Firming her jaw, Zoë took a final look through the ropes at the empty ring. She still had to take a shower and prepare for the programme. Turning back to the castle, she hurried inside.
By the time she returned to the courtyard it was packed. Men had come from all over the region to test their strength. She guessed it was something of a marriage market too, judging by the flirtatious glances several groups of girls were giving their favourites.
The thought of Rico stripping off and stepping half naked into the ring was enough to make anyone shiver. Zoë tried hard not to react when she spotted him at the opposite side of the courtyard, surrounded by a group of supporters. At first she thought he was just greeting friends and she relaxed, but then he stepped away from the others and she saw he was naked from the waist up. Maria and the wise old tio from the village were standing with him; it seemed every soul in Cazulas had come to support him. They were a good-natured group, and cheered him on as he strode to the ringside.
Zoë turned away, but then she guessed Rico must have vaulted over the top rope, because the applause around her was suddenly deafening. She looked up. She couldn’t help herself. She had to see him for herself.
He was everything she found attractive in a man—and everything that terrified her too. It was impossible to believe that any of the other men had a physique to equal Rico’s, or could match the fierce, determined look in his eyes. He was, after all, the champion. Rico Cortes was El Paladín.
Zoë fought down the panic struggling to take control of her mind. He was about to become a guest on her programme—no one said she had to sleep with him. She shivered, feeling fear and excitement in equal measure as she watched him flex his muscles in the ring. The woman standing next to her shouted something in Spanish, and then grabbed hold of her arm in her enthusiasm.
All the women wanted Rico, Zoë saw when she glanced around. For one crazy moment she felt like climbing into the ring and laying claim to him herself. And then the television lights flared on and she was working.
Smiling for the viewers, Zoë looked properly for the first time at the ring. She had to observe everything carefully so she could provide an appropriate voiceover for the film.
Clinging to her responsibilities certainly helped her through. But how to describe how she really felt at the sight of Rico’s smooth, bronzed torso without turning her cookery programme into something for late-night viewing?
His belly was hard and flat, and banded across with muscle, whilst the spread of his shoulders seemed immense from where she was standing. And she couldn’t stop her gaze tracking down to where his sinfully revealing wrestling shorts proved that it wasn’t just the spread of his shoulders that was huge.
She wanted to look anywhere but at the ring—but how could she when she knew the camera would constantly switch between her and El Paladín? She had to stare up at Rico Cortes, and she had to applaud enthusiastically along with the rest of the crowd.
As the evening wore on the temperature began to rise. Rico was red-hot.
She would see it through because she had to. It was only a sport, after all, Zoë told herself. But by the time the bell rang and the first bout was over she was shaking convulsively from head to foot.
Making her excuses over the microphone to Philip, she eased her way through the crowd and went back into the castle, where she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom. Sinking onto the chair in front of the dressing-table, she buried her face in her hands.
How could she go back? Lifting her head, Zoë stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was pallid beneath her tan, and her hands were still shaking. She tried to apply some fresh lipgloss, and gave up. She couldn’t risk a smudge of red across her face. And why was she trying to make herself look appealing? Did she want to attract trouble? Was she asking for it again, as she had done in the past?
When the shuddering grew worse, Zoë sat with her head bowed until she’d managed to bring herself back under control. She had to go back outside again eventually. She couldn’t let everyone down—not Maria, not the tio who had helped her so generously, nor the film crew. And, most of all, she couldn’t let herself down. She had fought hard to get her life back. She had to get over this.
There was a soft knock on the door. Marnie, the girl in charge of Wardrobe, had brought her a fresh top to change into. It was identical to the one she was wearing—low-cut and sexy—and the brash cerise looked good with her jeans. It was meant to stand out on camera when she was in a crowd. It certainly did that, Zoë thought as she viewed herself critically in the mirror. The colour was identical to the skintight flamenco dress the girl named Beba wore on the poster at the mountain hut.
‘I’m going to change.’ She started tugging off the top.
‘You can’t, Zoë. What about continuity?’
‘I don’t care. I’m going to put on a shirt. If we have to reshoot, so be it.’ Zoë saw Marnie’s expression, but nothing was going to change her mind.
‘Do you need me for anything else?’
‘Marnie, I’m really sorry. This isn’t your fault. Just tell Philip I insisted.’
‘Well, it’s your programme,’ Marnie pointed out.
‘Before you go, could you redo my lips?’
‘Sure.’ Marnie smiled at her.
Marnie applied the lipgloss expertly, with a steady hand. Zoë knew it was more than she could have done. She checked in the mirror. ‘That’s great. Thank you. I’m sorry to have dragged you up here just for that.’
‘As long as I’m back in time to see Rico Cortes in action—’ Marnie winked at her ‘—I’ll forgive you.’
Zoë felt a chill strike through her composure, but forced a laugh as Marnie left the room.
She looked fine for the camera. The ice-blue of the shirt looked good against her tan, and complemented her red-blonde hair. She looked far more businesslike. She didn’t look sexy at all. It was much, much better.
The shots on set inside the castle went smoothly—too smoothly, Zoë thought, cursing her professionalism. They didn’t need a single retake.
