The Spanish
Billionaire’s Mistress

Susan Stephens

For all my long-suffering friends. You know who you are. I couldn’t do it without you.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

‘COME here—come closer so we can see you,’ the male voice commanded.

Cursing softly under her breath, Zoë Chapman slithered down to the ground and straightened up. Uncomfortable but invisible, or so she’d thought, she had been wedged into a smooth crevice between two giant rocks, discreetly observing the activity around the campfire.

She had located the flamenco camp and chosen her hiding place before anyone arrived. Her unique and popular cookery shows depended upon the co-operation of special interest groups, but the fact that she worked on a TV programme didn’t make her welcome everywhere. She had wanted to observe the dancing before she introduced herself, just to make sure it was as good as was rumoured in the village.

The man speaking now had arrived shortly after she had. Back turned, he had stood gazing out across the valley. She had seen nothing more than an aggressively tall male figure, a shock of inky black hair and a wide sweep of shoulders—in fact, everything she had vowed to avoid since gaining her freedom.

As more people had joined him, she’d realised he was the leader of the group. Why hadn’t she been surprised? She had wondered who he was, wondered about the quivers running through her as she stared at him. It had made her angry to think she had learned nothing since her divorce. She was still drawn to dangerous men.

Now, walking up to him, she saw he was everything she had expected: strikingly handsome, arrogant, and angry that she was here uninvited. If this hadn’t been work she would have done the sensible thing, and left.

During the course of her television series she searched out interesting people from all walks of life. Local people in whichever country she chose to film were the seasoning in her shows, the magic ingredient that lifted her above the competition.

Generally she enjoyed the research. This time she had to put her personal feelings to one side and hope the dancing started soon. She couldn’t let some local brigand put her off. Forget the man! This was her target group. The only thing that mattered was persuading someone to perform flamenco on her programme.

Dance was Zoë’s passion outside of work. She knew she would never make a professional, but part of her climb-back after the divorce had been to join a jazz dance exercise group. It had proved the best therapy she could have chosen—though right now it looked as if all her good work was being undone.

She could not have prepared for this, Zoë reminded herself. She had not expected to run up against such a strong character again quite so soon.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

He beckoned her forward with a short, angry gesture, and his voice was cold. It brought back memories she didn’t need, but she was like a terrier with a bone when it came to work, and she focused her concentration easily. They were attracting a lot of attention. Perhaps one of the people around the mountain hut would agree to audition for her programme?

The man held up his hand to stop her coming any closer. It was close enough for Zoë, too. He was quite something. Along with the aura of power and brute strength, she had to admit he had style. Why did she have to find such a man irresistible when she knew he had danger carved into the stone where his heart should be?

Somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, he was around six feet two or three, and his build was every bit as impressive as she had thought from some distance away. Everything about him was dark: his eyes, his hair…his expression.

‘Why have you come here?’ he demanded.

‘I heard this is where flamenco enthusiasts gather, and I want to learn more about flamenco.’

‘So you can go home to England and show off to your friends?’ He made a derisive sound and clicked his fingers, mimicking the worst of the shows she had seen down on the coast.

‘No, of course not. I…’ His steely gaze remained fixed on her face, but she couldn’t let that get to her. ‘I am genuinely interested in flamenco.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘I am at the moment—’

He cut her off. ‘At the moment?’

‘I know this looks bad—’

‘What do you mean, you’re alone at the moment?’

‘I’m working with a television crew. They’re not here right now.’

Could his expression darken any more? She tried to explain, but her voice came out as a croak. Unconsciously, her hand flew to her throat. She should have brought some water with her. She had been at the mercy of the sun all afternoon, and now she was desperate for a drink.

‘Do you think I could have some water?’ She gazed around.

‘What do you think this is? A café?’

But people were drinking all around her. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Did you think this was one of those cheap tourist places where you get a free drink along with your paella and chips?’

‘No!’ She calmed herself. ‘No, of course not—’

He straightened up and moved a menacing pace towards her, and all her courage drained away. Lurching backwards, she nearly stumbled. She was only saved by the sheer bulk of a man behind her. He was carrying a stone flagon and some pottery beakers. He didn’t understand when she started to apologise, and poured her a drink.

She didn’t want it. She just wanted to get away—back down the mountain to safety, to where people barely looked at her, where no one knew who she was or where she had come from.

But the man with the flagon was still smiling at her, and the situation was bad enough already. ‘Gracias, señor.’

Keeping watch on the brigand, Zoë took the beaker from the older man and gratefully drank from it.

It was delicious, and tasted harmless—like fruit juice and honey laced with some spice she couldn’t name. The beaker felt cool, and she was so thirsty she didn’t protest when he offered her more. The golden liquid gleamed in the light as it flowed from the flagon, and the elderly man filled her beaker to the brim.

‘Salud!’

The alpha male’s voice was harsh and unfriendly. Handing the beaker back to the man with the flagon, Zoë raised her chin. She felt better now, bolder. ‘Delicious,’ she said defiantly, staring her unwilling host in the eyes. ‘What was that drink?’

‘A local speciality, brewed here in the village.’

‘It’s very good. You should market it.’

‘On your recommendation I’ll certainly consider it.’

His sarcasm needled Zoë, but it also renewed her determination to go nowhere until she got the feature for her programme. At any cost?

At the cost of a little charm, at least. ‘I really should introduce myself.’

‘You really should.’

Brushing a strand of titian hair from her face, Zoë stared up and tried to focus. She hadn’t realised the drink was so strong. On an empty stomach, she was suddenly discovering, it was lethal. She was in no state to object when he reached forward to steady her.

His grip on her arm was light, but even through an alcohol-induced haze she could feel the shock waves radiating out from his fingertips until every part of her was throbbing. He led her away out of earshot, to where a wooden hut cast some shade.

‘So, who are you?’

‘Zoë—Zoë Chapman. Could I have a glass of water, please?’

Rico thought he recognised the name, then brushed it aside. It hardly mattered. She had damned herself already out of her own mouth: a television crew! He might have known. He grimaced, catching hold of her again when she stumbled.

‘I think you’d better sit down.’ He steered her towards a bench, and once she was safely planted turned and called to two youths. ‘José! Fernando! Por favor, café solo—rápido!’ Then, turning to her again, he said, ‘Welcome to the Confradias Cazulas flamenco camp, Zoë Chapman. Now you’re here, what do you want?’

‘It’s good to meet you too—’

‘Don’t give me all this nonsense about flamenco. What do you really want? Why have you come here? Are you spying on me?’

‘Flamenco isn’t nonsense.’ She reeled back to stare at him. ‘And I’m not spying on you. I’m researching.’

‘Oh, of course. I see,’ he said sarcastically.

No, he didn’t, Zoë thought, shading her eyes with her hand as she tried to focus on his face. Her head felt so heavy. It bounced instead of simply moving. Squeezing her eyes together, she struggled to follow his movements—he seemed to be swaying back and forth. ‘So, who are you, then?’ Her tongue was tied up in knots.

‘Rico. Rico Cortes.’

They were attracting attention, Zoë noticed again. Peering round him, she gave a smile and a little wave. He moved in closer, shielding her from his companions. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Rico.’ As she put her hand out to shake his, it somehow connected with a coffee cup. Raising the cup to her lips, she drank the coffee down fast. The hot, bitter liquid scalded her throat, but it couldn’t be helped. She had to pull round from this fast. The last couple of programmes based around flamenco were supposed to be the crowning feature of her series.

‘Here, drink some more.’

His voice was sharp, and then he made a signal to the boy with the coffee pot to fill her mug again.

‘Leave it here, José, por favor.’

He sounded different, warmer when he spoke to the youth, Zoë registered fuzzily.

‘We’re going to need every drop,’ he added.

And he was back to contempt when he turned to look at her! It wasn’t the best start she’d ever had to a programme.

