Cathy Williams - 8 Magnificent Millionaires

She looked like hell after her disturbed night. She felt like it too, especially remembering what had happened with Rico. But this was work, and there was nothing on her face that make-up couldn’t fix. Her heart was another matter, but that would have to wait.

She was curious, and she was tempted too. The publicity would be great for the series—and she was interested to find out why someone from such a well-known show had come all the way to Cazulas to speak to her. Of course the last series had been a big success, and it had generated a lot of media interest. That had to be it.

‘Of course I’ll do it,’ she said, decision made. ‘Half an hour suit you? OK, fifteen minutes,’ she conceded. ‘But get Marnie and the girls up here right away with the war paint.’

Philip had told her there would be a chance for a run-through first, so there would be no surprises and nothing for her to worry about. It was just what she needed to take her mind off Rico… He must have gone by now. There wasn’t much to keep him at the castle. But she still had her career. The thrill of the places it took her to, and the amazement that she had made something of herself after all, in spite of her ex’s assurances that she never would, had not diminished. She hoped they never would.

She had to stand under a cold shower to try and put Rico out of her mind. Finally, reasonably focused on work and totally frozen, she rubbed herself down vigorously with a towel.

There was a bad feeling niggling away inside her, Zoë realised as she dressed. It made no sense. She had done this sort of thing lots of times before, and knew that nothing was left to chance. It might all appear impromptu at home, but the groundwork had already been covered so that none of the questions came out of the blue. And yet…

‘To hell with it,’ she murmured, spritzing on some perfume. She was a seasoned campaigner and there was nothing to worry about.

Seasoned campaigner or not, she hadn’t factored quite such a bubbly young presenter into the equation. The latest in a long line of glamorous young women with an incisive mind, she was the type of person that Zoë found wearing, but fun in short bursts. They talked through the questions, and decided on the best strategy to adopt to promote the show. Zoë was confident she could keep things moving forward smoothly. They were going to film outside, with a backdrop of mountains behind them, and went on air almost immediately.

‘So, Zoë, how does it feel to be here in such a fabulous location, as opposed to being stuck in an overheated studio?’ The girl fanned herself extravagantly and smiled, as if this made them comrades in adversity.

Her openness made Zoë laugh. ‘It feels great, Lisa—but it’s hot outside here, as well as under the lights. Don’t forget this is Spain—’

‘You’ve got quite a glow going on there, Zoë.’ The girl cut across her, facing the camera to address the viewers. ‘Could this be something more than a suntan? I hear the Spanish men around here are quite something. Or man, rather,’ she added as Zoë stared at her. ‘Come on, you can tell us—we won’t tell a soul, will we?’ she exclaimed, turning again to include several million viewers.

‘Let’s talk about the programme first.’ And last, Zoë thought, keeping a smile on her face while her mind raced. They hadn’t planned to touch on anything other than her new television series. In fact she had made a point of insisting there would be no delving into her personal life. The past was just that—behind her. That was what she and the young reporter had agreed on.

‘You’re right, Zoë. Let’s talk about your programme. That’s what we’re here for.’

Zoë stalled. The look on the girl’s face was open, inviting… Inviting what? There was just enough guile in her eyes to churn Zoë’s stomach. ‘I think this series is going to be my best yet—’

‘You only think? Don’t tell me Zoë Chapman’s become a shrinking violet?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re not going to turn coy on us now, Zoë, are you? Disappoint the viewers?’ The girl turned to camera and made a moue, but there was a shrewd gleam in her eyes when she looked back. ‘After spending the night as the prize of a wealthy man?’

She had just managed to leave out the word again, Zoë thought, feeling the blood drain from her face.

‘That’s right, isn’t it, Zoë?’ The girl’s lips pressed down as she shrugged and managed to look ingenuous for the camera. ‘I’ve seen the footage.’ Her eyes opened really wide and she stared around, as if seeking confirmation that her reportage was absolutely accurate from some unseen source.

Zoë’s gaze iced over as she waited for the bombshell to fall. After all, the camera never lied…

‘Half-naked men wrestling beneath the stars in this sultry Mediterranean climate—and the champion, El Paladín, also known as Alarico Cortes, claiming you as his prize for the night.’ She stretched, showing off her taut young belly as if she had all the time in the world to deliver her coup de grâce. ‘Mmm, sounds pretty hot to me. He’s pretty hot!’

‘That was just an item.’ Zoë tried to laugh it off and put on a good-humoured smile for the camera. Inwardly she was seething. The girl’s agenda was obvious. This wasn’t about her series. There was still mileage in the old scandal.

‘Just an item!’ The girl cut her off with a short, incredulous laugh. ‘OK, Zoë, let’s cut to the chase. You bagged Alarico Cortes for one glorious night. I’m only quoting the age-old tradition here in Cazulas, Zo—no need to look at me like that. Alarico Cortes, if you don’t know of him at home, is only the most eligible bachelor in Spain—a billionaire, and a good friend of the Spanish royal family. So, what was it like? How does it feel, mingling with the aristocracy? And were you really just a prize for the night? Or is this love?’

Alarico Cortes? Aristocracy? Billionaire? Zoë was stunned. If what the young reporter said was true… The last way she would have wanted to hear it was like this.

‘I was lucky enough to be invited to take part in a traditional celebration that has been upheld here in Cazulas for centuries. It was great fun—nothing more than that. I’m really sorry to disappoint you.’ She finished with a good-natured shrug towards the camera. Game, set, and match, she thought, seeing the girl’s face turn sulky.

‘Well, you heard it here first, folks.’ The reporter quickly recovered. ‘The most beautiful celebrity chef on the circuit has something really special in the pipeline for all of us. Don’t miss Zoë’s new series, or you’ll miss those yummy men—and we’re talking drop-dead gorgeous in the case of Alarico Cortes, girls. Thank you, Zoë, for sparing us these few precious minutes away from your show.’

‘My pleasure,’ Zoë said, with a last cheery smile to the viewers. ‘Thank you all for your time.’

She even thanked the girl again when the cameras had stopped rolling. They both knew who had come out on top, and Zoë was determined to remain professional to the last. But she couldn’t quite believe she had allowed herself to be set up. It had been two years since the scandal broke. Two years to learn caution. She’d thought she was too wary to be trapped like this—but apparently not.

And Rico Cortes, all round good-guy and local one-man protection agency, had been lying to her all along: his friend’s castle, his friend’s horses, the down-homey camaraderie of the flamenco camp—and he was a Spanish grandee. Why wasn’t she surprised? It all made sense now. He had been lying to her ever since that first meeting, pulling the wool over her eyes, confusing her with his sweet talk and worthy notions. And wasn’t she a chump to have thought him any better than her ex? Rico Cortes was one smart operator.