Of course he wouldn’t kiss her. Men couldn’t stand women who pulled away at the last minute. It was every man’s idea of a turn-off. There were only so many knocks to his pride a real man could take. Wasn’t that what her ex-husband had told her? He was right, and this was the proof.
She collected up the reins. ‘I’d better get back to the castle. There’s still so much to do. I have to get to the market before all the best produce is sold.’ She turned Punto away from the water.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Rico insisted. ‘Why don’t I get someone to collect what you need?’
The breeze flipped Zoë’s hair from her face as she turned to him. ‘That’s very kind of you, Rico, but I prefer to choose everything myself.’
‘Force of habit?’
‘That’s right.’
They began to trot, and then the horses broke into a canter. ‘So, are you still coming tomorrow?’ She had to yell to make him hear.
‘Try and keep me away. Shall we race back to the castle?’
The challenge excited her. Urging Punto on, Zoë loved feeling the wind in her hair and hearing the sound of Rondeno’s hooves pounding after her. She knew Rico had to be holding back, and, snatching a glance over her shoulder, she laughed with exhilaration. Rondeno was far more powerful than her own mount, but she could almost believe Punto was enjoying this as much as she was.
The control Rico exercised over his mighty stallion was the biggest turn-on of all, and Zoë’s heart was thundering louder than the combined sound of both horses’ hooves. The friction of the saddle as she brushed back and forth was something new to her. She had never taken notice of it before, but now she was intensely and electrifyingly aroused. Leaning low over Punto’s neck, she begged the horse to speed up and carry her away from Rico—and away from temptation.
He had to dig his heels into Rondeno’s side to catch up with her. His laugh of pleasure and surprise was carried away on the wind because they were moving so fast. She was quite a woman. He liked her spirit. In fact he liked Zoë Chapman—a lot, Rico realised, easing up so they were galloping alongside each other.
Her lips were parted to drag in air, and there was a faint line of pink along the top of her cheekbones that had not been put there by the wind. Her lips were moist where she had licked them, and when she flashed him a glance he saw that her exquisite eyes had darkened to the point where only a faint rim of turquoise remained.
She was not leading him on even a little bit—she was sexually unawakened. The realisation sent arousal streaking through him like a bolt of lightning. So much sexuality packed into one woman with everything to learn about the art of love. Even if he’d cared nothing for her, he would still have had to find that a turn-on. But after Zoë’s fearful response to him sorting her out in the sex department was starting to feel more like a crusade. Her frustration was obvious—something had to give. And he wanted to be around when that happened.
As they approached the castle they both reined in, but Zoë kept the lead. She laughed, and smiled across at him in triumph.
The change in her was striking. Where was the cool professional businesswoman now? Where was the frightened girl who had pushed him away? Right now she radiated confidence. The grey cloud that sometimes hung over her had vanished; he hoped it stayed that way.
She wanted to feel this good for ever, Zoë thought as she sprang down from the saddle. ‘Thank you.’ She turned to Rico, smiling. ‘That was the best time I’ve had for—’
‘Ever?’ he suggested.
‘I should definitely try to ride more frequently. Perhaps I will, now I know I can take one of the horses from the stables here.’
‘The groom will always pick one out for you, or just tell him you prefer to ride Punto.’
‘I will.’ Zoë rested her cheek against Punto’s neck for a moment. ‘He’s the best—aren’t you, Punto?’
‘Don’t ride unaccompanied until you know the lie of the land better.’
Zoë’s pulse began to race as she gazed up at Rico. ‘I won’t.’ It was such an easy promise to make. With Rico riding next to her she would be in the saddle every spare moment that came her way.
‘The groom will ride with you if you ask him.’
Somehow she kept the smile fixed to her face. ‘That would be great.’
‘Adios, Zoë!’
‘Adios, Rico.’ He was too busy holding his black stallion in check to note her sudden lack of enthusiasm, Zoë saw thankfully. ‘I appreciate you taking me out.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ He wheeled Rondeno away.
