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