Mediterranean Men Bundle

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  He could feel the anger pumping through him. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, ached with tension. Who could ever hurt her? It was inconceivable to him that anyone could wish to harm one hair on her head. He wanted to protect her—but how could he when she insisted on pushing him away? ‘Won’t you trust me enough to tell me, Zoë?’

  ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

  ‘Please, don’t shut me out. I want to help you, but I have to know the truth—’

  ‘The truth?’ Zoë made a short incredulous sound. She hated herself as it was for her weakness. How could she know she would cry out when she was sleeping? ‘Do you always tell the truth, Rico? Do you?’

  He couldn’t answer her. How could he when he had been staring at a computer screen half the night? They were both victims of the past in their own way. Suspicion was branded on his heart, but Zoë was damaged too, and her wounds had been carved far deeper and more cruelly than his.

  Standing up, he moved away from the bed, carrying the image of Zoë in his mind. Her hair was like skeins of silk, gleaming in the moonlight, and her skin was so soft and warm. The room was filled with the scent of the orange blossom she always wore. As he turned, she turned too, and their eyes locked. He longed to tell her everything. He wanted nothing more in all the world than to take her in his arms and keep her safe for ever. But he could not. Instead, he would go back to his own room and maintain his vigil until the information he had asked for came through.

  ‘Goodnight, Zoë.’ He walked onto the veranda, closing the doors softly behind him.

  Throwing his head back, with his eyes tightly shut, he let out a heavy sigh. For the first time in his life the price he had to pay for being Rico Cortes was far too high.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CLUTCHING the receiver between neck and shoulder while she scooped up her discarded nightwear from the floor, Zoë listened patiently. There was an opportunity to do a live interview with a national television show—a roving reporter had just arrived with a camera crew. Could she make it in time?

  She looked like hell after her disturbed night. She felt like it too, especially remembering what had happened with Rico. But this was work, and there was nothing on her face that make-up couldn’t fix. Her heart was another matter, but that would have to wait.

  She was curious, and she was tempted too. The publicity would be great for the series—and she was interested to find out why someone from such a well-known show had come all the way to Cazulas to speak to her. Of course the last series had been a big success, and it had generated a lot of media interest. That had to be it.

  ‘Of course I’ll do it,’ she said, decision made. ‘Half an hour suit you? OK, fifteen minutes,’ she conceded. ‘But get Marnie and the girls up here right away with the war paint.’

  Philip had told her there would be a chance for a run-through first, so there would be no surprises and nothing for her to worry about. It was just what she needed to take her mind off Rico… He must have gone by now. There wasn’t much to keep him at the castle. But she still had her career. The thrill of the places it took her to, and the amazement that she had made something of herself after all, in spite of her ex’s assurances that she never would, had not diminished. She hoped they never would.

  She had to stand under a cold shower to try and put Rico out of her mind. Finally, reasonably focused on work and totally frozen, she rubbed herself down vigorously with a towel.

  There was a bad feeling niggling away inside her, Zoë realised as she dressed. It made no sense. She had done this sort of thing lots of times before, and knew that nothing was left to chance. It might all appear impromptu at home, but the groundwork had already been covered so that none of the questions came out of the blue. And yet…

  ‘To hell with it,’ she murmured, spritzing on some perfume. She was a seasoned campaigner and there was nothing to worry about.

  Seasoned campaigner or not, she hadn’t factored quite such a bubbly young presenter into the equation. The latest in a long line of glamorous young women with an incisive mind, she was the type of person that Zoë found wearing, but fun in short bursts. They talked through the questions, and decided on the best strategy to adopt to promote the show. Zoë was confident she could keep things moving forward smoothly. They were going to film outside, with a backdrop of mountains behind them, and went on air almost immediately.

  ‘So, Zoë, how does it feel to be here in such a fabulous location, as opposed to being stuck in an overheated studio?’ The girl fanned herself extravagantly and smiled, as if this made them comrades in adversity.

