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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.