This time, once she’d drained the strong black coffee, it was Zoë who asked for more. The second she had finished, the questions started.

‘If you’re with a television crew I take it you’re after an exclusive. I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you were spying on us, sneaking about.’

Thanking the boy, Zoë gave him back her empty cup. Her head was clearing. She felt better, much more focused. She might still be a little under par, but she had no intention of being bullied by Rico Cortes—by anyone.

‘I’m here to see if flamenco will make a suitable item for my television series. Nothing more.’

‘Your television series?’

‘It’s my programme. I have full editorial control. I own the company that produces the programme.’

‘So, it’s you.’

‘Me?’

‘Staying at the Castillo Cazulas.’

‘Yes, my company has taken a short-term lease on the castle—’

‘And it’s there you’re going to create your masterpiece?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ She couldn’t keep the chill out of her voice now. Could he have been more disparaging? She had worked long and hard to raise her programme above the rest, to make it different and special. She had brought a great team together, and she was proud of what they had achieved.

‘Flamenco for Spain, opera in Italy, fashion when you shoot a programme in France—is that how it goes? Skimming over the surface of a country, using the name of art just to make money?’

‘I make money. I won’t deny it. How would I stay in business, pay the wages of the people who work with me, otherwise? But as for your other assumptions—frankly, they stink.’

‘They do?’

His voice was faintly amused now, and he was looking at her in a whole different way. She wasn’t sure if she liked it any better. Her thundering heart told her it was dangerous. ‘Look, Rico, if you’re not the person I should be speaking to about the dancing, then perhaps you could find me someone who will listen to what I have to say.’

‘And allow you to trample over my privacy? I don’t think so.’

‘Your privacy? I wasn’t aware that my programme was going to be made around you.’

His look was cynical. ‘It’s time you went back to your film crew, Ms Chapman.’

‘Are you asking me to leave?’

‘It’s getting dark—I’d hate for you to lose your way.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll go. Just as soon as I finish my business here.’

‘You have finished your business here.’

‘Why are you so touchy about my being here? I’m not doing you any harm!’

‘People have a right to space.’

‘And this is yours?’ Zoë gestured around.

‘If you like. I don’t have to explain myself to you.’

‘Correct,’ Zoë said, standing up to face him. ‘But I wasn’t aware that there were any private estates up here in the mountains. I’ve got as much right to be here as you have. And, for your information, I have never had a single complaint from a guest on my show. I treat everyone with respect.’

He shifted position and smiled. It was not a friendly smile. It was a ‘don’t mess with me’ smile.

‘I give you my word,’ Zoë insisted. ‘Nothing in my programme will invade your privacy—’

His short bark of laughter ran right through her, and his derision made her cheeks flame red.

‘You really believe that?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Then you’re dreaming.’

‘Perhaps if you’d allow me to explain how everything works—’

‘You still couldn’t come up with anything to reassure me.’

This was her most challenging project yet. But she had never failed before. Not once. No one had ever refused to take part in one of her programmes, and she wasn’t going to let Rico Cortes start a trend.

‘Have the effects of that drink worn off yet?’

He couldn’t wait to get rid of her, Zoë guessed. ‘Yes, they have.’ Hard luck. She was firing on all cylinders now.

He turned away. Evidently as far as Rico was concerned their discussion had come to an end. He couldn’t have cared less about her programme—he just didn’t want her blood on his hands when she tumbled over a cliff after drinking the local hooch at his precious flamenco camp. ‘We haven’t finished talking yet!’ she shouted after him.

‘I have.’

As he turned to stare at her Zoë wondered if he could sense the heat building up in her. His slow smile answered that question, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not when he walked back towards her. ‘Please, let me reassure you. I don’t pose a threat to you or to anyone else here. I’m just trying to—’

‘Find out more about flamenco?’

‘That’s right.’

As their eyes met and locked Zoë shivered inwardly. Rico was exactly the type of man she had vowed to avoid. ‘It’s getting late.’ She looked hopefully at the sky. ‘Perhaps you are right. This isn’t the time—’

‘Don’t let me drive you away,’ he sneered.

She was painfully aware of his physical strength, but then something distracted her. A broken chord was played with great skill on a guitar, so soft it was barely discernible above the laughter and chatter—but this was what she had come for. Silence fell, and everyone turned towards a small wooden stage. Lit by torchlight, it had been erected on the edge of the cliff, where it could catch the slightest breeze from the valley.

‘Since you’re here, I suppose you might as well stay for the performance.’

Rico’s invitation held little grace, but she wasn’t about to turn it down.

He cut a path through the crowd, and Zoë followed him towards the front of the stage. She could see the man with the guitar now, seated on a stool at one corner of the stage, his head bowed in concentration as he embraced the guitar like a lover. Then an older woman walked out of the audience and went to join him. Resting her hands on her knees to help her make the steep ascent up the wooden steps to the stage, she looked her age, but when she straightened up Zoë saw an incredible transformation take place.

Giving the audience an imperious stare, the woman snatched up her long black skirt in one hand and, raising the other towards the sky, she stamped her foot once, hard.

A fierce energy filled the air as the woman began her performance. Zoë had no idea that Rico was watching her. She was aware of nothing outside the dance.

‘Did you feel it?’ he murmured, close to her face, as the woman finished and the crowd went wild.

‘Did I feel what?’ she said, moving closer so he could hear.

‘Duende.’

As he murmured the word she looked at his mouth. ‘Duende.’ Zoë tasted the word on her own lips. It sounded earthy and forbidden, like Rico Cortes. She sensed that both had something primal and very dangerous at their core.

‘You wanted real flamenco,’ he said, drawing Zoë back to the purpose of her visit. ‘Well, this is real flamenco. This is wild, impassioned art at its most extreme. Are you ready for that, Zoë Chapman?’

She heard the doubt in his voice. Perhaps he saw her as a dried-up husk, incapable of feeling passion of any sort—and why not? He wouldn’t be the first man to think that. ‘I’m just really grateful to have this chance to see flamenco at its best.’

‘You don’t see flamenco. You feel it.’

‘I know that now.’ He thought of her as a tourist out for a cheap thrill, Zoë realised. But she was a long way from the tourist trail here. She was a long way from her old life too— the old Zoë Chapman would have backed off without a fight, but there was no chance of that now. She knew what she could achieve, with or without a man at her side. And she hadn’t come to Spain to be insulted. She had come to make a programme, a good programme. She wasn’t going to let Rico Cortes distract her from that goal. ‘Can you explain this word duende to me?’

‘You’ll know it when you feel it.’

‘What—like an itch?’

‘Like an orgasm.’

Zoë’s mouth fell open. Not many things shocked her. OK, so she’d been less than reverent in response to his cutting remarks, but it had been a serious question. She had been right about him. Rico Cortes was a man of extremes—a man who was looking at her now with a brooding expression on his face, no doubt wondering if his shock tactics had been sufficient to scare her off.

‘An emotional orgasm, you mean?’ She was pleased with her composure under fire.

‘That’s right.’

There was a spark of admiration in his eyes. It gave her a rush—maybe because there was passion in the air long after the woman’s performance had ended. Vibrations from the flamenco seemed to have mixed with his maleness, taking her as close to duende as she would ever get. She held his gaze briefly, to prove that she could, and found it dark and disconcerting. Her body was trembling with awareness, as if an electric current had run through her.

‘So, you have taken a summer lease on Castillo Cazulas,’ he said, staring down at her as if he knew what she was feeling. ‘And you want to make a programme about flamenco. Why here, of all places? Hardly anyone outside the village knows about the Confradias Cazulas flamenco camp.’

‘People who know about flamenco do. And I enjoyed the walk.’

‘But how will you find your way back again? It’s almost dark.’

