beneath the veranda, Rico smiled up at her.
Zoë was surprised he looked pleased to see her. Had he forgotten what had happened between them the previous night? She had made a fool of herself. So why was he here? What had he come for?
‘Buenos días, señorita!’ Rico bowed low over the withers of his horse. ‘I trust I find you well this morning?’
His uncomplicated greeting bolstered Zoë’s determination not to slip back into her old ways. He wasn’t being scornful or cruel, he was just saying good morning.
‘Buenos días, señor.’ Planting her hands on the veranda rail, she smiled down at him.
‘You look tired,’ Rico observed as he sprang down to the ground. Swinging the reins over the horse’s head, he tethered him to a pole.
‘Do I?’ Zoë put a hand to her cheek. She had no intention of telling him why. ‘I haven’t had a chance to put my makeup on. That must be it.’ Then she remembered her shabby old pyjama bottoms, flapping in the breeze beneath her rumpled sweater.
‘You don’t need make-up.’ He took the steps two, three at a time. ‘But you do look tired.’ Pulling off his soft calfskin riding gloves, he slapped them together in the palm of one hand. ‘That juice looks good.’
‘It is. I’m sorry, would you like one?’
‘Thank you, that would be nice.’
The jug of juice was in the refrigerator in the kitchen. And he would need a glass. She would have the chance to slip out and change into a respectable outfit. ‘Please, sit down. I’ll go and get the juice for you.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, that’s—’ Pointless arguing with him, Zoë thought wryly, leading the way inside.
Every tiny hair rose on the back of her neck at knowing Rico was behind her, and as he held the door for her she could picture his muscles flexing beneath the close-fitting riding breeches, the turn of his calf beneath the long leather riding boots. And that was before she considered the wide spread of his shoulders, the powerful forearms shaded with dark hair, the inky black waves caressing high-chiselled cheekbones, slightly flushed beneath his tan after the exertions of his ride.
She could picture everything about him—his mouth, his lips—she could feel the scrape of his bristle on her cheeks, and she could remember all too clearly that she had pushed him away when he had wanted to kiss her.
Because she was frigid.
It was no use, Zoë realised as they walked into the kitchen. She would never be able to relax with a man like Rico. She would never know what it felt like to be properly kissed by him. But that didn’t stop her wanting to.
‘The work for this meal isn’t proving too much for you?’ He looked around when she had given him a glass of fresh juice. ‘You seem to have made enough for an army already.’
‘I’m never happier then when I’m cooking.’ She stared at him as he went to wash out his empty glass at the sink. She was so used to clearing up after people she knew she would never get used to this.
When he had finished, Rico turned back to her. He slipped one thumb into his belt-loop, and before she knew what she was doing Zoë had followed the movement. Feeling her face flame red, she redirected her gaze into his eyes.
‘It all smells wonderful.’ Rico smiled.
‘Thank you.’ Zoë’s throat seemed to have closed up. The riding breeches moulded him precisely, revealingly—terrifyingly. ‘Why are you here?’ Her voice sounded faint, and she was glad there was a table between them.
‘It’s such a beautiful morning I thought you might like to ride out with me—if you’re not too busy…’
She could hardly pretend to be when she had been lazing on the veranda when he arrived. ‘I’ve thought about riding lots of times since I got here, but—’
‘But?’
‘Well, I can’t ride like you.’
‘There are plenty of quieter mounts than mine to choose from in the stables.’
‘I’d really like that.’ Zoë frowned. ‘But I’d have to change.’
‘Go right ahead. I’ll wait for you.’
‘All right, then.’
Closing the door behind her, Zoë leaned against it for a moment to catch her breath. What was she doing? She closed her eyes. She couldn’t let her old life get in the way. She had fought her way out; she wasn’t going to slip back now. There was nothing wrong in riding with Rico. She could do with the exercise. The rest of the day was for shopping and cooking, so an hour’s recreation would be perfect. In fact, it was just what she needed.
Zoë changed her clothes quickly, putting on jeans and a shirt. When she returned to the kitchen Rico was gazing around at the changes she had made.
‘I trust you approve?’ Zoë hoped she didn’t sound too defensive. He put the pottery dish he had been examining back on the shelf. The changes were small, but it made the place feel like home—and that was no easy task in a castle.
She spent so much time in the kitchen it had to feel right. It was where she prepared everything, painstakingly testing each dish any number of different ways long before the cameras rolled on set. So she had hung some new blinds at the windows to control the flow of light while she worked, and there was a row of fresh herbs lined up in terracotta pots along the window-sill. She loved the local pottery. It was precious in a world where everything was growing more and more alike.
‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to do the filming in here?’
‘Yes, but my director felt there was more space in the hall, so I gave in to him on that point.’
‘Your director? He works for you?’
‘For my production company.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘No need to be. It’s not unknown in the television world for people to take the independent route.’
‘So whose fault was the set dressing?’
‘Mine,’ Zoë said quickly. ‘I own the company. The buck stops here.’
Rico’s lips pressed together as he stared at her, then curved as if he was amused. ‘Are you ready to go?’ He glanced towards the door.
As he held it open for her, and she walked past him, Zoë felt a tingle race down the length of her spine. The heady scent of saddle soap and leather laced with warm, clean man was overwhelmingly attractive, and her thoughts turned wilfully to what was beneath Rico’s breeches. She had never indulged in erotic thoughts before, always dreading where they might lead. But there was something about Rico Cortes that made it impossible to think about anything else.
Daydreaming was a dangerous game…
Once they were outside in the fresh air Zoë
