop to stealing candy from babies. Or use another person’s conscience against them, to make them sing his tune.

‘Since you’ve made the name change, and with the subtle amendments you’ve made to your appearance, you could probably take another room without issue,’ he said, giving her a last get-out if she wanted to take it. A sap to his conscience, even if he was sure she wouldn’t.

‘Your staff recognised me within a day, looking just like this,’ she replied, with a despairing rather than pugnacious note. ‘Apparently, my accent and voice give me away. I’ve been trying to learn Swiss German, but I’m about as good with accents as I am on skis.’

Armand felt an unusual urge to grin. Rachel Chase seemed almost disastrously honest—a definite downer for hiding in this electronic-media world, but it was a trait he strongly respected. ‘Then we go with my plan. I’ll stay here with you. I’ll go about my business through the day as usual. Monika will—’

‘You want me to stay here with you?’

The squeak in her voice wasn’t feigned. For all the stories Dr Pete had put out about her, she didn’t seem the kind to fall into the arms of a rich man when he showed up on her doorstep—even if it was his doorstep. ‘In another bedroom, Ms Chase,’ he said in cool amusement. ‘The cabin has four of them. You obviously took the word “proposition” to heart.’

A flare of pink touched her cheeks, but her eyes flashed. Though he waited a full minute, she made no retort, didn’t try to defend herself. ‘Go on,’ she said eventually, sounding as angry as she looked.

‘It’s a necessary evil,’ he said, fighting the renewed guilt of knowing he’d backed her into a corner, but torn between anger and amusement at the fact that he’d finally found a woman who not only didn’t leap at the idea of staying with him, but fought it all the way. ‘My staff’s coming and going to the cabin throughout the day while I was gone has already caused curiosity. My regular guests have asked who the VIP is that’s staying in my cabin, since I only arrived this morning.’

Again, he saw the riotous flush fill her cheeks. She looked quite pretty like that, in a country-girl fashion. Natural and pure. ‘You seem to have learned a lot in a few hours. What did you do, take a general survey?’

She was quick-minded, he’d give her that. ‘It’s my job to know what’s going on in my resort, Ms Chase.’

‘You do it well,’ she muttered, but it wasn’t a compliment.

He didn’t thank her; it would only inflame her anger at suddenly finding herself helpless in a situation that had felt safe until he’d invaded her sanctuary an hour ago. ‘As you do your job well, from what I’ve seen.’

She only shrugged in reply.

Goaded, he said in a silky-smooth voice, ‘I asked nothing of my guests, nor did I say anything. I didn’t need to. Your total avoidance of the other guests has caused curiosity amongst those who come here hoping for a certain kind of company. My staff has been avoiding all the guests’ questions, but you don’t want them putting the pieces of your puzzle together. In other words, you need a good cover story, Ms Chase.’

She sighed and nodded. ‘Call me Rachel,’ was all she said.

‘Rachel, then.’ In saying her name, Armand took a step into unknown territory. It didn’t feel as casual as it had in the past, probably because she’d offered the intimacy with such reluctance. ‘I am Armand.’

She only nodded, frowning, serious.

‘The assumption is that you must be famous or someone special to me, since my cabin’s always been off-limits. The first causes the kind of speculation you need least and, as to the second, my sisters are well known here. I could pass you off as a cousin, but it gives you no reason why you wouldn’t mingle with the guests. So either you leave on that train tonight, or become my lover in the eyes of anyone who asks when I refuse to explain who you are.’

He stopped when he saw her pale, a reaction no person could fake. With those enormous eyes, she looked like Bambi after his mother had been shot. ‘I think it’s best if I leave,’ she said quietly, rubbing her wrist with an absent yet anxious movement which was horribly familiar.

Armand’s gaze narrowed. He used to do that with his finger in the years before his father had died and he took control of his life.

He went on as if he’d seen nothing. ‘But if it got about that you needed to run from here, it would ruin the reputation of my resort—and it has too many potential hazards for you.’

‘Such as?’ In her clear-to-read expression, there was a mixture of wariness to trust and an almost desperate hope that he had an answer to her problem.

‘People already know you’re in the run, Rachel—your pictures are on magazines every week. The accent, not to mention the eyes and smile, will give you away. If you leave now and go elsewhere, someone will recognise you, no matter what name you use,’ he said quietly.

She let out a tiny sigh. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of. I thought of using coloured contact-lenses, but over brown eyes it never really works. They end up looking muddy or weird.’

‘Disguises aren’t the answer. You need to stay out of the public eye for now.’ He made the assumption a matter of fact and, as she nodded, he felt the anticipation soaring. ‘You’re safe here, Rachel.’

The frozen look on her face relaxed. Slowly, the dazzling smile that was as endearing as it was puzzling was turned his way. ‘In the time I’ve been here, every member of your staff has worked hard to protect my identity.’

That smile, not to mention the fear crouching beneath it, left Armand more confused by the moment; all his assumptions had been torn away. From the moment he’d seen her start at the sound of his voice, the fear in her eyes too genuine to deny, the pieces had fallen apart. The rubbing of her wrist left Armand to re-form a puzzle he didn’t want to put back together. More than most people, he knew that fame and wealth did not guarantee a happy, trouble-free life.

Rachel wasn’t hiding in his resort just to build suspense to the right pitch before granting an exclusive interview to some glossy magazine for the requisite six or seven figures.

‘Your need for privacy exactly tallies with my own wishes. I’m about to purchase land for my third resort. Like my first one, it’s on the French side of the Swiss Alps. The local authorities investigate all new building projects thoroughly; complaints from my current guests are the last thing I need until the deal goes through. So, by solving both our problems this way, the work on my new resort will go ahead smoothly—if you’ll agree to my deal.’

He’d hoped to have her hooked by this time, but she half-tilted her head away from him, her gaze riveted to something about four inches from his face. ‘I’m listening,’ was all she said, but with the air of waiting for the axe to fall on her.

He leaned forward, hands on the table. ‘I stay here as usual, and will order a whole range of groceries to be delivered here, whatever you need. That won’t cause remark, as I often cook for myself. Some lunches and dinners I will spend in the resort with the guests, but I’ll be here the rest of the time. That’s my normal routine and we don’t need to break it. If by any chance someone sees you or us together, it’s easy for me to pretend to be indulging in a private romance with a mystery woman. Your name will never be mentioned. I’ll deal with inquisitive people.’ He lifted his brow with a cool, imperious air.

She bit her lip over that stunning, alive smile that filled her face. It made her look like a naughty conspirator. ‘I can see how that would work. I certainly wouldn’t ask, if you looked at me like that.’

He held in the grin; her mercurial moods were as infectious as they were baffling. ‘No member of the press can come unannounced through the gates onto the resort land, since the resort is solidly booked for months in advance. The only way in is through the dated key-card we send guests, and everyone that comes here wants the same level of privacy you need. If you stay here, you’ll have the luxury of being able to say nothing. If you cover yourself when you go out, and don’t talk to anyone but my staff, there is no reason that anyone should recognise you.’

‘You did,’ she pointed out. ‘Your staff did.’

He gave her a wry smile. ‘I heard your voice before I saw your face. It’s the voice that gives you away. Your show is on several channels here, dubbed into Italian, French or German for three of them, but the English cable-channel uses your face and voice for an advertisement for the show.’

She frowned and sighed. ‘I thought I’d be anonymous here.’

‘You are what you are, Rachel, but only for as long as you choose to stay famous. If you want to walk away from the life, people begin to forget soon enough and you can get on with whatever it is you want to do with your future.’

He’d spoken almost harshly, yet she smiled at him as if he’d handed her the key to the door of freedom. ‘Thank you,’ she said very softly, her eyes alight with relief, her entire face wreathed in the brilliance of her smile.

He had to wrench his gaze from her. When she came alive like that, it almost hurt him to look. ‘We can keep the pretence up for as long as you need.’

‘Oh, Armand … You don’t know what you just said, do you?’

Jerked back by her first use of his name, by the wonder in her tone, he saw the whole room had come alight with the force of that marvellous smile. It was so bright he fought the urge to blink and turn away. ‘What?’ he asked, fighting to keep his tone even and smooth. For years, he’d kept the façade seamless. How did she pull apart the edges of his control like that and look inside his soul without trying?

‘I might want a year, two years—and then you’d be stuck with me,’ she quipped, but wryly, so self-mockingly, he wondered if she had any plans to return to her public life. He noticed that she’d neatly sidestepped his subtle query on how much time she’d need with the lame joke.

His brows lifted. ‘I doubt it,’ he said, just as dryly. ‘There’s just one personal question I must ask: is there a prospective Mr Chase on the horizon to upset our plans?’

That subtle stiffening of her shoulders spread across her face and body. With deliberate grace, she sipped at coffee that must be nearly cold by now. ‘No.’

Though there was an invisible sign screaming ‘back off’ in neon letters, he forged on. ‘And there’s no chance of your reconciling with Dr Pete?’

She stilled for a few ticks of the clock, a few moments that seemed for ever. Her fingers rubbed absently at her right wrist again. It was an unconscious movement, a picture that told a million words he didn’t want to read. It was almost a full minute before she spoke. ‘No.’

Again, it was all she said. Though he waited another full minute for her to continue, she merely lifted her brows and turned her face to the big French cross-beamed doors leading to the balcony. She stared out over the terrasse to the Alpine peaks soaring above them with so much absent absorption, it bordered on rudeness.