He was right, but she was prepared. ‘I have this.’ Digging in her pocket, Zoë pulled out her flashlight. Suddenly it didn’t seem adequate. She should have remembered how fast daylight disappeared in Spain. It was as if the sun, having blazed so vigorously all day, had worn itself out, and dropped like a stone below the horizon in minutes.

They both turned as some more dancers took the stage. They were all talented, but none possessed the fire of the first woman. She had already found her guest artist, Zoë realised, but she would still need an introduction.

Glancing up, she knew that Rico was her best chance. But there were man waves coming off him in torrents, and he smelled so good—like pine trees and wood smoke. His sexual heat was curling round her senses like a blanket. And lowering her guard! She hadn’t come to Spain to indulge in an adolescent fantasy over some arrogant stud. Her interest in flamenco was purely professional. Work was all she cared about; a new man figured nowhere in her plans.

By the time the stage had cleared again it was pitch-dark, with no moon. Quite a few people had come by car, parking in a clearing not too far away. Zoë watched with apprehension as their headlights glowed briefly before disappearing into the night.

‘You really think that little light of yours is going to be enough?’ Rico said, as if reading her mind.

Zoë glanced at him. ‘It will have to be.’ Shoving her hands in the pockets of her track suit, she tilted her chin towards the stage. ‘Was that the last performance for tonight?’

‘You want more?’

‘How much would it cost to hire someone like that first performer—the older woman?’

She saw an immediate change in his manner.

‘All the money on earth couldn’t buy talent like that. You certainly couldn’t afford it.’

Zoë bit back the angry retort that flew to her lips. This was no time for temperament: everyone was leaving—the woman too, if she didn’t act fast. Their gazes locked; his eyes were gleaming in the darkness. This man frightened her, and she knew she should turn away. But she couldn’t afford to lose the opportunity.

‘I’m sorry—that was clumsy of me. But you can’t blame me for being carried away by that woman’s performance—’

‘Maria.’ His voice was sharp.

‘Maria,’ Zoë amended. She felt as if she was treading on eggshells, but his co-operation was crucial. She generally made a very convincing case for appearing on the show. Right now, she felt like a rank amateur. There was something about Rico Cortes that made her do and say the wrong thing every time. ‘Maria’s performance was incredible. Do you think she would dance for me?’

‘Why on earth would she want to dance for you?’

‘Not for me, for my show. Do you think Maria would agree to dance on my programme?’

‘You’d have to ask her yourself.’

‘I will. I just wanted to know what you thought about it first.’ Zoë suspected nothing happened in Cazulas without Rico’s say-so.

‘It depends on what you can offer Maria in return.’

‘I would pay her, of course—’

‘I’m not talking about money.’

‘What, then?’

A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘You would have to win her respect.’

Did he have to look so sceptical? ‘And what do you think would be the best way to do that?’

They were causing some comment, Zoë noticed, amongst the few people remaining, with this exchange, conducted tensely head to head. It couldn’t be helped. She had to close the deal. She wasn’t about to stop now she had him at least talking about the possibility of Maria appearing on the show.

‘You’d have to bargain with her.’

An opening! Maybe not a door, but a window—she’d climb through it. ‘What do you suggest I bargain with?’ She smiled, hoping to appeal to his better nature.

‘Are you good at anything?’ Rico demanded.

Apart, that was, from joining the hordes who spied on him and the idiots who thought an important part of his heritage had the same value as the cheap tourist tat along the coast. She had manoeuvred him into starting negotiations with her, though. She was sharper than most. He should have got rid of her right away, but his brain had slipped below his belt.

He shouldn’t have stayed away from Cazulas for so long. He should have kept a tighter hold on who was allowed into the village. But he had trusted such things to a management company. He wouldn’t be doing that again.

‘I don’t just make programmes,’ she said, reclaiming his attention. ‘I present them.’

‘I apologise.’ He exaggerated the politeness. ‘Apart from your ability to make programmes and present them, what do you have to bargain with that might possibly interest Maria?’

‘I cook.’

Removing her hands from her pockets, she planted them on her hips. She smiled—or rather her lips tugged up at an appealing angle while her eyes blazed defiance at him. Her manner amused him, and attracted him too. ‘You cook?’

‘Is there something wrong with that?’

‘No, nothing at all—it’s just unexpected.’

‘Well, I don’t know what you were expecting.’

Just as well. He had been running over a few things that would definitely make it to the top of his wish list, and cooking wasn’t one of them. Outsiders were practically non-existent in the mountains. It was a rugged, difficult terrain, and yet Zoë Chapman, with her direct blue-green gaze and her wild mop of titian hair, had come alone and on foot, with a flashlight as her only companion, to find—what had she expected to find?

Rico’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. In his experience, women made careful plans; they didn’t just turn up on the off chance. ‘We’ll discuss this some other time. I’ll have someone see you home.’

‘When I’ve spoken to Maria.’

Her mouth was set in a stubborn line. He liked her lips. He liked her eyes too—when they weren’t spitting fire at him. She was about five-five, lightly built—but strong, judging from her handshake. The rest was a mystery beneath her shapeless grey track suit. Maybe it was better that way. There were very few surprises left in life.

But this was one mystery parcel he had no intention of unwrapping. The gutter press could use subtle tactics to succeed. Zoë Chapman might be working for anyone—how did he know? The television company, even the programme she was supposed to be making, could all be a front. Cazulas was special—the one place he could get some space, some recreation—and no one was going to spoil that for him.

‘So, you’ll introduce me to Maria?’

She was still here? Still baiting him? Rico’s jaw firmed as he stared at Zoë. The sensible thing to do would be to cut her, blank her out, forget about her. But she intrigued him too much for that. ‘It’s not convenient right now—’

‘Who says so?’

‘Maria!’ Rico turned with surprise. ‘I didn’t hear you coming.’

‘That is obvious.’ The older woman’s eyes were bright and keen as she stared curiously at Zoë. ‘But now I am here why don’t you introduce us, Rico?’

‘She won’t be staying—’

‘I will!’

Maria viewed them both with amusement.

‘I didn’t think you would be interested in what Ms Chapman had to say,’ Rico said with a dismissive shrug.

‘So now you are thinking for me, Rico?’

There was a moment when the two of them stared at each other, unblinking, and then Rico pulled back. ‘Maria Cassavantes—allow me to present Zoë Chapman to you.’

‘Zoë,’ Maria repeated, imbuing Zoë’s name with new colour. ‘I have heard rumours about your television programmes and I would like to talk to you. Forget Rico for a moment. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?’

It was everything Zoë had hoped for—but forget about Rico? That was asking a bit too much. She saw him tense and she couldn’t resist a quick glance of triumph.

Rico was seething. What was Maria thinking of? They knew nothing about this Zoë Chapman—nothing at all. What set her apart from all the other female sharks, with their bleached teeth and avaricious natures? Maria hadn’t a clue what she was letting herself in for—she was playing with fire…

‘We should know more about your cookery programme before Maria agrees to do anything.’ He took a step forward, deliberately putting himself between them. ‘I don’t see how flamenco could possibly be relevant.’

‘If you’d only let me explain—’

‘How can I be sure you’re not wasting Maria’s time?’

‘I said I don’t mind this, Rico.’ Maria put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I would like to talk to Zoë and hear what she’s got to say—’

‘I promise you, Maria,’ Zoë cut in, ‘I’m not in the habit of wasting anyone’s time, least of all my own. And if you need me to prove it to you—’

‘I really do.’ It was Rico’s turn to butt in.

Maria was forgotten as they glared at each other. Then Zoë broke eye contact, allowing him a brief moment of satisfaction.

‘I’ll make everyone in the village a meal,’ she declared, gesturing extravagantly around the clearing. ‘How does that suit you, Rico?’

Now he was surprised. ‘That’s quite an offer.’ There was just enough doubt in his voice to provoke her, to brighten her green eyes to emerald and make her cheeks flare red.

‘I mean it.’

