8 Magnificent Millionaires

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.

‘Great job, Zoë!’

Zoë looked at Philip blankly as he clapped her on the back.

‘Our ratings will soar if you keep this up.’

‘That’s fantastic.’ She was already running towards the castle. She had no idea if Rico would still be there. Inside the castle—his castle!

Pausing for a moment in the middle of the courtyard, she looked around. Rico’s castle. His village, his horses, his spa, his kitchen, his bed, his office. Shading her eyes, she stared up at the balcony they had shared, and in that moment she hated him.

Zoë walked straight into the study bedroom where Rico had been sleeping. At least now he was gone she could use the computer to let her far-flung family members know the interview would be repeated on breakfast television throughout the morning.

‘Rico!’ Zoë’s heart lurched as she saw him, and her eyes filled with tears as he moved away from the computer screen. ‘I thought you would have gone by now.’

‘I came back.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Don’t you knock before you enter a room?’

The situation had an element of farce. He was looking at her with a face full of mistrust and anger when she was the one who had been wronged. Rico had been lying to her all along—misleading her, pretending to be a local man when he was… She didn’t even know who he was.

‘I still hold the lease on the castle. Technically this is my room, Rico.’

Tension stretched between them. Whatever he had on the screen, he didn’t want her to see it, Zoë realised. ‘I’d like to use the computer now, if you don’t mind.’

‘There’s some data on here I can’t afford to lose.’

‘So save it. My mails are urgent too.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Plenty. But right now I want to contact my family, because I’ve just done an interview for TV—’ She stopped as he made a contemptuous sound. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘An interview?’ The look he threw her was full of disdain.

‘Yes, an interview, Rico—for my new cookery series. Now, if you don’t mind—’

‘Nothing else?’

Zoë looked at him. ‘What are you getting at? Are you worried I might have talked about you, Rico? Let the world know I bagged myself a really rich man—a billionaire? A real live Spanish grandee and good friend of the King?’

When he said nothing, it was Zoë’s turn to make a low, angry sound. ‘Have you finished with the computer yet?’ she demanded, planting her hands on her hips.

‘Help yourself,’ he said, moving away from the screen.

She didn’t need to read the tall, bold letters on the monitor. They had been branded on her mind two years ago. They were lies. Everyone who knew her, who cared about her, knew that. Facing up to them was the only way she knew to snuff out their power.

Star Sells Sex.

Turning to look at Rico, Zoë could read his mind. He had believed the truth about her, and now he believed the lies. And his pride wouldn’t allow him to accept that he had been so wrong about her. He believed she had sold herself for money. The thought turned Zoë cold, drained her of feeling. As Rico thought so little of her, perhaps he had her pegged as a gold-digger, after his money, all the time. Perhaps he had even set up the interview to shame her in public… He couldn’t believe he had been so mistaken about someone. Neither could she, Zoë realised sadly.

‘Are you expecting a reaction from me, Rico? Heated denials—hysterics, possibly?’ She could see he was surprised she was so calm. ‘This all happened a long, time ago.’

‘Two years ago, to be precise.’

‘Well, it feels like a lifetime to me.’

Time flew, Zoë reflected. Two years since her ex-husband had tried to destroy her career. She had been so set on rebuilding her life she had hardly noticed how quickly the time had passed. She could still remember the burn of shame when she’d first read the headline. How could she have known then that the old adage would prove true? There was no such thing as bad publicity; this morning’s interview had only proved it yet again.

It was two years since her notoriety in the ‘Star Sells Sex’ scandal had put her name on everyone’s lips. Almost immediately her cookery programme had begun to break every ratings record. Her next step had been to form her own company, and that had led to even greater success.

These days the headline was hardly ever mentioned, and on the few occasions when it was people laughed with her, as if it had all been nothing more than a rather clever publicity stunt. She knew the truth behind the headline, and it couldn’t hurt her now. Only Rico could do that, if he believed the lies.

‘So you’ve nothing to say in your defence?’ he said. ‘No explanation to offer me at all?’

‘Am I supposed to ask for your forgiveness?’

‘The whole scandal blew over quite quickly.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s why I couldn’t place you at first.’

‘True.’ Zoë smiled sadly at him. ‘Did you hope I was hiding something, Rico—so that you and I could be quits?’

A muscle worked in his jaw; other than that there was nothing, until he said, ‘Do you blame me for being defensive?’

A short sound of incredulity leapt from Zoë’s throat.

‘If I had told you who I was from the first moment we met—’

‘I wouldn’t have thought any more or any less of you.’

