Daring to Date the Boss / The Tycoon Who Healed Her Heart: Daring to Date the Boss / The Tycoon Who Healed Her Heart

The thought panicked her—but she would not show any weakness. She would never give in to any man’s demands again.

‘Every need has been met, Herr Bollinger, thank you.’ She lifted her chin, kept her eyes fully on his. ‘Have you come to ask me to leave?’

Armand stared at the diminutive woman before him, her warm curves encased in jeans, a fluffy pink pullover and hotel slippers. Very different from the tiny angles, designer outfits and high heels he’d seen when she was TV’s Mrs Dr Pete, the Texan sweetheart who’d made Dr Pete’s show the hit it was—or the hit it had been until he’d tossed her off the show. He’d heard it had been canned in the past few weeks.

He’d always been told the camera added ten pounds. It seemed real life did that to Rachel Rinaldi. In fact, if he hadn’t seen those fawn-like brown eyes, or her famous smile dazzling his staff through the terrasse windows, or heard her pretty, sing-song southern accent telling her story, he wouldn’t have recognised her at all. Gone were her trademark mahogany waist-length locks, the flawless make-up, the four-inch heels and the jewellery. In their place were a light-brown pixie haircut and clear, creamy skin with a light dusting of freckles … not to mention the bristling stance and the challenging flash in her eyes as she squared up to him. She was expecting him to throw her out, but she’d go down swinging. But surely she knew why he was here?

She hadn’t played the fame card yet to get what she wanted, or to railroad him with their respective positions. But she will, he thought cynically. Sooner or later they all did, which was part of the reason he’d left that world years ago. The world his parents had once dominated; oh yes, the Bollingers had been ‘beautiful people’.

Then their world had fallen apart, and no one knew it but them. Even now, no one knew the truth of his father’s death, or the things he’d done, the family shame.

‘If you’re going to ask me to leave, Herr Bollinger, I’d appreciate it if you’d get it over with rather than stringing it out this way.’

The aggressive tone seemed off-kilter in her pretty southern accent. Armand didn’t start at the somewhat acid return to the present; even his mental shake was unseen. Give nothing away, don’t hand your power to anyone. He’d learned that lesson long before he’d been kicked out of home at the age of twelve and he’d never forget it.

‘You are a paying guest, Ms Chase,’ he replied with all the practised smoothness of years, the acting training from young childhood. His father had called them ‘deportment classes’, but Armand knew them for what they were. Put on a show, look pretty, display perfect behaviour at all times. No anger, no sorrow, no remorse. And don’t ever be yourself. So he’d play the game she’d set up and see where it led. ‘We have just met. Why should you think I wish you to go?’

‘Well, you’re furious at me for some reason,’ she returned, notably less hostile, but with her famed perception.

This time it was harder not to physically react. Damn it, she knew what he wanted! Surely she’d known he’d come the moment he found out where she was hiding out? ‘Another assumption, given that I’ve only asked if you need anything,’ he said softly.

‘You’re lying.’ With an almost triumphant expression, she pointed at his eyes. ‘See, there it is again. It’s like lightning behind clouds, the look of fury hiding behind good manners. You’re mad at me for some reason, so why not just say so? The sooner you get it off your chest, the sooner I can get back to my lunch.’

Dissected and dismissed within three sentences. Armand wasn’t used to either happening to him. Rudeness from guests he could tolerate; stupidity he could ignore, certainly, though it irritated him. The superciliousness and constant demands of the super-rich were every-day life to him, his bread and butter. He’d been unfailingly polite, the perfect gentleman in all the years he’d spent rebuilding the resort and his reputation. The Wolf led the pack. Nobody got the best of him; nobody got to him.

How could this total stranger hop the barriers he’d erected twenty years ago with such ease? Damn it, she was laughing at him. Nobody had seen through him since he’d been sent to boarding school at the age of twelve. The day after he’d broken his father’s nose.

The night his fairy-tale world had risen up to the light, exposed for the ugly lie it was. The night his sisters had lost their innocence. The night they’d all lost each other. Though they’d gained some closeness since his father had died, somehow it was never the same again.

He caught himself rubbing his finger.

Shut down, turn off. He forced a smile. He was damned if he wouldn’t turn the tables. ‘All right, then, Ms Chase—or should I say, Mrs Rinaldi?’

Not a muscle moved in her face, but something flickered in her eyes—a fleeting expression he’d seen on a woman’s face before, and never wanted to see again. But she spoke calmly, almost bored. ‘I realised you’d recognised me the moment you broke into my cabin and heard me speak, Herr Bollinger. Would you mind getting to the point of your visit? My lettuce is wilting as we speak.’

His moment of perception fled beneath the sheer gall of the woman. Now he was less important than lettuce. If Rachel Rinaldi was famed for her loving empathy with strangers, he surely wasn’t seeing a sign of it. But, by God, he wouldn’t let her get to him—or, more accurately, keep getting to him. ‘By all means, Ms Chase, return to your lunch. It seems that you need it. Would you mind if I join you?’

The hesitation was so long it was almost as visible as the look in her eyes. She didn’t want him here. Never once in his life had a woman refused his company, or even hesitated; always it had been women inviting him, women watching him hesitate. Women always had to watch as he walked through his invisible exit sign and never looked back.

He shrugged off the momentary irritation and waited for her to speak. What did he care? This woman was far from his type, and he wasn’t looking. He had more than enough to fill his life without coping with a weak, tearful woman’s sensitivity, or the ego-filled demands of self-proclaimed strong women hitting him like an axe to the head.