In Armand’s experience, the less he said, the more a woman rushed to fill the silence. But Rachel sat silently, with a half-defiant smile that told him she didn’t care what he thought. No details given, not even an explanation as to why there was emphatically no man to fill the void Dr Pete had left.

When she remained stubbornly silent, he tossed a bomb to make her speak. ‘Don’t you want to know what I wish in return?’

Without looking at him, she said without expression, ‘You’ve already told me, I think. You want me to endorse the new resort for you, to extol the privacy and luxury of this one too, perhaps. You want me to bring other celebrities to your new resort when it’s built. You want me to advertise your resorts.’

By now he wasn’t taken aback by her perceptive guess—but he noticed that she didn’t even ask if she was right. ‘Yes, that is what I want,’ he said with a similar lack of animation, hiding how damned important it was to him. Someone as loved around the world as Rachel Rinaldi could help him crack the lucrative upper-end of the American market, and she’d fallen right into his lap. He could make the deal without months of negotiations and the endless hassle of speaking through lawyers and agents. He studied her face for a reaction. ‘Is it a deal?’

She shrugged with that slow elegance that felt like a wall being erected brick by brick. ‘I’m willing to do it, if you’re satisfied with such a poor bargain.’

He almost laughed in her face. Getting a woman as world-renowned as Mrs Pete to endorse his resorts was a coup of marvellous proportions for him, and she had to know it. ‘A poor bargain?’ he asked, tilting his head in clear enquiry. ‘Come on, Ms Chase, stop fishing for compliments. The whole world knows you were the one who caused the ratings jump in your husband’s show when it began failing. I’ve heard about the offer made to you since your split with Dr Pete. Your fans demanded you have your own chat show, taking Dr Pete’s place.’

‘That’s no surprise. Thanks to my, eh, husband’s public announcements about his love life and mine, half the world has heard about the offer.’

‘It’s all over the Internet and the news. People want to know where you are, what you’re up to.’

‘Trending now,’ she retorted in a self-mocking tone. She turned to him at last, but those big eyes were filled with an odd blend of self-deprecating humour and challenge. ‘But did you see that I’d accepted the offer? Is your idea contingent on my signing up for the show? You may be destined for disappointment.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of having my resort endorsed by a has-been, despite being one of the ilk myself,’ he said curtly.

‘I doubt anyone would call you a has-been. From what I hear, you chose to walk away from acting at the peak of your career—and this resort is truly beautiful without being overly opulent or flashy.’

He said, touched by the genuine praise, ‘Thank you, Rachel.’

She made a thoughtful face. ‘You know, when you think about it, loads of products get excellent endorsement returns from the average has-been.’ When he least expected it, she grinned. ‘I guess the regular Joe on the street will be able to identify with someone like me. My work has always been among the normal people. You’re quite perceptive, Herr Bollinger. It may turn out to be a sound business plan, if only your average schmuck could afford to stay here.’

She’d given away more than she knew. ‘So Dr Pete lied about the reconciliation and leaving you for the other woman in the first place? You’re not taking the job, either?’

Her cheerful demeanour vanished in an instant. ‘No comment.’

He squared his shoulders and sat back, only then realising he’d leaned forward, his hand almost touching hers across the table. What the hell had he been thinking to ask? He’d always prided himself on his discretion. So why had he asked?

Because, until now, women have told me their life story without my needing to make an effort. Rachel is my first failure since I was a teenager.

In an attempt to lighten the suddenly charged atmosphere, he said, ‘By the way, this is not the place to say “schmuck” to mean a person. People won’t understand. The original word means jewellery, mostly used, but it’s a general term.’

Her brows lifted, her darkness vanished in an instant. ‘My, how words change meaning in other languages!’ And she laughed, a rippling sound, loud and free. When she laughed, Rachel Chase laughed from the heart, and it made him want to laugh with her.

She was a constant surprise to him. Learning the little he knew about her had felt like he’d been pulling teeth, yet it left him feeling oddly fascinated, with a desire to know more.

Rachel was far from his usual type of woman. There was a sense that she’d left the most delicious parts of her conversation unspoken. Perhaps that was the source of his interest? ‘Maybe the meaning is not so different,’ he suggested, to discover what she’d say. Learning a single fact about this woman took more digging than he’d ever needed before. ‘It’s still something used, something tossed aside because someone no longer wanted it.’

She pulled a thoughtful face, looking like a pensive pixie. ‘That makes sense. We Americans merely made the leap from thing to person. Poor schmuck,’ she said again, and laughed. As if the sun had come out from behind clouds, the room seemed to light up with her face.

Armand had to drag his gaze away and get back to the business at hand. ‘So are you agreeable to my idea? If so, I’ll bring my suitcase in. Which bedroom are you using?’

She pointed to a door.

‘Ah, my mother’s old room.’ Before she could do more than briefly look horrified, he put up a hand. ‘Maman lives in her own house a few hours’ flight from here. She visits a few times a year. She’s not coming until summer now. She would be the first to say you’re welcome, Rachel.’ The name kept slipping so naturally from his lips, he barely noticed. ‘I’ll keep my room. The third is now a study, if you’ve noticed, with wireless Internet and computer. I can work in the hotel for a few hours a day, and if you need to work—’ he saw her stiffen again and added ‘—or need to keep up your communications, feel free.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was subdued, but she neither confirmed nor denied the subtle probe. It seemed he’d finally met the woman who didn’t want or need to defend herself against the accusations her ex had levelled at her. Whatever the truth was inside the story of Dr and Mrs Pete’s break-up, Rachel Chase obviously did not want or need to unburden herself to a stranger about her life, no matter how much he was helping her.

He didn’t care if she wanted to keep to herself—actually, it was quite refreshing. So from now on she would have what she wanted from him: peace and quiet.

‘I need to work for a couple of hours. I’ll be back before dinner.’ He gathered the lunch plates and coffee paraphernalia on one tray and stacked the other beneath. ‘There’s no point in hiding that I have a guest stying with me when people saw you take the tray. Do you mind if I order dinner for us? Is there anything you don’t like? What do you like to drink—wine, water, soft drinks?’

‘I don’t eat really spicy food, it burns my stomach,’ she confessed with a fledgling smile.

Strange, the way her smile hit him every time. Every time she did it, something or someone new seemed to peep out from behind the confident, caring persona of the woman he’d seen on TV—neither the frightened kitten nor the cool, defensive rebel he’d dealt with today. ‘And what is your drink of choice?’

‘I tend to stick to water at night, though I love the hot chocolate they make here.’

‘Consider it done; I’ll order both.’ He picked up the tray. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Um, Herr Bollinger?’

He turned at the door, looking over his shoulder. ‘My name is Armand.’

‘Armand …’ The name rolled off her tongue with that gorgeous southern accent of hers. It sent the oddest feeling through him, a sense of waiting fulfilled. ‘Thank you. I’ll try not to be too much trouble.’

He almost said a paying guest is never trouble, but he held it in. Seeing the smothered anxiety beneath her calm façade, he wondered what had happened to make her feel unworthy of even the most basic help—but he was afraid he already knew.

‘I am doing very little,’ he said coolly. ‘A few weeks sharing my cabin, and I get an endorsement of my resort in return.’

When he saw her shoulders finally relax, he felt the tension disappear from his body, but when he left the cabin his mind was racing. If a woman as loved by her fans as Rachel Rinaldi could feel that she was a bother just by sharing his cabin, there had to be a damned good reason.

There must also be a reason why she wasn’t giving her side of the story to the world. Surely she must know that, given her intense popularity, she’d be believed?

There were definite, unexpected depths to this woman, layers she didn’t want him to see, things he didn’t want to know.

He’d failed Maman—he’d left her to the abuse he couldn’t stop until his father’s death. He didn’t know what the hell he could do to help Rachel. Anything he tried would probably make things worse. But he was committed to spending the next few weeks with her.

So what could he do to ensure it wasn’t a disaster that would send her running from here before he got his endorsement?




CHAPTER FOUR


‘WHAT is this?’

Rachel looked at the electrical apparatus sitting in the centre of the table with vague suspicion. It looked like some sort of grill, with small-handled pots beneath the heating bars. A wonderful smell permeated the air: cheesy, but like no cheese she’d ever eaten. Bowls of food sat around the grill and a range of foods was sizzling on the rectangular grill-plate above.

‘You haven’t had this before?’ Armand asked, looking surprised. ‘You’ve been in Switzerland for weeks. Surely Max recommended it at least once?’

When she shook her head, he smiled with what looked like genuine pleasure. ‘Then I shall be the first to share this experience with you. This is raclette, a traditional Swiss food for winter—but usually it’s only served with potatoes and pickles. I like to switch it up a bit, add more to the menu.’

‘It smells divine.’

He used little wooden spade-like objects to flip the food over. ‘I order this for my first dinner whenever I return from being away.’

For a moment the impulse to ask where he’d been rose in her throat, but she forced it down. It wasn’t as if they were friends. They were strangers sharing a cabin and an agreement, no more. He’d respected her secrets; she would be showing the worst form of ingratitude if she didn’t do the same for him.

The trouble was that his patter, and the new food, had begun to relax her from the feeling of trepidation at his return tonight—that, and the jeans and sweatshirt he wore, both old but comfortable, by the looks of it. Everything felt informal, especially Armand himself—as if it was a deliberate ploy. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was something else he wanted from her.

But the way he moved in those clothes was so fluid, with such natural grace, she felt a surge of envy—and another emotion she didn’t want to identify. But she was a functioning woman, and any woman still breathing had to appreciate a man this masculine and this beautiful.