I wouldn’t dream of mentioning it, Zoë thought, smiling to herself as Rico cantered away.
Turning, she viewed the elderly bow-legged groom with wry amusement. Riding was definitely crossed off her ‘must-do’ list for now.
CHAPTER SIX
TUESDAY was almost too busy for Zoë to give much thought to anything apart from cooking—cooking and Rico. Now she knew for sure he was coming, everything had gained an extra impetus. She wanted to make Maria feel she was part of something special, something that gave the exceptional flamenco dancer the recognition Zoë believed she deserved.
She was in the kitchen by nine, having been up at dawn to go to market to find the freshest ingredients for those dishes that could not be made in advance. On her return she had laid everything out on the counter to make one last check. But, however many times she looked at them, she couldn’t get past the feeling that there was still something missing.
She had decided upon a menu of clams à la marinara, in a sauce of garlic, paprika and fino sherry, with an alternative of zoque, the popular gazpacho soup made with red peppers and tomatoes. But for the main course she had called upon her secret weapon—a wise old man from the village who seemed to be everyone’s tio, or uncle. Zoë had been debating over the best recipe for paella, and the tio was the only person who could advise her properly, according to Maria, who had unexpectedly appeared at her side at the market.
Thanks to the introduction from Maria, the elderly expert uncle had approved Zoë’s choice of ingredients, after turning them over and sniffing for freshness. He had even demanded a heavy discount from the stallholders, reminding them, as Zoë would never have dreamed of doing, that they would be eating the food they had just sold to her when they came to the castle for the party that night.
‘Locals care more about the rice than the rest of the meal,’ the tio had said, patting his nose with one finger just as Zoë had seen Maria do. ‘It must be well washed if you want the grains to separate, and then the rice must be cooked in fish stock—never water—water is for soup. You must have caldo—sorry, broth—for your rice. And the yellow colour of paella comes as much from the noras—you would call them peppers—as it does from the strands of saffron you add to the broth. Did you enjoy your ride?’
Cooking methods and Rico in the same breath! Zoë knew her astonishment must have shown on her face.
‘It’s a very small village,’ the tio had explained with a smile, tapping his nose once again.
So it was, Zoë had thought, as she thanked him for his kindness.
Armed with quite a lot more local knowledge than she had bargained for, she had returned to the castle to prepare the main dish.
Balancing a cheap pan the size of a bicycle wheel on the counter, Zoë laid out pieces of chicken and squid, clams, scampi and rojas—large red prawns—with all the precision of a stained-glass window on top of a bed of rice, onion, garlic and peppers. Finally she added three types of beans and then some seasoning. Now the dish was almost ready for the oven.
She paused, inhaling the faint salty tang of the sea rising from the cool, fresh ingredients, her mind straying back to the earlier events of the day. How had the tio known she had been riding with Rico? Did everyone in the village know? Was it coincidence that Maria had found her at the market?
Suddenly Zoë wasn’t sure of anything. Had she imagined she could ride out with Rico, bathe in his glamour, and get away with it? Frowni
ng, she turned back to her cooking. She had already made some rich fish stock laced with strands of deep red saffron, and she poured that over the raw ingredients. Standing back, she had to admit she was delighted with the finished product.
The tio’s last piece of advice had been to wrap the paella in newspaper once it was cooked. Then the finished dish should be left for ten minutes for the rice grains to separate. But wouldn’t the newsprint spoil the striking colours?
Newsprint. Banner headlines. Zoë actually flinched as she turned away.
The icy fingers of the past were with her again, clutching at her heart. Star Sells Sex. Three words that damned her for ever in her own mind, even though they were lies. As far as the world at large was concerned, the story had brought her to wider public notice, and, in the topsy-turvy way of celebrity, had actually boosted her career. Going along with public perception had actually helped her to get through things. Keeping a smile fixed to her face had become such a habit that gradually the reality that lay behind the headline had been consigned to the back of her mind like a sleeping monster.
