Читать книгу 8 Magnificent Millionaires - Кэтти Уильямс, Cathy Williams - Страница 25

THIS was the last thing she had expected to be doing, Zoë thought, as she tested the small four-wheel drive she had just hired to its limits. Rico had said he would follow her back to the castle later, to cook the meal and watch her dancing. She could only hope he was joking. The idea of dancing for him already seemed ridiculous.

Glancing in the driver’s mirror, she saw the bundle of clothes Maria had insisted she take with her, assuring her that she would feel more comfortable dancing in them than jeans. More comfortable? Maybe—until Rico saw her wearing the flimsy low-necked blouse and ultra-feminine practice skirt!

She knew she was playing with fire, but where Rico Cortes was concerned it seemed she couldn’t resist courting danger. Fortunately the film crew would be out partying until late, so no one would even know what she planned to do—or what kind of fool she made of herself.

As she pulled into the courtyard she thought about cancelling. But she didn’t know how to get hold of Rico—and why should she pull out? She was more likely to dance than he was to cook. It was an opportunity to redress the balance between them…he would never doubt her will again.

The heavy iron knocker echoed ominously through the long stone passages as Zoë hurried to open the front door. Prompt at ten o’clock, Rico had said, and he was bang on time, she saw, glancing up at the tall grandfather clock on the turn of the stairs.

She was shivering all over with excitement and apprehension, and, reaching the hallway, she made herself slow down. She didn’t want to appear too keen.

But as she walked her hips swayed beneath the ankle-length skirt, and as the swathes of fabric brushed her naked legs she knew the clothes Maria had given her to wear made her move quite differently. Even the simple peasant blouse was enough to make her want to throw her head back and walk tall. No wonder the women of Spain looked so magnificent when they stepped onto a stage when all their clothes were designed to make the most of the female form.

‘Zoë.’

She could feel her face heating up as Rico stared at her. She tried for cool and unconcerned as she stood aside to let him pass. ‘Welcome. How nice to see you.’

Nice! Zoë felt as if a furnace had just roared into flame somewhere inside her. She felt weak, she felt strong, and her legs were trembling uncontrollably beneath her skirt. She registered the flash of a dark, imperious gaze, and then he was gone, walking past her towards the kitchen.

He seemed to know his way—but then he would. Who knew how long he had been hanging around the castle earlier that morning? And so far he seemed to be keeping his side of the bargain: he had a box of provisions, as well as a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

‘That was absolutely delicious,’ she said, some time later.

‘You seem surprised.’

She was, Zoë realised. Not only had Rico kept to his part of their bargain, he was an excellent cook. ‘I am.’

‘Because I can cook?’

Zoë smiled. It was hard to concentrate on anything apart from Rico’s face as he stared at her. It wiped her mind clean, made her long to know him better. Physically, he was everything she knew to avoid. But they were alone together, and she wondered if she had misjudged him. He was still proud, male and alpha, but he had a sense of humour too—something she hadn’t anticipated. ‘I’m not surprised you can cook. I’m just surprised that you can cook so well.’

‘Is there any reason why I should be incapable of feeding myself?’

‘Of course not. It’s just that most men—’

‘Most men?’

She loved the way one of his eyebrows tilted a fraction when he asked a question. She’d been thinking of her ex, sitting at the table waiting for his meal after they had both put in a long day at work. He’d only commented on her food when it hadn’t been to his liking. She had never received a compliment from him for her cooking.

‘Most men wouldn’t know their way around a warm barbecued vegetable salad with anchovies.’

‘Escalivada amb anxoves?’ Rico translated for her. ‘It’s a great dish, isn’t it? My mother is a fabulous cook, and she taught all her children how to prepare food. It is no big deal.’ He got to his feet to collect their plates.

‘Your mother?’ Instantly Zoë was curious. Either Rico ignored her interest, or he didn’t notice. But she noticed the fact that he was clearing up after them. He wouldn’t even allow her to help, just pushed her gently back down in her chair again.

‘Save your strength for the dancing.’

His eyes were glinting with humour again. Not mockery, humour—humour shared between them. Feeling her confidence returning, Zoë smiled back. ‘You know your way round a dishwasher too. I’m impressed.’

