managed a laugh. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ She smiled at him, and then glanced at Rico. The expression in his eyes suggested he would have preferred sticking to the old ways. Waves of panic and bewilderment started threatening to engulf her.
‘It is a great honour to be chosen,’ the tio coaxed. ‘Look how disappointed you’ve made the other women.’
Zoë gazed around to please him, but whichever way she turned she saw Rico.
‘All you have to do,’ the tio explained persuasively, ‘is to spend one night with him.’
‘What?’
‘I mean one evening with him,’ he corrected hastily. ‘My English is…’ He waved his hands in the air with frustration, making Zoë feel worse than ever.
‘I’ll do it for you—of course I’ll do it. Please don’t worry.’ This wasn’t about her own feelings any more, or just work. It was about showing loyalty to an old man who was only trying to uphold the traditions of his youth. ‘I won’t let you down.’
Zoë allowed the tio to lead her back into the centre of the ring. She wouldn’t let him down, but she was damned if she was going to play some antiquated mating game with Rico Cortes. She smiled tensely while the official announcement was made.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take a shower before I come back for you,’ Rico murmured, the moment the applause around them subsided.
‘Let’s get one thing straight, Rico,’ Zoë said, turning to face him. ‘I’m grateful you took me riding, and helped me out here with staff for tonight. But I don’t like surprises—especially not surprises that affect my work. The television lights are off now, the tio has gone to join his friends, and as far as I’m concerned the show’s over.’
‘And?’ His eyes had gone cold.
‘And I have no intention of becoming another of your trophies!’
‘Bravo, Ms Chapman,’ he murmured sardonically.
‘Why don’t you go and take that shower now? There are plenty of bathrooms in the castle.’
Rico’s expression hardened as he looked down at her—and who could blame him? Zoë hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but there was an engine blazing away inside her, and a voice in her head that said, Drive him away.
What had happened tonight—all the fighting, the sounds, the tension, Rico overpowering everyone… It was just too close to her nightmares. She tried telling herself that all his strength was directed into sport. She had seen him ride; now she had seen him fight. But another side of her said: This is Rico Cortes, El Paladín, the man who conquers everyone with his strength… Her mind was fogged with fear. Unreasonable fear, maybe, but she couldn’t shake it off.
The only thing she could latch on to in a world that was slipping away beneath her feet was the thought that she must not let the tio down. She would keep her promise to him, spend the rest of the evening with Rico. But first she had to go and seek some space, some cool, quiet place where she could get her head together.
She should fix somewhere to meet up with Rico before she did that. ‘When you come back, Rico, I’ll be—’
‘I’ll find you,’ he said coldly, swinging a towel around his neck.
He vaulted over the top rope, dropped to the ground, and strode away from her without a backward glance.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE meal was everything Zoë hoped it would be. The tio stood up and told everyone that the paella was the best he had ever tasted.
Rico was sitting next to her at the top table. He turned when she sat down after accepting the enthusiastic applause. ‘Congratulations, Zoë. This has been a huge success for you.’
He was polite, but then, since he’d decided to trust her he was always polite. She wanted more. ‘It’s all thanks to the tio of Cazulas—’ But Rico had already turned away to continue his conversation with the young Spanish beauty seated on his other side.
Zoë’s smile faded. Rico had been cool ever since they’d sat down. It was understandable after her behaviour in the ring. But she couldn’t tell him why she’d felt so bad after the wrestling. The tio of Cazulas had embroiled her in some ancient fertility rite that had fallen flat on its face.
She had kept her part of the bargain, staying with Rico throughout the evening, though he preferred the company of the vivacious young woman sitting next to him. His back had been half turned to her for most of the time.
Zoë noticed people were still smiling at her and raising their glasses. She smiled back, raising her own glass, but it was a hollow victory. She was thrilled everyone had enjoyed themselves, but the one person whose enthusiasm really mattered to her was otherwise occupied. She had thought of changing tables, but it would only cause comment—and Maria would be dancing soon.
There were about twenty people seated around each of the long tables set at the edges of the courtyard. The tables were laden with food, as well as countless bottles of beer, still water, and jugs of wine. She had used red and white gingham tablecloths to add a splash of colour, and placed lofty arrangements of brilliantly coloured exotic flowers on every one. Strings of lights swung gently in the night breeze overhead, twinkling like tiny stars, and waves of conversation and laughter were flowing all around her.
Resting her chin on her hand, she saw Maria’s guitarist place his stool in a corner of the performance area. Sitting down, he began to strum some popular tunes. It was all perfect. She had asked to sit at the end of the table so that she could get up easily to supervise the food when necessary. Her plan had worked well—brilliantly, in fact. Though she might as well have stayed in the kitchen. Why hadn’t Rico chosen the ebony-haired beauty as his trophy in the first place?
Zoë was distracted from her thoughts by Maria’s entrance, and sat up. Straight away it was incredible. The air was charged with energy the moment she appeared. Framed in the doorway of the castle, Maria stood with one hand pointing towards the stars, calling up whatever mysterious energy fuelled her performance. Even Rico had turned to watch, forgetting, at least for a moment, the young beauty at his side.
The guitarist picked out an arpeggio, filling each note with incredible weight and passion. Maria stood unmoving until the last vibration from the strings of the guitar had faded away, and then she stepped proudly into the full glare of the television lights. Hovering like an eagle for an instant, she suddenly moved forward with all the grace of a much younger woman, crossing the courtyard with swift, precise steps.
She came into the centre of the performance area, raised her chin, and stared at some far distant point only she could see. The expression on her face was one of defiance, great pride, and anger, but there was pain and compassion too. Sweeping her crimson skirt off the floor in one hand, she made a powerful gesture with the other, and at the same time struck the floor one sharp blow with her foot.
Philip was by Zoë’s side minutes after Maria had finished her performance. ‘This programme will go down in history. That woman is superb—they’re saying she’s even better than Beba—though she’s old enough to be Beba’s mother.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Zoë frowned, tuning out for a moment. She had never heard of this Beba before