Although she’d showered this evening, she was still wearing a simple jeans and pullover. It was all she’d brought with her when she’d fled LA. She’d left everything behind: her name, her trademarks, any and all memories of Pete and her TV persona. And every day that she pulled on her comfy clothes, saw her natural brown hair, ring-free left hand, no make-up and didn’t have to endure another day of hunger to remain svelte for the camera was another happy day.

There was no way she’d play the perfect doll again. Not for any man.

But her half-hearted attempt at defiance died with her first sight of him in his jeans. Without that little surge of rebellion to protect her emotions, she felt naked. She’d never been happy without having some form of barrier. Her mother had taught her that. Her mother’s ladylike behaviour had been her protection from the hurt from her daddy’s careless philandering.

But no form of refined protest Rachel tried had ever stopped Pete from railroading her. Nor did it seem to work with Armand. She guessed she just didn’t have the way of it.

‘Please, come and sit down,’ he said with a smile, as if he hadn’t noticed her silence. ‘It’s ready to eat.’

‘Full points to Monika for the setting,’ she murmured as she sat down, anxious to give her new friends all the praise she could.

Armand moved her chair in. ‘Monika is finished for the day, but I will pass on thanks to the appropriate place.’

‘Thanks,’ she sighed, reflecting on Armand’s courtesy with a slightly uncomfortable feeling. Probably his good manners were ingrained in him, but it had the feel of subtle undercurrents, as seductive as they were dangerous. She felt as if she’d fallen into unfamiliar waters from the moment he’d come into her life, pulling her with gentle insistence out to sea.

Don’t think about it. Don’t look at him. Frowning, she looked beneath the grill plate and saw cheese bubbling in the little flat pans. ‘This looks delicious.’

‘It is, and so easy. Just cook what you like to eat, and when it’s ready pick what you want to eat, put it on your plate and pour the cheese over.’

The flavour burst on her tongue with the first mouthful. ‘Oh, this is superb, Armand,’ she murmured when her mouth was empty. ‘No wonder it’s a national dish—I’d eat it—’

‘Rachel?’

Her eyes snapped open at his tone of voice which, though quiet, held inexplicable warning. A tiny shiver ran through her spine and she forgot about the food. ‘What is it?’

He was looking only at his plate, seeming to enjoy the smell of his food. ‘Someone’s watching us through the terrasse door. She’s looking right at you.’

She heard one of her vertebrae snap into place as she straightened, but she didn’t look around. ‘You said she?’

‘Try to relax, Rachel,’ he said softly, still not looking at her. ‘It’s okay. I recognise her. It’s Amelia Heffernan, a regular visitor to the resort—she’s a widow, an incurable romantic, and also incurably nosy. She only arrived today. She must have heard the rumours of a woman staying here and came to check for herself.’

One by one, her vertebrae relaxed again. She drew in a breath, her first in almost a minute. She looked at him, trying not to show her fear. ‘Does she watch TV?’

‘She’s elderly—of course she does. And, yes, she loves the chat shows.’

Rachel turned cold all over. ‘Armand, if she recognises me and tells anyone …’

She couldn’t quite interpret his smile. ‘From where she’s standing, she can’t see your face. Stand up and come to me.’ He rose to his feet, moving to her. ‘Smile at me. Our ruse won’t work if you look like you’d rather walk into an iron maiden than into my arms.’

She looked down, shaking her head. ‘I can’t do it. I just can’t.’

He reached her chair, but didn’t touch it, only her shoulder. ‘Rachel,’ he murmured, ‘You don’t know me. You have no reason to trust me. But right now I’m all you have.’

Slowly she lifted her face, turning her neck so she looked into his eyes. In them she saw not the predatory male after dominance, not even tenderness, but a reluctant understanding. It made her breath catch.

‘Sometimes you have to leap,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s your choice.’

He was right. It had to be now or never.

Her heart beat a hard tattoo as she rose to shaky feet and he turned her body so she was in his arms. The look on his face was confident, a man sure of his welcome. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe …

‘It’s just like those days when the last thing you wanted was to be in front of the camera, Rachel. Remember? I’m smiling for her. If I must, I’ll kiss you for her. But none of it’s real. It’s all rehearsed. It’s not who we are. This man is not who I am. I’m helping you, nothing more.’

Rachel gulped, and nodded. Somehow his words made it easier to snuggle in. ‘It’s not real,’ she whispered to herself as she wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘It’s not real.’

‘This is the only way she won’t be able to see your face from any angle,’ Armand whispered, holding her against his body, her cheek against his heart.

Despite the tender reassurance, she suddenly rocketed back a few months in time, standing in Pete’s arms, waving to the audience the day after he’d first hit her. ‘Smile, Rachel,’ he’d muttered. ‘They all love us. Smile for them.’ He’d squeezed her waist, right where he’d hit her the night before after seeing that her fan rating was higher than his. He had been reminding her of who was in control, both in the show and in life.

‘Rachel?’

Her vision cleared, and she saw Armand looking down at her, tender and troubled. He wasn’t Pete, and she felt safer with this stranger than she had with anyone in a long time.

That gave her the courage to try. ‘Smile at me,’ she muttered through gritted teeth. ‘She’ll never believe it if you look at me like you’re scared I might break any second.’

He gave a soft chuckle and lowered his face to hers. Rachel jerked back before she could stop herself. ‘Make the leap, Rachel,’ he whispered, moving close again. ‘Trust me.’

She bit her lip, saw that look again, the sadness and the pain beneath the confident hunter—the wounded wolf. She gave permission in a tiny nod. ‘Do it.’

His lips barely touched one side of her mouth, and then the other side, in sweet mimickry of the real thing, leaving her heart banging like a jackhammer right up as high as her throat. Then he drew her closer still but, though it looked loving—seductive even—she was in his arms in a hold more gentle and protective than any she’d ever known. ‘I’m not him,’ Armand whispered into her hair.

Slowly, still trying to take air into lungs that wouldn’t behave and fill, she nodded. Not real? It was all too real, and something buried deep inside her came shimmering back to life. She could hardly remember the last time anyone had held her, unless it was for an audience. Though they had an audience of one now, Armand’s tender hold made her feel as if they were alone, that he was holding her because he wanted to …

He bent down to murmur against her ear. ‘Frau Heffernan has been coming to the resort since its reopening, and is very loyal. She just wants to know what’s going on. So, for now pretend to dance with me. She’ll interpret it as a private romance. She’ll love having the power of knowledge no one else has and, beyond teasing me about it in quiet moments, nothing will be said, certainly not in public.’

With a tender hand he moved her head so her face was buried against his chest as he hummed a song. He moved her in a slow shuffle, always keeping her face from the clear terrasse doors, protecting her with every movement he made.

She felt so safe. She felt his heart beating against her cheek, heard the swishing of his breath in and out as they danced. He wound his fingers through hers, held her waist with a light, reassuring clasp. How he managed to give her personal space when he held her like a lover, she couldn’t understand—but he did. Somehow he knew she couldn’t bear any form of male dominance.

He’d given her the choice in everything since he’d invaded her life.

It was a revelation to her as new and wondrous to her as a bud unfurling. Armand had walked away from the life Pete craved like a drug. Armand allowed her to hold her power without punishing her for it. And, yes, he let her know who was in control—she was.

His arms were so gentle, his hands so tender. She wanted to melt into him, to fall into this safe, beautiful place and never leave …

No. She’d been alone too long, that was all. Even on her wedding day part of her had felt lonely and lost. At nineteen she hadn’t known why; at thirty-two, she understood. Though Pete had always been extravagant with compliments and the words ‘I love you’, his self-love was all-absorbing, and allowed for nothing but the shallowest of affection for anyone else. The day she’d rebelled against his wishes, he’d shown her who was boss in punishing blows.

But now Armand had come into her life with his tender arms and his kindness, and he was a greater threat to her well-being than if he had been holding a sub-machine gun to her head.

And yet she couldn’t move from this hold, more seductive than any practiced caress could be. No wonder they called him the Wolf. He knew how to charm her into a state of hypnotic compliance, trusting him within hours of meeting him.

‘Is she gone?’ she whispered after what seemed like hours, minutes, seconds—she couldn’t work it out but, while it seemed too long, it wasn’t long enough.

He’s a stranger. She needed space now.

‘Not yet,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s got her heavy-weather gear on. She’s there until we notice her.’

Her fingertips were quivering as she fought against running, against holding on with all the strength she had. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s your call, Rachel. I can look at her, embarrass her into leaving.’

About to assent, she thought of what it might cost him as the owner and hesitated. ‘Would you do that if I were a woman you—you …?’

‘Wanted to make love with?’ His voice sounded smoky now, and a hot shudder touched her skin with slow, sensuous fingertips. ‘No, I probably wouldn’t have noticed her at all. By now I’d have carried you to the bedroom.’

Gulp, gulp … The lump in her throat just wouldn’t go away. ‘I … Herr Bollinger …’

‘It’s Armand—and if I carry you to the bedroom tonight it will only be for show. I don’t abuse women, or persuade them against their will, Rachel Chase. Remember that.’

At that, she stilled so totally she felt her pulse in her throat—and then from somewhere inside her, the fighter came back. ‘Then don’t speak to me so intimately. We’re strangers sharing a cabin, no more than that—and, please remember, I’m still a paying guest.’

‘Touché, Ms Chase. That’s very good.’ A rumbling laugh rippled through his body and, though she fought against his power, he still infected her with his mirth. ‘And I will not point out that the fact that we’re in this situation is totally your own fault because you moved in on my private domain. My mother raised me to be a gentleman.’

