Melissa James - Daring to Date the Boss / The Tycoon Who Healed Her Heart - Daring to Date the Boss / The Tycoon Who Healed Her Heart

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.

‘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.