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The TycoonWho Healed HerHeart

Melissa James

Daring to Datethe Boss

Barbara Wallace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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.’