‘Fine.’ He lifted up his hands in mock surrender, then dipped his head, glad of the opportunity to conceal the laughter brewing behind his eyes. Somehow he didn’t think Ms Chapman would appreciate humour right now. But there were about one hundred and sixty souls in the village. She would never pull it off.

Ms Chapman. Who knew what was behind a name?

Rico’s gaze flew to Zoë’s hands. Clean, blunt fingernails, cut short, but no ring, no jewellery at all. He drew an easing breath. That was all he needed to know. It gave him the freedom to overlook his vow never to court trouble on his own doorstep again. ‘I shall look forward to it, Ms Chapman.’

‘Rico,’ Maria scolded him, ‘why don’t you call our new friend Zoë, as we’re going to be working together?’

‘So we are going to be working together, Maria?’

She sounded so excited. Rico ground his jaw and watched with concern as the two women hugged each other. Zoë Chapman wouldn’t win him round so easily.

‘I have never appeared on television,’ Maria exclaimed.

‘I’m going to make it special for you, Maria.’

Zoë’s promise grated on him. If she let Maria down—

‘I think we’ll make a good team.’ Maria looked at him and raised her eyebrows, as if daring him to disagree.

For now it seemed he had no choice in the matter. Zoë Chapman had won this round, but he would be waiting if she stepped out of line. Maria might have been taken in, but he wasn’t so easily convinced. The thought of an artist of Maria’s calibre appearing on some trivial holiday programme with a few recipes thrown in made him sick to his stomach.

As far as he was concerned, Ms Chapman had identified her quarry and had stopped at nothing until she got her own way. She was no innocent abroad. She had all the grit and determination of the paparazzi. That wary look he had detected in her eyes when she looked at him didn’t fool him for a minute. It was all an act. She was as guilty as hell. But Maria was right. He wouldn’t presume to make decisions for Maria Cassavantes, though in his experience third-rate television companies only dealt in plastic people; treasures like Maria were out of their league.

If he had to, he would step in to protect her from Zoë Chapman. But for now he was sufficiently intrigued to give Ms Chapman enough rope to hang herself. He would watch her like a hawk, and the first time she tried to cheapen or trivialise what Maria Cassavantes stood for both she and her television cameras would be thrown out of Spain.

CHAPTER TWO

‘CAN we talk business now, Maria?’

‘That sounds very formal,’ Rico cut in.

He was suspicious of her motives. She had to curb her enthusiasm, take it slowly, Zoë reminded herself. She usually got to know people first, before talking business. Building confidence was crucial. Contrary to popular opinion, not everyone wanted to appear on television. Usually she was good at choosing the right moment, but having Rico in the picture was making her edgy, making her rush things.

‘I know it’s late—I won’t keep you long.’ She glanced at Rico. ‘Perhaps if Maria and I could talk alone?’

‘It’s all right, Rico,’ Maria said soothingly.

‘I’d rather stay.’

Zoë looked up at him. ‘It’s really not necessary.’

‘Nevertheless.’ He folded his arms.

For Maria’s sake Zoë tried to bite back her impatience, but she was tired and stressed and the words just kept tumbling out. ‘Really, Rico, I can’t see any reason why you should stay. Maria and I are quite capable of sorting this out between us—’

‘It’s better if I stay.’

She could see he was adamant. ‘Are you Maria’s manager?’

‘They call him El Paladín,’ Maria cut in, interposing her not inconsiderable body between them.

‘El Paladín?’ Zoë repeated. ‘Doesn’t that mean The Champion?’ She only had a very basic knowledge of conversational Spanish to call upon. ‘What’s that for, Rico? Winning every argument?’

‘Rico is everyone’s champion,’ Maria said fondly, patting his arm.

That seemed highly unlikely—especially where she was concerned, Zoë thought. ‘Champion of what?’ she pressed.

‘Zoë likes her questions,’ Rico observed sardonically, ‘but she’s not too keen on giving answers about why she’s really here in Cazulas—’

‘And Zoë’s right about you,’ Maria cut in. ‘You don’t like losing arguments, Rico.’

‘I like to win,’ he agreed softly.

Lose? Win? Where was all this leading? Zoë wondered, suppressing a shiver as she broke eye contact with Rico. ‘We’re never going to win Rico’s approval, Maria, but I believe we can make great television together.’

‘What have you been telling this young woman, malvado?’ Maria demanded, turning her powerful stare on him.

‘Nothing. If you want to dance and she wants to cook, that’s fine by me. Only problem is, we know you can dance.’

‘Rico!’ Maria frowned at him.

‘My third television series says I can cook!’

‘There—you see, Rico,’ Maria said, smiling at Zoë.

‘And the connection between dancing and cooking is what, exactly?’ He raised his shoulders in a shrug as he stared at Zoë.

He would never go for her idea, but at least she had Maria’s support. She had to forget Rico’s insults and build on what she had. But he was one complication she could do without. He probably crooked his finger and every woman around came running. Well, not this woman.

Turning to Maria, Zoë deliberately cut him out. ‘This is the connection, Maria: the people around me inspire the food I cook on television. In this part of Spain the influence of flamenco is everywhere.’

‘So cooking isn’t just a hobby for you?’ Rico said.

Zoë stared up at him. He refused to be cut out. ‘No, Rico, it’s a full-time career for me.’

‘Along with your television company.’

Maria stepped between them again. ‘So you would like me to dance on your television programme to add some local interest to the dishes you prepare? Is that right, Zoë?’

‘Exactly.’ Zoë’s face was confident as she flashed a glance at Rico. ‘I’ll cook, you’ll dance, and together we’ll make a great team.’

‘Bueno,’ Maria said approvingly. ‘I like the sound of this programme of yours. Of course, any payment must be donated to the village funds.’

‘Absolutely,’ Zoë agreed. ‘Whatever you like.’

Maria smiled. ‘Well, that all sounds quite satisfactory to me.’

But not to Rico, Zoë thought. At least he was silent for now. ‘I have never seen anyone dance like you, Maria. You are fantastic.’

‘Gracias, Zoë. And you are very kind.’

‘Not kind, Maria, just honest.’ Zoë stopped, hearing Rico’s scornful snort in the background. What did she have to do to convince him?

She turned to look at him coldly. There were a couple of buttons undone at the neck of his dark linen shirt, showing just how tanned and firm he was. She turned back quickly to Maria. ‘When you appear, I just know the programme will come to life…’ Zoë’s voice faded. She could feel Rico’s sexual interest lapping over her in waves.

‘Don’t worry, Zoë,’ Maria assured her, filling the awkward silence. ‘It will be fine—just you wait and see.’

Zoë wasn’t so sure, and she was glad of Maria’s arm linked through her own as the older woman drew her away from Rico, towards the bright circle of light around the campfire.

‘Have you offered Zoë a drink?’ Maria said, turning back to him.

‘She’s had more than enough to drink already.’

‘Surely you didn’t let her drink the village liquor?’

‘It’s all right, Maria,’ Zoë said hastily. She could see the hard-won progress she had made winning Maria’s trust vanishing in the heat of a very Latin exchange. ‘Thank you for the kind offer, but I’ve already had some coffee.’

Rico was staring at her almost as if he was trying to remember why she made him so uneasy. But they couldn’t have met before. And he couldn’t know about her past; she was anonymous in the mountains. Television reception was practically non-existent, and there were no tabloid papers on sale at the kiosk in the village.

‘So, Zoë, when do I dance for you?’ Maria said, reclaiming Zoë’s attention.

‘How about Tuesday?’ Zoë said, turning back to thoughts of work with relief. ‘That gives us both time to prepare.’

‘Tuesday is good for me.’ Maria smiled broadly as she broke away. ‘On Tuesday you cook, and I dance.’

‘Are you sure you know what you’re taking on, Zoë?’

Rico’s words put a damper on their enthusiasm.