‘The change of clothes is fine for in here,’ Philip advised her. ‘But of course you’ll change back into that cerise top again for ringside?’
‘No, Philip.’ Zoë shook her head. ‘I’m keeping this shirt on. We’ll just say the second half of the competition took place on another day—I don’t care, I’m not changing.’ She could tell by his face that Philip was taken aback. It wasn’t like her to be difficult or unprofessional.
The competition was in its final stages by the time Zoë returned to the courtyard. The noise, if anything, had grown louder. Philip had to cut a path for her through the crowd. Then she realised that he meant her to stand right up at the front, as close to ringside as possible.
‘Is this my punishment for changing clothes without warning you?’ Zoë had to grab Philip’s arm and yell in his ear above the roar of the crowd. She even managed a wry smile. But the moment he left her to return to his cameras Zoë’s throat dried.
Philip’s voice came through on Zoë’s earpiece, testing the sound levels.
‘You OK, Zoë? You sound as if you’re getting a cold.’
‘No, I’m fine—absolutely fine.’
‘Then it must be the excitement at seeing all those muscles up close. You can’t kid me,’ he insisted, ‘I know you love it—just like all the other women.’
That was the point. She wasn’t like all the other women. She wasn’t normal.
It was surprising how well you could know people, and yet know nothing about their private lives, Zoë thought, remembering that Philip had once worked for her ex-husband. He had been surprised when she had called time on their marriage, having thought them the perfect couple.
‘Do you want me in shot for the presentation of the prizes?’ she said into her microphone, clinging to her professionalism like a life raft.
‘I’ll want a reaction shot. You should have chosen something more glamorous to wear than that shirt. You look
so plain!’
Perfect, Zoë thought.
‘Never mind. It’s too late to do anything about it now. I’ll stick to head shots.’
She felt guilty because Philip sounded so grumpy, but it couldn’t be helped. She was more concerned about getting through the next few minutes.
Women on either side of her were clutching each other in excitement as they stared into the ring. One of them turned to her, gesturing excitedly, and Zoë looked up. Rico was standing centre stage.
The television lights drained everything of colour, but Rico’s torso still gleamed like polished bronze. The ghosts were hovering at Zoë’s shoulder as she stared at him. But he was laughing good-naturedly with one of his defeated opponents, and then, leaning over the ropes, he reached out to help the elderly tio of Cazulas into the ring.
Zoë frowned. She hadn’t expected that. Drawing on other times, other trials of strength, she had expected a grim face, a hard mouth and cruel eyes. But those trials of strength had been no contest. How could there be a physical contest between a woman and a powerful bully of a man?
Watching her elderly friend take Rico’s hand and raise it high in a victory salute, Zoë tried to piece together what the tio was saying with her very basic knowledge of Spanish. Finally she gave up, and asked the woman standing next to her if she could translate.
‘Our tio is announcing the prize,’ the woman explained, barely able to waste a second of her awestruck gaze on Zoë.
A heavy leather purse changed hands between Rico and the tio. ‘What’s that?’ Zoë shouted as cheers rose all around them.
‘A purse of gold,’ the woman shouted back to her.
But now Rico was passing it back to the tio. ‘What is he doing?’ Zoë said, looking at her neighbour again.
‘It is the same every year,’ the woman explained, shouting above the uproar. ‘El Señor Cortes always returns the purse of gold to the village.’
‘And what are they saying now?’ Zoë persisted, but the excitement had reached such a fever pitch she couldn’t hear the woman’s reply. After several failed attempts her neighbour just shrugged, and smiled to show her it was hopeless.
Rico was staring at her, Zoë saw, going hot and cold. What did he want?
Holding her gaze, he walked quickly across the floor of the ring, leaned over the ropes, and held out his hand to her.
Zoë glanced around. No one could tell her what was happening because everyone was cheering and shouting at the top of their voices.
Rico held up his hands and silence fell. Everyone was staring at her now, Zoë realised. She couldn’t understand it, but then Rico leaned over the ropes again and her face broke into a smile. She reached out to shake his hand, to congratulate him on his win. The next thing she knew she was standing beside him, with the spotlights glaring down on them both, and the tio was beaming at her while the crowd cheered wildly.
Rico’s mouth tugged in a grin and he held up his hands again to call for silence. After he had spoken a few words in Spanish the cheering started up again. ‘I choose you,’ he said, staring down at Zoë.
‘Me?’ Zoë touched her chest in amazement. ‘What for?’ Her heart was racing out of control. She couldn’t think what he meant. She couldn’t think—
‘You will find out.’ Humour warmed his voice.
Zoë laughed anxiously as she stared up at him. She could still feel the touch of his hands around her waist— Her thoughts stalled right there. She might have weighed no more than a dried leaf in his arms. Shading her eyes, she tried to read his expression, but he drew her hand down again and enclosed it in his own.
Taking her into the centre of the ring, he presented her ceremoniously to the tio, and Zoë forced herself to relax. What could happen with the tio standing there? She found a smile. These pictures would be flashed around the world. The last thing she wanted was to cause offence to an elder of Cazulas—a man who was her friend.
