Cathy Williams - 8 Magnificent Millionaires

‘No.’ Zoë forced a bright note into her voice. ‘Nothing.’ Nothing apart from the fact that Rico knew the whole sordid truth about her now and she would probably never see him again. He’d been sympathetic enough, but, remembering how he had deceived her about his identity, she couldn’t help wondering if his sympathy had just been an act too.

She refocused as Maria started to speak again.

‘Are you sure that son of mine hasn’t said something to upset you?’

‘Your son?’

‘Rico?’ Maria prompted.

‘Rico!’

Zoë turned away. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Why hadn’t she seen it before? Rico’s defensive attitude towards Maria when she had first wanted to approach her… She had thought it pride on his part that she, a stranger, had dared to expect such an artist to put her talent on show for commercial gain. And the attention he paid Maria, his obvious pride in his mother’s cultural heritage. All this should have told her. But how could it be? He was not Rico Cortes, local flamenco enthusiast, but El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon, a grandee of Spain.

‘I don’t understand.’ She turned back to Maria.

‘It is very simple—’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Zoë said quickly. ‘It’s none of my business.’

‘I’m not ashamed of what I did. Rico’s father was the local landowner. His wife was dead, and we loved each other. We never married, but I gave him a son.’ She smiled.

‘But how did Rico inherit the title and the castle?’

‘There were no other heirs. His father insisted the title must be passed to Rico. They were very close. It was just the title— his money went to the village.’

‘But what about you?’

‘I was proud—maybe too proud.’

‘But Rico was a success?’

‘A huge success,’ Maria agreed with a wry laugh. ‘Rico has always supported me, and eventually he made enough money to buy back the castle. As his father suspected, Rico didn’t need his money—he was quite capable of making his own fortune.’

‘You must be very proud of him.’

‘I am,’ Maria assured her. ‘And now Rico cares for the village just as his father used to do.’

Maria’s glance darted to the door. She was growing anxious, Zoë realised. ‘I’ll go and find the doctor, and see if I can hurry him up.’ Another thought struck her. ‘Did you try Rico on his mobile?’

‘Yes,’ Maria said, her dark eyes brightening as she looked towards the door.

HAD Maria planned this? Zoë wondered. She couldn’t see how that was possible—unless Rico had said something to his mother, and then Maria had put in a call to both of them, using her misfortune as a mechanism to bring them together.

Her heart was hammering louder than Maria’s shoes had ever thundered on a floor as Rico moved past her to draw his mother into his arms. Pulling back, he spoke to her quickly in Spanish. Having received the answer he hoped for, he smiled and kissed her cheek before turning to Zoë.

‘Thank you for coming, Zoë.’

How could I not? Zoë wondered. ‘I was only too pleased I could help. But now you’re here I’ll leave you with your mother—’

‘No.’ Rico touched her arm. ‘It’s late, Zoë. You should not be driving home alone.’

‘I’ll go and find the doctor before I leave, and send him in to you.’

‘No.’ This time he closed the door. ‘I’m taking you back with us, and that’s final. You’ve had a shock too, and the roads can be dangerous at night.’

No more dangerous than they had ever been, Zoë thought. But Rico’s expression was set, and she didn’t want to make a fuss in front of Maria.

They settled Maria into her cosy home in the centre of the village, and then got back in the Jeep.

‘It really was good of you to go to the hospital for Maria,’ Rico said as they moved off again.

‘I’d do anything for her,’ Zoë said honestly, resting back against the seat.

‘I can see you’re tired. I’ll take you straight back.’

‘Thank you.’

So much for Maria’s machinations. If it had been a plan at all, nothing was going to come of it. And of course she was relieved…

Clambering into bed and switching off the light, Zoë sank into the pillows, shot through with exhaustion. It had been quite a day. Her body was wiped out, but her mind refused to shut down. Turning on the light again, she thought about Rico, and about Rico and Maria being mother and son. And then she ran through everything Maria had told her about Rico.

Swinging her legs out of bed, she poured herself a glass of water. Rico had set out on a mission to reclaim his inheritance, to preserve everything he believed in, just as she had. They had both succeeded. They were both proud and defensive—you had to be when you’d fought so hard for something. She always felt as if everything she had achieved might slip through her fingers if she didn’t hold on tight enough.

Zoë’s glance grazed the telephone sitting next to her on the bedside table. She had to decide whether to call him or not. Of course she didn’t have to do anything—she could just let him slip away into the past…

Zoë was surprised when the operator found the number so easily. She had imagined Rico would have a number that would be withheld from the public. Instead a cultured voice answered her in Spanish right away. It wasn’t Rico’s voice, it was some other man—his butler, perhaps. She gave her name, and he asked her to wait and he would see whether it was convenient for Señor Alarico to take her call.

It felt like for ever before Rico came on the line, and then he sounded as if he had been exercising. It was a big house, Zoë reminded herself, with acres of floor space. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you.’

‘It is no trouble. What can I do for you?’

‘Did I disturb you? Were you sleeping?’

‘Sleeping? No. I was in the pool—they had to come and get me.’

‘I see. I’m sorry,’ she said again.

‘Don’t be.’

The line went quiet as if he was waiting for her to speak. She couldn’t change her mind now. ‘We didn’t finish our conversation earlier.’

Now it was Zoë’s turn to wait, not daring to breathe in case she missed his reply.

‘I’ll come over tomorrow.’

It was less than she had hoped for, but more in some ways. They were speaking at least.

‘Or would you prefer to come here?’

Space from the film crew would be good. They were so defensive on her behalf. She loved them for it, but it made any private discussion with Rico impossible. ‘I’m going to see Maria—your mother—in the morning.’ She was thinking aloud, planning her day.

‘Then I’ll pick you up around nine. We’ll go and see her together. You can come back here for lunch afterwards…if you like?’

‘I would like that.’ She smiled. ‘Nine o’clock, then.’

‘See you tomorrow, Zoë.’

The line was cut before she could reply.

Maria couldn’t have made it more obvious that she was pleased to see them. She was already up and about, and insisted on making coffee.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ she told Rico, brushing off his offer to help. ‘And before you say a word, I am returning to teaching today.’

‘I forbid it—’

‘Oh, you do? Do I dance on my hands, Rico? I still have one good hand with which to direct proceedings. And,’ she said, refusing to listen to his argument, ‘I am to be collected in half an hour. Before I leave, I have something for you, Zoë—to make sure you never stop dancing.’

‘I can’t possibly take that!’ Zoë looked at the lilac dress Maria was holding up. The one she had worn for her first flamenco lesson. ‘It must be worth a fortune.’