Cathy Williams - 8 Magnificent Millionaires

‘It’s worth far more than that,’ Maria assured her as she pressed it into Zoë’s hands. ‘And I want you to have it.’

‘It’s so beautiful,’ Zoë said, resting her face against it.

‘Yes, it is—and if you ever need a boost, Zoë, you just look at it and think of us.’

‘I’ll only need to think of you, Maria,’ Zoë said, smiling as she hugged Rico’s mother.

It was fortunate Zoë couldn’t see his mother’s imperative drawing together of her upswept black brows, or the fierce command in her eyes, Rico realised as he took the cue to go, and take Zoë with him. ‘We’d better leave you now so that you can get ready for your class, Mother.’

‘Yes,’ Maria said firmly, clearly relieved that her silent message had been understood. ‘But before you go, Rico, you can do one more thing for me.’

‘What’s that?’ he said, pausing with his hand on the door.

‘Take this with you,’ she said, handing him a camera. ‘I want a photograph of Zoë in that dress—to hang in the mountain lodge at the flamenco camp,’ she explained to Zoë. ‘Then I will be able to see the dress and you, Zoë, any time I want.’

Alongside Beba? Immediately Zoë regretted the thought. Maria just wasn’t like that. ‘I’m sure you don’t want reminding of my pathetic efforts—’

‘I most certainly do. You were very good—full of genuine passion,’ Maria said firmly. ‘Now, take this girl to lunch, Rico. She looks half starved. And don’t forget my photograph.’

‘I won’t,’ he promised, sweeping her into his arms for a parting embrace.

Zoë had her hand stuck up her back when she emerged from Rico’s dressing-room. He was sitting on the shady veranda at his beach house, where they had been having lunch. He stood as she approached.

‘I can’t seem to get the dress right—can you help me?’ Maria had been on hand the last time to finish off the fastenings for her.

The setting was superb. There was an archway coated in cerise bougainvillea where she would stand for Maria’s photograph, with the sea behind her and some flamenco music playing softly to put her in the mood.

Giving up on the dress, Zoë straightened up. ‘Help?’ she prompted softly.

‘Yes, of course.’

Lunch had been a neutral, emotion-free affair, with delicious food served at a leisurely pace, prepared for them by one of Rico’s excellent chefs. Zoë knew they were starting again. They were taking it slowly—each of them feeling their way, each of them strangers to love, each of them determined to put at least a toe in the water.

Rico couldn’t have planned anything better than this, Zoë thought as she waited for him to finish fastening her dress. It was a treat just to eat food someone else had prepared. Before she met Rico, she had always taken charge of things in the kitchen. He was right: it was good to kick back and relax from time to time.

‘Te gusta el flamenco, señorita?’

‘‘Sí, señor, I like flamenco very much,’ Zoë whispered, trying not to respond to the closeness of his body or the tone of his voice as he reached around her waist to secure the fastenings. Then he murmured, ‘Turn around,’ and it was impossible, because the warmth of his breath was making every tiny hair on the back of her neck stand erect.

‘There—that’s done,’ he said.

She must have turned too quickly. One silk shoulder strap slipped from her shoulder, and as she went to pull it up again their fingers tangled.

‘I’m sorry.’ Zoë quickly removed her hand.

‘Sorry? What are you sorry for, Zoë?’

His voice was neutral, but his eyes… They were very, very close. His hands were still resting lightly on her waist. ‘I didn’t give you the chance to explain anything. I just poured out all my own troubles.’

‘Stop.’ Rico’s voice was low, but firm. ‘You make it sound as if what happened to you was normal. It wasn’t normal, Zoë—and you must never think of it that way or you will come to accept it as normal. You were brutalised—your mind, your body—’

‘But I’m all right now.’

‘And I’m going to make sure you stay that way.’

‘You—’

Rico didn’t plan on long explanations. He kissed her so tenderly he made her cry, and he had to catch the tears on her cheeks with his fingertips.

‘I feel such a fool.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he assured her. ‘You feel wonderful to me.’ And, sweeping her into his arms, he walked back into the house.

‘What a shame we must take this dress off again,’ he said when they reached his bedroom, ‘when you have only just put it on.’

He was already halfway down the fastenings as she lay in his arms on the bed. ‘Maria’s photograph—’ Zoë tensed as the last one came free.

‘Later.’ Rico kissed her shoulder, moving on to nudge her hair aside and kiss her neck.

‘But it will be dark later.’

‘You will look beautiful by moonlight.’

And then the silk dress was hanging off, and, feeling self-conscious, she wriggled out of it.

Picking it up, Rico tossed it onto a chair by the side of the bed. She wore little underneath it—just a flimsy scrap of a lace thong, not even a bra. There was support built in to the bodice of the dress.

Rico planted kisses as he freed the buttons on his shirt. That followed the dress, and when he kissed her again, and she felt his warm, hard body against her own, Zoë whimpered; she couldn’t help herself.

He rested her back against silk and satin, and the linen sheets beneath the covers were scented with lavender. Everything was contrived to please the senses—and it was so easy to slide a little deeper into pleasure beneath his touch.

As Rico looked at the small, pale hands clutching his shoulders, and heard Zoë call his name, he knew she was everything he wanted. Her breasts were so lush, so provocative, the taut nipples reaching out to him, pink and damp where he had tormented her. Her legs moved rhythmically over the bed as she groaned out her need, and now there was just the scrap of lace dissecting the golden tan of her thighs between them.

His gaze swooped up again, lingering on the dark shadow of her cleavage, so deep and lovely. He longed to lose himself in it, to bury his tongue and more besides in its warm, clinging silkiness. But it wasn’t just her beauty that bewitched him. He needed her. He had never needed anyone in his life before—he’d made sure of it. But Zoë was different—he was different when he was with her, and perhaps that was the most important thing of all.

He watched as she freed the tiny thong and inched it down over her thighs. Had he ever been so aroused? Clamouring sensations gnawed at his control, but he held back. Her trust was too hard won to risk now. How could anyone have abused her? Her skin was as soft and as fragile as the silk upon which she lay. Her eyes were darkening with growing confidence and her lips were parted in invitation. As their eyes locked and she reaffirmed her faith in him, he knew he would defend her with his life.

‘Rico…’

As she breathed his name he remembered wryly that foreplay was intended to be an aphrodisiac, not a torture.

He went to pull off the rest of his clothes, but she stopped him. He drew in a deep shuddering breath. He would stop even now if she asked him to.

Scrambling into a sitting position, she touched the belt buckle on his trousers. ‘You’ll have to help me—my hands are shaking.’

Taking both her hands in his, he kissed each one of her fingertips in turn and then, turning her hands over, planted a tender kiss on each palm.

When Rico finally stood naked before her, Zoë’s breath caught in her throat. He was totally unabashed, his dark gaze steady on her face. A lasso of moonlight fell across him, showing the power in his forearms and the wide spread of shoulders. She saw now that his broad chest was shaded with dark hair that tapered down to a hard belly, below which…