‘You must have known some very strange men in your time, Zoë.’

Zoë smiled faintly. You don’t want to know how strange.

Rico insisted on doing everything—even wiping down the surfaces and clearing the condiments from the table. Only when the kitchen had been returned to its former pristine condition did he turn to her.

‘Now it is time for you to dance, Zoë.’

His eyes, she noticed, were already dancing—with laughter and with challenge. But somehow it gave her courage. He gave her courage.

‘I’m ready. After that meal I’ve got a lot to live up to, so I’d better limber up before I begin. I would hate to disappoint you.’

‘I will tune my guitar while you prepare.’

How long would that take? she wondered. Not long enough for her to be ready to dance for him, that was for sure!

As fast as Zoë’s courage had returned, it vanished again. She wanted to impress Rico, and doubted she could. She wanted his gaze to linger on her, to bathe her in his admiration. She wanted him to want her as much as she wanted him.

She wanted to know more about his mother, Zoë corrected herself fiercely.

‘Why don’t we have pudding first, and talk a little longer?’

‘You can’t put it off all night. Are you having second thoughts, Zoë?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Then no more delaying tactics,’ Rico said, reaching for his guitar. ‘Sweet things come later, when we have earned them.’

How good his command of English was! His few words had set her on fire. She hadn’t given a moment’s thought to later, but clearly Rico had.

Subduing a rush of apprehension, Zoë led the way into the Great Hall. Rico sat on the stool she had placed there for him, and began adjusting the strings of his guitar.

‘You have a beautiful guitar.’ Under Rico’s hands it had come to life, producing sounds that were rich and lovely.

‘It’s a flamenco guitar, made of spruce and cypress.’

‘So it really does represent the music of the region?’

‘Absolutely,’ he murmured.

Zoë looked away first.

While Rico strummed some chords, testing them for clarity and tuning, Zoë centred herself, bending and stretching before the dance began.

Rico seemed to sense when she was ready to begin, and turned his head. With a brief nod, she walked to the centre of her improvised performance space in the centre of the vast square hall.

At first she was stiff and self-conscious, but Rico second-guessed her every move. She had never danced with such a sympathetic accompanist before—in fact she’d never danced with a real live accompanist before, and certainly not one who made her thrill even more than the music.

Rico made no allowances for the fact that she was new to flamenco, and in truth she didn’t want him to; after just a short time she didn’t need him to. Their partnership was as tight as Zoë could have wished, and after a few minutes all her tension disappeared.

There were some large ornate mirrors in this part of the hall, which was why she had chosen it. She could see Rico sitting cross-legged on his stool. He appeared lost in the music, but then he looked up and Zoë was lost in his eyes.

Instead of hesitating, Rico picked up the pace, his gaze boring into her as he drew rhythms hotter and more powerful than Zoë had ever thought possible from his guitar. His fingers moved at speed across the fretboard, producing an earthy sound that throbbed insistently through her. She could feel herself growing more abandoned with every step, until she was whirling in time to a rhythm of Rico’s choosing. Then, abruptly, he slowed the tempo so that it rose and fell in waves of sound that dropped at last to a low and insistent rumble.

The sound was so faint Zoë could barely hear it. She might not have known he was still playing had it not been for the fact that she could still feel the music in every fibre of her being.

‘That’s enough for tonight,’ he said suddenly, damping the strings with his hand.

She had been so absorbed in the dance, so lost in the sound he was creating, it took her a moment to come round and realise that Rico had stopped playing. She watched him prop his guitar against the wall, and was still in a sort of trance when he walked across the floor to her.

And then she came to with a bump, realising she was so aroused that her nipples were pressing tautly against the fine lawn top. Instinctively she lifted her hands to cover herself, but she could do nothing about the insistent pulse down low in her belly.

‘I think you enjoyed that, Ms Chapman…and you’re very good.’ He stopped a few feet away, and made no attempt to close the gap.

