Kitabı oku: «Daring to Date the Boss / The Tycoon Who Healed Her Heart», sayfa 5

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.

The truth was that he just wanted contact of some kind with her. Touching her gave him a sense of gladness in living he’d never known until now. Having a woman he desired so close but so elusive was as frustrating as it was refreshing. He couldn’t seem to get enough of even the lightest contact with Rachel. The brush of his fingers against her skin when he moved a snowflake from her cheek moved him. The soft swish of her breath when she laughed intoxicated him. Inhaling her scent when she dashed by him after her morning shower was like a mint candy-cane, the ones he’d loved so much when he’d been a kid. And just holding her hand as they improved her snowboarding skills did something to him on a deeper level than he wanted to admit.

Rachel had inspired some crazy kind of yearning for the kind of relationship he’d never had before. He was yearning, waiting, but waiting less for the sexual act itself than for her to reveal her inner self to him. It felt unbearably sensual—at least for him. A situation that would no doubt end as soon as he’d …

But you’re not going to have her. That’s it, keep telling yourself that.

It was hard to remind himself every night when he awoke in a sweat, her face burning like a brand in his mind. Even her silly cat-pyjamas had begun to haunt him with longing.

He moved in just a millimetre, touching her more fully, and the bubbles of joy fizzled right through him. She was so close now, he could smell that wonderful candy-store peppermint scent in her hair …

She smiled up at him, but in her eyes was the slightest hint of the hunted deer, the confusion of a woman being given mixed signals. The look of a woman who doesn’t want to know which signal was real: the back-off words or the touch-me body language.

He could have kicked himself again. What was he doing to her?

Forcing a smile from somewhere inside him that really didn’t want to smile, he put a friendly arm around her. ‘This is what friends do on chill-out nights,’ he said without a quiver. With a hint of neither the laughter nor the consternation he felt in equal measure. And he hoped like hell she didn’t look anywhere near his lap.

A light frown marred her brow. ‘Okay,’ she said, sounding only half-convinced. Then she turned her face forward to the TV screen. ‘Oh, look, the movie’s starting. I really like Hugh Grant.’

The words were a nervous babble. Now his smile was genuine; he couldn’t help it, she just affected him that way. She made him feel as if he was one big smile, even when he ached to …

You’re asking to wake up again tonight, he thought, resigned to his immediate fate. And he spent the next hundred minutes watching Rachel more than the movie.

‘No. I am not going on that thing. There is no way you’re getting me on that thing!’

Swathed in his ski-gear minus the goggles as the temperature was mild today, with no wind, Armand sat on the big, wide red sled. Holding the control with one hand, he extended the other to her. His legs were splayed in an invitation to sit there that she couldn’t possibly miss. ‘Come on, Rachel, try it. It really is fun, and I promise you won’t fall. And, if you did, it’s not like there’s far to go,’ he laughed.

She backed off another few inches, her trepidation far greater than when he taught her how to snowboard; he had absolutely no idea why. ‘No.’

His face stilled. ‘You said you were trying to trust me.’

The sudden coolness in his voice made Rachel’s stomach clench a bit. ‘I don’t want to do this. Can’t you just accept it, and not push me all the time? I feel as if I’m your dolly, or your science experiment. Let’s teach Rachel something new and watch her grow,’ she snapped, not sure why she was so angry, but she was.

She turned and stomped through the snow to a crevice at the end of the tree belt on ‘their’ slope, isolated from the resort, totally private—as if they were in their own world.

And maybe that was the problem. It was such a beautiful lie, she almost believed it.

‘Do you want to talk about what happened just now?’ The gentle voice came from behind her, about an inch too close, warming her shivering skin and smelling way too good. Woodsy, strong and dependable—another beautiful, believable lie.

She moved a touch closer to the crevice. ‘Do you?’ she retorted, but in the same tone as his. ‘Do you want to tell me why you’re doing all this, being so sweet with me, trying to heal me through fun and games? I get that you know about me, but you’re so patronising, like I’m a little kid or your sister.’

She felt rather than saw him jerk back in reaction. Without looking at him, she murmured, ‘Tell me about her.’ Her hand reached out to his hair, fell an inch short. Wanting it so much couldn’t be healthy for her.

After a long pause, he said, ‘It’s not just my story to tell.’

‘Okay, then I’ll tell it.’ She drew in a cold, pine-scented breath—a counterpoint, a denial of the ugliness she had to speak now. ‘What’s her name, your little sister?’

‘I have two sisters. Johanna and Carla.’ It came out like a gunshot. Angry and accusative: Don’t ask. Don’t say it.

But she knew better. The people who want pushing the least need it the most. ‘So who beat her, Armand?’ She turned to face him as she asked the question that might just push him over the edge. ‘Who hurt her, that you either didn’t know or didn’t do anything about it? Was it her husband, her boyfriend?’

