Читать книгу Daring to Date the Boss / The Tycoon Who Healed Her Heart - Melissa James - Страница 13

‘I’M NOT coordinated. I’ll fall and hurt myself. I can’t do this, Armand, and especially not in the dark!’

The absolute panic in Rachel’s voice was more than the natural trepidation at trying something new. Holding her close, steadying both their snowboards by keeping his at a ninety-degree angle to hers, Armand kept his voice low and soothing. ‘You can’t know that. We haven’t even gone ten feet yet.’

‘I can’t even ski. How can I do this? I have no stocks. I’m going to fall. I know I will. Don’t you understand? I can’t go to hospital!’

He looked at her in the deep night, lit by the warmth of bagged fires on poles reflecting off the new fall of snow in small, glittering jewels. But she hadn’t noticed either the night’s beauty or even the fact that he’d had his arm around her waist for ten minutes. If she felt the same kind of half-amazed awakening of body and soul he experienced every time he touched her, especially since their dance and half-kiss, she wasn’t showing it. She was staring down at her booted feet on a snowboard and was literally shaking.

‘Have you had a bad experience in hospital as a child?’ he asked gently.

She didn’t even make an acid comment about his trying to psycho-analyse her, which told him her fear was very real. ‘I can’t be found until the divorce is final and made public. If it happens, he’ll find a way to blackmail me into coming back to the show. The restraining order won’t stop him. He’s been losing ratings hand over fist since I left. The public now knows it was me that gave him his empathy, and that I was feeding him the answers people needed to hear. I know him—he’ll be desperate by now. But he’ll have a plan to win me back into his life. He’s addicted to fame, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make me come back.’

Now, at last, Armand got it. Really, he didn’t have much choice but to understand. She was babbling her secrets in fear, secrets she’d kept chained inside her heart like a hated treasure. They’d been housemates nearly ten days now, and all this time he’d tried to get her to talk, with no success.

His arousal faded in a fit of protectiveness like a lightning-bolt, all but knocking him off his feet. His suspicions had been confirmed in a flash, and he wanted to knock Rinaldi flying—flying right off the damned planet.

Stop it. You’ll terrify her. He knew that from bitter experience. He’d seen the terror on his sisters’ faces on the rare times he’d been allowed home from boarding school and his father had walked in with that look on his face …

Aching to ask if she’d contacted her parents in the past few weeks, he forced himself not to reply to her secrets at all—she’d only hate him later if he did. Instead he asked, softly but in clear challenge, ‘What would you say to a patient that refused to try a new experience before even attempting it?’

At that, she stilled. Slowly, she mumbled something he couldn’t hear.

‘I have you safe with me,’ he went on, still gentle, persuasive. ‘I won’t let go.’

She gave a little, almost plaintive sigh. It was answer enough, since he could feel her disbelief beating from her, as strong and sure as her racing pulse.

Armand wondered if anyone had ever stayed the distance, not with her but for her. Had anyone ever put Rachel’s needs first?

‘Look around, Rachel,’ he murmured to distract her. ‘See how beautiful it all is.’

A small quiver ran through her. ‘I can’t. My eyes …’

With tenderness foreign to him until now, Armand lifted her face from the terrified contemplation of the snowboard and saw her goggles were totally fogged. ‘Are you so cold?’ Or worse, he thought to himself, had he frightened her into crying and not even noticed?

‘I’m from Texas. It reaches freezing there in winter.’

Her semi-defiant tone, and the way she pulled her face from his hold, filled him with relief. She was a fighter, all right. ‘And how long has it been since you visited in winter? LA’s climate hasn’t reached freezing probably since the last ice age.’

She turned away. ‘Good point,’ she said lightly enough, but something in her voice disturbed him.

‘How long has it been since you visited Texas at all?’ he asked quietly.

For a moment she neither moved nor spoke. Then she said, ‘How long has it been since you visited your father’s grave?’

She’d hit him with the carelessness of a drive-by shot into a crowd. How could he possibly have expected a wound so sudden and deep from a woman that until now had seemed as empathetic as she was helpless? And how could she possibly know?

