8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams
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playing. She watched him prop his guitar against the wall, and was still in a sort of trance when he walked across the floor to her.
And then she came to with a bump, realising she was so aroused that her nipples were pressing tautly against the fine lawn top. Instinctively she lifted her hands to cover herself, but she could do nothing about the insistent pulse down low in her belly.
‘I think you enjoyed that, Ms Chapman…and you’re very good.’ He stopped a few feet away, and made no attempt to close the gap.
Zoë licked her lips. Rico knew she was aroused. She could feel his response to that arousal enveloping her. He might as well have undone the ties on her blouse and exposed her erect nipples. Or lifted her skirt high above her waist and seen her there… He could arouse her as easily as that—without even touching her. And now she didn’t want him to stop or turn away. This could be her one and only chance to push past arousal and see if she could handle the next stage…
‘I think it’s time for our dessert, Zoë.’
Zoë tried to hide her disappointment when Rico held out his hand to her. Her face was on fire at the thought she had made such a fool of herself. ‘Dessert? Yes, of course.’
‘Spanish-style.’
She saw the look in his eyes and felt a rush of heat flood through her as she realised that the last thing on Rico’s mind was a return visit to the kitchen. Oh.
Her gaze fixed on his hand. He was waiting for her to clasp it. Was this what she wanted? Could she go ahead with it? Wasn’t it better to stop now, before she proved to herself as well as Rico that as far as sex went she was one big disaster area? She didn’t want to spoil the evening—which was what would happen if she allowed things to go any further.
For some reason the young flamenco dancer on the poster in the mountain hut flew into Zoë’s mind. Beba was a proper woman, a sexual woman… But then Rico’s arms closed around her and it was too late.
Zoë shuddered with desire as his mouth brushed her lips. She felt so small, so dainty—and desired. This far was fine—it was as far as she could ever go: a kiss, a light caress… She closed her eyes as he applied a little more pressure, his firm lips moving over her mouth until she softened against him.
Could so much pleasure come from a simple kiss? But there was nothing uncomplicated where Rico was concerned.
He felt her tense, and stroked her back with long, light strokes until she eased into him again. He tugged lightly with his teeth on her bottom lip until the tremors rippling through her reached her womb. She whimpered, wanting more, and, teasing her lips apart, he deepened the kiss.
Zoë accepted the pace Rico set just as she had accepted the music he had played for her—music that had begun so gently, so calmly… It was like that now. He was so strong she could sense the powerhouse contained beneath his tracing fingers and wonderfully caressing hands. His touch was as light as the softest chord on the guitar, and as if she was his instrument now the vibrations through her body went on and on.
As their kisses grew more heated she was swept up in the need to rub against him, to feel the hard bristle on his face scoring her cheeks, rasping her neck. Their breathing was hectic and there were sounds welling from deep inside their throats as the pace quickened like the fiery rhythms of flamenco. Need was overwhelming them. They were as rough now, and as mindlessly passionate, as the final furious torrent of demanding chords.
Then a flash of reality intruded, brutal and strong. She didn’t know if she could stop him. He frightened her. She frightened herself. Things were getting out of control. What the hell was she doing?
Zoë tensed as the floodgates of the past gave way beneath the weight of ugly memories. ‘No, no! Stop it! I can’t—’ She tried desperately to push him away.
‘What do you mean, you can’t?’ Rico said sharply, holding her fast as he stared intently into her eyes.
‘I just can’t,’ Zoë said, snatching her face away from his as she struggled to break free.
But he wouldn’t let her go, and, cupping her chin, brought her back to face him again. ‘What can’t you do, Zoë? Answer me.’
She knew he sensed her fear.
‘Tell me, please.’
His voice was gentle, and when she looked up at him their faces were almost touching.
‘Tell me what’s wrong, Zoë. Is there someone else?’
‘I can’t tell you what’s wrong.’ Zoë pressed her lips together. That was true. How could she? Where were the words to explain how some giant switch had simply turned off inside her, so that all she felt now with him was fear and apprehension?
‘Has someone hurt you? Or do you already have a man? Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you?’
‘No!’ Zoë covered her ears with her hands, protecting herself against the barrage of questions, trying to shut out the ugly scenes replaying in her mind. She wasn’t ready for this. Would she ever be ready?
But none of it was Rico’s fault. Her gaze flew to his face, and she knew he saw the answer in her eyes.
‘Zoë…Zoë.’ He brought her close. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘We don’t know each other.’ Her voice was muffled against his chest.
‘I’d like to change that.’
She wanted to believe him. She wanted desperately to believe him, to think he might be different. But her past kept on insisting she was wrong. ‘Can we change the subject?’ She straightened her hair. ‘What about if I make the pudding?’
‘Zoë—’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Stop it, Zoë.’ Pulling back, Rico held her in front of him.
‘It won’t take me long.’ She couldn’t look at him.
‘Not tonight.’
There was a sharp note in his voice that drew her gaze, and she saw his face was serious and troubled.
‘All right, you make the pudding,’ she said.
She was determined to stick to the mundane, Rico realised. That way she could pretend it had never happened. He stared at her, wishing she would tell him everything, knowing that would never happen. ‘OK. I did promise to cook for you tonight.’
He could feel the relief radiating from her, but the easy atmosphere they’d shared earlier had gone; they both knew it. He had opened an old wound, and he shuddered to think what that wound might be.
Rico occupied Zoë’s mind throughout most of that night. She couldn’t sleep and she couldn’t think about anything apart from him. She had gone cold and he had gone—no surprises there. His bright golden fritters dressed with fresh lemon juice and vanilla sugar had been a surprise. They’d been truly unforgettable—as had his swift departure the moment he had bolted them down!
He hadn’t been able to get away fast enough. She couldn’t blame him. They had shared one lovely evening, thanks to Maria. And now, with The Kiss out of the way, at least he knew she wasn’t interested in that sort of thing.
She had laid her cards out in front of him. She couldn’t be like other women—women who took their right to enjoy physical love for granted. Women like the flamenco dancer on the poster. It was better Rico knew that.
Her ex had been right. She was frigid. And it wasn’t that she didn’t try—she felt sexy, and she hoped she looked at least a little bit appealing, but as soon as things turned hot she went cold. That was what had happened tonight. No one could change what she was—not even Rico. Thumping her pillows into submission, Zoë settled down to sleep.
Zoë’s hands flew to her face. The stinging slap had jolted her whole frame. She could never