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then, leaning in front of Zoë, Rico clicked the mouse and cleared the screen.

Straightening up, he gazed at her. ‘My full name is Alarico Cortes de Aragon. I have many business interests, but flamenco is my passion, and Castillo Cazulas, as I’m sure you have already worked out, belongs to me.’

‘When were you going to tell me, Rico? After we’d slept together?’

‘Don’t speak like that, Zoë. You must understand I have to protect my position.’

‘Your position? And I have nothing worth protecting—is that it? I was nothing more than an entertaining diversion while you toured your estates in Cazulas?’

‘Zoë.’ Rico reached out to her, and then drew back. ‘Try to understand what it’s like for me. I have to know who I’m dealing with.’

‘What are you trying to say, Rico?’ Zoë said softly. ‘A man as important, as rich and influential as you, has to be cautious about the type of woman he takes to bed?’

‘It’s a lot more than that, Zoë, and you know it.’

‘Do I?’ She smiled faintly. ‘I’m afraid I must have missed something.’

‘Can you imagine my shock when I read this headline?’

‘It must have been terrible for you.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic.’

‘How do you expect me to be? You tell me you have to protect yourself from me as if I’m some piece of dirt that might tarnish your lustre.’

‘Don’t say that. I asked for this information before I knew you, Zoë.’

‘And now you do know me,’ Zoë said bitterly, glancing at the screen. ‘You must be glad that you took that precaution.’

‘You don’t know me very well.’

‘I don’t know you at all.’

The coldness in her voice, the bitterness in her eyes cut right through him. He wasn’t sure about anything any more, Rico realised. He had spent most of his adult life protecting himself from the gutter press. It was ironic to think that it was their common bond. He focused on her face as she spoke again, and was shocked to see the pain in her eyes when she gazed unwaveringly at him.

‘I don’t have anything concrete like a headline to shake the foundations of my belief in you,’ she said. ‘All I have are candles, a romantic night in a beautiful luxury spa, and the horrible suspicion that maybe you arranged all that because you wondered if you had what it took to seduce a frigid woman.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘You seem shocked, Rico. Why is that? Because I’m getting too close to the truth?’

‘No!’ The word shot out of him on a gust of loathing that she could even think such a thing. ‘It isn’t true. I don’t know what’s happened to you in the past, but you’re not frigid. And I don’t need the sort of reassurance you seem to think I do!’

‘You lied to me.’ Her voice was low, and cruelly bitter. ‘You made assumptions about me, Rico. You invaded my privacy—that same privacy that’s so precious to you, El Señor Alarico Cortes de Aragon! You had me investigated.’ She ground out each word with incredulity, and then gazed up at the sky to give a short, half-sobbing laugh. ‘And while that was going on you tried to get me into bed. And then—’ She held up her hand, silencing his attempt to protest. ‘Then you sold me out to the tabloids for some type of sick revenge.’

‘Zoë, please—’

‘I haven’t finished yet!’ She shouted the words at him in a hoarse, agonised voice, leaning forward stiffly to confront him, her face white with fury. ‘To cap it all, you turn all self-righteous on me—pretending it matters to you that someone else hurt me, used me as a punch-bag—as if you care any more than he did!’

‘You’ve gone too far!’ He couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘How dare you compare me with that—that—’

‘What’s the matter, Rico? You think of him and you see yourself? Even you can’t bring yourself to admit what you are.’

‘And just what am I?’

‘A deceitful, lying user!’

‘User?’ He threw his hands up. ‘Who’s using who here, Zoë?’

‘That’s right—stay up in your ivory tower, where you’re safe from all the gold-diggers, why don’t you, Rico? Only I don’t want your money—I never did. I can manage quite well on my own!’

‘And that’s what you want, is it, Zoë—to be on your own?’

‘What do you think?’ she said bitterly.

‘Then I’d better leave.’

‘That would be good.’

‘You signed the lease on the castle. You can stay until it runs out. Do whatever the hell you want to do! I’ll see myself out.’

CHAPTER TEN

HE’D been thrown out of his own castle. That was a first. Rico looked neither left nor right as he strode purposefully across the courtyard towards his Jeep. Throwing himself into the driver’s seat, he slammed the door, breathing like a bull. The knuckles on his hands turned white on the steering-wheel.