Answer: she couldn’t. Just as he didn’t know anything about her. They were two people forced into a strange proximity, knowing only what they saw—strangers in the night, each giving the other something they needed. And that was how it had to stay. He should have known the ‘defenceless kitten’ thing was only part of her woman’s repertoire. Her segment of the Dr Pete show proved she had far too much perception for any man’s comfort.

‘Interesting question,’ he said, his voice calm and steady, not even a tremor to betray him. ‘Now, shall we continue, or are you going to let your fears win … Dr Rinaldi?’

Her back tightened, notch by notch, even in the heavy ski jacket. ‘My name,’ she said with slow, deliberate disgust, ‘Is Chase.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t certain which of your current names to call you,’ he retorted in the blandest tone he’d ever used, injury added to insult. ‘So has Rinaldi served its purpose? You can throw it away without regret?’

She wobbled on the snowboard as she turned fully back to him, hanging onto him for balance. Yet it didn’t seem funny at all. ‘The name Rhonda Braithwaite got me out of LA without his PI finding me. From Paris, I changed to Rachel Chase.’ With a heavily gloved hand she pulled the goggles from her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, watery, but she faced him from her ten-inch disadvantage with quaint dignity. ‘If you’d ever had your wrist and ribs broken by someone you’d once trusted and loved, you’d know why I want to leave his name behind me—why it hurts so much to hear it. But believe me when I say I will never forget, no matter how many names I take on, or how many times I reinvent myself.’

It was a battle-axe blow to his sword-thrust—and a knockout punch for honesty. And, though he was looking into her eyes, he saw three pairs of phantom eyes beside her, behind her. Because he’d seen that look before: with Maman, Johanna and Carla when they had waved goodbye to him, the day he’d started boarding school. They’d been left alone with a husband and father who drank and gambled too much and took out his anger on his family, without their big brother to protect them.

He cursed himself in silence, then said, ‘Rachel, I—’

She put up a hand. ‘I’ve heard enough apologies lately to last me a while. Now are you going to cure me of one of my less rational fears or not, Dr Bollinger? You said something about not letting me go, I believe?’

Her eyes were twinkling now. Even though he knew it was a thin blanket covering the pain beneath, it was taking them from dangerous waters to the safer ebb-tide. So he smiled back. ‘So I did, Mademoiselle Chase,’ he acknowledged with mock gravity, bowing his head, sweeping a hand around them to their very private night-ski-run he’d arranged. ‘But not until you have at least appreciated all the trouble I went to for you. All this beauty surrounds us, and so far you’ve only looked at the snowboard.’

As he spoke, he pulled out a clean tissue—when skiing, he always kept a packet on hand—gently wiped her eyes and the goggles hanging around her neck.

‘Would you like to wipe my nose as well, Papa Bear?’ she retorted with a loud, theatrical sniff, and he laughed. He laughed because it was cute; laughed because no woman had sniffed with him before unless it was in rage or for effect, using tears to get her way. No matter how badly he ached to take this a step further, Rachel wanted nothing from him but a skiing lesson. Despite the disappointment, it was a liberating feeling: no expectation, no neediness, just two sort-of-friends having a night-snowboarding session.

With gravity, he put the tissue to her nose and with laughing eyes she made a loud raspberry sound with her mouth, pretending to blow. They both laughed.

‘Oh …’

Looking at her—what was it about her that made it so hard to look away?—he saw she was looking into the night. There was wonder in those big eyes as she took in the scattered cloud in the star-filled night, the poles with the burning bags lighting up the night, the soft-dancing snowflakes and the white-laden fir trees along the slope. And, though it was all she said, she’d made all the trouble to surprise her more than worthwhile.

‘You’re welcome,’ he said, resisting the urge to touch that cold, snowy cheek or to bend and kiss those bitten pink lips, half-open as she drank in the night.

Had his voice sounded as hoarse as it felt to him? Did she know how much he longed to just taste her mouth once, to move his hands over her skin and see those beautiful eyes come alive for him?