She grinned against the windcheater he wore, which was as warm as his teasing comment. ‘And my mama raised me to be a southern lady. So don’t touch me without permission, Armand Bollinger. You might be a wolf, but I can become a she-bear without warning.’

‘Consider me appropriately chastened.’

The laughing tone made her feel absurdly happy. ‘How weird is this conversation, given our current circumstances?’ she whispered, feeling his skin touching hers. They were only hand to hand, cheek to cheek, but it moved with invisible fingertips into her soul.

‘That’s just what I was thinking.’ He relaxed his arms and looked down at her, smiling.

Oh, those silly hot shivers! ‘So, is she still there?’

He checked briefly without seeming to. ‘She is, in a covered corner of the terrasse, and watching us avidly. Time to implement plan B—the wolf must dare the she-bear and we’ll see who wins.’ He lifted her in his arms, his eyes twinkling as he smiled down at her. Slowly, he rubbed his cheek against hers with absolute gentleness. ‘You’re a very little bear. I can bearly feel you.’

Warm, safe and beautiful all at once—oh, this man was too seductive for his own good in making her feel this way, even when he was trying to reassure her with his teasing. ‘Ha ha. That’s because I’m fading away from hunger,’ she complained, trying to joke her way into a normal breathing pattern and heartbeat.

He sniffed and his face darkened. ‘The cheese is burning.’ He put her back down in her chair, turned back and strode over to the terrasse doors. After flashing a dark look at the elderly lady, he wound the built-in blinds down. He kept going even after the startled Frau Heffernan had scuttled away. ‘Good, now we can eat. I’ll clean the pans and be right back.’

Rachel was glad she was sitting down. Her knees really didn’t want to be straight at this point.

Armand’s knees seemed just fine. After he picked up the collection of little trays, he headed for the kitchen with a clean, confident stride. ‘Can you turn the heat down on the grill and take the food off the top while I clean these, please, Rachel? I’ll be back in a few minutes. Hopefully everything won’t get too cold.’

He spoke in his ordinary voice, as though nothing had happened.

Perhaps to him it hadn’t.

‘Okay, consider it done.’ After speaking as calmly as possible, Rachel drew a deep, slow breath, wondering how the world could turn upside down in a few hours. From feeling safely hidden away, she was out of her depth in waters as sweet as they were turbulent, and all because of one tycoon in shining armour …

Feeling a fervent kinship with the elderly woman—she wanted to scuttle away from Armand too, never come back and definitely never see him again—she made a noncommittal noise of assent and began moving the food from the grill.

‘Don’t think about it, just don’t think about it,’ she chanted beneath her breath. She shoved a crispy piece of bacon on her tongue and chewed on it despite the fact that it tasted like ashes in her mouth.

What just happened in there?

Armand leaned against the sink for a moment, just breathing. He tossed the raclette trays in the sink and ran warm, soapy water over them. Even as he cleaned out the hard cheese and washed them he was conscious of the crazy feeling that had sent him running in here. It hadn’t lessened, despite the space between them.

So stupid, to lose his temper over something as simple as burning cheese! He supposed he’d had to do something—and it was either take out his sudden anger on the raclette grill and Frau Heffernan, a rich widow without a life of her own, or give in to the consuming need to touch Rachel again.

How idiotic was it to touch a woman in his own home? And yet it felt so right.

He’d never brought a woman here, apart from Maman, Johanna and Carla. It was their home as much as his, since Papa had left it to them all equally. It had been almost all he’d had left to give after the fire destroyed the first resort, and he’d gambled away everything else. To Armand, this cabin was his home, a sacred place of refuge. He’d never brought a woman here until now.

At first, he’d thought it was simple pity. She was alone in a world turned against her, and her jerk of a husband had betrayed her publicly.

Then he’d seen the way she rubbed at her left wrist almost absently, as if in reminder. Maman had done the same thing, long after the breaks had healed from his father’s repeated beatings. When Rachel had caught him looking, she’d tried to hide it far too quickly, just as Maman had.

Armand seethed and burned still, just thinking about the shame and embarrassment on Rachel’s face. If that damned ‘doc with empathy’ had been here right now …

It came down to this: Rachel Chase needed protection from Rinaldi, and he could give it.

And you have to do it, because you didn’t protect your own mother.

There was the crux of it. More than twenty years ago, Armand had woken one night to see the truth he’d probably always known—his father had beaten Maman two shades too hard to hide the bruises; he’d broken her arm.

Armand couldn’t change the damage done to his family, but he’d stop Rinaldi from damaging Rachel any further. If Rinaldi showed up, he’d be here waiting.

Despite her spunk and her volatile changes, her inner strength and perception, Rachel was no she-bear. She couldn’t protect herself physically against the likes of Dr Pete, let alone stand against the media onslaught. Armand had the skills, the wealth and the place to protect her—and the reputation didn’t hurt. If Rinaldi showed his face here, he’d meet with the Wolf, all right—a wolf in protective mode. He didn’t care what it took right now, he’d keep Rachel safe.

But he could not and would not hold her again. It was too dangerous to the calm demeanour she needed from him. She needed to heal, not have her protector fantasising about making her his lover. And to make sure she was safe, he had to be in control of his emotions.

Damn it, when has touching a woman ever been this emotional for me?

‘So stop looking at her. Stop thinking about it,’ he growled to himself.

Stop remembering how it felt to hold her.

He had to remember instead that she’d called him Herr Bollinger, putting space between them the moment he’d shown her that his male imagination was running riot. She’s been through enough. She doesn’t want you for anything but protection. She needs a friend.

So a friend he’d be. Nothing had happened, really—just a new kind of male reaction to a sweet, curvy bundle of woman in his arms. End of story.

But every single one of the cheese trays had grooves in them from the steel wool he’d gouged into them with his cleaning efforts when he carried them back into the dining table.

When he glanced at her, she was sitting in her place with seeming calm, but her fingers were laced so tightly together they had white patches. Looking up, he saw the apprehension in those shimmering, far-too-expressive eyes, and the paleness of her cheeks.

Had he frightened her with his emotions? He smiled in rueful apology, but it felt as if he’d gouged his smile in place too. Reassure her; be gentle. A friend, only a friend.

This was going to be a very long few weeks.




CHAPTER FIVE


IT was almost nine the next morning when Armand—who’d risen at six, had showered, enjoyed breakfast and was currently working from the cabin office—heard the door of the other bedroom squeak slightly as if being opened. ‘Good morning, Rachel,’ he called.

He received only a grunt in reply. From the open door, he saw a pyjama-clad form holding a bundle of clothes dash past him to the bathroom. The door slammed behind her.

With raised brows, he kept working. Somebody, it seemed, was not a morning person—or, like most women he’d met, Rachel didn’t like appearing before others while she was looking her worst.

Not that she did. The brief flash past him had been candy-pink, all tousled hair, rumpled clothes, curvaceousness and, altogether, rather delicious.

Stop it. With a determined growl, he pushed the vision of her from his thoughts and kept working on the latest round of paperwork from the local officials for the new land.

Somebody obviously also liked long showers. It was almost half an hour later when she finally emerged. Her curvy shape was encased in similar jeans to last night, and a long-sleeved T-shirt with ‘sometimes your knight in shining armour is just a jerk in tin foil’ emblazoned on it. Clear-painted toes peeped from the open-ended hotel slippers. Her hair was shining, cheeks flushed and her skin glowed with health. Again, her face was free of make-up, but she still managed to look radiant. It was her eyes, her smile. With those weapons at her disposal, she’d never need the rest.

‘Now I’m human enough to say hi,’ she announced gaily as she shuffled towards him, the slippers making a soft swish-swish on the wooden floors. ‘Good morning, Armand. Did you sleep well?’

About to ask the same thing, he nodded, surprised anew that ‘Mrs Pete’ would be the one to ask first. ‘Thank you. And you?’

She nodded in return. ‘The beds here are very comfortable.’

‘You’ve been here a few weeks now, I believe. Do you have any thoughts on ways to improve the standard of the resort?’

Her smile slipped a touch. A wary kind of nervousness entered her eyes. He didn’t know what was going on. Such an innocuous question shouldn’t send her running for cover. ‘I only asked because I wish to attract all kinds of international guests.’ he said gently. ‘I’ve catered in the European style. You’re American—your honest opinion is the kind of feedback I need.’

‘Oh.’ She relaxed so visibly he could almost see her muscles uncoiling. ‘Well, while the rooms are wonderful, for people that want real privacy, or for family vacations or reunions, cabins like this would be in demand, I think.’

He frowned. ‘The suites aren’t enough?’

‘Oh, they’re wonderful,’ she rushed to say. ‘I—I was just thinking—you know, forget it. What do I know? I never stayed at a place like this until I was an adult. Your guests probably don’t want kids and noisy families here. It was a stupid thought.’

‘Rachel.’ With a hand on hers, he stopped the babbling. ‘I did cater this first resort for adults, and the second in Chamonix, but I want to extend for the third, make it more family-friendly. I loved it when we stayed here when I was a boy. Providing cabins helps the resort to compete with the sport hotels and bed and breakfasts.’ He typed the information quickly into the email he was composing to his architect and sent it. ‘Done.’

Then he turned to her and smiled again. ‘Thank you for that, Rachel. The more ideas I provide for the third resort, the better chance I have of acquiring the land. Laws for building resorts can be rather stringent here.’

‘You’re welcome,’ was all she said, but the look of shy delight on her face both moved and puzzled him. This level of insecurity surely went deeper than his suspicions. How could a woman so famous for giving good advice not be jaded by people’s thanks?