‘Why? Don’t you think I’m up to it?’

‘It’s what you’re up to that I’m more interested in.’

‘Then you’re going to have a very dull time of it,’ Zoë assured him. ‘I’m going to cook and Maria is going to dance. I don’t know what you’re imagining, but it really is as simple as that.’

‘In my experience, nothing is ever that simple.’

Zoë’s gaze strayed to his lips: firm, sensuous lips that never grew tired of mocking her.

‘Today is Saturday—no, Sunday already,’ Maria said with surprise, staring at her wristwatch. ‘It is well past midnight. I have kept you far too long, Zoë.’

‘That’s not important,’ Zoë assured Maria, turning to her with relief. ‘All that matters is that you’re happy—you’re the most important person now. I want to make sure you have everything you need on the night of your performance.’

‘Such as?’ Maria said.

‘Well—would you like to eat before or after you dance?’

‘Both. I need to build up my strength.’ She winked at Zoë. ‘Some people don’t need to build up strength, of course.’ She shot a glance at Rico. ‘But you had better feed him anyway. I’m sure he’d like that.’

‘I’m sure he would.’ Zoë’s gaze veered coolly in Rico’s direction. She might find him a few sour grapes.

‘Don’t take me for granted, Zoë,’ he said, ‘I might not even be there.’

‘Don’t worry, Rico. Where you’re concerned I won’t take anything for granted. I’ll expect you at the castle around nine?’ she confirmed warmly with Maria.

‘And I will dance for your cameras at midnight.’

Zoë felt a rush of pleasure not even Rico could spoil. She had accomplished her mission successfully, and there was a bonus—she had made a new friend in Maria. She just knew Maria would have what they called ‘screen magic’, and the programme in which she featured would be unique.

‘Rico, would you make sure that everyone in the village knows they are welcome to come and eat at Castillo Cazulas and celebrate Maria’s performance on Tuesday night?’ Zoë said, turning to him.

For a moment he was amazed she had included him in her arrangements. He had to admit he admired her guts—even if she did annoy the hell out of him. He should be there, just to keep an eye on her.

In fact, he could take a look around right now if he drove her back to the castle. Time to turn on the charm.

‘Don’t worry, no one loves a party more than we do in Cazulas—isn’t that right, Maria?’ He looked at Zoë. ‘You’ll be calling in extra help, I imagine?’

There was something in Rico’s eyes Zoë didn’t like. Something that unnerved her. ‘There’s no need. I’m not alone at the castle, Rico. I have my team with me—and don’t forget that cooking is what I do for a living.’

Turning away from him, she said her goodbyes to Maria, all the time conscious of Rico’s gaze boring into her back. He might as well have gripped her arms, yanked her round, and demanded she give him her life history. She could only think that having a woman set both the rules and the timetable was something entirely new to him.

‘How are you going to get home tonight, Zoë?’ Maria said.

‘I’ll drive her back.’

‘I’ll walk.’

Maria frowned, looking from Rico to Zoë and back again. ‘Of course you will drive Zoë home, Rico.’ She put her arm around Zoë’s shoulder. ‘It is too dangerous for you to walk, Zoë, and you will be quite safe with Rico—I promise you.’

There was something in Maria’s eyes that made Zoë want to believe her. But as she walked away Zoë could have kicked herself. Why hadn’t she just asked if she could take a lift with Maria?

‘Are you ready to go?’ Rico said.

‘I thought we’d already been through this.’ Digging in her pocket, Zoë pulled out her flashlight again.

‘Oh, that’s right. I had forgotten you were an intrepid explorer.’

‘I’ll only be retracing my steps—’

‘In the dark.’

‘Well, I’d better get going, then.’

She moved away, and for one crazy moment hoped he would come after her. When he did she changed her mind. ‘I’ll be fine, Rico. Really.’

‘What are you afraid of, Zoë? Is there something at the castle you don’t want me to see?’

‘Is that what you think?’ She ran her hand through her hair as she looked at him. ‘I can assure you I have nothing to hide. Come around and check up on me if you don’t believe me.’

‘How about now?’

‘I’d rather walk.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, Maria’s right. I can’t let you do that. It’s far too dangerous.’

Maria hadn’t left yet. Her friend’s truck was still parked in the clearing. She might just catch them. But Maria moved as fast as she had on the stage. Climbing into the cab, she slammed the door and waved, leaving Zoë standing there as the truck swung onto the dirt road leading down to the village and accelerated away.

‘Don’t look so worried.’

Don’t look so worried? I’m stuck at the top of a mountain in the middle of the night with a flashlight and the local brigand—who happens to have a chip on his shoulder labelled ‘media-types/female’—and I shouldn’t worry?

‘Like I said, I’ll drive you back.’

‘No way!’

‘You can cut the bravado, Zoë—there’s no moon, hardly any path, and this stupid little light won’t save you when you’re plunging down a precipice.’

‘Give that back to me now.’ Zoë made a swipe for her flashlight, but Rico was too quick for her.

‘It’s no trouble for me to drop you at the castle.’

‘Thank you, I’ll walk.’

She got as far as the rock-strewn trail leading down to the valley before he caught hold of her arm and swung her around.

‘You are not going down there on your own.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, really.’

Their faces were too close. As their breath mingled Zoë closed her eyes. ‘Let go of me, Rico.’

‘So you can mess up a rock? So you can cause me a whole lot of trouble in the morning when I have to come looking for your mangled body? I don’t think so, lady.’

‘Your concern is overwhelming, but I really don’t need it! I know these mountains—’

‘Like the back of your hand? And you’ve been here how long?’

‘Nearly a month, as a matter of fact.’ That silenced him, Zoë noted with satisfaction.

As long as that? Rico ground his jaw. Another reason to curse the fact he had stayed away too long. He couldn’t let her go—he didn’t want to let her go—and he wanted to find out what she was hiding. ‘You don’t know these mountains at night. This path is dangerous. There’s a lot of loose stone, and plenty of sheer drops.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘The road isn’t half bad.’

Somehow he managed to grace his last words with a smile.

She stopped struggling and looked at him, her bright green eyes full of suspicion.

‘Come on, Zoë, you know you don’t really want to walk.’ Charm again? New ground for him, admittedly, but well worth it if she agreed. If he took her back he could take a look around. He knew her name from somewhere—and not just from the television. But how did she affect him? Was she a threat? ‘It’s only a short drive in the Jeep.’

‘OK,’ Zoë said at last.

She was relieved she didn’t have to walk back in the dark. But as Rico dug for his keys in the back pocket of his jeans she wondered if she was quite sane. If it hadn’t been for Maria’s reassurances she would never have agreed to anything so foolish. She didn’t know a thing about Rico Cortes, and the day her divorce came through she had promised herself no more tough guys, no more being pushed around, mentally or physically.

‘Don’t look so worried. You’ll be a lot safer going down the mountain in the Jeep with me. Are you coming or not?’ he said when she still hesitated. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’

‘That’s right—and I have things to get ready for Monday morning.’

‘What things?’ Maybe he was the local brigand, and Monday was his day for mustering the troops. And she had agreed to take a lift home with him…

Zoë frowned as he opened the passenger door for her. Rico Cortes was as much a mystery now as ever, and it wasn’t like her. She was an expert at winkling out information. It was the secret of her success—or had been in the past.

The moment he swung into the driver’s seat beside her she fired off another question. ‘What keeps you in this part of Spain?’ He was larger than life, which went with the dramatic scenery, but he didn’t fit into the small-town scene at all.

‘I have many interests.’

‘Such as?’

He didn’t answer as he gunned the engine into life. The noise was supposed to distract her, she guessed. He was dodging her questions like an expert—almost as if he was used to dealing with the media.

Local reporter, maybe?