Zoë licked her lips. Rico knew she was aroused. She could feel his response to that arousal enveloping her. He might as well have undone the ties on her blouse and exposed her erect nipples. Or lifted her skirt high above her waist and seen her there… He could arouse her as easily as that—without even touching her. And now she didn’t want him to stop or turn away. This could be her one and only chance to push past arousal and see if she could handle the next stage…

‘I think it’s time for our dessert, Zoë.’

Zoë tried to hide her disappointment when Rico held out his hand to her. Her face was on fire at the thought she had made such a fool of herself. ‘Dessert? Yes, of course.’

‘Spanish-style.’

She saw the look in his eyes and felt a rush of heat flood through her as she realised that the last thing on Rico’s mind was a return visit to the kitchen. Oh.

Her gaze fixed on his hand. He was waiting for her to clasp it. Was this what she wanted? Could she go ahead with it? Wasn’t it better to stop now, before she proved to herself as well as Rico that as far as sex went she was one big disaster area? She didn’t want to spoil the evening—which was what would happen if she allowed things to go any further.

For some reason the young flamenco dancer on the poster in the mountain hut flew into Zoë’s mind. Beba was a proper woman, a sexual woman… But then Rico’s arms closed around her and it was too late.

Zoë shuddered with desire as his mouth brushed her lips. She felt so small, so dainty—and desired. This far was fine—it was as far as she could ever go: a kiss, a light caress… She closed her eyes as he applied a little more pressure, his firm lips moving over her mouth until she softened against him.

Could so much pleasure come from a simple kiss? But there was nothing uncomplicated where Rico was concerned.

He felt her tense, and stroked her back with long, light strokes until she eased into him again. He tugged lightly with his teeth on her bottom lip until the tremors rippling through her reached her womb. She whimpered, wanting more, and, teasing her lips apart, he deepened the kiss.

Zoë accepted the pace Rico set just as she had accepted the music he had played for her—music that had begun so gently, so calmly… It was like that now. He was so strong she could sense the powerhouse contained beneath his tracing fingers and wonderfully caressing hands. His touch was as light as the softest chord on the guitar, and as if she was his instrument now the vibrations through her body went on and on.

As their kisses grew more heated she was swept up in the need to rub against him, to feel the hard bristle on his face scoring her cheeks, rasping her neck. Their breathing was hectic and there were sounds welling from deep inside their throats as the pace quickened like the fiery rhythms of flamenco. Need was overwhelming them. They were as rough now, and as mindlessly passionate, as the final furious torrent of demanding chords.

Then a flash of reality intruded, brutal and strong. She didn’t know if she could stop him. He frightened her. She frightened herself. Things were getting out of control. What the hell was she doing?

Zoë tensed as the floodgates of the past gave way beneath the weight of ugly memories. ‘No, no! Stop it! I can’t—’ She tried desperately to push him away.

‘What do you mean, you can’t?’ Rico said sharply, holding her fast as he stared intently into her eyes.

‘I just can’t,’ Zoë said, snatching her face away from his as she struggled to break free.

But he wouldn’t let her go, and, cupping her chin, brought her back to face him again. ‘What can’t you do, Zoë? Answer me.’

She knew he sensed her fear.

‘Tell me, please.’

His voice was gentle, and when she looked up at him their faces were almost touching.

‘Tell me what’s wrong, Zoë. Is there someone else?’

‘I can’t tell you what’s wrong.’ Zoë pressed her lips together. That was true. How could she? Where were the words to explain how some giant switch had simply turned off inside her, so that all she felt now with him was fear and apprehension?

‘Has someone hurt you? Or do you already have a man? Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you?’

‘No!’ Zoë covered her ears with her hands, protecting herself against the barrage of questions, trying to shut out the ugly scenes replaying in her mind. She wasn’t ready for this. Would she ever be ready?

But none of it was Rico’s fault. Her gaze flew to his face, and she knew he saw the answer in her eyes.

‘Zoë…Zoë.’ He brought her close. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘We don’t know each other.’ Her voice was muffled against his chest.

‘I’d like to change that.’

She wanted to believe him. She wanted desperately to believe him, to think he might be different. But her past kept on insisting she was wrong. ‘Can we change the subject?’ She straightened her hair. ‘What about if I make the pudding?’

‘Zoë—’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Stop it, Zoë.’ Pulling back, Rico held her in front of him.

