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 they were dangerous. She felt as if she’d fallen into unfamiliar waters from the moment he’d come into her life, pulling her with gentle insistence out to sea.
Don’t think about it. Don’t look at him. Frowning, she looked beneath the grill plate and saw cheese bubbling in the little flat pans. ‘This looks delicious.’
‘It is, and so easy. Just cook what you like to eat, and when it’s ready pick what you want to eat, put it on your plate and pour the cheese over.’
The flavour burst on her tongue with the first mouthful. ‘Oh, this is superb, Armand,’ she murmured when her mouth was empty. ‘No wonder it’s a national dish—I’d eat it—’
‘Rachel?’
Her eyes snapped open at his tone of voice which, though quiet, held inexplicable warning. A tiny shiver ran through her spine and she forgot about the food. ‘What is it?’
He was looking only at his plate, seeming to enjoy the smell of his food. ‘Someone’s watching us through the terrasse door. She’s looking right at you.’
She heard one of her vertebrae snap into place as she straightened, but she didn’t look around. ‘You said she?’
‘Try to relax, Rachel,’ he said softly, still not looking at her. ‘It’s okay. I recognise her. It’s Amelia Heffernan, a regular visitor to the resort—she’s a widow, an incurable romantic, and also incurably nosy. She only arrived today. She must have heard the rumours of a woman staying here and came to check for herself.’
One by one, her vertebrae relaxed again. She drew in a breath, her first in almost a minute. She looked at him, trying not to show her fear. ‘Does she watch TV?’
‘She’s elderly—of course she does. And, yes, she loves the chat shows.’
Rachel turned cold all over. ‘Armand, if she recognises me and tells anyone …’
She couldn’t quite interpret his smile. ‘From where she’s standing, she can’t see your face. Stand up and come to me.’ He rose to his feet, moving to her. ‘Smile at me. Our ruse won’t work if you look like you’d rather walk into an iron maiden than into my arms.’
She looked down, shaking her head. ‘I can’t do it. I just can’t.’
He reached her chair, but didn’t touch it, only her shoulder. ‘Rachel,’ he murmured, ‘You don’t know me. You have no reason to trust me. But right now