You’re getting in too deep here. She isn’t Maman. You can’t balance your debt to Maman and the girls by helping this woman.

He knew nothing of her outside the tabloids, such as why she had the name ‘Rhonda Braithwaite’ on her suitcases and ‘Rachel Chase’ on the passport she’d given at the reception desk. He didn’t know if she was a good person or …

Yes, he did know that, by the way she’d shouldered the blame instead of letting a single member of his staff be reprimanded. He knew it by the horror on her face when he had told her this was his cabin. He knew it by the way she hadn’t tried to bargain with him over his deal, though she had to know who was getting the better end of it.

And, damn it, he knew how good it felt to hold her in his arms—and he knew she’d felt it too, even if she didn’t want to be there.

Whether he wanted to get involved or not, he was already in way over his head here.

‘You never answered me yesterday, when I asked how long you thought you’d need my help here.’ He kept the question gentle, masking the intense need to show the turbulence inside. His anger wasn’t aimed at her, but at the men of the world who felt it was their right to abuse a woman or a child. Anger, because it seemed impossible to change one man’s way of thinking and behaviour, let alone the world’s. It will never happen again, they always said, until they lost their temper again.

‘Is time an issue for you? If so, I can go any time, really.’

Armand heard the undoubted tone of fear beneath the projected calm in her voice. She was using every trick in her psychologist’s book, not to charm him or pry into his life, but to hide her deepest emotions from him.

‘Well, it could be an issue if you were planning on staying here for the next five years,’ he said, angling for a laugh, or at least to make her relax a bit. ‘I do have three resorts to manage—at least once this next one’s built.’

‘And you ought to be there to oversee the project.’ The words were sympathetic now the psychologist’s persona she slipped into without a problem. He thought it was because then she could hide her real self—the woman she was ashamed of being. ‘As I said, there’s really no issue if you have to go at any time. If you don’t mind me staying, I’ll be fine here alone.’

Yet it was a problem for her. He knew that, but he had no right to ask. Even being her temporary protector didn’t cancel out the fact that he’d known her less than twenty-four hours. He couldn’t butt in on her private world.

So he tried the one way that seemed to work for her. ‘And still she doesn’t tell me her time frame. Rachel Chase, international woman of mystery … You didn’t tell me you worked for MI6. Or the CIA, since you’re American. Or are you?’ he riposted with a grin.

Her face relaxed. She bit her lip, but laughed anyway. She laughed like a child every time, laughed as though she meant it. It lit up the room. It lit up his safe, predictable world, and filled it with warmth, colour and enchantment.

‘Is two weeks okay with you, maybe three?’

The words broke into uncomfortable conclusions, giving the rainbow light and myriad warmth a time-limit. He was relieved; of course he was. It was best this way, short and sweet. He’d had small infatuations before with unattainable women and he’d recovered. Yes, he liked Rachel—found her adorable, damn it—and he definitely liked the way she felt in his arms. But it wouldn’t be a tragedy if she left tomorrow or the next day. Or in two weeks or three. He was stronger than that, had survived a lot worse disasters than a woman leaving his life after a few weeks. Facile venir, facile aller—easy come, easy go—that was his motto.

‘Good,’ he replied at last, with a cheerfulness that seemed overdone, even to his paranoid ears. ‘Two weeks is definitely doable—or even three or four.’

‘Really? I can stay? It’s not an issue for you?’ she asked, her eyes wide and her smile bouncing off those unseen prisms in the room. Rainbow reflections were everywhere …

He felt his eyes blink in astonishment at having made an offer she hadn’t asked for. What was wrong with him lately? ‘Yes, of course,’ he said smoothly. ‘You are a paying guest, after all.’

Something came and went in her face, a frisson of apprehension. Her smile faded to something weak and half-hearted. ‘Well, then, we both know where we are. The day I run out of funds, I’ll be out of your hair for good, Herr Bollinger.’

Brave words, but her fingers trembled. And he could have kicked himself. No doubt Dr Pete had frozen the accounts, hoping that sooner or later his newly renamed wife would be forced to come into the open and use electronic funds to survive. Then he could find her, and bring her to heel. She might already have run out of money.

It was only when she’d left the room, still clutching at her pyjamas—cute pink things with little cats on the telephone—that he realised she hadn’t called him Armand since he’d brought up the subject of her stay. She knew he was trying to manipulate her, however subtle he’d been in his effort. He’d tried to dig into her life, and again she’d given nothing away.

Two, maybe three weeks was all he had to get her out of danger—that was, if she didn’t run out of funds first. And, given his complete failure in getting a single personal concession from her, three weeks wouldn’t be nearly enough.

Without needing to think it through, he emailed Max again.

Nobody is to mention funds to Ms Chase. She is our honoured guest, for as long as she needs to be here.

He said nothing else, but he knew Max wouldn’t ask. It was Armand’s practise to allow respected clients some space and time to pay their bills. He’d always judged this by instinct alone and he’d never been wrong. They always came through sooner or later, and they’d all become numbered among his most loyal returning guests or even investors.

Now all he needed was to think of a reasonable excuse that would allow her to stay and still satisfy her pride. He just knew that, if he couldn’t come up with something really good, she’d leave with her head high, refusing his charity. He couldn’t let her vanish without trace, not when he was sure that sooner or later, she’d run into more trouble than she could handle alone.

That afternoon

‘It’s a simple contract, Rachel. You stay here until I’ve secured the new resort and I have the architect’s plans. Then I’ll take you there, and you can endorse at least two of my resorts with honesty.’

Rachel frowned at Armand, sensing something deeper than he was showing with this perfect courtesy. ‘Why do you need me to sign a contract? I’ve said I’ll do it.’

His eyes darkened to stormy grey, the hidden lightning beneath the handsome diplomat’s face. He only looked like that when he was hiding something. ‘Because then, if you change your mind and sign on for that show, or pursue other avenues with your career, you’re legally bound to this venture first.’

‘I’ve never broken a contract in my life,’ she replied, aiming for calm, but knowing her voice shook a little. ‘Whatever you’ve heard about me …’

His facial muscles didn’t shift; he looked calm, but she sensed the tempest buried deep inside his emotions, like black clouds on the edge of a summer-blue sky. ‘I’ve heard nothing to your detriment, Rachel. I don’t buy tabloids for entertainment. I’m merely used to conducting my business on more than a handshake or verbal agreement. I’ve found it’s safer that way—for both of us.’

‘I see.’ Now she couldn’t keep the stiffness from her tone. No matter how he couched it, it was obvious that he didn’t trust her. ‘Then I’ll fax a copy to my lawyer and have him read over it before I sign.’

A short pause, then he said, ‘Are you certain it’s wise to contact someone from home?’

No matter how tactfully he’d said it, the unspoken knowledge hovered between them. Silence had become her bulwark and shield, but with a few tactful words he’d given her a timely reminder. Yes, Pete would lean on her lawyer to divulge her whereabouts, should she contact him. She already knew he’d done the same with her parents and her sister, Sara. Until she’d turned off her phone, all their calls had been reproaches about abandoning ‘poor Pete’ in his time of need.

That Armand hadn’t spoken about Pete directly showed she was right. He already knew or suspected far too much.

‘Then I’ll find a lawyer in Zürich. One that speaks English,’ she added defiantly, before he could say it. ‘There must be loads of them.’

‘There are, and that’s your right, certainly. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. It’s best we keep this entire matter as a business arrangement.’ His tone was as withdrawn as hers. Though she knew it was stupid, she wondered what she’d said or done to put distance between them when just last night, they’d been so close.

Don’t think about it.

Like it or not, separated or not—even though Pete had cheated on her at least twice—she was still a married woman for another few weeks. She had no right to think about how much Armand’s holding her last night had affected her, let alone keep reliving how safe she’d felt How warm and tender his arms and hands had been. And the look in his eyes …

No. She had to remember, this arrangement was all just business: keep Rachel happy, keep her here, let her think you might be interested until the resort’s endorsed. And, if the ads fail, drop her like a hot potato.

That’s why he’s called the Wolf, right? He’ll do whatever it takes to make his ideas work. It’s said he hasn’t failed at anything he’s taken on since he was seventeen.

And yet, impatient with this wary reserve, sick of trusting no one, she picked up the five-page contract and read it through. It was exactly as he’d said: straightforward, no hidden clauses. She was to stay here free of charge until the deal went through for the resort on the Swiss side of the French border. Then she would appear on a series of endorsements for the Bollinger resorts, and that would be that.

‘You’re right, it’s very simple.’ Drawing a fast breath, she grabbed the pen and signed it. ‘There you are, Herr Bollinger, it’s all done. Now you can get back to work.’ Bundling the sheaf of papers in her hands, she shoved it at him as if palming off a grenade. Some instinct was screaming at her, you’ll regret this.

Expecting further withdrawal on his part, or cold satisfaction at his victory however he won it, she was taken aback by the brief flash she saw in his eyes—it almost looked like relief. And that sent a spurt of confusion and worry through her. He did know too much. ‘Thank you, Rachel.’ And, if there was a slight emphasis on her given name, the crispness of his voice and the way he signed the papers, straightened them and put them in a folder was all business. ‘I have a meeting with the staff for the rest of the afternoon. I’ll be back in time for dinner.’

Rachel watched him leave the cabin, torn between indignation and aching wistfulness: a spurt of loneliness that hurt her heart but had little to do with being alone. She tried to shake it off, but it persisted through a two-hour session of reading, writing in her journal and listening to music. It continued even through an hour-long tramp along one of the marked nature-trails. Sweating through the layers she had to wear for her anonymity hadn’t bothered her until today.