They wanted each other like a bushfire wanted fuel to sustain it. They were burning so hot they were burning out—burning each other out in the process. He had seen her muscles bunched up tight across her shoulders. And she wanted to believe him—that was the tragedy of the situation. They wanted each other, they wanted to believe in each other, to be with each other and only each other—but they were tearing each other apart. They needed each other—but she didn’t need him enough to tell him the truth. She didn’t trust him. Maybe she would never trust him. Could he live with that?

The answer was no, Rico realised as he gunned the engine into life. Some of it he’d worked out for himself—the rest he could find out. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted her to tell him. She had to tell him if there was anything left between them at all. If she was the victim, not the architect, of that newspaper headline, why the hell didn’t she just come out and say so? Maybe there was a grain of truth in it—maybe that was why she couldn’t bring herself to explain.

Her accusers were guilty of making a profit out of the scandal—but newspapers were in business to make money, not friends. He had been shocked when he’d read the torrid revelations, but he had to admire her. She was a fighter, like him. But was she fighting to clear her name or to put up a smokescreen? Would he ever know?

Trouble was, he cared—he really cared—and it made him mad to think that all the money in the world couldn’t buy him the whole truth. Only Zoë could give him that.

Rico’s eyes narrowed and his mouth firmed into a flat, hard line. Thrusting the Jeep into gear, he powered away. She was entitled to stay on at the castle—he had no quarrel with that. He had always rattled round the place. Though it was certainly a lot more lively these days, he reflected cynically, flooring the accelerator pedal.

He eased the neck of his collar with one thumb. He was restless, frustrated—even a little guilty that he hadn’t stayed to fight it out with her. He shouldn’t have left with so much bitterness flying between them. He should have finished it or sorted it. But how could he when she had made such vicious accusations? The very idea of losing control to the extent that he’d hurt anyone, let alone a woman, revolted him. And then to accuse him of setting up that interview. He made a sound of disbelief. Didn’t she know how deep his resentment of trash journalism went?

Rico frowned, gripping the wheel, forcing himself to breathe steadily and wait until he had calmed down. Gradually the truth behind the furious row came to him, as if a mist was slowly lifting before his eyes. He could see that the level of Zoë’s passion was connected to the level of pain she had inside her. The legacy of her past had just played out between them. Instead of being hurt and offended by her accusations, he should be relieved that she had finally been able to vent her feelings, and that she had chosen to do it in front of him.

She was right. They both needed space, time to think. When he was with her his mind was clouded with all sorts of things that left no room for reason. He had never felt such a longing for anything or anyone in his life. Just the thought that someone—some man—some brute—had hurt her made him physically sick. So why wouldn’t she let him in? Couldn’t she see that he would take on the world to make things right for her again? Why wouldn’t she trust him?

Swinging onto the main road, Rico channelled his frustration into thoughts of exposing all the bullies in the world to public ridicule. It would be too easy to use strength against them; strength of mind was more his speciality, and a far better tool to drag Zoë back from the edge of the precipice that led straight back to her past.

As he settled into his driving he suffered another surge of impatience. It was so hard to be patient where Zoë was concerned. He had to remind himself that she was worth all the time in the world, and that he hadn’t made his fortune by acting on impulse. And, yes, she was right. He had expected an emotional response from her when she saw the screen full of huge letters, each one of them condemning her. He respected that. The headline was more than two years old, but he couldn’t believe she had ever reacted to it in any other way. It took real courage to handle it so well.

But he had seen her lose control later. Was it his betrayal that had forced her over the edge even when she could keep her cool under fire from the tabloid press? If so, did that mean there was something really worth fighting for growing between them?

Quite suddenly the newspaper article seemed ridiculous. Zoë had forged a successful career for herself; she had no need to sell anything other than her talent. But where sex was concerned she was seriously repressed. He had firsthand experience to back that up…

Remembering, Rico grimaced. He felt like hell. What had he done? What had he done to Zoë? He should have been there for her. He should have made allowances. He should have proved to her, as well as to himself, that he understood how complex she was. She wasn’t like other women, she had been right about that—but not in the way she thought. Her past had left her damaged, and instead of trying to help he had trampled her trust into the ground. There wasn’t a brazen bone in her body, and if he had to delve deeper into her past to find out the truth and make things right for her, then he would.

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.

‘It’s all very beautiful,’ Zoë said, when they were inside.

He watched her trail her fingers lightly over the creamy soft furnishings as they walked through the main reception room. Everything looked better to him too now she was here. He could see how well the cream walls looked, with smoky blue highlights provided by cushions and rugs, and the occasional touch of tobacco-brown. The walls had been left plain to show off his modern art collection.