Cathy Williams - 8 Magnificent Millionaires

Going to the open window, he planted his fists on the sill and leaned out. A silver-pink dawn was creeping up the sides of the snow-capped mountains, and the sight bewitched him. Zoë would be sleeping now. He smiled to think of her curled up in bed, sleeping the deep, untroubled sleep of the innocent.

Gazing along the balcony they shared, Rico noticed that her window was open. Her career absorbed her completely. She had to be exhausted.

He turned to look at the computer screen. There was nothing yet.

Natural caution made him investigate everyone who threatened his privacy. He knew already that Zoë was no self-seeking adventuress, but his night-owl investigator had been on the case since she’d arrived in Cazulas. It was a juggernaut he couldn’t stop now. He had keyed in his password, and expected an e-mail at any time. Once his mind was set at ease, he would go and wake Zoë in a way he knew she would enjoy.

Just the thought of rousing her from sleep, all warm and tousled, and kissing her into the new day had been enough to keep him from his bed. He was eager to be with her. Throwing back his head, Rico let out a long ragged sigh of frustration. It was hard to believe that here, in one of the remotest regions of Spain, fate had put him on a collision course with someone as honest and forthright as Zoë. He was tempted to go to her right now, without waiting for reassurance.

He tensed abruptly, all senses on full alert. Pushing back from the balcony, he strode quickly to the door. He stood outside his room, in the corridor, and listened intently. He thought he had heard a cry. But there was nothing. He turned, knowing everyone in the castle was asleep. Some nocturnal animal must have disturbed him.

Going back into his temporary study bedroom, Rico closed the heavy door carefully. That was it! He cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. The doors in the castle were so heavy no sound could possibly penetrate them.

Walking onto the balcony, he quietened his breathing and listened outside Zoë’s window. At first there was nothing aside from the soft swish of fabric as the fine voile curtains billowed in the early-morning breeze. Then he heard her cry out again, and, reaching through the window, he turned the key in the double doors and stepped into her room.

She was just awake, and clearly confused.

‘Zoë—what is it?’ He knelt down at her side. She was as beautiful as he had imagined, still warm from sleep and more lovely than any woman had a right to be if a man was to remain sane.

‘Rico.’ She pressed her hands against his chest. ‘Rico, I’m fine. I’m really sorry if I woke you—’

‘You didn’t wake me. I’m still dressed,’ he pointed out. ‘But as for your being fine—I’m sick of that word. You’re not fine.’

‘All right. I had a nightmare.’

‘A nightmare?’ He turned away. ‘You cried out, and I was worried about you—’

Her face went bright red, as if it was she who was in the wrong.

‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

He was amazed to see how quickly she could recover her composure. Then he remembered that she was used to covering up the truth.

‘As I told you, Rico. There’s really nothing to worry about.’

‘How long are you going to lie to me about this, Zoë?’

There was a long silence, and then she said, ‘I don’t know what makes you say that.’

‘I heard you this time. I heard you cry out. And then, as I came into your room, I heard what you said.’

She covered her face with her hands, but he couldn’t let it rest now. ‘Don’t,’ he said softly. Gently taking hold of her hands, he lifted them away. ‘You were in the throes of something much worse than a nightmare, Zoë. You were crying out, begging—’

‘No!’ She shouted it at him, and he waited until she grew calm again, holding her hands firmly between his own.

‘Begging?’ She forced out a laugh. ‘You’re mistaken, Rico—’

‘I am not mistaken. And I’d like to know what made you call out—‘‘Please, don’t hit me again.’’’

‘I’ve told you, you’re wrong. I would never say something like that. Why should I?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

She shook her head, and her eyes wore a wounded expression. ‘Is that why you were so gentle with me, Rico? Is that why you won’t make love to me? Is that why you agreed to stay over in a separate room? You feel sorry for me—’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ He raked his hair in sheer exasperation. ‘I don’t spend time with women because I feel sorry for them.’

‘How many women?’

‘Why are you doing this to yourself, Zoë?’

‘I tell you, Rico, you’re wrong about me.’ She scrambled upright with the sheet firmly clutched in her hand. ‘You don’t need to feel pity for me. It was just a nightmare. Nothing more.’ She shook her head, seeing the disbelief in his eyes. ‘I’m really grateful you came in to make sure I was all right. You’re kind—very kind—and thank you—’

‘Don’t!’ His voice was sharp as he put his hand up. He regretted it immediately, seeing her flinch. ‘I would never hurt you.’ His voice was just a whisper, but she had already gathered herself into a ball and pulled the sheet up to her chin. ‘Don’t ever thank me for being kind to you, Zoë. It’s the very least one human being can expect from another.’ He was consumed with relief when she lifted her head and looked at him.

‘Who hurt you, Zoë?’

‘No one…’

Her voice was tiny, like a child’s, and it hurt him more than anything he had ever heard. ‘Is that why you were crying out?’ he pressed gently. ‘Were you remembering what had happened to you?’

‘Rico, please.’

He could feel the anger pumping through him. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, ached with tension. Who could ever hurt her? It was inconceivable to him that anyone could wish to harm one hair on her head. He wanted to protect her—but how could he when she insisted on pushing him away? ‘Won’t you trust me enough to tell me, Zoë?’

‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

‘Please, don’t shut me out. I want to help you, but I have to know the truth—’

‘The truth?’ Zoë made a short incredulous sound. She hated herself as it was for her weakness. How could she know she would cry out when she was sleeping? ‘Do you always tell the truth, Rico? Do you?’

He couldn’t answer her. How could he when he had been staring at a computer screen half the night? They were both victims of the past in their own way. Suspicion was branded on his heart, but Zoë was damaged too, and her wounds had been carved far deeper and more cruelly than his.

Standing up, he moved away from the bed, carrying the image of Zoë in his mind. Her hair was like skeins of silk, gleaming in the moonlight, and her skin was so soft and warm. The room was filled with the scent of the orange blossom she always wore. As he turned, she turned too, and their eyes locked. He longed to tell her everything. He wanted nothing more in all the world than to take her in his arms and keep her safe for ever. But he could not. Instead, he would go back to his own room and maintain his vigil until the information he had asked for came through.

‘Goodnight, Zoë.’ He walked onto the veranda, closing the doors softly behind him.

Throwing his head back, with his eyes tightly shut, he let out a heavy sigh. For the first time in his life the price he had to pay for being Rico Cortes was far too high.

CLUTCHING the receiver between neck and shoulder while she scooped up her discarded nightwear from the floor, Zoë listened patiently. There was an opportunity to do a live interview with a national television show—a roving reporter had just arrived with a camera crew. Could she make it in time?