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