Читать книгу 8 Magnificent Millionaires - Кэтти Уильямс, Cathy Williams - Страница 31

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.

‘Chagall?’ She turned to him in amazement.

He felt ashamed that he took such things for granted. Not for him the colourful poster prints that had adorned his mother’s home and made it so cheerful. He liked the real thing, and he could afford it now—Hockney and Chagall were just two of his favourites. He envied the expression on Zoë’s face. He wanted to recapture that feeling. He wanted to remember how it had felt to attend his first fine art auction sale, where he had vowed one day he would be bidding.

Zoë turned back to the picture again. She had never seen anything like it outside a museum. The picture showed a handsome man embracing a woman with long titian hair. They were both suspended in an azure sky, with the head of a good-natured horse sketched into the background. A happy sun shone out of the canvas, turning the land beneath it to gold.

‘It’s genuine, isn’t it? This isn’t a print?’

‘That’s right.’ He felt shame again. Such things were meant to be shared. When was the last time he had brought anyone into his home?

‘I saw a Chagall in Las Vegas—a man and woman, head to head—’ Zoë stopped talking, realising they were standing head to head too, and that Rico was smiling down at her.

‘You know what I mean.’ She waved her hand and moved away, going to stand by an open window. ‘Rico, why am I here?’ she said, still with her back turned to him.

‘I know everything about you.’

‘Oh, do you?’ she said, managing to sound as unconcerned as if they had been discussing a new style of drapes.

‘Zoë, please, can’t we talk about it?’

‘Why should we? What purpose would it serve?’ She turned round to stare at him.

‘Will you come with me?’ he said.

Something in his expression made her walk towards him.

This must be his study, Zoë realised. It was a pleasant, airy room, but small on the scale of other rooms in the mansion. It was cosy, even a little cluttered. This was the hub around which the rest of his life revolved, she guessed.

‘Please sit down,’ he said, holding out a chair for her across from his own at the desk.

‘I’d rather stand.’

‘Please.’

She didn’t want to make a fuss.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Rico said, sitting across from her.

‘Tell you what?’

‘That all that nonsense in the newspaper was a pack of lies?’

‘Because I don’t feel the need to defend myself.’

‘Nor should you.’

Glancing down at the desk, Zoë realised that all the papers she had thought were Rico’s were, in fact, her own history in print. ‘So now you know.’

‘I only wish I’d known about it sooner. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because it’s none of your business. And because I don’t want, or need, anyone’s misplaced sympathy.’

‘Misplaced?’ Rico sprang to his feet and planted his fists on the desk, leaning so far over it their faces were almost touching. ‘A man who is supposed to love you beats you up, and you call my sympathy misplaced? You build a whole new life for yourself, and a successful career, only to have that—that—’ Rico stopped, the words jamming in his brain as he searched for something to properly describe what he thought of Zoë’s ex-husband.

‘I finally left him when he tried to sell me to someone he owed money to.’

All the emotion was gone from her voice. He wanted her to rail against her fate, to show some emotion.

‘It was just a night of sex, to pay off the debt…’

‘Just! Zoë, Zoë—’ Rico passed his hand across his eyes, as if it would help him to make some sense of what she was telling him. Walking around the desk, he drew her to her feet. ‘Come with me.’ He took her to the open window. ‘Look out there. Tell me what you see.’

‘It’s night-time—’

‘It’s nature, Zoë—pure, harsh, and lovely. Here at my beach house, and at the castle in Cazulas, I escape from the world when I need to. That’s why I was so protective of my privacy when you arrived. Why I still am so protective—but now I want you to have the same. I don’t want you to live with a nightmare stuck in the back of your mind. I can’t bear to think of you trapped like that, in the past.’

Wrapping her arms around her waist, Zoë inhaled deeply, and then turned away from the window to face him. ‘I got away, in case you’re interested. I could see the man’s heart wasn’t in it. False bravado brought him to me after a few drinks with my ex-husband. I just explained it was a bad time for me—that there had to be some mistake. He didn’t lose face. There was no unpleasantness. I think I handled it well.’

Handled it well? The words tumbled around Rico’s head as if someone was knocking them in with a hammer. He wanted to drag her into his arms right then, tell her it would be all right from now on, that he would be there for her, to protect her from harm. He wanted to promise her that she would never have to face such a monstrous situation in her life again—but she was already walking towards the door.

‘Will you take me back to the castle now?’

‘I’ll do anything you want me to.’

She smiled faintly at him, as if to acknowledge his understanding without necessarily accepting that it helped or changed anything for her.

The call came when Zoë had just climbed into bed, and for the second time that night she rushed to pull on her jeans. This time she tugged a sweater over the top of her tee shirt. She didn’t know how long she would be, or what might be involved. She just knew she had to be prepared. A phone call from Maria in hospital was serious. Snatching up her bag and some money, along with her car keys, she hurried downstairs.

Zoë felt as if there was a tight band around her chest until the moment she reached the small private room and saw Maria sitting up in a chair beside the bed with a rug over her knees. ‘Thank God you’re all right,’ she said, crouching down at her side. ‘Is it serious?’ She reached for Maria’s hand. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. Will it affect your dancing?’

Maria lifted her other arm from beneath the blanket, revealing strapping. ‘Thankfully just a sprain—nothing more. The X-rays have confirmed it. I’m sorry if I frightened you, Zoë. I just couldn’t stand the thought of being here all night, and I have such a thing about taxis—’

‘No. You were absolutely right to call me. I’m so relieved. I don’t know why, but I thought you might have injured your leg.’

‘My fault. I should have explained, instead of just saying I had fallen. I can see now that my legs would be the first thing you thought of.’

‘Has anyone told Rico? If he hears you are in hospital he’ll be very worried.’

‘I tried him first,’ Maria told her. ‘But he wasn’t at home.’

No, he was taking me home, Zoë thought, feeling doubly guilty knowing Maria had probably rung Rico to take her to the hospital. And she had been so lost in her own thoughts on the way back to the castle she hadn’t spoken a word to him.

‘The main thing is that no permanent harm has been done,’ Zoë said, returning to practical matters. ‘Can you leave now, or must we wait for a doctor?’

‘The doctor has to formally discharge me before he goes off duty for the night. But we can talk until then.’ Maria stopped and viewed Zoë with concern. ‘You look exhausted, Zoë, is something wrong?’

‘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.