now, Maria?’
‘That sounds very formal,’ Rico cut in.
He was suspicious of her motives. She had to curb her enthusiasm, take it slowly, Zoë reminded herself. She usually got to know people first, before talking business. Building confidence was crucial. Contrary to popular opinion, not everyone wanted to appear on television. Usually she was good at choosing the right moment, but having Rico in the picture was making her edgy, making her rush things.
‘I know it’s late—I won’t keep you long.’ She glanced at Rico. ‘Perhaps if Maria and I could talk alone?’
‘It’s all right, Rico,’ Maria said soothingly.
‘I’d rather stay.’
Zoë looked up at him. ‘It’s really not necessary.’
‘Nevertheless.’ He folded his arms.
For Maria’s sake Zoë tried to bite back her impatience, but she was tired and stressed and the words just kept tumbling out. ‘Really, Rico, I can’t see any reason why you should stay. Maria and I are quite capable of sorting this out between us—’
‘It’s better if I stay.’
She could see he was adamant. ‘Are you Maria’s manager?’
‘They call him El Paladín,’ Maria cut in, interposing her not inconsiderable body between them.
‘El Paladín?’ Zoë repeated. ‘Doesn’t that mean The Champion?’ She only had a very basic knowledge of conversational Spanish to call upon. ‘What’s that for, Rico? Winning every argument?’
‘Rico is everyone’s champion,’ Maria said fondly, patting his arm.
That seemed highly unlikely—especially where she was concerned, Zoë thought. ‘Champion of what?’ she pressed.
‘Zoë likes her questions,’ Rico observed sardonically, ‘but she’s not too keen on giving answers about why she’s really here in Cazulas—’
‘And Zoë’s right about you,’ Maria cut in. ‘You don’t like losing arguments, Rico.’
‘I like to win,’ he agreed softly.
Lose? Win? Where was all this leading? Zoë wondered, suppressing a shiver as she broke eye contact with Rico. ‘We’re never going to win Rico’s approval, Maria, but I believe we can make great television together.’
‘What have you been telling this young woman, malvado?’ Maria demanded, turning her powerful stare on him.
‘Nothing. If you want to dance and she wants to cook, that’s fine by me. Only problem is, we know you can dance.’
‘Rico!’ Maria frowned at him.
‘My third television series says I can cook!’
‘There—you see, Rico,’ Maria said, smiling at Zoë.
‘And the connection between dancing and cooking is what, exactly?’ He raised his shoulders in a shrug as he stared at Zoë.
He would never go for her idea, but at least she had Maria’s support. She had to forget Rico’s insults and build on what she had. But he was one complication she could do without. He probably crooked his finger and every woman around came running. Well, not this woman.
Turning to Maria, Zoë deliberately cut him out. ‘This is the connection, Maria: the people around me inspire the food I cook on television. In this part of Spain the influence of flamenco is everywhere.’
‘So cooking isn’t just a hobby for you?’ Rico said.
Zoë stared up at him. He refused to be cut out. ‘No, Rico, it’s a full-time career for me.’
‘Along with your television company.’
Maria stepped between them again. ‘So you would like me to dance on your television programme to add some local interest to the dishes you prepare? Is that right, Zoë?’
‘Exactly.’ Zoë’s face was confident as she flashed a glance at Rico. ‘I’ll cook, you’ll dance, and together we’ll make a great team.’
‘Bueno,’ Maria said approvingly. ‘I like the sound of this programme of yours. Of course, any payment must be donated to the village funds.’
‘Absolutely,’ Zoë agreed. ‘Whatever you like.’
Maria smiled. ‘Well, that all sounds quite satisfactory to me.’
But not to Rico, Zoë thought. At least he was silent for now. ‘I have never seen anyone dance like you, Maria. You are fantastic.’
‘Gracias, Zoë. And you are very kind.’
‘Not kind, Maria, just honest.’ Zoë stopped, hearing Rico’s scornful snort in the background. What did she have to do to convince him?
She turned to look at him coldly. There were a couple of buttons undone at the neck of his dark linen shirt, showing just how tanned and firm he was. She turned back quickly to Maria. ‘When you appear, I just know the programme will come to life…’ Zoë’s voice faded. She could feel Rico’s sexual interest lapping over her in waves.
‘Don’t worry, Zoë,’ Maria assured her, filling the awkward silence. ‘It will be fine—just you wait and see.’
Zoë wasn’t so sure, and she was glad of Maria’s arm linked through her own as the older woman drew her away from Rico, towards the bright circle of light around the campfire.
‘Have you offered Zoë a drink?’ Maria said, turning back to him.
‘She’s had more than enough to drink already.’
‘Surely you didn’t let her drink the village liquor?’
‘It’s all right, Maria,’ Zoë said hastily. She could see the hard-won progress she had made winning Maria’s trust vanishing in the heat of a very Latin exchange. ‘Thank you for the kind offer, but I’ve already had some coffee.’
Rico was staring at her almost as if he was trying to remember why she made him so uneasy. But they couldn’t have met before. And he couldn’t know about her past; she was anonymous in the mountains. Television reception was practically non-existent, and there were no tabloid papers on sale at the kiosk in the village.
‘So, Zoë, when do I dance for you?’ Maria said, reclaiming Zoë’s attention.
‘How about Tuesday?’ Zoë said, turning back to thoughts of work with relief. ‘That gives us both time to prepare.’
‘Tuesday is good for me.’ Maria smiled broadly as she broke away. ‘On Tuesday you cook, and I dance.’
‘Are you sure you know what you’re taking on, Zoë?’
Rico’s words put a damper on their enthusiasm.
‘Why?
