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
