should definitely try to ride more frequently. Perhaps I will, now I know I can take one of the horses from the stables here.’
‘The groom will always pick one out for you, or just tell him you prefer to ride Punto.’
‘I will.’ Zoë rested her cheek against Punto’s neck for a moment. ‘He’s the best—aren’t you, Punto?’
‘Don’t ride unaccompanied until you know the lie of the land better.’
Zoë’s pulse began to race as she gazed up at Rico. ‘I won’t.’ It was such an easy promise to make. With Rico riding next to her she would be in the saddle every spare moment that came her way.
‘The groom will ride with you if you ask him.’
Somehow she kept the smile fixed to her face. ‘That would be great.’
‘Adios, Zoë!’
‘Adios, Rico.’ He was too busy holding his black stallion in check to note her sudden lack of enthusiasm, Zoë saw thankfully. ‘I appreciate you taking me out.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ He wheeled Rondeno away.
I wouldn’t dream of mentioning it, Zoë thought, smiling to herself as Rico cantered away.
Turning, she viewed the elderly bow-legged groom with wry amusement. Riding was definitely crossed off her ‘must-do’ list for now.
CHAPTER SIX
TUESDAY was almost too busy for Zoë to give much thought to anything apart from cooking—cooking and Rico. Now she knew for sure he was coming, everything had gained an extra impetus. She wanted to make Maria feel she was part of something special, something that gave the exceptional flamenco dancer the recognition Zoë believed she deserved.
She was in the kitchen by nine, having been up at dawn to go to market to find the freshest ingredients for those dishes that could not be made in advance. On her return she had laid everything out on the counter to make one last check. But, however many times she looked at them, she couldn’t get past the feeling that there was still something missing.
She had decided upon a menu of clams à la marinara, in a sauce of garlic, paprika and fino sherry, with an alternative of zoque, the popular gazpacho soup made with red peppers and tomatoes. But for the main course she had called upon her secret weapon—a wise old man from the village who seemed to be everyone’s tio, or uncle. Zoë had been debating over the best recipe for paella, and the tio was the only person who could advise her properly, according to Maria, who had unexpectedly appeared at her side at the market.
Thanks to the introduction from Maria, the elderly expert uncle had approved Zoë’s choice of ingredients, after turning them over and sniffing for freshness. He had even demanded a heavy discount from the stallholders, reminding them, as Zoë would never have dreamed of doing, that they would be eating the food they had just sold to her when they came to the castle for the party that night.
‘Locals care more about the rice than the rest of the meal,’ the tio had said, patting his nose with one finger just as Zoë had seen Maria do. ‘It must be well washed if you want the grains to separate, and then the rice must be cooked in fish stock—never water—water is for soup. You must have caldo—sorry, broth—for your rice. And the yellow colour of paella comes as much from the noras—you would call them peppers—as it does from the strands of saffron you add to the broth. Did you enjoy your ride?’
Cooking methods and Rico in the same breath! Zoë knew her astonishment must have shown on her face.
‘It’s a very small village,’ the tio had explained with a smile, tapping his nose once again.
So it was, Zoë had thought, as she thanked him for his kindness.
Armed with quite a lot more local knowledge than she had bargained for, she had returned to the castle to prepare the main dish.
Balancing a cheap pan the size of a bicycle wheel on the counter, Zoë laid out pieces of chicken and squid, clams, scampi and rojas—large red prawns—with all the precision of a stained-glass window on top of a bed of rice, onion, garlic and peppers. Finally she added three types of beans and then some seasoning. Now the dish was almost ready for the oven.
She paused, inhaling the faint salty tang of the sea rising from the cool, fresh ingredients, her mind straying back to the earlier events of the day. How had the tio known she had been riding with Rico? Did everyone in the village know? Was it coincidence that Maria had found her at the market?
Suddenly Zoë wasn’t sure of anything. Had she imagined she could ride out with Rico, bathe in his glamour, and get away with it? Frowning, she turned back to her cooking. She had already made some rich fish stock laced with strands of deep red saffron, and she poured that over the raw ingredients. Standing back, she had to admit she was delighted with the finished product.
The tio’s last piece of advice had been to wrap the paella in newspaper once it was cooked. Then the finished dish should be left for ten minutes for the rice grains to separate. But wouldn’t the newsprint spoil the striking colours?
Newsprint. Banner headlines. Zoë actually flinched as she turned away.
The icy fingers of the past were with her again, clutching at her heart. Star Sells Sex. Three words that damned her for ever in her own mind, even though they were lies. As far as the world at large was concerned, the story had brought her to wider public notice, and, in the topsy-turvy way of celebrity, had actually boosted her career. Going along with public perception had actually helped her to get through things. Keeping a smile fixed to her face had become such a habit that gradually the reality that lay behind the headline had been consigned to the back of her mind like a sleeping monster.
The Zoë Chapman who didn’t appear on the television screen or at book signings was careful never to wake that monster—but she knew it would stir if she allowed herself to feel anything too deeply again. The shame, the failure, the brutality that lay behind it—all of that would rise up and slap her down into the gutter, where her ex-husband thought she belonged. So far she had frustrated his attempts to see her eat dirt, but it had been a long road back.
But she had made it back, Zoë reminded herself, and that was all that mattered. Every time the past intruded she pictured herself as a cork being held down in the water—she always broke free; she always bobbed up again. It was only men with brutally strong characters she had a problem with now. Men like Rico Cortes.
She had to get over this—get over him. She had to force her thoughts back on track. Perhaps she would wrap the paella in one of her huge, freshly laundered cloths when she removed it from the heat, and allow it to settle that way…
She could relax at last. The paella looked great on camera. It had been filmed at each stage of its preparation, and she had been sorry for the film crew, who had had to carry the loaded pan back and forth between the set in the Great Hall and the kitchen, where she was working.
Philip, her director, was demanding, but he was the best—which was why she had hired him. She trusted his judgement, and his decision to do things this way had kept everyone out from under her feet. Her own ‘to camera’ shots would be added later, when make-up and wardrobe had been let loose on her. It wasn’t easy to cook and appear as cool as a cucumber at the same time.
Now