But there were three things she didn’t and wouldn’t do: check email, check her SMS’s or watch TV. The first two were easily traceable if Pete paid an expert enough, and watching TV was a reminder of the woman she used to be. The longer she stayed here, the more she wondered if she should ever have been that person at all.

So who was she now, and what did she want from life?

For someone who’d lived her entire life on aspiration, always going forward to the next goal, this inactivity, this waiting—and especially this temporary dependence on a man she didn’t know—felt as if she’d said goodbye to her most trusted instincts and even her brain cells. She didn’t know who this alien being was that opened her mouth and said yes to everything Armand proposed, but she didn’t trust her an inch.




CHAPTER SIX


‘I’M NOT coordinated. I’ll fall and hurt myself. I can’t do this, Armand, and especially not in the dark!’

The absolute panic in Rachel’s voice was more than the natural trepidation at trying something new. Holding her close, steadying both their snowboards by keeping his at a ninety-degree angle to hers, Armand kept his voice low and soothing. ‘You can’t know that. We haven’t even gone ten feet yet.’

‘I can’t even ski. How can I do this? I have no stocks. I’m going to fall. I know I will. Don’t you understand? I can’t go to hospital!’

He looked at her in the deep night, lit by the warmth of bagged fires on poles reflecting off the new fall of snow in small, glittering jewels. But she hadn’t noticed either the night’s beauty or even the fact that he’d had his arm around her waist for ten minutes. If she felt the same kind of half-amazed awakening of body and soul he experienced every time he touched her, especially since their dance and half-kiss, she wasn’t showing it. She was staring down at her booted feet on a snowboard and was literally shaking.

‘Have you had a bad experience in hospital as a child?’ he asked gently.

She didn’t even make an acid comment about his trying to psycho-analyse her, which told him her fear was very real. ‘I can’t be found until the divorce is final and made public. If it happens, he’ll find a way to blackmail me into coming back to the show. The restraining order won’t stop him. He’s been losing ratings hand over fist since I left. The public now knows it was me that gave him his empathy, and that I was feeding him the answers people needed to hear. I know him—he’ll be desperate by now. But he’ll have a plan to win me back into his life. He’s addicted to fame, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make me come back.’

Now, at last, Armand got it. Really, he didn’t have much choice but to understand. She was babbling her secrets in fear, secrets she’d kept chained inside her heart like a hated treasure. They’d been housemates nearly ten days now, and all this time he’d tried to get her to talk, with no success.

His arousal faded in a fit of protectiveness like a lightning-bolt, all but knocking him off his feet. His suspicions had been confirmed in a flash, and he wanted to knock Rinaldi flying—flying right off the damned planet.

Stop it. You’ll terrify her. He knew that from bitter experience. He’d seen the terror on his sisters’ faces on the rare times he’d been allowed home from boarding school and his father had walked in with that look on his face …

Aching to ask if she’d contacted her parents in the past few weeks, he forced himself not to reply to her secrets at all—she’d only hate him later if he did. Instead he asked, softly but in clear challenge, ‘What would you say to a patient that refused to try a new experience before even attempting it?’

At that, she stilled. Slowly, she mumbled something he couldn’t hear.

‘I have you safe with me,’ he went on, still gentle, persuasive. ‘I won’t let go.’

She gave a little, almost plaintive sigh. It was answer enough, since he could feel her disbelief beating from her, as strong and sure as her racing pulse.

Armand wondered if anyone had ever stayed the distance, not with her but for her. Had anyone ever put Rachel’s needs first?

‘Look around, Rachel,’ he murmured to distract her. ‘See how beautiful it all is.’

A small quiver ran through her. ‘I can’t. My eyes …’

With tenderness foreign to him until now, Armand lifted her face from the terrified contemplation of the snowboard and saw her goggles were totally fogged. ‘Are you so cold?’ Or worse, he thought to himself, had he frightened her into crying and not even noticed?

‘I’m from Texas. It reaches freezing there in winter.’

Her semi-defiant tone, and the way she pulled her face from his hold, filled him with relief. She was a fighter, all right. ‘And how long has it been since you visited in winter? LA’s climate hasn’t reached freezing probably since the last ice age.’

She turned away. ‘Good point,’ she said lightly enough, but something in her voice disturbed him.

‘How long has it been since you visited Texas at all?’ he asked quietly.

For a moment she neither moved nor spoke. Then she said, ‘How long has it been since you visited your father’s grave?’

She’d hit him with the carelessness of a drive-by shot into a crowd. How could he possibly have expected a wound so sudden and deep from a woman that until now had seemed as empathetic as she was helpless? And how could she possibly know?

Answer: she couldn’t. Just as he didn’t know anything about her. They were two people forced into a strange proximity, knowing only what they saw—strangers in the night, each giving the other something they needed. And that was how it had to stay. He should have known the ‘defenceless kitten’ thing was only part of her woman’s repertoire. Her segment of the Dr Pete show proved she had far too much perception for any man’s comfort.

‘Interesting question,’ he said, his voice calm and steady, not even a tremor to betray him. ‘Now, shall we continue, or are you going to let your fears win … Dr Rinaldi?’

Her back tightened, notch by notch, even in the heavy ski jacket. ‘My name,’ she said with slow, deliberate disgust, ‘Is Chase.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t certain which of your current names to call you,’ he retorted in the blandest tone he’d ever used, injury added to insult. ‘So has Rinaldi served its purpose? You can throw it away without regret?’

She wobbled on the snowboard as she turned fully back to him, hanging onto him for balance. Yet it didn’t seem funny at all. ‘The name Rhonda Braithwaite got me out of LA without his PI finding me. From Paris, I changed to Rachel Chase.’ With a heavily gloved hand she pulled the goggles from her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, watery, but she faced him from her ten-inch disadvantage with quaint dignity. ‘If you’d ever had your wrist and ribs broken by someone you’d once trusted and loved, you’d know why I want to leave his name behind me—why it hurts so much to hear it. But believe me when I say I will never forget, no matter how many names I take on, or how many times I reinvent myself.’

It was a battle-axe blow to his sword-thrust—and a knockout punch for honesty. And, though he was looking into her eyes, he saw three pairs of phantom eyes beside her, behind her. Because he’d seen that look before: with Maman, Johanna and Carla when they had waved goodbye to him, the day he’d started boarding school. They’d been left alone with a husband and father who drank and gambled too much and took out his anger on his family, without their big brother to protect them.

He cursed himself in silence, then said, ‘Rachel, I—’

She put up a hand. ‘I’ve heard enough apologies lately to last me a while. Now are you going to cure me of one of my less rational fears or not, Dr Bollinger? You said something about not letting me go, I believe?’

Her eyes were twinkling now. Even though he knew it was a thin blanket covering the pain beneath, it was taking them from dangerous waters to the safer ebb-tide. So he smiled back. ‘So I did, Mademoiselle Chase,’ he acknowledged with mock gravity, bowing his head, sweeping a hand around them to their very private night-ski-run he’d arranged. ‘But not until you have at least appreciated all the trouble I went to for you. All this beauty surrounds us, and so far you’ve only looked at the snowboard.’

As he spoke, he pulled out a clean tissue—when skiing, he always kept a packet on hand—gently wiped her eyes and the goggles hanging around her neck.

‘Would you like to wipe my nose as well, Papa Bear?’ she retorted with a loud, theatrical sniff, and he laughed. He laughed because it was cute; laughed because no woman had sniffed with him before unless it was in rage or for effect, using tears to get her way. No matter how badly he ached to take this a step further, Rachel wanted nothing from him but a skiing lesson. Despite the disappointment, it was a liberating feeling: no expectation, no neediness, just two sort-of-friends having a night-snowboarding session.

With gravity, he put the tissue to her nose and with laughing eyes she made a loud raspberry sound with her mouth, pretending to blow. They both laughed.

‘Oh …’

Looking at her—what was it about her that made it so hard to look away?—he saw she was looking into the night. There was wonder in those big eyes as she took in the scattered cloud in the star-filled night, the poles with the burning bags lighting up the night, the soft-dancing snowflakes and the white-laden fir trees along the slope. And, though it was all she said, she’d made all the trouble to surprise her more than worthwhile.

‘You’re welcome,’ he said, resisting the urge to touch that cold, snowy cheek or to bend and kiss those bitten pink lips, half-open as she drank in the night.

Had his voice sounded as hoarse as it felt to him? Did she know how much he longed to just taste her mouth once, to move his hands over her skin and see those beautiful eyes come alive for him?

Stop it. The last thing she needs right now is to start something I’ve never wanted to finish. I’m her emotional umbrella, nothing more. In a few weeks she’ll be moving on.

For the first time, a woman would be walking away from him and he would have no choice but to let her. So, struggling to ignore the stupid physical ache to touch that was part and parcel of being a man, he swirled his snowboard around, facing down the slope with her body fitting into his, sweet and snug. He ached again and again. It felt as if the ache would never end.

Rachel; this is for Rachel. She deserves to know there’s one man she can turn to without his demands, without regrets. He had to be a better man than he’d ever been. For Rachel.

‘Trust me?’ he asked softly.

After the briefest of hesitations, and a tiny wobble, she whispered, ‘I’m trying to.’

‘I won’t hurt you, Rachel.’ Why did the light, teasing tone he’d employed to such effect in the past suddenly sound like a solemn vow? ‘I won’t let you fall.’