The tio seemed delighted that Rico had ‘chosen’ her, and embraced her warmly.
‘What’s all this about, Rico?’ Zoë asked the moment the tio released her and turned away to address the crowd. Someone handed Rico a black silk robe and she waited while he put it on.
‘You’re part of my prize,’ he said, when he had belted it.
‘I’m what?’
Before Rico could answer, the tio turned around. Television cameras were angled to capture every nuance in Zoë’s expression, and she cared for the tio’s feelings, so she forced a smile.
‘Do you understand our tradition?’ he said to her warmly.
‘I’m not sure.’ She didn’t want to look to Rico for answers.
‘Allow me to explain.’ The tio made a gesture to the crowd, begging their indulgence. Then, taking Zoë’s hand, he led her out of the spotlight.
‘It is our tradition. Having won the competition, Rico may choose any woman he wants. He chooses you.’
Incredible! Antiquated! Totally unacceptable! But the tio was looking at her so warmly, so openly, and he made it sound so very simple.
‘Don’t I have any say in the matter?’ Zoë was careful to keep her voice light.
‘Don’t worry—the custom is not open to the same interpretation it might have been fifty years ago, when I was a young man.’
Zoë managed a laugh. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ She smiled at him, and then glanced at Rico. The expression in his eyes suggested he would have preferred sticking to the old ways. Waves of panic and bewilderment started threatening to engulf her.
‘It is a great honour to be chosen,’ the tio coaxed. ‘Look how disappointed you’ve made the other women.’
Zoë gazed around to please him, but whichever way she turned she saw Rico.
‘All you have to do,’ the tio explained persuasively, ‘is to spend one night with him.’
‘What?’
‘I mean one evening with him,’ he corrected hastily. ‘My English is…’ He waved his hands in the air with frustration, making Zoë feel worse than ever.
‘I’ll do it for you—of course I’ll do it. Please don’t worry.’ This wasn’t about her own feelings any more, or just work. It was about showing loyalty to an old man who was only trying to uphold the traditions of his youth. ‘I won’t let you down.’
Zoë allowed the tio to lead her back into the centre of the ring. She wouldn’t let him down, but she was damned if she was going to play some antiquated mating game with Rico Cortes. She smiled tensely while the official announcement was made.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take a shower before I come back for you,’ Rico murmured, the moment the applause around them subsided.
‘Let’s get one thing straight, Rico,’ Zoë said, turning to face him. ‘I’m grateful you took me riding, and helped me out here with staff for tonight. But I don’t like surprises—especially not surprises that affect my work. The television lights are off now, the tio has gone to join his friends, and as far as I’m concerned the show’s over.’
‘And?’ His eyes had gone cold.
‘And I have no intention of becoming another of your trophies!’
‘Bravo, Ms Chapman,’ he murmured sardonically.
‘Why don’t you go and take that shower now? There are plenty of bathrooms in the castle.’
Rico’s expression hardened as he looked down at her—and who could blame him? Zoë hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but there was an engine blazing away inside her, and a voice in her head that said, Drive him away.
What had happened tonight—all the fighting, the sounds, the tension, Rico overpowering everyone… It was just too close to her nightmares. She tried telling herself that all his strength was directed into sport. She had seen him ride; now she had seen him fight. But another side of her said: This is Rico Cortes, El Paladín, the man who conquers everyone with his strength… Her mind was fogged with fear. Unreasonable fear, maybe, but she couldn’t shake it off.
The only thing she could latch on to in a world that was slipping away beneath
her feet was the thought that she must not let the tio down. She would keep her promise to him, spend the rest of the evening with Rico. But first she had to go and seek some space, some cool, quiet place where she could get her head together.
She should fix somewhere to meet up with Rico before she did that. ‘When you come back, Rico, I’ll be—’
‘I’ll find you,’ he said coldly, swinging a towel around his neck.
He vaulted over the top rope, dropped to the ground, and strode away from her without a backward glance.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE meal was everything Zoë hoped it would be. The tio stood up and told everyone that the paella was the best he had ever tasted.
Rico was sitting next to her at the top table. He turned when she sat down after accepting the enthusiastic applause. ‘Congratulations, Zoë. This has been a huge success for you.’
He was polite, but then, since he’d decided to trust her he was always polite. She wanted more. ‘It’s all thanks to the tio of Cazulas—’ But Rico had already turned away to continue his conversation with the young Spanish beauty seated on his other side.
Zoë’s smile faded. Rico had been cool ever since they’d sat down. It was understandable after her behaviour in the ring. But she couldn’t tell him why she’d felt so bad after the wrestling. The tio of Cazulas had embroiled her in some ancient fertility rite that had fallen flat on its face.
She had kept her part of the bargain, staying with Rico throughout the evening, though he preferred the company of the vivacious young woman sitting next to him. His back had been half turned to her for most of the time.
Zoë noticed people were still smiling at her and raising their glasses. She smiled back, raising her own glass, but it was a hollow victory. She was thrilled everyone had enjoyed themselves, but the one person whose enthusiasm really mattered to her was otherwise occupied. She had thought of changing tables, but it would only cause comment—and Maria would be dancing soon.
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