The Spanish Billionaire's Mistress

‘Do you think I could have some water?’ She gazed around.

‘What do you think this is? A café?’

But people were drinking all around her. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Did you think this was one of those cheap tourist places where you get a free drink along with your paella and chips?’

‘No!’ She calmed herself. ‘No, of course not—’

He straightened up and moved a menacing pace towards her, and all her courage drained away. Lurching backwards, she nearly stumbled. She was only saved by the sheer bulk of a man behind her. He was carrying a stone flagon and some pottery beakers. He didn’t understand when she started to apologise, and poured her a drink.

She didn’t want it. She just wanted to get away—back down the mountain to safety, to where people barely looked at her, where no one knew who she was or where she had come from.

But the man with the flagon was still smiling at her, and the situation was bad enough already. ‘Gracias, señor.’

Keeping watch on the brigand, Zoë took the beaker from the older man and gratefully drank from it.

It was delicious, and tasted harmless—like fruit juice and honey laced with some spice she couldn’t name. The beaker felt cool, and she was so thirsty she didn’t protest when he offered her more. The golden liquid gleamed in the light as it flowed from the flagon, and the elderly man filled her beaker to the brim.

‘Salud!’

The alpha male’s voice was harsh and unfriendly. Handing the beaker back to the man with the flagon, Zoë raised her chin. She felt better now, bolder. ‘Delicious,’ she said defiantly, staring her unwilling host in the eyes. ‘What was that drink?’

‘A local speciality, brewed here in the village.’

‘It’s very good. You should market it.’

‘On your recommendation I’ll certainly consider it.’

His sarcasm needled Zoë, but it also renewed her determination to go nowhere until she got the feature for her programme. At any cost?

At the cost of a little charm, at least. ‘I really should introduce myself.’

‘You really should.’

Brushing a strand of titian hair from her face, Zoë stared up and tried to focus. She hadn’t realised the drink was so strong. On an empty stomach, she was suddenly discovering, it was lethal. She was in no state to object when he reached forward to steady her.

His grip on her arm was light, but even through an alcohol-induced haze she could feel the shock waves radiating out from his fingertips until every part of her was throbbing. He led her away out of earshot, to where a wooden hut cast some shade.

‘So, who are you?’

‘Zoë—Zoë Chapman. Could I have a glass of water, please?’

Rico thought he recognised the name, then brushed it aside. It hardly mattered. She had damned herself already out of her own mouth: a television crew! He might have known. He grimaced, catching hold of her again when she stumbled.

‘I think you’d better sit down.’ He steered her towards a bench, and once she was safely planted turned and called to two youths. ‘José! Fernando! Por favor, café solo—rápido!’ Then, turning to her again, he said, ‘Welcome to the Confradias Cazulas flamenco camp, Zoë Chapman. Now you’re here, what do you want?’

‘It’s good to meet you too—’

‘Don’t give me all this nonsense about flamenco. What do you really want? Why have you come here? Are you spying on me?’

‘Flamenco isn’t nonsense.’ She reeled back to stare at him. ‘And I’m not spying on you. I’m researching.’

‘Oh, of course. I see,’ he said sarcastically.

No, he didn’t, Zoë thought, shading her eyes with her hand as she tried to focus on his face. Her head felt so heavy. It bounced instead of simply moving. Squeezing her eyes together, she struggled to follow his movements—he seemed to be swaying back and forth. ‘So, who are you, then?’ Her tongue was tied up in knots.

‘Rico. Rico Cortes.’

They were attracting attention, Zoë noticed again. Peering round him, she gave a smile and a little wave. He moved in closer, shielding her from his companions. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Rico.’ As she put her hand out to shake his, it somehow connected with a coffee cup. Raising the cup to her lips, she drank the coffee down fast. The hot, bitter liquid scalded her throat, but it couldn’t be helped. She had to pull round from this fast. The last couple of programmes based around flamenco were supposed to be the crowning feature of her series.

‘Here, drink some more.’

His voice was sharp, and then he made a signal to the boy with the coffee pot to fill her mug again.

‘Leave it here, José, por favor.’

He sounded different, warmer when he spoke to the youth, Zoë registered fuzzily.

‘We’re going to need every drop,’ he added.

And he was back to contempt when he turned to look at her! It wasn’t the best start she’d ever had to a programme.

This time, once she’d drained the strong black coffee, it was Zoë who asked for more. The second she had finished, the questions started.

‘If you’re with a television crew I take it you’re after an exclusive. I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you were spying on us, sneaking about.’

Thanking the boy, Zoë gave him back her empty cup. Her head was clearing. She felt better, much more focused. She might still be a little under par, but she had no intention of being bullied by Rico Cortes—by anyone.

‘I’m here to see if flamenco will make a suitable item for my television series. Nothing more.’

‘Your television series?’

‘It’s my programme. I have full editorial control. I own the company that produces the programme.’

‘So, it’s you.’

‘Me?’

‘Staying at the Castillo Cazulas.’

‘Yes, my company has taken a short-term lease on the castle—’

‘And it’s there you’re going to create your masterpiece?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ She couldn’t keep the chill out of her voice now. Could he have been more disparaging? She had worked long and hard to raise her programme above the rest, to make it different and special. She had brought a great team together, and she was proud of what they had achieved.

‘Flamenco for Spain, opera in Italy, fashion when you shoot a programme in France—is that how it goes? Skimming over the surface of a country, using the name of art just to make money?’