8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams
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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 here 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