The fury was white-hot in those stormy eyes. He didn’t answer, but held himself rigid, ice-like in the sub-zero day. So frozen she thought he might shatter at a touch.

‘Okay, you didn’t know,’ she said softly, as if an admission. ‘She hid it from you, didn’t she? You never saw her when she had the bruises. And when she had a cast on her arm or leg she always had such a reasonable explanation for it. She might even have laughed at herself. “I’m so clumsy, Armand, you know that”.’

Waiting for an answer obviously wasn’t going to bring it forth, so she kept telling the story. ‘And then one day there was one accident too many, was there? Or she just stopped coming to visit and didn’t answer your calls. You only heard from her when she called you, when she felt strong enough. When she could control the conversation. She knew you suspected, but you couldn’t prove anything.’

Nothing. Not a word or a movement. He stood like a statue, not looking at her but out into the mountains behind them. Frozen, as if it would stop her words going into his ears.

‘But then one day something happened. He went too far. He hurt her in a way she refused to accept—or she needed hospitalisation and the police became involved.’

Only the smoking heat in his eyes indicated he was alive. So pale and so cold, a beautiful statue, refusing to acknowledge anything she said.

‘Is he in prison now?’ she asked gently, but without remorse or pity. He had to say it. So often the victim got help but the family was left to suffer the endless guilt of not being perfect, not being able to protect the person they loved.

At last, perhaps because she just waited, watching him, he growled one word. ‘Dead.’

‘Good,’ she said quietly. And, because it seemed right, she stripped off her glove, pulled his off too and cradled his hand in hers. It felt so right she didn’t question the fact that she didn’t let go after her customary thirty seconds. ‘The questions don’t help, you know. The what-ifs and should-have-beens never help anyone. But all you achieve by shoving them away in the back of your mind is driving yourself slowly mad with the guilt.’

He turned his face and she knew she’d hit home. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’

With a silent breath of relief that he’d spoken at last, she answered what he hadn’t asked. ‘No, you’ll never lose the questions—but you have to deal with them, Armand, or Johanna or Carla will never stop avoiding you.’

He pulled his hand out of hers. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

She looked at him unblinking. Slowly she lifted her imperfectly healed wrist and rubbed it: truth revealed without a word. The silent sisterhood locked in identical chains of shame.

‘It was my father.’ He sounded driven, half-desperate, and she knew that if anything the half-lie between them was over. From now on he wouldn’t treat her as he would a sister.

A surge of hot joy washed through her. The sweet deception that he didn’t know anything about her abuse, and she didn’t know about his secret, had grown harder and harder to maintain. ‘You ask yourself the questions, Armand—or ask me. We can talk about it, what happened to your family,’ she stressed, because despite what he thought she could take care of herself. ‘Tell me, Armand. Ask me all the questions you can’t ask them. You have to go through it to let go of it, Armand, because they see all your pain, the regret, and it stifles them, makes them feel weak—just as this overdose of fun does with me.’

‘I just wanted to help.’ The words were as cold as the ice around them.

‘And you did.’ The craving grew unbearable and she laid a hand on his hair. ‘Don’t ever doubt how much you’ve helped me just by being here, by letting me have my secrets. But I am not your sister.’

‘I know that,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve never once seen you as my sister. As if that wasn’t completely obvious to you, the way you back away from me whenever I get close.’

The anger inside those words startled her, because they seemed to come from a deeper place than wounded male ego. ‘This isn’t about my problem, Armand. This is about you.’

‘I know that but, damn it, if she won’t talk to me and won’t come to me …’

‘You go to her, Armand.’ Oh, the stupid craving grabbed hold and wouldn’t release her until she smoothed his hair, a flash of longing that only grew as she touched him. So intimate and yet it was never enough … ‘You go to her after you’ve come to peace with the fact that you didn’t stop your father. Then you accept her as she is—a survivor, even if she’s damaged. Stop pretending it never happened. If you can accept her for the strong woman she is, then she can begin to feel normal at last.’

‘Are you’re saying I’ve made her feel like she isn’t normal?’ he demanded, leaning right over her in an open fury she’d never seen from him.

But she wasn’t afraid of him. Armand would never hurt a woman physically; that she was certain about. ‘If you never ask her, never talk about it, she senses that you’re keeping her a victim in your mind. You unconsciously show her how much you want her to be something else by pretending the past never existed,’ she said gently. ‘She’s been through a life-changing experience and survived it, no matter how much you or she want to forget. She isn’t a victim now, Armand. She isn’t a child either. She’s survived suffering you can’t imagine.’

He remained frozen, but the anguish in his eyes spoke for him and she began to dread that, yes, Armand could imagine it all too well, because he’d been there.