No way! And better not to ask—better not to get involved. She had only just won her freedom from an unhappy marriage. Divorce had come at a high price, even if the break had been like a cleansing torrent that washed most of her insecurities away. And she didn’t want them back again. Ever. So why had she agreed to take a lift back to the castle with a man she didn’t know? The only answer was that Maria liked him, and she liked Maria.

Was that enough? It had to be, Zoë realised as they pulled away.

Maria had said he was a fighter. El Paladín. Was fighting his profession? Zoë felt a quiver of apprehension run down her spine as she flashed a glance at him.

No, it couldn’t be. Not unless he was the luckiest pugilist alive. He was built like a fighter but his face was unmarked, and his hands, as she had already noticed, were smooth. And in spite of his casual clothes, and his life up in this remote mountainous region, he had polish. But then quite a few boxers did too…

‘Seen enough, Zoë?’

‘I’m sorry, was I staring? I’m so tired I hardly know what I’m doing.’

Rico could feel the sexual tension between them rising fast. Any other time, any other woman, he might have swung off the road and fixed it for them both. But he had to know more about a woman before he got involved. He wasn’t about to commit some reckless indiscretion Zoë Chapman could broadcast to the world.

He had learned not to court disaster on his own doorstep. She was luscious, but she would keep, and she backed off every time he looked at her. If she had kept her legs crossed all this time she would wait a little longer.

What if she was innocent? It seemed unlikely, but— No. Life wasn’t like that. Fate never dealt him an easy hand.

Guilty, innocent—it hardly mattered which. He would still go slow until he’d worked out what made her tick… Go slow? So he was going somewhere with her?

Rico smiled. He could feel Zoë looking at him. Life got too easy at the top of the mountain. He hadn’t had anything approaching a real challenge to deal with in quite some time.

Normally Zoë was a confident passenger, but Rico Cortes scared the hell out of her driving back down the steep track. He really did know the mountains like the back of his hand. And the speed he took the road, it was just as well—because the only faster way would have been over a cliff.

She was relieved to arrive back in one piece at the castle, and even more relieved when she talked him out of staying. He’d wanted to look around, but he couldn’t argue when she pointed out how late it was and that they would wake everyone up. But he would be back on Tuesday for the party—he made that clear.

This mess had to be sorted out before then.

Zoë groaned as she looked round the set. She had discussed the layout with her chief designer. But, according to the note she’d found propped up on the kitchen table, Carla had been called home to attend a family emergency and her young assistant had stepped in.

Zoë couldn’t be angry with him; she could see he had tried. But he had fallen a long way short of achieving the authentic look she had decided on with Carla. How could she expect Maria to take part in a show that featured a fake Spanish kitchen decorated with imitation fruit? It might look real enough through a camera lens, but it would never pass close scrutiny, and it would only reinforce Rico’s misconceptions about her work.

Why should he barge into her thoughts? She had more important things to consider—like rescuing the programme from disaster! Men like Rico Cortes were no good—great to drool over, maybe, but worse than lousy in real life.

Planting her hands on her hips, Zoë looked round again, but things didn’t improve on closer inspection.

Posters brashly proclaiming the title of her latest bestselling cookery book were tacked up everywhere, while garish bunting was strung overhead. The exquisite marble-tiled floor had been hidden beneath a hideous orange carpet, and in the centre of the shag-pile the open-fronted area where she would be filmed sat in all its plywood and plastic glory. Hardly any attempt had been made to mask the fact that it was blatantly fake. There was lurid fake greenery draped around the top, with plastic fruit tacked in clumps to the backdrop.

It would all have to come down, but it could wait until the morning. She couldn’t concentrate while she was so tired. She couldn’t concentrate while her thoughts kept straying back to Rico Cortes. A good night’s sleep would help her get over him, and then she would get down to work.

As soon as it was light Zoë leapt out of bed. The crew were due on set at nine for a technical rehearsal. That was when the lights, camera angles and sound levels would be decided upon. The best she could hope for was that they would sleep in. She didn’t have much time to strip the set and redress it, but it was important she had an authentic set in place for the rehearsal so there would be little or no change when she recorded the programme. She didn’t like surprises when the red light went on.

Half an hour later she had picked fruit straight from the trees and brought in a basket full of greenery from the shady part of the castle gardens. Each time she’d visited the market in Cazulas Zoë hadn’t been able to resist buying another piece of the local hand-painted pottery, and she now laid out her hoard on a working table along with the fresh produce.

She stared up at the plastic bunting.

Balancing halfway up a ladder wasn’t easy, but, working quickly, she got the bunting down, then moved to the ‘fishing net’ on the back wall of the set to flip out some more tacks. Then she still had to tackle the plastic castanets pinned up with the plastic fruit on the same wall. Proper wooden castanets were miniature works of art. They came alive in the hands of an artist like Maria. These plastic efforts were about as Spanish as chop suey!

Sticking the screwdriver she had found in a kitchen drawer into the back pocket of her jeans, Zoë glanced at her wristwatch and made a swift calculation. If she could get the rest of them down without too much trouble, she might just finish in time.

‘Talk about a relief!’

‘Are you speaking to me?’

‘Rico!’ Zoë nearly fell off her ladder with shock. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her knuckles turned white as she gripped on tight. She watched transfixed as he swooped on the clutch of castanets she had just dropped to the floor.

‘Very nice,’ he said, examining them. ‘Which region of Spain do these represent?’

‘Bargain basement,’ Zoë tried lightly, trying to regulate her breathing at the same time. How could any man look so good so early in the morning after hardly any sleep? It just wasn’t human. ‘How did you get in?’ she said, as it suddenly struck her that she would never have gone to bed and left the front door wide open.

He ignored her question—and her attempted humour. ‘What is all this rubbish?’

Coming down the ladder as quickly as she could in safety, Zoë faced him. ‘The set for my television show.’ Her appreciative mood was evaporating rapidly. She had never seen such scorn on anyone’s face.

‘I gathered that.’ He stared around with disapproval.

OK, so it was a mess—but it was her mess, and she would sort it out. Zoë could feel her temper rising. According to the lease, at this moment Castillo Cazulas belonged to her. She could do with it what she liked. And if plastic castanets were her style, Señor Testosterone would just have to put up with it.

Reaching out, she took them from him. ‘Thank you.’ His hands felt warm and dry. They felt great. ‘Can I help you with anything?’ Her voice was cool, but she was trembling inside.

‘Yes, you can. You can get all this trash out of here.’

‘Trash?’

‘You heard me. I want it all removed.’

‘Oh, you do?’ Zoë said, meeting his stare. ‘And what business is it of yours, exactly?’

Ignoring her question, Rico paced the length of the set, shoulders hunched, looking like a cold-eyed panther stalking its prey. ‘You can’t seriously expect an artist of Maria’s calibre to perform in this theme park?’

‘No, of course I don’t—’

‘Then get all this down! Get rid of it! Do whatever you have to do to put it right—just don’t let me see it the next time I’m here.’

‘Next time? There doesn’t have to be a next time, Rico,’ Zoë assured him with a short, humourless laugh.

‘Oh, forgive me.’ He came closer. ‘I thought you invited me here for Tuesday.’

‘If you feel so bad about all this—’ Zoë opened her arms wide ‘—there’s an easy solution.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ll just withdraw my invitation, and then you won’t have to suffer another moment’s distress.’

‘That would be too easy for you.’

‘Easy?’ Zoë rested one hand on her head and stared at him incredulously. What the hell was easy about any of this? As far as she was concerned, nothing had been easy since she’d run up against Rico Cortes.

‘If you want Maria to dance, I’ll be here.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Zoë said sarcastically. ‘You own Maria. You make all her decisions for her—’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’

‘So what do you think is going to happen here, Rico? As far as I know we’ll be making a television programme. I’ll be cooking, Maria will dance, and everyone in the village will have a great time at the party. Is that so terrible?’

