in my programme will invade your privacy—’
His short bark of laughter ran right through her, and his derision made her cheeks flame red.
‘You really believe that?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Then you’re dreaming.’
‘Perhaps if you’d allow me to explain how everything works—’
‘You still couldn’t come up with anything to reassure me.’
This was her most challenging project yet. But she had never failed before. Not once. No one had ever refused to take part in one of her programmes, and she wasn’t going to let Rico Cortes start a trend.
‘Have the effects of that drink worn off yet?’
He couldn’t wait to get rid of her, Zoë guessed. ‘Yes, they have.’ Hard luck. She was firing on all cylinders now.
He turned away. Evidently as far as Rico was concerned their discussion had come to an end. He couldn’t have cared less about her programme—he just didn’t want her blood on his hands when she tumbled over a cliff after drinking the local hooch at his precious flamenco camp. ‘We haven’t finished talking yet!’ she shouted after him.
‘I have.’
As he turned to stare at her Zoë wondered if he could sense the heat building up in her. His slow smile answered that question, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not when he walked back towards her. ‘Please, let me reassure you. I don’t pose a threat to you or to anyone else here. I’m just trying to—’
‘Find out more about flamenco?’
‘That’s right.’
As their eyes met and locked Zoë shivered inwardly. Rico was exactly the type of man she had vowed to avoid. ‘It’s getting late.’ She looked hopefully at the sky. ‘Perhaps you are right. This isn’t the time—’
‘Don’t let me drive you away,’ he sneered.
She was painfully aware of his physical strength, but then something distracted her. A broken chord was played with great skill on a guitar, so soft it was barely discernible above the laughter and chatter—but this was what she had come for. Silence fell, and everyone turned towards a small wooden stage. Lit by torchlight, it had been erected on the edge of the cliff, where it could catch the slightest breeze from the valley.
‘Since you’re here, I suppose you might as well stay for the performance.’
Rico’s invitation held little grace, but she wasn’t about to turn it down.
He cut a path through the crowd, and Zoë followed him towards the front of the stage. She could see the man with the guitar now, seated on a stool at one corner of the stage, his head bowed in concentration as he embraced the guitar like a lover. Then an older woman walked out of the audience and went to join him. Resting her hands on her knees to help her make the steep ascent up the wooden steps to the stage, she looked her age, but when she straightened up Zoë saw an incredible transformation take place.
Giving the audience an imperious stare, the woman snatched up her long black skirt in one hand and, raising the other towards the sky, she stamped her foot once, hard.
A fierce energy filled the air as the woman began her performance. Zoë had no idea that Rico was watching her. She was aware of nothing outside the dance.
‘Did you feel it?’ he murmured, close to her face, as the woman finished and the crowd went wild.
‘Did I feel what?’ she said, moving closer so he could hear.
‘Duende.’
As he murmured the word she looked at his mouth. ‘Duende.’ Zoë tasted the word on her own lips. It sounded earthy and forbidden, like Rico Cortes. She sensed that both had something primal and very dangerous at their core.
‘You wanted real flamenco,’ he said, drawing Zoë back to the purpose of her visit. ‘Well, this is real flamenco. This is wild, impassioned art at its most extreme. Are you ready for that, Zoë Chapman?’
She heard the doubt in his voice. Perhaps he saw her as a dried-up husk, incapable of feeling passion of any sort—and why not? He wouldn’t be the first man to think that. ‘I’m just really grateful to have this chance to see flamenco at its best.’
‘You don’t see flamenco. You feel it.’
‘I know that now.’ He thought of her as a tourist out for a cheap thrill, Zoë realised. But she was a long way from the tourist trail here. She was a long way from her old life too— the old Zoë Chapman would have backed off without a fight, but there was no chance of that now. She knew what she could achieve, with or without a man at her side. And she hadn’t come to Spain to be insulted. She had come to make a programme, a good programme. She wasn’t going to let Rico Cortes distract her from that goal. ‘Can you explain this word duende to me?’
‘You’ll know it when you feel it.’
‘What—like an itch?’
‘Like an orgasm.’
Zoë’s mouth fell open. Not many things shocked her. OK, so she’d been less than reverent in response to his cutting remarks, but it had been a serious question. She had been right about him. Rico Cortes was a man of extremes—a man who was looking at her now with a brooding expression on his face, no doubt wondering if his shock tactics had been sufficient to scare her off.
‘An emotional orgasm, you mean?’ She was pleased with her composure under fire.
‘That’s right.’
There was a spark of admiration in his eyes. It gave her a rush—maybe because there was passion in the air long after the woman’s performance had ended. Vibrations from the flamenco seemed to have mixed with his maleness, taking her as close to duende as she would ever get. She held his gaze briefly, to prove that she could, and found it dark and disconcerting. Her body was trembling with awareness, as if an electric current had run through her.
‘So, you have taken a summer lease on Castillo Cazulas,’ he said, staring down at her as if he knew what she was feeling. ‘And you want to make a programme about flamenco. Why here, of all places? Hardly anyone outside the village knows about the Confradias Cazulas flamenco camp.’
‘People who know about flamenco do. And I enjoyed the walk.’
‘But how will you find your way back again? It’s almost dark.’
He was right, but she was prepared. ‘I have this.’ Digging in her pocket, Zoë pulled out her flashlight. Suddenly it didn’t seem adequate. She should have remembered how fast daylight disappeared in Spain. It was as if the sun, having blazed so vigorously all day, had worn itself out, and dropped like a stone below the horizon in minutes.
They both turned as some more dancers took the stage. They were all talented, but none possessed the fire of the first woman. She had already found her guest artist, Zoë realised, but she would still need an introduction.
Glancing
