Cathy Williams - 8 Magnificent Millionaires

Why was it so important to her that Rico Cortes knew the truth? Zoë wondered as she closed the door on the study bedroom after sending her e-mails. She had been so sure she wouldn’t care, so certain she would brazen it out if he looked at her with scorn and contempt. He had done neither, but still the matter wasn’t resolved in her head. She had to see him at least once more to sort it out. She had thought she could treat him like anyone else—if he believed the lies, so be it; if he didn’t, so much the better. But now she knew she wouldn’t rest until he knew the truth.

Her ex had planted the headline—though Rico couldn’t know that. He had taken his revenge when she’d left him after years of abuse. She had refused to accept the public humiliation two years ago, and she wasn’t about to let it get to her now.

What hurt her far more was the fact that Rico Cortes was a man she might have loved, and that he had deceived her into believing he was nothing more than a local flamenco enthusiast. She could accept his need for caution; Rico was a very rich man indeed—and an aristocrat, according to the search engine on the computer. But he was a self-made man for all that; he had started with nothing but a title.

As she pushed open the kitchen door and walked inside Zoë made a sharp, wounded sound. She was just Zoë Chapman, marital survivor and cook—hardly an appropriate match for a billionaire aristocrat.

She had allowed herself to develop feelings for a man she could never have. Right now she wished she’d never come to Spain, had never met El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon, because then he couldn’t have broken her heart.

Arriving back at his beach house, Rico tossed the keys of the Jeep onto the hall table and smiled a greeting at his butler.

‘A package arrived for you, sir, while you were out.’

‘Thank you, Rodrigo.’ Rico scanned the details on the well-stuffed padded bag as he carried it through to his study.

Before opening it he pulled back the window shutters so that brilliant sunlight spilled into the room. His whole vision was filled with the shimmering Mediterranean, and he drew the tang of ozone deep into his lungs. Simple things gave him the greatest pleasure. These were the real rewards of extreme wealth: the rush of waves upon the sand, the seabirds soaring in front of his windows, and the matchless tranquillity.

Opening the package, he tipped the contents onto his desk. There was a log of Zoë’s everyday life back in England, along with diaries, tapes, transcripts of interviews, photographs, press-cuttings… Rico’s hand hovered over the disarray, and then he pushed it all away.

He didn’t want to read what someone else had to say about Zoë. He didn’t care to acknowledge the fact that his pride and his suspicion had demanded such an invasion of her privacy. He felt dirty, and disgusted with himself, as if the contents of the package somehow contaminated him.

If he cared to look, he knew that whatever he found in the newspaper cuttings would be a sensationalised account. Even the most respected broadsheet had to succumb to such tactics in a marketplace where fresh news was available at the click of a mouse.

Coffee was served to him, and taken away again without being touched. The crisp green leaves of a delicious-looking salad had wilted by the time he absent-mindedly forked some up.

Pushing the plate away to join the rest of the detritus on his desk, he stood up and stretched. Walking over to the window, he was not surprised to see how low the sun had dipped in the sky. The colours outside the window were spectacular, far richer than before, as if the day wanted to leave behind a strong impression before it gave way to the night.

He would not let Zoë go. He could not. If she told him to go again, then he would still let her stay on at the castle as long as it suited her. It was a hollow, unlovely place without her.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he didn’t wait for the Jeep to be brought round to the front. Sprinting down the steps, he jogged down the drive towards the garage block and, climbing in, switched on and powered away.

He found her in the kitchen, eating with the crew. They were relaxing in the way only good friends could relax—some with their feet up on the opposite chair, men with their shirts undone, sleeves rolled back, and girls with hardly any makeup, and real tangles rather than carefully tousled hair. The table was littered with the debris of a put-together meal, and when he walked in a silence fell that was so complete it left the walls ringing. There was the sound of chairs scraping the floor as everyone stiffened and straightened up. He could sense them closing in around Zoë like a protective net.

Her lips parted with surprise as she stared at him. She was wearing nightclothes—faded pyjamas—with her hair left in damp disarray around her shoulders. She looked to him as if the day had been too much for her and she couldn’t wait to get it over with and go to sleep. Someone at the table must have talked her into joining them for a light meal.

It was the enemy camp, all right. Every gaze except for Zoë’s was trained on his face. These were the people who had stood by her, who had stayed with her when she’d made the break from the television company run by her ex-husband. That much he’d learned from the Internet. These were the people who had put their livelihoods on the line for Zoë Chapman.

He waited by the door, and she half stood. But the girl sitting next to her put a hand on Zoë’s arm.

‘You don’t have to go, Zo.’

‘No, no… I’ll be all right.’ She pushed her chair back from the table and looked at him. ‘I have to get this sorted out.’

He went outside, and she followed him. ‘Will you come with me?’ He glanced towards the Jeep.

‘I’m not dressed.’

If that was the only reason, he’d solve the problem for her. Striding quickly back into the castle, he plucked a shawl down from a peg. As he came out again he threw it round her shoulders. ‘You’ll be warm enough now.’

‘It’s not that, Rico. I’m not sure I want to come with you.’

She took a step away from him. Folding the shawl carefully, she hung it over her arm, as if she wanted time to put her thoughts back in order.

‘Please.’ He wasn’t good at this, Rico realised. He could negotiate his way in or out of anything to do with business. But feelings—needs—they were foreign to him, an emotional bank accessed by other people. He was a man of purpose, not dreams—but quite suddenly he realised that purpose and dreams had become hopelessly intertwined. ‘Just give me an hour of your time. Please, Zoë. That’s all I ask.’

‘Will you wait in the Jeep while I get changed?’

He would have waited at the gateway to hell if she had asked him to.

Rico’s knuckles were white with tension by the time Zoë emerged from the castle. She hadn’t kept him waiting long, and now he drank her in like a thirsty man at a watering hole in the desert. She was wearing her uniform of choice: jeans and a plain top. She looked great. She was so fresh, so clean, and so lovely, with her red-gold hair caught up high on the top of her head in a band so that the thick fall brushed her shoulders as she walked towards him.

‘Are you sure we can’t talk here—or in the garden?’

‘I’d like to show you something,’ he said, opening the passenger door for her.

After a moment’s hesitation she climbed in. He felt as if he had just closed the biggest business deal of his life. Only this was better—much, much better.

‘What a fabulous place,’ she said, when they turned in the gates at the beach house. ‘Whose is it?’

Her voice tailed off at the end of the question, and he knew she had already guessed. Sweeping through the towering gates, Rico slowed as they approached the mansion. Even he could see it was stunning now he saw it through Zoë’s eyes.