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 him without a word—but, though he was willing to give her space, she’d opened the gate now. There was no shutting it again, no matter how she tried. Given what she’d said, he strongly doubted that her parents would have supported her leaving Dr Pete, even if he had been the one to break her wrist. Her sister didn’t want to know her. It seemed she was an orphan adrift in the world. Someone had to let her know it was all right to be herself, that she could be liked and respected for the person she was.
And that closed the door on stupid thoughts, such as kissing her pain away.
The music of the opening credits was already running when he returned to the living room with two steaming cups. ‘So, what movie did you pick?’
‘Notting Hill,’ she answered, her voice vague, humming along to the haunting sounds of She. ‘It sounds lovely.’
‘It—I believe it is,’ he said, correcting himself just in time. ‘It came highly recommended.’ He sat beside her, closer to her than he’d been since the snowboarding lesson three days ago. Thigh just touched thigh as he stretched his legs over his ottoman. He didn’t even know quite why he did it. It wasn’t sexual provocation—even if she wanted that, he knew now he could never treat her as a casual playmate.
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