Armand had to drag his gaze away and get back to the business at hand. ‘So are you agreeable to my idea? If so, I’ll bring my suitcase in. Which bedroom are you using?’
She pointed to a door.
‘Ah, my mother’s old room.’ Before she could do more than briefly look horrified, he put up a hand. ‘Maman lives in her own house a few hours’ flight from here. She visits a few times a year. She’s not coming until summer now. She would be the first to say you’re welcome, Rachel.’ The name kept slipping so naturally from his lips, he barely noticed. ‘I’ll keep my room. The third is now a study, if you’ve noticed, with wireless Internet and computer. I can work in the hotel for a few hours a day, and if you need to work—’ he saw her stiffen again and added ‘—or need to keep up your communications, feel free.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was subdued, but she neither confirmed nor denied the subtle probe. It seemed he’d finally met the woman who didn’t want or need to defend herself against the accusations her ex had levelled at her. Whatever the truth was inside the story of Dr and Mrs Pete’s break-up, Rachel Chase obviously did not want or need to unburden herself to a stranger about her life, no matter how much he was helping her.
He didn’t care if she wanted to keep to herself—actually, it was quite refreshing. So from now on she would have what she wanted from him: peace and quiet.
‘I need to work for a couple of hours. I’ll be back before dinner.’ He gathered the lunch plates and coffee paraphernalia on one tray and stacked the other beneath. ‘There’s no point in hiding that I have a guest stying with me when people saw you take the tray. Do you mind if I order dinner for us? Is there anything you don’t like? What do you like to drink—wine, water, soft drinks?’
‘I don’t eat really spicy food, it burns my stomach,’ she confessed with a fledgling smile.
Strange, the way her smile hit him every time. Every time she did it, something or someone new seemed to peep out from behind the confident, caring persona of the woman he’d seen on TV—neither the frightened kitten nor the cool, defensive rebel he’d dealt with today. ‘And what is your drink of choice?’
‘I tend to stick to water at night, though I love the hot chocolate they make here.’
‘Consider it done; I’ll order both.’ He picked up the tray. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Um, Herr Bollinger?’
He turned at the door, looking over his shoulder. ‘My name is Armand.’
‘Armand …’ The name rolled off her tongue with that gorgeous southern accent of hers. It sent the oddest feeling through him, a sense of waiting fulfilled. ‘Thank you. I’ll try not to be too much trouble.’
He almost said a paying guest is never trouble, but he held it in. Seeing the smothered anxiety beneath her calm façade, he wondered what had happened to make her feel unworthy of even the most basic help—but he was afraid he already knew.
‘I am doing very little,’ he said coolly. ‘A few weeks sharing my cabin, and I get an endorsement of my resort in return.’
When he saw her shoulders finally relax, he felt the tension disappear from his body, but when he left the cabin his mind was racing. If a woman as loved by her fans as Rachel Rinaldi could feel that she was a bother just by sharing his cabin, there had to be a damned good reason.
There must also be a reason why she wasn’t giving her side of the story to the world. Surely she must know that, given her intense popularity, she’d be believed?
There were definite, unexpected depths to this woman, layers she didn’t want him to see, things he didn’t want to know.
He’d failed Maman—he’d left her to the abuse he couldn’t stop until his father’s death. He didn’t know what the hell he could do to help Rachel. Anything he tried would probably make things worse. But he was committed to spending the next few weeks with her.
So what could he do to ensure it wasn’t a disaster that would send her running from here before he got his endorsement?
CHAPTER FOUR
‘WHAT is this?’
Rachel looked at the electrical apparatus sitting in the centre of the table with vague suspicion. It looked like some sort of grill, with small-handled pots beneath the heating bars. A wonderful smell permeated the air: cheesy, but like no cheese she’d ever eaten. Bowls of food sat around the grill and a range of foods was sizzling on the rectangular grill-plate above.
‘You haven’t had this before?’ Armand asked, looking surprised. ‘You’ve been in Switzerland for weeks. Surely Max recommended it at least once?’
When she shook her head, he smiled with what looked like genuine pleasure. ‘Then I shall be the first to share this experience with you. This is raclette, a traditional Swiss food for winter—but usually it’s only served with potatoes and pickles. I like to switch it up a bit, add more to the menu.’
‘It smells divine.’
He used little wooden spade-like objects to flip the food over. ‘I order this for my first dinner whenever I return from being away.’
For a moment the impulse to ask where he’d been rose in her throat, but she forced it down. It wasn’t as if they were friends. They were strangers sharing a cabin and an agreement, no more. He’d respected her secrets; she would be showing the worst form of ingratitude if she didn’t do the same for him.
The trouble was that his patter, and the new food, had begun to relax her from the feeling of trepidation at his return tonight—that, and the jeans and sweatshirt he wore, both old but comfortable, by the looks of it. Everything felt informal, especially Armand himself—as if it was a deliberate ploy. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was something else he wanted from her.
But the way he moved in those clothes was so fluid, with such natural grace, she felt a surge of envy—and another emotion she didn’t want to identify. But she was a functioning woman, and any woman still breathing had to appreciate a man this masculine and this beautiful.
Although she’d showered this evening, she was still wearing a simple jeans and pullover. It was all she’d brought with her when she’d fled LA. She’d left everything behind: her name, her trademarks, any and all memories of Pete and her TV persona. And every day that she pulled on her comfy clothes, saw her natural brown hair, ring-free left hand, no make-up and didn’t have to endure another day of hunger to remain svelte for the camera was another happy day.
There was no way she’d play the perfect doll again. Not for any man.
But her half-hearted attempt at defiance died with her first sight of him in his jeans. Without that little surge of rebellion to protect her emotions, she felt naked. She’d never been happy without having some form of barrier. Her mother had taught her that. Her mother’s ladylike behaviour had been her protection from the hurt from her daddy’s careless philandering.
But no form of refined protest Rachel tried had ever stopped Pete from railroading her. Nor did it seem to work with Armand. She guessed she just didn’t have the way of it.
‘Please, come and sit down,’ he said with a smile, as if he hadn’t noticed her silence. ‘It’s ready to eat.’
‘Full points to Monika for the setting,’ she murmured as she sat down, anxious to give her new friends all the praise she could.
Armand moved her chair in. ‘Monika is finished for the day, but I will pass on thanks to the appropriate place.’
‘Thanks,’ she sighed, reflecting on Armand’s courtesy with a slightly uncomfortable feeling. Probably his good manners were ingrained in him, but it had the feel of subtle undercurrents, as seductive as