  Her openness made Zoë laugh. ‘It feels great, Lisa—but it’s hot outside here, as well as under the lights. Don’t forget this is Spain—’

  ‘You’ve got quite a glow going on there, Zoë.’ The girl cut across her, facing the camera to address the viewers. ‘Could this be something more than a suntan? I hear the Spanish men around here are quite something. Or man, rather,’ she added as Zoë stared at her. ‘Come on, you can tell us—we won’t tell a soul, will we?’ she exclaimed, turning again to include several million viewers.

  ‘Let’s talk about the programme first.’ And last, Zoë thought, keeping a smile on her face while her mind raced. They hadn’t planned to touch on anything other than her new television series. In fact she had made a point of insisting there would be no delving into her personal life. The past was just that—behind her. That was what she and the young reporter had agreed on.

  ‘You’re right, Zoë. Let’s talk about your programme. That’s what we’re here for.’

  Zoë stalled. The look on the girl’s face was open, inviting… Inviting what? There was just enough guile in her eyes to churn Zoë’s stomach. ‘I think this series is going to be my best yet—’

  ‘You only think? Don’t tell me Zoë Chapman’s become a shrinking violet?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’re not going to turn coy on us now, Zoë, are you? Disappoint the viewers?’ The girl turned to camera and made a moue, but there was a shrewd gleam in her eyes when she looked back. ‘After spending the night as the prize of a wealthy man?’

  She had just managed to leave out the word again, Zoë thought, feeling the blood drain from her face.

  ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Zoë?’ The girl’s lips pressed down as she shrugged and managed to look ingenuous for the camera. ‘I’ve seen the footage.’ Her eyes opened really wide and she stared around, as if seeking confirmation that her reportage was absolutely accurate from some unseen source.

  Zoë’s gaze iced over as she waited for the bombshell to fall. After all, the camera never lied…

  ‘Half-naked men wrestling beneath the stars in this sultry Mediterranean climate—and the champion, El Paladín, also known as Alarico Cortes, claiming you as his prize for the night.’ She stretched, showing off her taut young belly as if she had all the time in the world to deliver her coup de grâce. ‘Mmm, sounds pretty hot to me. He’s pretty hot!’

  ‘That was just an item.’ Zoë tried to laugh it off and put on a good-humoured smile for the camera. Inwardly she was seething. The girl’s agenda was obvious. This wasn’t about her series. There was still mileage in the old scandal.

  ‘Just an item!’ The girl cut her off with a short, incredulous laugh. ‘OK, Zoë, let’s cut to the chase. You bagged Alarico Cortes for one glorious night. I’m only quoting the age-old tradition here in Cazulas, Zo—no need to look at me like that. Alarico Cortes, if you don’t know of him at home, is only the most eligible bachelor in Spain—a billionaire, and a good friend of the Spanish royal family. So, what was it like? How does it feel, mingling with the aristocracy? And were you really just a prize for the night? Or is this love?’

  Alarico Cortes? Aristocracy? Billionaire? Zoë was stunned. If what the young reporter said was true… The last way she would have wanted to hear it was like this.

  ‘I was lucky enough to be invited to take part in a traditional celebration that has been upheld her
e in Cazulas for centuries. It was great fun—nothing more than that. I’m really sorry to disappoint you.’ She finished with a good-natured shrug towards the camera. Game, set, and match, she thought, seeing the girl’s face turn sulky.

  ‘Well, you heard it here first, folks.’ The reporter quickly recovered. ‘The most beautiful celebrity chef on the circuit has something really special in the pipeline for all of us. Don’t miss Zoë’s new series, or you’ll miss those yummy men—and we’re talking drop-dead gorgeous in the case of Alarico Cortes, girls. Thank you, Zoë, for sparing us these few precious minutes away from your show.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Zoë said, with a last cheery smile to the viewers. ‘Thank you all for your time.’

  She even thanked the girl again when the cameras had stopped rolling. They both knew who had come out on top, and Zoë was determined to remain professional to the last. But she couldn’t quite believe she had allowed herself to be set up. It had been two years since the scandal broke. Two years to learn caution. She’d thought she was too wary to be trapped like this—but apparently not.

  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?’
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br />   ‘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.’