The Zoë Chapman who didn’t appear on the television screen or at book signings was careful never to wake that monster—but she knew it would stir if she allowed herself to feel anything too deeply again. The shame, the failure, the brutality that lay behind it—all of that would rise up and slap her down into the gutter, where her ex-husband thought she belonged. So far she had frustrated his attempts to see her eat dirt, but it had been a long road back.
But she had made it back, Zoë reminded herself, and that was all that mattered. Every time the past intruded she pictured herself as a cork being held down in the water—she always broke free; she always bobbed up again. It was only men with brutally strong characters she had a problem with now. Men like Rico Cortes.
She had to get over this—get over him. She had to force her thoughts back on track. Perhaps she would wrap the paella in one of her huge, freshly laundered cloths when she removed it from the heat, and allow it to settle that way…
She could relax at last. The paella looked great on camera. It had been filmed at each stage of its preparation, and she had been sorry for the film crew, who had had to carry the loaded pan back and forth between the set in the Great Hall and the kitchen, where she was working.
Philip, her director, was demanding, but he was the best—which was why she had hired him. She trusted his judgement, and his decision to do things this way had kept everyone out from under her feet. Her own ‘to camera’ shots would be added later, when make-up and wardrobe had been let loose on her. It wasn’t easy to cook and appear as cool as a cucumber at the same time.
Now she had finished the paella, Zoë’s thoughts turned to pudding, which was her favourite part of any meal. She planned to serve a chocolate and almond ice cream, garnished with her own guirlache, which was crushed and toasted almonds coated with a sugar and lemon juice toffee. And there would be hot orange puffs dusted with sugar, as well as figuritas de marzapan, marzipan shaped into mice and rabbits for the children.
She concentrated hard, loving every moment of the preparation. Cooking was an oasis in her life that offered periods of calm as essential as they were soothing. She counted herself fortunate that her love of food had brought her success.
Resisting the temptation to sample one of everything she had made, Zoë finally stood back, sighing with contentment. It all looked absolutely delicious.
Someone else thought so too—before she knew what she was doing Zoë had automatically slapped Rico’s hand away as he reached for a marzipan rabbit.
‘Rico!’ She clutched her chest with surprise. ‘I thought it was one of the crew! I didn’t realise it was you…’ And then all she could think was that her chef’s jacket was stained and her face had to be tomato red from the heat in the kitchen. ‘I didn’t expect you until tonight.’
‘It is tonight.’ He gazed past her through the open window.
‘I must have got carried away. What time is it?’
‘Don’t worry. Not time to panic yet.’
Not time to panic? So why was her heart thundering off the chart? Zoë tried to wipe her face on her sleeve without Rico noticing. ‘What brings you here so early?’
‘I thought you might need some help. It looks like I was right.’
‘I’m doing fine.’
‘I brought drinks.’
‘Drinks… Drinks! That was what was missing!’ She turned to him. ‘I’ve made some lemonade to pour over crushed ice for the children, and for anyone who doesn’t drink…’
‘That’s fine, but you should have plenty of choice. It’s going to be a long night.’ Going to the kitchen door, he held it open and a line of men filed in. They were loaded down with crates of beer, boxes of wine and spirits, and soft drinks.
‘Cava, brandy, sherry, and the local liquor…’ Rico ticked them off, shooting an amused glance at Zoë as a man bearing a huge earthenware flagon marched in.
‘Oh, no—not that!’
‘You don’t have to drink it,’ he pointed out, smiling when he saw her expression.
‘You’re far too generous. Of course my company will pay for everything—’
‘We’ll worry about that later.’
‘The crew will drink everything in sight, given half a chance.’
‘Not tonight. Just worry about getting the white wine and cava chilled.’
‘What do you mean, not tonight? Once they’ve filmed Maria, and taken a couple of crowd shots, the crew will join in the party—’
‘Haven’t I told you not to worry?’ Rico slipped the lead man some banknotes to share around as tips.
