8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams
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Coffee was served to him, and taken away again without being touched. The crisp green leaves of a delicious-looking salad had wilted by the time he absent-mindedly forked some up.
Pushing the plate away to join the rest of the detritus on his desk, he stood up and stretched. Walking over to the window, he was not surprised to see how low the sun had dipped in the sky. The colours outside the window were spectacular, far richer than before, as if the day wanted to leave behind a strong impression before it gave way to the night.
He would not let Zoë go. He could not. If she told him to go again, then he would still let her stay on at the castle as long as it suited her. It was a hollow, unlovely place without her.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he didn’t wait for the Jeep to be brought round to the front. Sprinting down the steps, he jogged down the drive towards the garage block and, climbing in, switched on and powered away.
He found her in the kitchen, eating with the crew. They were relaxing in the way only good friends could relax—some with their feet up on the opposite chair, men with their shirts undone, sleeves rolled back, and girls with hardly any makeup, and real tangles rather than carefully tousled hair. The table was littered with the debris of a put-together meal, and when he walked in a silence fell that was so complete it left the walls ringing. There was the sound of chairs scraping the floor as everyone stiffened and straightened up. He could sense them closing in around Zoë like a protective net.
Her lips parted with surprise as she stared at him. She was wearing nightclothes—faded pyjamas—with her hair left in damp disarray around her shoulders. She looked to him as if the day had been too much for her and she couldn’t wait to get it over with and go to sleep. Someone at the table must have talked her into joining them for a light meal.
It was the enemy camp, all right. Every gaze except for Zoë’s was trained on his face. These were the people who had stood by her, who had stayed with her when she’d made the break from the television company run by her ex-husband. That much he’d learned from the Internet. These were the people who had put their livelihoods on the line for Zoë Chapman.
He waited by the door, and she half stood. But the girl sitting next to her put a hand on Zoë’s arm.
‘You don’t have to go, Zo.’
‘No, no… I’ll be all right.’ She pushed her chair back from the table and looked at him. ‘I have to get this sorted out.’
He went outside, and she followed him. ‘Will you come with me?’ He glanced towards the Jeep.
‘I’m not dressed.’
If that was the only reason, he’d solve the problem for her. Striding quickly back into the castle, he plucked a shawl down from a peg. As he came out again he threw it round her shoulders. ‘You’ll be warm enough now.’
‘It’s not that, Rico. I’m not sure I want to come with you.’
She took a step away from him. Folding the shawl carefully, she hung it over her arm, as if she wanted time to put her thoughts back in order.
‘Please.’ He wasn’t good at this, Rico realised. He could negotiate his way in or out of anything to do with business. But feelings—needs—they were foreign to him, an emotional bank accessed by other people. He was a man of purpose, not dreams—but quite suddenly he realised that purpose and dreams had become hopelessly intertwined. ‘Just give me an hour of your time. Please, Zoë. That’s all I ask.’
‘Will you wait in the Jeep while I get changed?’
He would have waited at the gateway to hell if she had asked him to.
Rico’s knuckles were white with tension by the time Zoë emerged from the castle. She hadn’t kept him waiting long, and now he drank her in like a thirsty man at a watering hole in the desert. She was wearing her uniform of choice: jeans and a plain top. She looked great. She was so fresh, so clean, and so lovely, with her red-gold hair caught up high on the top of her head in a band so that the thick fall brushed her shoulders as she walked towards him.
‘Are you sure we can’t talk here—or in the garden?’
‘I’d like to show you something,’ he said, opening the passenger door for her.
After a moment’s hesitation she climbed in. He felt as if he had just closed the biggest business deal of his life. Only this was better—much, much better.
‘What a fabulous place,’ she said, when they turned in the gates at the beach house. ‘Whose is it?’
Her voice tailed off at the end of the question, and he knew she had already guessed. Sweeping through the towering gates, Rico slowed as they approached the mansion. Even he could see it was stunning now he saw it through Zoë’s eyes.
‘It’s all very beautiful,’ Zoë said, when they were inside.
He watched her trail her fingers lightly over the creamy soft furnishings as they walked through the main reception room. Everything looked better to him too now she was here. He could see how well the cream walls looked, with smoky blue highlights provided by cushions and rugs, and the occasional touch of tobacco-brown. The walls had been left plain to show off his modern art collection.
‘Chagall?’ She turned to him in amazement.
He felt ashamed that he took such things for granted. Not for him the colourful poster prints that had adorned his mother’s home and made it so cheerful. He liked the real thing, and he could afford it now—Hockney and Chagall were just two of his favourites. He envied the expression on Zoë’s face. He wanted to recapture that feeling. He wanted to remember how it had felt to attend his first fine art auction sale, where he had vowed one day he would be bidding.
Zoë turned back to the picture again. She had never seen anything like it outside a museum. The picture showed a handsome man embracing a woman with long titian hair. They were both suspended in an azure sky, with the head of a good-natured horse sketched into the background. A happy sun shone out of the canvas, turning the land beneath it to gold.
‘It’s genuine, isn’t it? This isn’t a print?’
‘That’s right.’ He felt shame again. Such things were meant to be shared. When was the last time he had brought anyone into his home?
‘I saw a Chagall in Las Vegas—a man and woman, head to head—’ Zoë stopped talking, realising they were standing head to head too, and that Rico was smiling down at her.
‘You know what I mean.’ She waved her hand and moved away, going to stand by an open window. ‘Rico, why am I here?’ she said, still with her back turned to him.
‘I know everything about you.’
‘Oh, do you?’ she said, managing to sound as unconcerned as if they had been discussing a new style of drapes.
‘Zoë, please, can’t we talk about it?’
‘Why should we? What purpose would it serve?’ She turned round to stare at him.
‘Will you come with me?’ he said.
Something in his expression made her walk towards him.
This must be his study, Zoë realised. It was a pleasant, airy room, but small on the scale of other rooms in the mansion. It was cosy, even a little cluttered. This was the hub around which the rest of his life revolved, she guessed.
‘Please sit down,’ he said, holding out a chair for her across from his own at the desk.
‘I’d rather stand.’
‘Please.’
She didn’t want to make a fuss.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Rico said, sitting across from her.
‘Tell you what?’
‘That all that nonsense in the