Her expression turned sad for a moment, even as she kept hanging onto him for the balance that seemed so elusive for her. ‘There are some falls nobody can control, some hurts that can’t be prevented.’ Then she grinned again. ‘But if I end up in hospital in traction you are so dead, Bollinger.’

Relieved she’d jumped back on the light, playful path, he winked at her. ‘Ah, but you’d have to catch me first. Rather hard to manage from that position.’

And before she could retort in kind he moved the lower half of his body so they began sliding down the baby slope together on private, non-resort land far from the fun, romantic night-skiing he’d established years ago for his regular clients. He held her so that when she wobbled he could steady her; he moved them in as close to perfect sync as he could, slowly enough so that she wouldn’t feel loss of control.

And when she was moving on her own, with her inexpressibly kissable mouth stretched in a wide smile of discovered poise and the simple joy of living, he had to move. He had no choice, really. It was move or kiss her, because if there was ever a kissing moment it was this one.

So he pulled away far enough to hold her hand. ‘It’s time to see what you’re capable of.’ After a few panicked wobbles, he said encouragingly, ‘You’re a natural at this. You’re a snow queen. You can do this, Rachel. I know you can.’

Her astonishment, so clear even behind her goggles, and obvious in her open mouth, almost made him lose balance. ‘I—Thank you. Nobody ever …’ She gulped, gulped again. ‘Nobody,’ she whispered, and shook her head.

Nobody ever said that to me before.

And, instead of the wrong parts hurting, now it was his heart that ached for her—ached for the sweet, real ‘doc with empathy’ who seemed so overcome by a few words of faith. And he wished he hadn’t used words he’d said before to a hundred female guests.

‘It’s true,’ he said just loud enough for her to hear. ‘Rachel, look at where you are. You are doing it.’

She looked down at her twisting body, at the tiny slope she was conquering. ‘Oh,’ she whispered, and her whole face grew alight with radiance. ‘Armand, I’m doing it. I’m skiing.’

It wasn’t the moment to correct her, or even to say that snowboarding was thought to be the harder discipline. He smiled. He smiled because he couldn’t help it. His life had been dark and complicated for eighteen years and yet this woman, who was on the run from her life—a woman who’d suffered probably far more than he’d ever know—filled him with light and made him feel heartfelt bliss in this simple achievement. ‘Yes, you are.’

‘I feel like Lois Lane,’ she said as they passed his ‘start’ line, making small S-slides down the slope. ‘You know that scene when Superman let her fly just by holding her hand?’

‘Yes,’ he said, resisting the impulse to break the moment by asking if that made him Superman. She’d certainly made him feel that way.

‘I feel like I’m flying, Armand.’ She held onto his gloved hand as if she was about to drop off a cliff, not even realising she was all but doing everything she needed to on her own. ‘You make me feel as if I can do anything.’ She glanced at him; he knew because he couldn’t keep his eyes from her muffled form. He felt as if he was imbibing her sparkling happiness, clear as new wine, just by being with her. ‘Thank you, Armand, thank you.’ Her voice was choked.

He didn’t say it was nothing, because it wasn’t, not to her. ‘It’s my privilege to be here with you, Rachel.’

‘Darn, my goggles are fogging up again,’ she mock-complained, trying to smile. ‘Let me ski, will you?’

He laughed and said no more. It was enough for both of them.

But as they took his private cable-car back up the slope and snowboarded back down, he kept hold of her hand. He’d promised not to let her fall and she’d had enough of broken promises. And falls.

There are some falls nobody can control.

Even as he steadied her and taught her to find her natural rhythm and ability on the slopes, the words continued to whisper to him—because she wasn’t talking about physical injury.

The words haunted him because he knew she was right. Rachel wasn’t fair game, and he didn’t know how to be the kind of man she needed. He didn’t even know if he’d want to when these few weeks were over. He was cynical, jaded, had never known how to believe in any woman outside of his family, always looking for the ‘exit’ sign from the night he met any woman. This awakening faith, this need to be with Rachel, was too new for either of them to trust in.

Being near her felt like touching heaven, but he couldn’t let this go beyond the odd half-friendship it was now. The thought of never seeing her again, never having another night like tonight, didn’t work for him. He wanted to keep her in his life. But Rachel deserved love, babies and ‘for ever’, and a man who could go the distance.

She deserved a man who wouldn’t lash out when times got hard. Could he do that? Damn it, he just didn’t know—and risking it would destroy her.

What he wanted was to be Rachel’s friend—to grow older, still exchange calls, emails and cards with her—a friendship that lasted the distance. Always to have her remember him and their time together with a smile. To have her want to see him again without pain, without complications.

So he’d do his level best to stop them both from falling.

‘It’s simple attraction, nothing more. I am not falling for Armand. I am so not falling for him. I refuse to fall for him!’ Satisfied, Rachel turned from the bathroom mirror where she’d wiped a clear bit in the shower-misted glass with a wet hand. She peered at herself every morning with almost anxious paranoia, but so far she was still doing well. There were no signs of that sickly-love face she’d had during those first months with Pete. She looked happy, sure, but why not? If she still wasn’t trying to get pretty for Armand—trying to lose weight or impress him with flirty banter that would never work, because she wasn’t one of those waiflike models he was usually seen with—then she was safe. Safe from infatuation, nothing more.

She wasn’t about to make a fool of herself over a man who was merely being kind to her. Armand deserved better than the infatuation of a needy woman he was helping out. So she wouldn’t do it. Simple as that.

‘Good, done. That’s the way, Rachel,’ she told herself, looking back for a last glimpse. No sickly-face … Oh, the relief every time she looked!

Minutes later she skipped out of the bathroom in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, her hair damp and tangled. Nope, she didn’t care what he thought of her looks at all. ‘If you can’t compete, stay out of the race’, Daddy had always said.

After putting away her bathroom essentials and pyjamas—no way was she going to exasperate him by taking over his bathroom with her products or clothes!—she found him in the kitchen tossing eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms in a skillet. ‘Good morning, Rachel.’ He smiled at her. ‘Great T-shirt,’ he commented, looking at the logo. ‘Where do you get your shirts?’

‘I get all my T-shirts custom made.’ She smiled back, convinced she’d remained cool and calm, even if he was like something from a magazine matchmaker-ad in those casual trousers and woollen pullover, cooking with supreme ease. Let me find you the perfect man …

‘Could you butter the toast, please, and just take the coffee pot off the stove? Thanks.’

The words were so prosaic, yet so intimate. Sharing daily tasks gave a pretty illusion of togetherness. But even after that amazing night-skiing, where she’d found she could actually stay upright while she was in his hold, she refused to believe in it. Any woman would find Armand attractive, and it was no more than that.

As far as she was concerned, love was an invention of men to trap women into cooking and cleaning for them and warming their bed while they did whatever they wanted. It was a truth she’d known for a long time. If her father hadn’t totally destroyed her faith in happily-ever-after, with his casual affairs and insistence on lies even when he’d been found out again, Pete had knocked all belief in fairy-tale endings from her. And he’d done it long before he’d broken her wrist. His self-absorbed use of her skills to promote his own agenda without a thought for her needs and had put her heart and her confidence in a hiding-place she’d only rediscovered since leaving him. She’d let it happen without even really noticing until it was far too late.

That wouldn’t happen again. But there was no reason not to enjoy an uncomplicated friendship with Armand—especially when he’d given far more than he wanted from her.

‘Butter toast and take coffee pot off the heat. Sure,’ she agreed cheerfully, and pulled the toast out of the slots with careful fingers. ‘Want hot milk for the coffee today?’

‘I could do latte today, definitely. And there’s some caramel syrup in the cupboard if you like that. I sometimes do, but usually at night.’

She gave him a quizzical grin. ‘I’ve never met a man before that drinks all different kinds of coffee. Usually they only like one, or maybe two.’

He laughed and raised his hands, palm up. ‘What can I say? I guess I’m not the faithful type, even to coffee.’

He’d been saying things like that for a few days now, hence her mirror-mantra. Though he said it too lightly to be an insult, the inference was obvious: don’t get interested. He wasn’t, and she wasn’t either. Part of her wanted to blurt out that he and all men could go live and love without her caring a bit. But to put it out there would mean ‘the lady doth protest overmuch’. Saying it meant she did care, somehow. And of course she didn’t care if he found her desirable or not.

Oh, come on, who are you kidding? All people want to be attractive to everyone else. Nobody wants to be seen as unattractive. That’s all it is.

With the slight discomfort of wondering if she was in denial, she found herself laughing, with a slight defiance to it. ‘So you’re a “serial poly-coffee-ist”. It’s the latest syndrome in our sad world. I’ll get right onto researching it, in case you ever decide you need help.’

‘Thank you,’ he retorted with that grave face and laughing eyes, the hint of relief that was always there when she played his game. ‘But for now I’d appreciate that hot milk more.’

She bowed and, trying to sound like a genie, said, ‘Your wish is my command.’

She’d hoped to make him laugh, but as she turned away to get the milk out of the fridge, there was a bare moment when she could have sworn she saw something …

Then the moment passed, leaving her unsure if she’d seen the flash in his eyes or not. Unsure if she wanted to know. Proximity—that was all it was. It was totally natural that, if he was holed up with a woman for a few weeks, even a man like Armand would feel a passing attraction.

‘Any port in a storm,’ she muttered as she laid the table—and faint nausea touched her at the thought. She was no man’s storm-port. She had something to give the world that had nothing to do with being a man’s pretty doll, cook, housekeeper, waitress, sounding-board a child-bearer. Or career-giver and dream-provider at the cost of her own dreams. Never again.

