8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams
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‘I’ll just withdraw my invitation, and then you won’t have to suffer another moment’s distress.’
‘That would be too easy for you.’
‘Easy?’ Zoë rested one hand on her head and stared at him incredulously. What the hell was easy about any of this? As far as she was concerned, nothing had been easy since she’d run up against Rico Cortes.
‘If you want Maria to dance, I’ll be here.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Zoë said sarcastically. ‘You own Maria. You make all her decisions for her—’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’
‘So what do you think is going to happen here, Rico? As far as I know we’ll be making a television programme. I’ll be cooking, Maria will dance, and everyone in the village will have a great time at the party. Is that so terrible?’
He made a contemptuous sound. ‘You make it sound so straightforward.’
‘Because it is!’ What was he getting at? Why didn’t he trust her?
They glared at each other without blinking, and then Rico broke away to stare around. His expression hardened. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to allow my friends to come to a place like this on Tuesday night.’
‘Oh, so now you own the whole village? I didn’t realise the feudal system was alive and well in Cazulas. I suppose it’s never occurred to you that my neighbours might be capable of thinking for themselves?’
‘Your neighbours don’t know what you plan to do here.’
‘What do I plan to do, exactly?’
‘You don’t respect them.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘You don’t respect their culture.’
‘How dare you say that?’
‘How dare I?’ Rico’s voice was contemptuous as he glared down at her.
He was close enough for her to touch—or attack—but she would never lower herself to that. She wasn’t about to lose control, like every man she had ever known, and let Rico add that to her long list of shortcomings.
‘You come here to Cazulas—Cazulas, of all the flamenco villages in Spain! And you try to tell me it’s just a coincidence? And then you bring Maria into it. Another coincidence? I don’t think so.’
She’d had enough. She wasn’t going to stand by and let him rant. ‘You’re right, Rico. Bringing Maria into my plans was no coincidence. The reason I asked her to appear on my programme is because she is easily the best dancer I have ever seen. She is certainly the best performer in Cazulas. That’s no coincidence; it’s a fact.’ Zoë couldn’t be sure if Rico had heard her or not. He was so tense, so angry—like a wound-up spring on the point of release.
‘You come here with your television cameras and your questions.’ He gazed around the half-finished set contemptuously. ‘You throw together some cheap items and pass it off as a Spanish setting. You really think that’s going to convince me that you’re putting together some worthy programme about cultural influences on Spanish cooking? You must think I’m stupid.’
‘You’re certainly mistaken.’ But she could see that he might think she was putting up the plastic rubbish, rather than taking it down.
He was so still, so keyed up, he reminded her of a big cat before it pounced. Zoë was beginning to ache with holding herself so stiffly. She sagged with relief when he pulled away from her with a jerk.
‘I’ll be back to check up on you later. If this rubbish isn’t removed by then you can forget Tuesday. Maria will not be dancing for you.’
‘Doesn’t Maria have a mind of her own?’
Rico was already striding towards the door. He stopped dead. He couldn’t believe that she would still dare to challenge him. ‘Yes, of course Maria has a mind of her own. She will take one look at this mess and refuse to dance.’
‘Oh, get out!’
As he wheeled around he saw the local produce—fresh fruit, greenery, even some attractive pieces of hand-painted pottery. His lips curled in a sneer of contempt. Someone had planned to do something classy for the programme, something appropriate to the area. What a shame Zoë Chapman didn’t have any taste.
She really was no better than the rest. Even if she didn’t work at the gutter end of television, he would not stand by and see her discard Maria the moment her usefulness was at an end. Maria was too soft-hearted for her own good. It was up to him to protect her from people like Zoë Chapman.
Zoë jumped as the door slammed. Contempt for the disastrous set was about where her dial was pointing, too. But that didn’t give Rico Cortes the right to come storming in, ordering her about.
Snatching a plastic parrot down from his perch, she tossed it into the bin bag with the rest of the rubbish. She hated being caught on the back foot, hated leaving Rico Cortes with the impression that this was all her doing. Most of all she hated the fact that he was coming back to check up on her later. Who the hell did he think he was?
But it would have been far worse still if he hadn’t planned to come back at all.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS all Rico could do to stay away from the castle. It was barely noon. He had planned to return around late afternoon, but every moment since leaving the castle had been torture.
He had never witnessed such desecration in his life. That was the only reason he was pressing his heel to the floor now. He ground his jaw with satisfaction as the Jeep surged forward. Zoë wouldn’t expect him until later, and a surprise visit always revealed more than a planned return. With any luck he would catch her unawares.
Maybe she wasn’t the type of tabloid journalist he loathed, but she was still as shallow as the rest, still ignorant of the precious heritage Maria carried forward in the village.
Before he’d left the castle that morning he’d found a member of the television crew, who had assured him they would still be in rehearsal at midday. The youth had also confessed that he was responsible for the set design.
What type of television company used boys fresh out of college for such responsible work? If she owned a decent television company, why didn’t she have a proper set designer? Plastic parrots! What the hell did she think she was filming? Treasure Island? And what kind of programme had sets dressed with garish rubbish? He could think of a few cable channels that might have gone down that route, and none of them was respectable.
He’d seen Zoë up a ladder dressed in figure-hugging jeans and a skimpy top, instead of her shapeless track suit—and he’d heard her harangue him. He knew now she could play angel or vamp with equal zest.
Glancing at his watch, Rico smiled grimly. He had timed it just right. The rehearsal should have started. He would check out what line of entertainment Zoë Chapman was really in. Anticipation surged through him. Even through the red mist of his rage this morning she’d looked sensational. Pin-thin women weren’t his style, and there was nothing pin-like about Ms Chapman. What would she wear to play her plastic castanets? She had curves that would have done credit to a Rubens.
Slowing the Jeep as he approached the ancient stonework, Rico picked up speed as he hit the long main drive. Accelerating down the avenue of cypress trees, he gave a final spin of the wheel and turned into the familiar cobbled courtyard.
Leaning back with his arms folded against a door at the far end of the Great Hall, he didn’t announce his presence, just stood watching in silence. No one noticed him in the shadows. All the focus was on Zoë, in front of the camera.
Even he had to admit the transformation to the set was marked. In place of the fairground bunting and fake castanets there