‘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—’
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