He made a contemptuous sound. ‘You make it sound so straightforward.’

‘Because it is!’ What was he getting at? Why didn’t he trust her?

They glared at each other without blinking, and then Rico broke away to stare around. His expression hardened. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to allow my friends to come to a place like this on Tuesday night.’

‘Oh, so now you own the whole village? I didn’t realise the feudal system was alive and well in Cazulas. I suppose it’s never occurred to you that my neighbours might be capable of thinking for themselves?’

‘Your neighbours don’t know what you plan to do here.’

‘What do I plan to do, exactly?’

‘You don’t respect them.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘You don’t respect their culture.’

‘How dare you say that?’

‘How dare I?’ Rico’s voice was contemptuous as he glared down at her.

He was close enough for her to touch—or attack—but she would never lower herself to that. She wasn’t about to lose control, like every man she had ever known, and let Rico add that to her long list of shortcomings.

‘You come here to Cazulas—Cazulas, of all the flamenco villages in Spain! And you try to tell me it’s just a coincidence? And then you bring Maria into it. Another coincidence? I don’t think so.’

She’d had enough. She wasn’t going to stand by and let him rant. ‘You’re right, Rico. Bringing Maria into my plans was no coincidence. The reason I asked her to appear on my programme is because she is easily the best dancer I have ever seen. She is certainly the best performer in Cazulas. That’s no coincidence; it’s a fact.’ Zoë couldn’t be sure if Rico had heard her or not. He was so tense, so angry—like a wound-up spring on the point of release.

‘You come here with your television cameras and your questions.’ He gazed around the half-finished set contemptuously. ‘You throw together some cheap items and pass it off as a Spanish setting. You really think that’s going to convince me that you’re putting together some worthy programme about cultural influences on Spanish cooking? You must think I’m stupid.’

‘You’re certainly mistaken.’ But she could see that he might think she was putting up the plastic rubbish, rather than taking it down.

He was so still, so keyed up, he reminded her of a big cat before it pounced. Zoë was beginning to ache with holding herself so stiffly. She sagged with relief when he pulled away from her with a jerk.

‘I’ll be back to check up on you later. If this rubbish isn’t removed by then you can forget Tuesday. Maria will not be dancing for you.’

‘Doesn’t Maria have a mind of her own?’

Rico was already striding towards the door. He stopped dead. He couldn’t believe that she would still dare to challenge him. ‘Yes, of course Maria has a mind of her own. She will take one look at this mess and refuse to dance.’

‘Oh, get out!’

As he wheeled around he saw the local produce—fresh fruit, greenery, even some attractive pieces of hand-painted pottery. His lips curled in a sneer of contempt. Someone had planned to do something classy for the programme, something appropriate to the area. What a shame Zoë Chapman didn’t have any taste.

She really was no better than the rest. Even if she didn’t work at the gutter end of television, he would not stand by and see her discard Maria the moment her usefulness was at an end. Maria was too soft-hearted for her own good. It was up to him to protect her from people like Zoë Chapman.

Zoë jumped as the door slammed. Contempt for the disastrous set was about where her dial was pointing, too. But that didn’t give Rico Cortes the right to come storming in, ordering her about.

Snatching a plastic parrot down from his perch, she tossed it into the bin bag with the rest of the rubbish. She hated being caught on the back foot, hated leaving Rico Cortes with the impression that this was all her doing. Most of all she hated the fact that he was coming back to check up on her later. Who the hell did he think he was?

But it would have been far worse still if he hadn’t planned to come back at all.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS all Rico could do to stay away from the castle. It was barely noon. He had planned to return around late afternoon, but every moment since leaving the castle had been torture.

He had never witnessed such desecration in his life. That was the only reason he was pressing his heel to the floor now. He ground his jaw with satisfaction as the Jeep surged forward. Zoë wouldn’t expect him until later, and a surprise visit always revealed more than a planned return. With any luck he would catch her unawares.

Maybe she wasn’t the type of tabloid journalist he loathed, but she was still as shallow as the rest, still ignorant of the precious heritage Maria carried forward in the village.

Before he’d left the castle that morning he’d found a member of the television crew, who had assured him they would still be in rehearsal at midday. The youth had also confessed that he was responsible for the set design.

What type of television company used boys fresh out of college for such responsible work? If she owned a decent television company, why didn’t she have a proper set designer? Plastic parrots! What the hell did she think she was filming? Treasure Island? And what kind of programme had sets dressed with garish rubbish? He could think of a few cable channels that might have gone down that route, and none of them was respectable.

He’d seen Zoë up a ladder dressed in figure-hugging jeans and a skimpy top, instead of her shapeless track suit—and he’d heard her harangue him. He knew now she could play angel or vamp with equal zest.

Glancing at his watch, Rico smiled grimly. He had timed it just right. The rehearsal should have started. He would check out what line of entertainment Zoë Chapman was really in. Anticipation surged through him. Even through the red mist of his rage this morning she’d looked sensational. Pin-thin women weren’t his style, and there was nothing pin-like about Ms Chapman. What would she wear to play her plastic castanets? She had curves that would have done credit to a Rubens.

Slowing the Jeep as he approached the ancient stonework, Rico picked up speed as he hit the long main drive. Accelerating down the avenue of cypress trees, he gave a final spin of the wheel and turned into the familiar cobbled courtyard.

Leaning back with his arms folded against a door at the far end of the Great Hall, he didn’t announce his presence, just stood watching in silence. No one noticed him in the shadows. All the focus was on Zoë, in front of the camera.

Even he had to admit the transformation to the set was marked. In place of the fairground bunting and fake castanets there was a plain wooden butcher’s block upon which she appeared to be chopping a mountain of herbs. She had a collection of wine bottles at her side, and from their shape he recognised a couple as coming from pretty decent cellars.

Rico began to feel increasingly uncomfortable as he watched Zoë working—and he never felt uncomfortable. But then, he had never misjudged anyone quite so badly before.

She couldn’t possibly have thrown all this together in a few minutes. It had to be how she always worked—she was too familiar with everything around her for it to be a sham. Brass pots gleamed brightly on the cooking range, and the implements suspended from an overhead rail were all steel, with not a single gimmick in sight. There were wooden bowls close to hand on the counter where she was working, as well as several white porcelain saucers—bearing a selection of spices, he supposed. Next to them a large, shallow blue and white ceramic bowl overflowed with fresh vegetables. Maybe there were a lot of other things he couldn’t trust about her, but this was real enough. He had to give her credit for that.

Zoë worked quickly and deftly, her small hands moving instinctively about the necessary tasks as she addressed herself cheerfully to camera. She had charisma as well as beauty, Rico thought, and he felt a sudden longing to harness her smiles and turn them in his own direction.

But how was he supposed to believe she had turned up in Cazulas by chance? If he could talk her into having dinner with him, maybe he could find out. But it wouldn’t be easy after their ill-tempered exchange that morning… Easing away from the door, he decided to go. He had seen all he needed to see.

In between takes, Zoë’s glance kept straying to the door. Half of her wanted to see Rico again, while the other half dreaded him walking in unannounced. But she needn’t have worried because her director, Philip, had just wrapped the day’s filming and there was still no sign of Rico. Empty threats, Zoë presumed. Rico’s Spanish pride had taken a hit when she’d stood up to him. Or maybe she was just beneath contempt. That was probably it. His face when he’d seen the apprentice set designer’s attempts to recreate a ‘typical’ Spanish setting had said it all. He’d thought she meant to trivialise everything he held dear.

And what was the point of trying to explain when he never listened? But he might have let her know if the others still planned to come on Tuesday night. If he had put them off… She would have to make sure he hadn’t talked Maria out of appearing on the programme or she would be facing disaster. Perhaps she should go back to the mountains and find out what was happening?

Zoë was still frowning when one of the girls in the crew asked if she would like to eat with them in the local café that evening. ‘I’d really love to come with you,’ she said honestly, ‘but there’s something else I have to do first.’

