8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams

back, he spoke to her quickly in Spanish. Having received the answer he hoped for, he smiled and kissed her cheek before turning to Zoë.

      ‘Thank you for coming, Zoë.’

      How could I not? Zoë wondered. ‘I was only too pleased I could help. But now you’re here I’ll leave you with your mother—’

      ‘No.’ Rico touched her arm. ‘It’s late, Zoë. You should not be driving home alone.’

      ‘I’ll go and find the doctor before I leave, and send him in to you.’

      ‘No.’ This time he closed the door. ‘I’m taking you back with us, and that’s final. You’ve had a shock too, and the roads can be dangerous at night.’

      No more dangerous than they had ever been, Zoë thought. But Rico’s expression was set, and she didn’t want to make a fuss in front of Maria.

      They settled Maria into her cosy home in the centre of the village, and then got back in the Jeep.

      ‘It really was good of you to go to the hospital for Maria,’ Rico said as they moved off again.

      ‘I’d do anything for her,’ Zoë said honestly, resting back against the seat.

      ‘I can see you’re tired. I’ll take you straight back.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      So much for Maria’s machinations. If it had been a plan at all, nothing was going to come of it. And of course she was relieved…

      Clambering into bed and switching off the light, Zoë sank into the pillows, shot through with exhaustion. It had been quite a day. Her body was wiped out, but her mind refused to shut down. Turning on the light again, she thought about Rico, and about Rico and Maria being mother and son. And then she ran through everything Maria had told her about Rico.

      Swinging her legs out of bed, she poured herself a glass of water. Rico had set out on a mission to reclaim his inheritance, to preserve everything he believed in, just as she had. They had both succeeded. They were both proud and defensive—you had to be when you’d fought so hard for something. She always felt as if everything she had achieved might slip through her fingers if she didn’t hold on tight enough.

      Zoë’s glance grazed the telephone sitting next to her on the bedside table. She had to decide whether to call him or not. Of course she didn’t have to do anything—she could just let him slip away into the past…

      Zoë was surprised when the operator found the number so easily. She had imagined Rico would have a number that would be withheld from the public. Instead a cultured voice answered her in Spanish right away. It wasn’t Rico’s voice, it was some other man—his butler, perhaps. She gave her name, and he asked her to wait and he would see whether it was convenient for Señor Alarico to take her call.

      It felt like for ever before Rico came on the line, and then he sounded as if he had been exercising. It was a big house, Zoë reminded herself, with acres of floor space. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you.’

      ‘It is no trouble. What can I do for you?’

      ‘Did I disturb you? Were you sleeping?’

      ‘Sleeping? No. I was in the pool—they had to come and get me.’

      ‘I see. I’m sorry,’ she said again.

      ‘Don’t be.’

      The line went quiet as if he was waiting for her to speak. She couldn’t change her mind now. ‘We didn’t finish our conversation earlier.’

      Now it was Zoë’s turn to wait, not daring to breathe in case she missed his reply.

      ‘I’ll come over tomorrow.’

      It was less than she had hoped for, but more in some ways. They were speaking at least.

      ‘Or would you prefer to come here?’

      Space from the film crew would be good. They were so defensive on her behalf. She loved them for it, but it made any private discussion with Rico impossible. ‘I’m going to see Maria—your mother—in the morning.’ She was thinking aloud, planning her day.

      ‘Then I’ll pick you up around nine. We’ll go and see her together. You can come back here for lunch afterwards…if you like?’

      ‘I would like that.’ She smiled. ‘Nine o’clock, then.’

      ‘See you tomorrow, Zoë.’

      The line was cut before she could reply.

      Maria couldn’t have made it more obvious that she was pleased to see them. She was already up and about, and insisted on making coffee.

      ‘I’m not an invalid,’ she told Rico, brushing off his offer to help. ‘And before you say a word, I am returning to teaching today.’

      ‘I forbid it—’

      ‘Oh, you do? Do I dance on my hands, Rico? I still have one good hand with which to direct proceedings. And,’ she said, refusing to listen to his argument, ‘I am to be collected in half an hour. Before I leave, I have something for you, Zoë—to make sure you never stop dancing.’

      ‘I can’t possibly take that!’ Zoë looked at the lilac dress Maria was holding up. The one she had worn for her first flamenco lesson. ‘It must be worth a fortune.’

      ‘It’s worth far more than that,’ Maria assured her as she pressed it into Zoë’s hands. ‘And I want you to have it.’

      ‘It’s so beautiful,’ Zoë said, resting her face against it.

      ‘Yes, it is—and if you ever need a boost, Zoë, you just look at it and think of us.’

      ‘I’ll only need to think of you, Maria,’ Zoë said, smiling as she hugged Rico’s mother.

      It was fortunate Zoë couldn’t see his mother’s imperative drawing together of her upswept black brows, or the fierce command in her eyes, Rico realised as he took the cue to go, and take Zoë with him. ‘We’d better leave you now so that you can get ready for your class, Mother.’

      ‘Yes,’ Maria said firmly, clearly relieved that her silent message had been understood. ‘But before you go, Rico, you can do one more thing for me.’

      ‘What’s that?’ he said, pausing with his hand on the door.

      ‘Take this with you,’ she said, handing him a camera. ‘I want a photograph of Zoë in that dress—to hang in the mountain lodge at the flamenco camp,’ she explained to Zoë. ‘Then I will be able to see the dress and you, Zoë, any time I want.’

      Alongside Beba? Immediately Zoë regretted the thought. Maria just wasn’t like that. ‘I’m sure you don’t want reminding of my pathetic efforts—’

      ‘I most certainly do. You were very good—full of genuine passion,’ Maria said firmly. ‘Now, take this girl to lunch, Rico. She looks half starved. And don’t forget my photograph.’

      ‘I won’t,’ he promised, sweeping her into his arms for a parting embrace.

      Zoë had her hand stuck up her back when she emerged from Rico’s dressing-room. He was sitting on the shady veranda at his beach house, where they had been having lunch. He stood as she approached.

      ‘I can’t seem to get the dress right—can you help me?’ Maria had been on hand the last time to finish off the fastenings for her.

      The setting was superb. There was an archway coated in cerise bougainvillea where she would stand for Maria’s photograph, with the sea behind her and some flamenco music playing softly to put her in the mood.

      Giving up on the dress, Zoë straightened up. ‘Help?’ she prompted softly.

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      Lunch