"COME here — come closer so we can see you," the male
voice commanded.
Cursing softly under her breath, Zoë Chapman slithered
down to the ground and straightened up. Uncomfortable but
invisible, or so she'd thought, she had been wedged into a
smooth crevice between two giant rocks, discreetly
observing the activity around the campfire.
She had located the flamenco camp and chosen her hiding
place before anyone arrived. Her unique and popular
cookery shows depended upon the co-operation of special
interest groups, but the fact that she worked on a TV
programme didn't make her welcome everywhere. She had
wanted to observe the dancing before she introduced
herself, just to make sure it was as good as was rumoured
in the village.
The man speaking now had arrived shortly after she had.
Back turned, he had stood gazing out across the valley.
She had seen nothing more than an aggressively tall male
figure, a shock of inky black hair and a wide sweep of
shoulders — in fact, everything she had vowed to avoid
since gaining her freedom.
As more people had joined him, she'd realised he was the
leader of the group. Why hadn't she been surprised? She
had wondered who he was, wondered about the quivers
running through her as she stared at him. It had made her
angry to think she had learned nothing since her divorce.
She was still drawn to dangerous men.
Now, walking up to him, she saw he was everything she had
expected: strikingly handsome, arrogant, and angry that
she was here uninvited. If this hadn't been work she would
have done the sensible thing, and left.
During the course of her television series she searched
out interesting people from all walks of life. Local
people in whichever country she chose to film were the
seasoning in her shows, the magic ingredient that lifted
her above the competition.
Generally she enjoyed the research. This time she had to
put her personal feelings to one side and hope the dancing
started soon. She couldn't let some local brigand put her
off. Forget the man! This was her target group. The only
thing that mattered was persuading someone to perform
flamenco on her programme.
Dance was Zoë"s passion outside of work. She knew she
would never make a professional, but part of her climb-
back after the divorce had been to join a jazz dance
exercise group. It had proved the best therapy she could
have chosen — though right now it looked as if all her
good work was being undone.
She could not have prepared for this, Zoë reminded
herself. She had not expected to run up against such a
strong character again quite so soon.
"Well, what are you waiting for?"
He beckoned her forward with a short, angry gesture, and
his voice was cold. It brought back memories she didn't
need, but she was like a terrier with a bone when it came
to work, and she focused her concentration easily. They
were attracting a lot of attention. Perhaps one of the
people around the mountain hut would agree to audition for
her programme?
The man held up his hand to stop her coming any closer. It
was close enough for Zoë, too. He was quite something.
Along with the aura of power and brute strength, she had
to admit he had style. Why did she have to find such a man
irresistible when she knew he had danger carved into the
stone where his heart should be?
Somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, he was around
six feet two or three, and his build was every bit as
impressive as she had thought from some distance away.
Everything about him was dark: his eyes, his hair...his
expression.
"Why have you come here?" he demanded. "I heard this is
where flamenco enthusiasts gather, and I want to learn
more about flamenco."
"So you can go home to England and show off to your
friends?" He made a derisive sound and clicked his
fingers, mimicking the worst of the shows she had seen
down on the coast.
"No, of course not. I..." His steely gaze remained fixed
on her face, but she couldn't let that get to her. "I am
genuinely interested in flamenco."
"Are you alone?" 'I am at the moment —"
He cut her off. "At the moment?" 'I know this looks bad —
" 'What do you mean, you're alone at the moment?" 'I'm
working with a television crew. They're not here right
now."
Could his expression darken any more? She tried to
explain, but her voice came out as a croak. Unconsciously,
her hand flew to her throat. She should have brought some
water with her. She had been at the mercy of the sun all
afternoon, and now she was desperate for a drink.
"Do you think I could have some water?" She gazed
around. "What do you think this is? A café?" But people
were drinking all around her. "I'm sorry, I —" 'Did you
think this was one of those cheap tourist places where you
get a free drink along with your paella and chips?"
"No!" She calmed herself. "No, of course not —" He
straightened up and moved a menacing pace towards her, and
all her courage drained away. Lurching backwards, she
nearly stumbled. She was only saved by the sheer bulk of a
man behind her. He was carrying a stone flagon and some
pottery beakers. He didn't understand when she started to
apologise, and poured her a drink.
She didn't want it. She just wanted to get away — back
down the mountain to safety, to where people barely looked
at her, where no one knew who she was or where she had
come from.
But the man with the flagon was still smiling at her, and
the situation was bad enough already. 'Gracias, señor."
Keeping watch on the brigand, Zoë took the beaker from the
older man and gratefully drank from it.
It was delicious, and tasted harmless — like fruit juice
and honey laced with some spice she couldn't name. The
beaker felt cool, and she was so thirsty she didn't
protest when he offered her more. The golden liquid
gleamed in the light as it flowed from the flagon, and the
elderly man filled her beaker to the brim.
"Salud!"
The alpha male's voice was harsh and unfriendly. Handing
the beaker back to the man with the flagon, Zoë raised her
chin. She felt better now, bolder. "Delicious," she said
defiantly, staring her unwilling host in the eyes. "What
was that drink?"
"A local speciality, brewed here in the village." 'It's
very good. You should market it." 'On your recommendation
I'll certainly consider it." His sarcasm needled Zoë, but
it also renewed her determination to go nowhere until she
got the feature for her programme. At any cost?
At the cost of a little charm, at least. "I really should
introduce myself."
"You really should."
Brushing a strand of titian hair from her face, Zoë stared
up and tried to focus. She hadn't realised the drink was
so strong. On an empty stomach, she was suddenly
discovering, it was lethal. She was in no state to object
when he reached forward to steady her.
His grip on her arm was light, but even through an alcohol-
induced haze she could feel the shock waves radiating out
from his fingertips until every part of her was throbbing.
He led her away out of earshot, to where a wooden hut cast
some shade.
"So, who are you?" 'Zoë — Zoë Chapman. Could I have a
glass of water, please?"
Rico thought he recognised the name, then brushed it
aside. It hardly mattered. She had damned herself already
out of her own mouth: a television crew! He might have
known. He grimaced, catching hold of her again when she
stumbled.
"I think you'd better sit down." He steered her towards a
bench, and once she was safely planted turned and called
to two youths. "José! Fernando! Por favor, café solo —
rápido!" Then, turning to her again, he said, "Welcome to
the Confradias Cazulas flamenco camp, Zoë Chapman. Now
you're here, what do you want?"
"It's good to meet you too —" '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.