Was all this totally necessary for a trek into the mountains? Zoë asked herself wryly as she craned her neck to check her rear view in the elegant console mirror. Of course she could always take off the snug-fitting jeans and replace them with a dirndl skirt… No way! And what about the blouse: ever so slightly see-through, with just one too many buttons left undone? OK, so maybe that was going a step too far. She fastened it almost to the neck. Reaching for a lightweight cotton sweater from the chair, she checked her hair one last time and then added a slick of lipgloss and a spritz of perfume.

Her eyes were glittering like aquamarine in a face that seemed unusually pale, Zoë noticed—apart from two smudges of red, high on each cheekbone. That was thanks to excitement at finally bringing the programme together. It was the culmination of a year of hard work. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that she might be seeing Rico Cortes again.

She had come to him. Rico subdued the rush of triumph before it had time to register on his face. ‘Ms Chapman,’ he said coolly. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’

Leaning back against a gnarled tree trunk, arms folded, he watched Zoë’s approach through narrowed eyes. Her unaffected grace was so like that of the dancers she admired, and she looked great in casual clothes. She wore little make-up, and her skin was honey-gold from her time in the sun. She was beautiful—very different from the glamorous women he was used to outside Cazulas, but all the more beautiful for that. The light was slipping away fast, and the sky behind the snow-capped mountains was more dramatic than any he had seen for a while: a radiant banner of violet and tangerine—the perfect backdrop for their latest encounter. The night breeze was kicking up, rustling through the leaves above his head as she walked up to him.

‘You said you would come back to the castle.’

Her blunt statement took him by surprise—a pleasant one. ‘I did come back, but you were working.’

That rather took the wind out of her sails, Zoë thought, but her heart was still thumping so violently she felt sure Rico would be able to hear it. ‘I see.’ She was relieved to sound so cool. ‘I trust the changes I made met with your exacting standards?’

He gave a short laugh and relaxed. ‘You did a great job, Zoë. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Nothing stronger than orange juice!’

‘Fine by me.’

He gestured that she should follow him, and his impressive rear view led her to silently praise the inventor of close-fitting jeans.

It was too early for the campfire to be lit, but there were still quite a lot of people around. Most of them were waiting for the children to finish their dance class. This meeting place served a number of functions, Zoë realised. There was the social side, and the performance opportunities, as well as the very valuable teaching that went on to preserve tradition.

She could see the youngsters now, tense with excitement and anticipation as they clustered around their dance teacher, listening to what she had to say. In another area a couple of the boys were sitting at the feet of the guitarist who had played for Maria, watching engrossed as his agile fingers rippled across the strings.

Pouring them both some juice from a covered jug that had been left for the children on a trestle table, Rico handed a glass to Zoë and then took her to sit with him on a flat rock out of the way. Crossing one leg over the other, he rested his chin on his hand as he listened to the music.

The low, insistent rhythm of the solo guitar was the perfect soundtrack for Rico Cortes, Zoë thought, glancing at him surreptitiously as she sipped her drink. Dressed in simple black jeans and a black top, he made her heart judder, he looked so good. The close-fitting top defined every muscle and sinew across the wide spread of his shoulders, and the jeans moulded thighs powerful enough to control a wild stallion, or a woman…

‘You’re far too early to see any of the adult performers dance, you know,’ he said, his gaze lingering on Zoë’s face as the guitarist picked out a particularly plangent arpeggio.

‘I haven’t come to see them,’ she said, meeting his gaze steadily.

‘Oh?’ A crooked smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

‘Or you,’ she said immediately. ‘I hoped I might find Maria.’

‘Well, you will—but you can’t talk to her yet. So you might just as well settle back and enjoy the children rehearsing for our fiesta.’

‘Fiesta? That must be fun.’ Zoë turned to watch them. ‘Does everyone take part in the fiesta?’

‘Why don’t you come along and see for yourself?’

She wanted to. She really wanted to feel part of Cazulas. Since the moment she’d arrived in the village she had felt an affinity with the area, and with the people. Rico made it sound so easy for her to become part of their way of life, but she wouldn’t be staying that long.

‘When will everyone else arrive?’ Zoë looked around. There were a few cars parked already, notably Rico’s rugged black Jeep.

‘Most people take a long, lazy siesta in the afternoon, when the weather gets hot.’

‘So Maria’s still in bed?’ Zoë could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. Where was she going with this line of questioning?

‘Many people are still in bed—but Maria is not one of them.’ Standing up, he beckoned to Zoë to follow him, and, walking ahead of her, he made for the stage where the children were still learning their steps.

Once again, he reminded Zoë of a big black panther. He had the same grace and stealth of a big cat, and made her feel very small by comparison. It was impossible not to imagine how it might feel to be enclosed in his arms and held safe. Or to be pinned down by those long, hard-muscled legs, and— Stop it! Stop it now! This was dangerous.

‘Zoë?’

‘Maria!’ Zoë exclaimed, throwing her brain into gear. ‘I’m sorry, I was daydreaming. I didn’t realise it was you dancing with the children. It’s good to see you again.’

‘Why have you come here? Not to see the children, I think,’ Maria said, tapping the side of her nose.

‘No—no, of course not,’ Zoë said, recovering fast. ‘I came to see you.’

‘Ah,’ Maria said, staring at her keenly.

‘I wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind.’

‘Changed my mind? About dancing on Tuesday, you mean?’ Maria said. ‘Why would I?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Zoë said, suddenly embarrassed at the weakness of her supposed mission. She was conscious of Rico watching them, arms folded, with the same brooding look that made her quiver. ‘I just wanted to be sure no one had put you off the idea.’ She stopped, thinking frantically for something to explain her visit. ‘After all, you don’t know me—’

‘Stop worrying,’ Maria insisted. ‘I will be there for you on Tuesday, Zoë. Your television programme will be made, and everything will turn out for the best in the end.’

Would it? Zoë wondered. There were moments when she wished she had never come to Spain. A fresh start was supposed to be just that—not a rerun with a matching set of characters that just happened to have different names.

Was she overreacting? She really hoped so. Men like Rico had always been her downfall: big, powerful men like her ex-husband. Men who oozed testosterone through every pore; men who made her believe she could be desirable and might even find sexual fulfilment with them.

Unconsciously, Zoë made a small sound of despair. She was a sexual oddity—and likely to remain so. She was frightened of sex, it always hurt, and she wasn’t sure how to improve the situation. Her husband had grown tired of her excuses. She had made him hate her. Small wonder they had divorced.

But that was behind her now. She had rebuilt her life. She couldn’t allow anyone, especially Rico Cortes, to fan her past insecurities into flame…

‘Zoë?’ Maria asked softly. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ Collecting herself, Zoë spoke firmly and smiled. ‘Now,’ she added quickly, before Maria could probe any deeper, ‘I’d like to discuss my outline plan for the programme in which you’re to appear. I want to be quite sure you’re happy with everything.’

‘Bueno,’ Maria murmured softly, frowning a little as she allowed Zoë to lead her away from Rico.

The two women remained deep in conversation for some time. They were both on the same wavelength, Zoë realised. Maria was only too pleased to have the opportunity to bring genuine Spanish culture to a wider audience, and Zoë liked to present her food in context, rather than offering individual, unconnected recipes. This was her definition of lifestyle TV—a show that was genuine in every single respect—and now she had control over the content of her own programmes it was exactly what she delivered.

It was going to be really good, she realised with a sudden rush of excitement. Maria’s talent would imbue the show with her own special quality. Rico had correctly identified it as something that no amount of money could buy.

Glancing around, Zoë looked for him. But he must have left while she was talking to Maria.

‘Don’t look so sad,’ Maria insisted, chucking her under the chin. ‘I know what we will do,’ she added, getting to her feet.

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