Her endorsement deal was not the same thing. Armand was making certain her needs were being met. In return she’d give him what he wanted. Then she’d be out of here, heart and self-confidence intact.




CHAPTER SEVEN


‘A CHILL-OUT night?’ Rachel was looking at him as though he’d suddenly gained an extra chromosome instead of proposing the simplest of recreations.

Armand wasn’t sure what was going on, but he went with it. ‘Yes, chilling out. You ought to know the term. Americans invented it, didn’t they?’

‘Well, sure, of course I’ve heard of it,’ she replied, sounding vaguely doubtful.

‘You mean you’ve never done it?’

She blushed hotly, as if he’d made an intentional double entendre. ‘I’ve recommended it to my patients, of course.’ But the words were half-defiant, almost a question. The uncertainty was palpable in the bitten lip, the way her gaze fell to her twiddling fingers.

Without even trying or wanting to, he’d made her feel like a freak. Armand realised anew how little he knew about this woman, despite all his best efforts.

‘So you’re one of the world’s workers,’ he said with that teasing gravity that seemed to relax her. ‘Let me walk you through this difficult new process, step by step.’ Sweeping a hand over the living room, he winked at her. ‘Here we have popcorn, chocolate, wine and a DVD—there is a choice of comedy chick-flicks, just for you. We sit on the couch with our feet up on the ottomans, eat and drink and enjoy the movie. Now, do you think that’s manageable?’

If anything, her blush grew. Her smile wavered, and instead of moving to the said couch she shifted her feet until they pointed in the direction of her room. ‘You must think I’m such a weirdo.’ Now her shoulders turned so all of her was facing her room. She was going to bolt.

Denying her half-accusation would only make her run. ‘Well, yeah,’ he continued to tease. ‘But, as with snowboarding, it’s my honour to be your very first chill-out partner.’ Again, he swept his hand to the couch, the array of inviting foods.

She didn’t even look. Her gaze was firmly on her feet. ‘The T-shirt says it all.’ Her hand swept vaguely over her shirt. I’m not normal, it said.

He swore beneath his breath, trying to control the rising anger, but the words came anyway. ‘Would you like to tell me what’s going on here, why you’re acting as if popcorn and a movie is so wrong? This surely can’t be one of your many state secrets.’

Now the blush melted down her throat and blended with her T-shirt. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’

He laughed, but it was harsh. ‘Trust, Rachel? I didn’t realise that was a word in your vocabulary. I know it’s only been two weeks, but frankly I’m tired of stumbling around in the dark with you. You question everything I do and say. I’m not the enemy, but I’m beginning to wonder if you see everyone as another continuation of your invisible battles. Or is it just me you treat this way?’

Her head drooped. ‘Armand …’

‘Don’t apologise,’ he interrupted her in a flat tone. ‘You always do that, then you run and hide again or push me away. I’m not him, Rachel.’

A long stretch of quiet followed, and this time he refused to fill it. She either trusted him now or she didn’t, and he’d give up trying. Enough was enough.

At last she mumbled, ‘No, you’re not him. Or them.’ Her feet shuffled, making an unobtrusive step towards the sanctuary of her room.

‘Them?’ he queried mildly, to make her stay. It was time.

‘My family,’ she muttered in a faltering tone. ‘My parents and sister, Sara. I’m not like them. Nothing like them. Mama called me a changeling—you know? The child the fairies change for another at birth. I don’t look like any of them, and I don’t act like them. I’m—different.’

There seemed nothing he could say in answer to that, so he waited.

Eventually she sighed, as if shedding an enormous burden. ‘You see, I was a smart child. Very smart.’

Armand was taken aback. How could she make being intelligent sound like she was confessing to murder? ‘I see.’

‘No, you don’t,’ she retorted, lifting her face at last, her anger bursting forth without warning. ‘You were born one of the beautiful people, the son of a movie star and a multimillionaire. You were a movie star yourself until you retired. You were admired and loved from birth. I was a freak from the first moment I remember!’

Now wasn’t the time to correct her presumptions, even if he wanted to relive his ugly childhood, picture-perfect only for the cameras. And at last she was opening up to him. ‘Why?’

‘I was diagnosed with an IQ of one hundred and eighty at the age of six. I finished high school at thirteen, and I had a double degree with a PhD by nineteen.’

‘That’s impressive,’ he said, feeling his way with this, because she obviously was far from proud of her achievements.

‘Oh, yes. Everyone was impressed with clever Rachel. The department came to Mama and Daddy when I was in first grade, telling them I needed special education. They put me in a special school. The boarding-school teachers loved me. The college I lived in was so proud.’

Armand frowned. ‘And your parents?’

She shrugged. ‘Dad was a travelling sales-manager. Mom was a doctor’s receptionist. They didn’t know what to make of me, where I’d got this ability from, or what to do with me when I came home. My sister Sara was pretty and popular. She liked to pretend she was an only child. Most of the time, she ignored me. I ended up spending my weekends and vacations studying at the school or at college. It was easier for everyone.’

She wasn’t looking at him now, but was looking down at her feet. Shuffle-shuffle, toes stubbing against the carpet. Fingers twining around each other, or twiddling with her hair.

‘When did that change?’ he asked. Every question about her family seemed pregnant with tension.

She sighed. ‘When I was thirteen, the teachers told them I could become a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist. I guess they thought I’d be able to support them when they retired. I did want to help people—but in a face to face way. Not with a microscope or a scalpel. I don’t like blood or germs.’

‘Not many people do,’ he said, on a quizzical note. She sounded so ashamed of herself for that common weakness.

‘Everyone said being a psychologist was a waste of my brains.’ She frowned at the waiting food and drink in the living room as if it offended her. ‘They only came around when …’

‘When you met Dr Pete?’ he prompted, sure he was right.

She sighed and nodded. ‘He gave my career direction and focus. Before I met him I was working in a diner.’

‘With a double doctorate and a PhD?’ He was amazed.

‘A PhD with a baby face,’ she retorted with a shrug. ‘Nobody wanted to hire me. They said no patient would take me seriously. I had to eat and pay the rent—and I wanted to study people, see what made them tick. I practised my skills on the people who wanted to talk. And then, after ten months, I met Pete—and he had enough dreams and direction for both of us.’ Her voice softened. ‘He took me to LA, gave me a home and a ring. He made me knock on the doors of every medical practice until I got a job. He’s actually a screenwriter, you know, and has a degree in business and economics. He dreamed up the concept of the show, but we had to do a lot of study to get it exactly right. Before and after each show I had to study again, to find the right theme and make sure I had all my facts right. I—I didn’t want to leave things like that to assistants.’

Repressing the urge to ask if Pete had worked at all while dreaming up the show, or if he’d used Rachel as his meal ticket until he found fame, Armand asked, ‘How did he end up the front man of the show?’

Until now he’d been too stunned to think of how much information she was giving him. He had to get as much as he could from her now, before she clammed up again.

‘I threw up on the first eight attempts to put me in front of a camera.’ She said it so defiantly, as if daring him to laugh at her.

Holding in a flaring urge to pull her close, he curled his fingers into his palms. Both were itching to touch her, give her comfort. ‘Some people don’t want the limelight, Rachel. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

After a momentary glance of puzzlement, she drew a breath, bit her lip. ‘When I finally stopped throwing up, I just shook so much my words mangled. So Pete said he’d take the lead, if I’d play the supporting role. I’d be back stage and give him the answers.’

‘I’m guessing that worked best for you,’ he said, mentally chanting, don’t touch her or she’ll run. ‘So how did you end up on the show?’

‘Did you like the limelight? Why did you walk away?’ she shot at him without warning, her eyes flashing.

He almost said, this isn’t about me, but he held his tongue. If Rachel was asking, it wasn’t from curiosity, but because she needed to know. ‘No, I never liked it. It was a necessity at the time,’ he said quietly. Please don’t ask any more.

Those big, expressive eyes searched his for a moment, seeing too much. How she did it he didn’t know, but he felt as if she looked into his eyes and down to his very soul. Eventually she nodded and moved away to sit at the couch. ‘So what’s the choice of movie for our chill-out night?’ She grabbed a handful of the popcorn and shoved it all in her mouth at once.

It was a silent message given louder than anything Charlie Chaplin could have sent to his audience. ‘I got us a range of classics. Take your pick, while I get the hot chocolate ready.’

Without looking at him she took up the three DVDs to read the blurbs at the back.

She was really good at dismissing him without a word—but, though he was willing to give her space, she’d opened the gate now. There was no shutting it again, no matter how she tried. Given what she’d said, he strongly doubted that her parents would have supported her leaving Dr Pete, even if he had been the one to break her wrist. Her sister didn’t want to know her. It seemed she was an orphan adrift in the world. Someone had to let her know it was all right to be herself, that she could be liked and respected for the person she was.

And that closed the door on stupid thoughts, such as kissing her pain away.

The music of the opening credits was already running when he returned to the living room with two steaming cups. ‘So, what movie did you pick?’

‘Notting Hill,’ she answered, her voice vague, humming along to the haunting sounds of She. ‘It sounds lovely.’

‘It—I believe it is,’ he said, correcting himself just in time. ‘It came highly recommended.’ He sat beside her, closer to her than he’d been since the snowboarding lesson three days ago. Thigh just touched thigh as he stretched his legs over his ottoman. He didn’t even know quite why he did it. It wasn’t sexual provocation—even if she wanted that, he knew now he could never treat her as a casual playmate.




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