Mediterranean Men Bundle

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  ‘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.