‘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.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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 fin
al. 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 wais
t. ‘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.
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