Читать книгу 8 Magnificent Millionaires - Кэтти Уильямс, Cathy Williams - Страница 32

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.’

‘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…

She stared into his face, waiting for him to come to her.

Her perfume was intoxicating, drawing him towards her. He stretched his length against her on the bed, not touching her, still holding back. Inhaling deeply, he stroked her thick, silky hair, sifting it through his fingers and enjoying the texture. He loved the way she quivered beneath his touch, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, her breathing nothing more than whispery puffs.

‘Rico—’

He kissed her lightly on the lips.

‘Kiss me properly.’

‘Properly? What do you mean?’ His restraint was making her bloom beneath him like a flower that had been too long out of the sun. Her breasts, two perfect globes, were thrust towards him, and her nipples, cruelly neglected, were almost painfully erect. The soft swell of her belly led his gaze down to where she was aching for his attention. Cupping her breasts, he made her gasp. And that gasp soon turned to a whimper as he began to chafe each perfect nipple with his firm thumb pads.

The pleasure was so intense it was almost a pain. He had forgotten how exquisite she was, how sweetly scented, how tender she felt beneath his lips. As he suckled and tugged, and heard her cry out his name, he knew that all he wanted in the world was to keep her safe and love her.