8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams

else?’

      ‘Marnie, I’m really sorry. This isn’t your fault. Just tell Philip I insisted.’

      ‘Well, it’s your programme,’ Marnie pointed out.

      ‘Before you go, could you redo my lips?’

      ‘Sure.’ Marnie smiled at her.

      Marnie applied the lipgloss expertly, with a steady hand. Zoë knew it was more than she could have done. She checked in the mirror. ‘That’s great. Thank you. I’m sorry to have dragged you up here just for that.’

      ‘As long as I’m back in time to see Rico Cortes in action—’ Marnie winked at her ‘—I’ll forgive you.’

      Zoë felt a chill strike through her composure, but forced a laugh as Marnie left the room.

      She looked fine for the camera. The ice-blue of the shirt looked good against her tan, and complemented her red-blonde hair. She looked far more businesslike. She didn’t look sexy at all. It was much, much better.

      The shots on set inside the castle went smoothly—too smoothly, Zoë thought, cursing her professionalism. They didn’t need a single retake.

      ‘The change of clothes is fine for in here,’ Philip advised her. ‘But of course you’ll change back into that cerise top again for ringside?’

      ‘No, Philip.’ Zoë shook her head. ‘I’m keeping this shirt on. We’ll just say the second half of the competition took place on another day—I don’t care, I’m not changing.’ She could tell by his face that Philip was taken aback. It wasn’t like her to be difficult or unprofessional.

      The competition was in its final stages by the time Zoë returned to the courtyard. The noise, if anything, had grown louder. Philip had to cut a path for her through the crowd. Then she realised that he meant her to stand right up at the front, as close to ringside as possible.

      ‘Is this my punishment for changing clothes without warning you?’ Zoë had to grab Philip’s arm and yell in his ear above the roar of the crowd. She even managed a wry smile. But the moment he left her to return to his cameras Zoë’s throat dried.

      Philip’s voice came through on Zoë’s earpiece, testing the sound levels.

      ‘You OK, Zoë? You sound as if you’re getting a cold.’

      ‘No, I’m fine—absolutely fine.’

      ‘Then it must be the excitement at seeing all those muscles up close. You can’t kid me,’ he insisted, ‘I know you love it—just like all the other women.’

      That was the point. She wasn’t like all the other women. She wasn’t normal.

      It was surprising how well you could know people, and yet know nothing about their private lives, Zoë thought, remembering that Philip had once worked for her ex-husband. He had been surprised when she had called time on their marriage, having thought them the perfect couple.

      ‘Do you want me in shot for the presentation of the prizes?’ she said into her microphone, clinging to her professionalism like a life raft.

      ‘I’ll want a reaction shot. You should have chosen something more glamorous to wear than that shirt. You look so plain!’

      Perfect, Zoë thought.

      ‘Never mind. It’s too late to do anything about it now. I’ll stick to head shots.’

      She felt guilty because Philip sounded so grumpy, but it couldn’t be helped. She was more concerned about getting through the next few minutes.

      Women on either side of her were clutching each other in excitement as they stared into the ring. One of them turned to her, gesturing excitedly, and Zoë looked up. Rico was standing centre stage.

      The television lights drained everything of colour, but Rico’s torso still gleamed like polished bronze. The ghosts were hovering at Zoë’s shoulder as she stared at him. But he was laughing good-naturedly with one of his defeated opponents, and then, leaning over the ropes, he reached out to help the elderly tio of Cazulas into the ring.

      Zoë frowned. She hadn’t expected that. Drawing on other times, other trials of strength, she had expected a grim face, a hard mouth and cruel eyes. But those trials of strength had been no contest. How could there be a physical contest between a woman and a powerful bully of a man?

      Watching her elderly friend take Rico’s hand and raise it high in a victory salute, Zoë tried to piece together what the tio was saying with her very basic knowledge of Spanish. Finally she gave up, and asked the woman standing next to her if she could translate.

      ‘Our tio is announcing the prize,’ the woman explained, barely able to waste a second of her awestruck gaze on Zoë.

      A heavy leather purse changed hands between Rico and the tio. ‘What’s that?’ Zoë shouted as cheers rose all around them.

      ‘A purse of gold,’ the woman shouted back to her.

      But now Rico was passing it back to the tio. ‘What is he doing?’ Zoë said, looking at her neighbour again.

      ‘It is the same every year,’ the woman explained, shouting above the uproar. ‘El Señor Cortes always returns the purse of gold to the village.’

      ‘And what are they saying now?’ Zoë persisted, but the excitement had reached such a fever pitch she couldn’t hear the woman’s reply. After several failed attempts her neighbour just shrugged, and smiled to show her it was hopeless.

      Rico was staring at her, Zoë saw, going hot and cold. What did he want?

      Holding her gaze, he walked quickly across the floor of the ring, leaned over the ropes, and held out his hand to her.

      Zoë glanced around. No one could tell her what was happening because everyone was cheering and shouting at the top of their voices.

      Rico held up his hands and silence fell. Everyone was staring at her now, Zoë realised. She couldn’t understand it, but then Rico leaned over the ropes again and her face broke into a smile. She reached out to shake his hand, to congratulate him on his win. The next thing she knew she was standing beside him, with the spotlights glaring down on them both, and the tio was beaming at her while the crowd cheered wildly.

      Rico’s mouth tugged in a grin and he held up his hands again to call for silence. After he had spoken a few words in Spanish the cheering started up again. ‘I choose you,’ he said, staring down at Zoë.

      ‘Me?’ Zoë touched her chest in amazement. ‘What for?’ Her heart was racing out of control. She couldn’t think what he meant. She couldn’t think—

      ‘You will find out.’ Humour warmed his voice.

      Zoë laughed anxiously as she stared up at him. She could still feel the touch of his hands around her waist— Her thoughts stalled right there. She might have weighed no more than a dried leaf in his arms. Shading her eyes, she tried to read his expression, but he drew her hand down again and enclosed it in his own.

      Taking her into the centre of the ring, he presented her ceremoniously to the tio, and Zoë forced herself to relax. What could happen with the tio standing there? She found a smile. These pictures would be flashed around the world. The last thing she wanted was to cause offence to an elder of Cazulas—a man who was her friend.

      The tio seemed delighted that Rico had ‘chosen’ her, and embraced her warmly.

      ‘What’s all this about, Rico?’ Zoë asked the moment the tio released her and turned away to address the crowd. Someone handed Rico a black silk robe and she waited while he put it on.

      ‘You’re part of my prize,’ he said, when he had belted it.

      ‘I’m what?’

      Before Rico could answer, the tio turned around. Television cameras were angled to capture every nuance in Zoë’s expression, and