Stop it. The last thing she needs right now is to start something I’ve never wanted to finish. I’m her emotional umbrella, nothing more. In a few weeks she’ll be moving on.

For the first time, a woman would be walking away from him and he would have no choice but to let her. So, struggling to ignore the stupid physical ache to touch that was part and parcel of being a man, he swirled his snowboard around, facing down the slope with her body fitting into his, sweet and snug. He ached again and again. It felt as if the ache would never end.

Rachel; this is for Rachel. She deserves to know there’s one man she can turn to without his demands, without regrets. He had to be a better man than he’d ever been. For Rachel.

‘Trust me?’ he asked softly.

After the briefest of hesitations, and a tiny wobble, she whispered, ‘I’m trying to.’

‘I won’t hurt you, Rachel.’ Why did the light, teasing tone he’d employed to such effect in the past suddenly sound like a solemn vow? ‘I won’t let you fall.’

Her expression turned sad for a moment, even as she kept hanging onto him for the balance that seemed so elusive for her. ‘There are some falls nobody can control, some hurts that can’t be prevented.’ Then she grinned again. ‘But if I end up in hospital in traction you are so dead, Bollinger.’

Relieved she’d jumped back on the light, playful path, he winked at her. ‘Ah, but you’d have to catch me first. Rather hard to manage from that position.’

And before she could retort in kind he moved the lower half of his body so they began sliding down the baby slope together on private, non-resort land far from the fun, romantic night-skiing he’d established years ago for his regular clients. He held her so that when she wobbled he could steady her; he moved them in as close to perfect sync as he could, slowly enough so that she wouldn’t feel loss of control.

And when she was moving on her own, with her inexpressibly kissable mouth stretched in a wide smile of discovered poise and the simple joy of living, he had to move. He had no choice, really. It was move or kiss her, because if there was ever a kissing moment it was this one.

So he pulled away far enough to hold her hand. ‘It’s time to see what you’re capable of.’ After a few panicked wobbles, he said encouragingly, ‘You’re a natural at this. You’re a snow queen. You can do this, Rachel. I know you can.’

Her astonishment, so clear even behind her goggles, and obvious in her open mouth, almost made him lose balance. ‘I—Thank you. Nobody ever …’ She gulped, gulped again. ‘Nobody,’ she whispered, and shook her head.

Nobody ever said that to me before.

And, instead of the wrong parts hurting, now it was his heart that ached for her—ached for the sweet, real ‘doc with empathy’ who seemed so overcome by a few words of faith. And he wished he hadn’t used words he’d said before to a hundred female guests.

‘It’s true,’ he said just loud enough for her to hear. ‘Rachel, look at where you are. You are doing it.’

She looked down at her twisting body, at the tiny slope she was conquering. ‘Oh,’ she whispered, and her whole face grew alight with radiance. ‘Armand, I’m doing it. I’m skiing.’

It wasn’t the moment to correct her, or even to say that snowboarding was thought to be the harder discipline. He smiled. He smiled because he couldn’t help it. His life had been dark and complicated for eighteen years and yet this woman, who was on the run from her life—a woman who’d suffered probably far more than he’d ever know—filled him with light and made him feel heartfelt bliss in this simple achievement. ‘Yes, you are.’

‘I feel like Lois Lane,’ she said as they passed his ‘start’ line, making small S-slides down the slope. ‘You know that scene when Superman let her fly just by holding her hand?’

‘Yes,’ he said, resisting the impulse to break the moment by asking if that made him Superman. She’d certainly made him feel that way.

‘I feel like I’m flying, Armand.’ She held onto his gloved hand as if she was about to drop off a cliff, not even realising she was all but doing everything she needed to on her own. ‘You make me feel as if I can do anything.’ She glanced at him; he knew because he couldn’t keep his eyes from her muffled form. He felt as if he was imbibing her sparkling happiness, clear as new wine, just by being with her. ‘Thank you, Armand, thank you.’ Her voice was choked.

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.