‘You don’t know the crew like I do. I don’t want to spoil it for them, but, bluntly, with all this drink around—I just can’t face the mess in the morning.’
‘Let me assure you that your crew are going to be far too busy to get into any mischief. You have my word on it.’
‘Rico, what are you talking about?’
‘Your director has arranged for another feature to be filmed tonight. Hasn’t he told you yet?’
‘No…’ Zoë frowned. How could that happen when they always discussed everything in advance?
‘He is very enthusiastic.’
‘That’s why I hired him.’ She resigned herself. It had to be something good. She couldn’t imagine the man who was the mainstay of her team asking everyone to work late unless it was really worthwhile…
‘He’s got everyone’s agreement to work overtime,’ Rico added.
‘Can you read my mind?’
‘From time to time.’
Zoë looked at Rico, looked at his lips, then dragged her gaze away. ‘It must be an excellent feature.’
‘Last minute.’
‘Yes, I guessed that.’ She couldn’t be angry with Philip, though she was curious. She welcomed suggestions from anyone in the team. The strength of her company was that they worked together, with no one person riding roughshod over another. She knew from bitter experience that those tactics never worked. ‘Do you know what it is?’
‘A typical sport of this region.’
‘A sport?’ Zoë looked doubtful.
‘Something colourful and authentic for your programme.’
‘Don’t tease me, Rico. Tell me what it is.’
‘I’m going to get some extra glasses out of the Jeep.’ Before Zoë could question him further he added, ‘And by the way, señorita, your figuritas are delicious.’
So what was this surprise feature? Zoë flashed a glance at the door. Rico should have told her. He made her mad, and he made her melt too—a dangerous combination, and not something she should be looking for in a man. She wasn’t looking for a man, Zoë reminded herself firmly.
‘Tell me about this sport,’ she insisted, the moment Rico came back.
Putting the case of glasses down on the counter, he turned to look at her. Zoë tried not to notice the figure-hugging black trousers and close-fitting black shirt moul
ding his impressive torso, or the fact that there was something wild and untamed about him. It lay just beneath the sleek packaging, telling her he would never settle down. Men like Rico Cortes never did.
‘Wrestling.’
‘Wrestling!’ And then it all fell into place: El Paladín!
She shuddered inwardly. ‘Will you be taking part?’
‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve arranged for people to come and wash these glasses for you, and to serve tonight, so that after you finish filming you can have fun too. My people will clear up after the crew. You don’t have a thing to worry about. You should kick back a little, enjoy yourself for a change.’
‘Thank you,’ Zoë murmured, her good manners functioning on automatic pilot. Her brain was working on two levels: the first accepted the fact that she needed help on the practical side because she had promised the crew they could join the party after work; the second level was dragging her down to a place she didn’t want to go. Anything that smacked of violence, even a sport, made her feel queasy.
‘Wrestling is hugely popular in this part of Spain. When your director asked me about it, I knew I could help him.’
‘El Paladín?’ Zoë’s voice came out like a whisper, and she tried very hard not to sound accusing. It would make a good feature. If the programme was to reflect the area properly, it was just the type of thing she would normally want to include. ‘I’m always looking for authentic items to bring the programmes to life…’
‘It doesn’t get more authentic than this.’ Rico smiled at her on his way out of the door. ‘See you later, Zoë.’
Zoë watched with mixed feelings as the raised square wrestling ring was erected in the middle of the courtyard. A beautiful day had mellowed into a balmy evening, and there was scarcely the suggestion of a breeze. Wrapping her arms around her waist she knew she had to pull herself together and stop fretting. Half-naked men would definitely be a bonus for her viewers. She could do this. She had to do this. How hard could it be?
The ring was almost finished, and people were starting to arrive. Soon it would be showtime. Surely it couldn’t be that bad? She wouldn’t have to watch it all—though she would have to be in shot for at least some of the time.
Mediterranean Men Bundle Page 38