Mediterranean Men Bundle

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  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 panthe
r. 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.

  Once again Zoë was struck by the difference in mobility between the Maria who had been sitting next to her and the Maria who performed on the stage—the one so fluid and graceful, the other showing definite, if gracious, signs of her age. ‘What will we do, Maria?’

  ‘We will dance together.’

  ‘Oh, no, I can’t—’

  ‘You can walk, you can run, and you can jump?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course—’

  ‘Then you can dance,’ Maria told her sternly. ‘But first we must find you some clothes. Those will not do,’ she said, eyeing Zoë’s slim-fitting jeans and top. ‘You look like a boy. I want to make you look like a woman.’

  Zoë’s eyes widened. She was too polite to argue. And far too curious to see what Maria meant to refuse.

  Now she knew the secret of the wooden mountain house around which people congregated. It was packed to the rafters with the most spectacular clothes: rows of shoes, boxes of hair ornaments, cascading fringed shawls, and dresses by the score in every colour under the rainbow.

  ‘You’re so lucky to take performing under the stars for granted.’ Zoë peered out of one of the small windows at the darkening sky. Someone had lit the campfire, and flames were just beginning to take hold. It was such a romantic scene, like something out of an old musical film. The children were still rehearsing—not because they had to now, but because they wanted to. Their heads were held high, faces rapt, their backs were arched and their hands expressive. ‘The children are a credit to you, Maria.’

  Maria paused as she sorted through the dresses packed tight on the rail. ‘They are a credit to themselves and to each other,’ she corrected Zoë gently. ‘And if they can do it, so can you.’

  ‘Oh, no, really—I can’t—’ Her dancing was confined to her classes.

  ‘Who said you can’t? Here, try these on.’

  Maria brought her an armful of clothes and Zoë’s face broke into a smile. Maria was like a gust of fresh spring air behind a heavy rain cloud. It was impossible to be hooked by the past when she was around.

  ‘The colour of this dress will look good on you.’

  Zoë exclaimed with pleasure as she gazed at the beautiful lilac dress. Maria’s confidence was infectious.

  ‘You can put the dress on over there.’ Maria pointed across the room. ‘That’s where the children get changed—behind that screen. When you have it on, come out and choose some shoes to fit you from this row here. Don’t worry—I will help you to finish fastening the dress, and then I will do your hair.’

  For once it was a pleasure to do as she was told. Zoë knew she would dance, because Maria would give her the confidence to do so. She was excited at the prospect of trying something new, especially now Rico had gone. She wouldn’t have wanted to make a show of herself if he’d still been around.

  Maria was right; the low-cut lilac dress did look good against her titian hair. It moulded her figure like a glove down to her hips, where it flared out, and then was longer at one side than the other. She was showing quite a bit of leg, Zoë saw in the mirror, raising the skirt with a flourish. Just wearing the dress made her stand straight and proud, made her want to toss back her hair with the same defiant move she had seen Maria perform on stage.

  Dipping her chin, Zoë tried out her expression, staring fiercely into the mirror through a fringe of long lashes. A poster on the wall behind her caught her attention. The dark-haired young woman was incredibly beautiful. Passion blazed from her eyes as she glared straight into the camera. She had the sinuous frame of a top model, though was more striking than any model Zoë had ever seen. Her full lips were slightly parted and a strand of her long ebony hair had caught across them, giving her flamenco pose a sense of movement. There was a single word stretched across the top of the fiery background: Beba.

  ‘Bueno!’ Maria said with approval when Zoë finally emerged from behind the screen. ‘That dress really suits you. I knew it would. Let me just finish the hooks and eyes at the back for you. They are hard for you to reach.’

  ‘I feel different. It’s ridiculous, but—’

  ‘It’s flamenco.’ Maria laughed happily and stood back to look at Zoë. ‘Now you feel proud and confident, like a woman should. Come, I will arrange your hair for you. And then we dance!’

 
Taka taka taka tak tak tak…taka taka taka tak… She was doing it! They had practised for about an hour on the dusty ground, and now Maria had deemed Zoë ready for the stage where, working together, the heels of their shoes made a crisp, satisfying sound on the hard wooden floor.

  Breathing hard, her face fierce with concentration, Zoë thrust her head back as Maria had directed. One arm sweeping behind her back, she raised the other hand stiff, in a defiant pose, as if calling up some invisible energy…

  ‘Olé!’

  ‘Rico!’

  ‘Don’t stop now,’ Maria ordered sharply.

  But Zoë suddenly felt exposed and foolish. ‘I’d much rather watch you,’ she said, moving to the back of the stage. ‘You haven’t danced a solo yet.’

  ‘I’m saving myself,’ Maria said sardonically. ‘Whereas you, Zoë, are hiding yourself.’

  ‘That’s not true…’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Maria demanded as Rico approached the stage.

  ‘Why did you stop?’ He stared up at Zoë.

  ‘I’m very much a beginner—I’m not ready to perform in public.’ Her heart lurched at his assessing look.

  ‘But from what I have seen you have potential—don’t you agree, Maria?’

  ‘Mucho potential,’ Maria agreed, but she made a disapproving sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth when she looked at Rico, as if she sensed some double meaning behind his words.

  ‘So, will you dance for me, Zoë?’

  Rico’s question had an alarming effect on Zoë’s senses. It was like every seduction technique imaginable condensed into a few short words. She would love nothing more than to dance for him, with this new and abandoned feeling rushing through her. Just the thought of being so uninhibited in his presence was tempting. She felt strong, and in control, and highly sexual—as if the dance had enabled her to plunge head first into a world of sensuality for the first time in her life. Sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, Zoë realised she loved the feeling. It was intoxicating—and extremely dangerous.