That was the way it always went. His last relationship—if it could be called that—had put him off for a long time to come. Behind her dark, sinuous beauty, Selina had used tantrums, tears, other men and sexual manipulation, all aimed at one thing: to gain the fame of being the woman to tame the Wolf and wear his ring. She’d nearly scratched his eyes out when he’d said only one thing to her as he’d packed his things: ‘I don’t do cheating women.’

‘Certainly, Herr Bollinger,’ Rachel Chase said after what seemed an inordinately long time. ‘I’m getting a crick in my neck from looking up at you, anyway. Do come in.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, holding onto his courtesy, seething beneath. This woman wanted him to leave. She didn’t feel his famed charm, and his manners only seemed to bring out an irritated acerbity in her he’d never seen on TV.

He didn’t care—of course he didn’t—but he couldn’t help asking himself why.

Thrusting the thought away, he called the chef and asked for his lunch to be delivered to the cabin. He held out the dining chair in front of the salad Nicoise which was, indeed, wilting. Once he’d seated her, he called the chef again and ordered a new one despite her protests that it was fine to eat. She sighed and waved a hand around, vaguely indicating all five of the other chairs at the table, as if she didn’t care where he sat. ‘Please sit, Herr Bollinger.’ Inviting him to sit at his own table; he felt the cold fury rack up a notch.

He took the plate of salad away, placing it on the kitchen counter before returning to her, deliberately sitting opposite her. ‘The salad was sub-standard, Ms Chase. Of course I must replace it with a fresh one. We never serve stale salad in the restaurants, or in the actual hotel rooms.’

‘Well, since it was …’ And her sentence trailed off. She stared at him, her brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean by “actual hotel rooms”? Isn’t this cabin reserved for guests?’

He frowned. ‘I assumed my manager would have told you—this cabin is only for my private guests, as it’s my home.’

If there was one thing he hadn’t counted would discompose her, it was that. But there was no way she could fake a face pale to the point of whiteness. No way to darken those big, wistful eyes until they were pure black, pupils dilated with unadulterated fear and horror. ‘Oh … Oh, no, no. I didn’t … Um, I—I’m so sorry!’ she stammered.

No, she couldn’t be that good an actress. ‘You mean Max didn’t tell you when you asked to move in here?’ he asked, feeling the inadequacy of the words.

Now it was panic flaring in those easy-to-read eyes. ‘I—I must have forgotten. It wasn’t Max’s fault! He would have told me, certainly. I—I bullied him into it.’

She was babbling. Armand’s eyes narrowed as he kept his gaze fixed on her. He’d often found waiting an effective way to make women talk.

She was waiting in her turn, but not to unsettle him. She watched him with the air of one awaiting the guillotine. After a long pause, she whispered, ‘Please don’t blame your staff, Herr Bollinger. It—it was my fault. I saw the cabin, and—and I wanted more privacy, so I …’

‘You bullied Max into it. I see,’ he said, trying not to laugh. Half an hour ago, he might have believed it, but now he could no more see her bullying anyone than he could see her drowning a kitten. He didn’t have a psychology degree, but his profession required an ability to read people, and something disturbed him about Rachel Chase-Rinaldi.

‘And are you aware that other guests are complaining of neglect while at least three members of my staff come here at a time to be regaled with your amusing tales of the life and times of a Hollywood wife?’

Now she looked like a hunted deer, trapped in the headlights of his interrogation. She licked her lips; her eyes darted around the room, obviously finding no ready answer. At least ten seconds too late, she said, ‘It was me, all me. I’ve … been lonely and, um, they’ve been doing what your brochure says—taking excellent care of me.’

Every word came out with the fumbling of an honest woman trying to find an excuse. She couldn’t meet his eyes as she had so easily while she’d been fighting only for herself.

This was not the woman on the TV who always had the right words to hand, who always knew how to comfort others. So which of the two was the real woman and which was the fake?

‘I’ll have to commend them, then—but the arrangements will have to change, Ms Chase,’ he said quietly. ‘The current situation is unacceptable to me, and to my guests and, now I’m here, it will draw the kind of attention I think you wish least.’

The chair opposite him scraped back hard. She got to her feet, sickly pale but with determination in those speaking eyes. ‘Of course, I understand. I’ll leave on the first train. Do you know if there’s one leaving tonight?’

Armand had to fight the urge to blink. Nothing had happened the way he’d thought it would. There was no triumph in running off a woman who looked like a shot fawn.

‘You don’t need to leave, Ms Chase. If we move you into a suite late tonight, when no one will see, the woman here disappears and you return to being just another guest.’

She shook her head. ‘I think it’s best if I just go. I’ve caused enough trouble for you and your people.’

He’d never know later what changed his mind, unless it was the hunted look on her face, the fear she was trying to hide beneath defiance and determination: a sham of strength beneath her pride. The wall surrounding her was crumbling, and she was falling apart behind it. I have nowhere to go, her eyes said. Just as his mother had looked the day his father had sent Armand to boarding school. Just as she’d looked the night before he’d left, as she’d watched him taking the blows for her.

‘You don’t need to leave, Ms Chase,’ he said abruptly, wondering what the hell he was saying even as he spoke. ‘I have a proposition for you.’

CHAPTER TWO

RACHEL’S jaw dropped. ‘What did you just say?’ she demanded when she found her voice. ‘No, you couldn’t have meant—it’s a language miscommunication, right? I’m sure you didn’t mean that to sound like …’ You’re babbling. Abruptly she shut her mouth.

For the first time, Armand Bollinger’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘I should have said a business proposition. I beg your pardon for the confusion, Ms Chase.’

Though the words were smoothly said, his tone was filled with mirth. He was laughing at her for even thinking he could be attracted to her.