‘It won’t take me long.’ She couldn’t look at him.

‘Not tonight.’

There was a sharp note in his voice that drew her gaze, and she saw his face was serious and troubled.

‘All right, you make the pudding,’ she said.

She was determined to stick to the mundane, Rico realised. That way she could pretend it had never happened. He stared at her, wishing she would tell him everything, knowing that would never happen. ‘OK. I did promise to cook for you tonight.’

He could feel the relief radiating from her, but the easy atmosphere they’d shared earlier had gone; they both knew it. He had opened an old wound, and he shuddered to think what that wound might be.

Rico occupied Zoë’s mind throughout most of that night. She couldn’t sleep and she couldn’t think about anything apart from him. She had gone cold and he had gone—no surprises there. His bright golden fritters dressed with fresh lemon juice and vanilla sugar had been a surprise. They’d been truly unforgettable—as had his swift departure the moment he had bolted them down!

He hadn’t been able to get away fast enough. She couldn’t blame him. They had shared one lovely evening, thanks to Maria. And now, with The Kiss out of the way, at least he knew she wasn’t interested in that sort of thing.

She had laid her cards out in front of him. She couldn’t be like other women—women who took their right to enjoy physical love for granted. Women like the flamenco dancer on the poster. It was better Rico knew that.

Her ex had been right. She was frigid. And it wasn’t that she didn’t try—she felt sexy, and she hoped she looked at least a little bit appealing, but as soon as things turned hot she went cold. That was what had happened tonight. No one could change what she was—not even Rico. Thumping her pillows into submission, Zoë settled down to sleep.

Zoë’s hands flew to her face. The stinging slap had jolted her whole frame. She could never beg; that was her problem. She could never ask for forgiveness, for understanding, when she didn’t know what she had done wrong.

She backed away, stumbling in the darkness, feeling for the furniture to guide her. Finally there was nowhere else to go. She was pressed back against the cold, hard door. She could only stand now, and wait for her punishment. There was no escape. The door was locked. She knew that too, without trying the handle. She knew it just as surely as she knew what was coming next.

She looked at him then, but his face was shadowed and she couldn’t be sure who it was. She searched her mind desperately, trying to think of something that would make him change his mind, make him listen to her. But he was already taking off his belt.

This was always the worst part—the waiting. She could hear herself whimpering as she held up her hands to shield her face…

‘Oh!’ Zoë lurched up into a sitting position, reeling with shock. It took her a few minutes to get her bearings and realise she was safe in her bed at the castle.

Steadying her breathing, she looked around. Of course there was nothing unpleasant in the room. It was quite empty. The castle was completely still. She had heard several doors slamming when the film crew came back from their evening at the café, but it was the middle of the night now; everyone was sound asleep.

Glancing at her wristwatch on the bedside table, she saw that it was three o’clock in the morning. Slipping out of bed, she pulled back one side of the heavy curtains and gazed out to where the castle walls were tipped with silver in the moonlight. Where was Rico now? Where was he sleeping? Was he alone? He had never told her where he lived, and she had never asked. Did he live with anyone? Was he married?

A bolt of shame cut through her. She would never hurt anyone as she had been hurt—yet she knew none of the answers to these questions. She had let Rico kiss her without knowing anything about him, and then she had gone on to betray her innermost fears to him.

Zoë pulled away from the window. Unwelcome details of the nightmare were slithering back through the unguarded passages in her mind. She couldn’t shut them out. She had tried that before, but they always, always came back. Rico didn’t know anything about her, about her past. How would she bear the shame when he found out? His rejection tonight would be nothing compared to the scorn and contempt he would feel for her then.

In her mind’s eye Zoë could already see his face; it was cold and unforgiving. But even that was better than revisiting the dark side of her memories. She could only be grateful that by filling her mind with Rico Cortes she had finally found a way to blot the worst of them out.

Was this how it was always going to be—her ex-husband haunting her for ever?

Yes—if she allowed him to, Zoë realised.

Opening the window as far as she could, she leaned out, drinking in the healing beauty of the mountains.

The moonlight was like a blessing on her face. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. There was a faint scent of blossom on the air.