The Spanish Billionaire's Mistress

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 up, she knew that Rico was her best chance. But there were man waves coming off him in torrents, and he smelled so good—like pine trees and wood smoke. His sexual heat was curling round her senses like a blanket. And lowering her guard! She hadn’t come to Spain to indulge in an adolescent fantasy over some arrogant stud. Her interest in flamenco was purely professional. Work was all she cared about; a new man figured nowhere in her plans.

By the time the stage had cleared again it was pitch-dark, with no moon. Quite a few people had come by car, parking in a clearing not too far away. Zoë watched with apprehension as their headlights glowed briefly before disappearing into the night.

‘You really think that little light of yours is going to be enough?’ Rico said, as if reading her mind.

Zoë glanced at him. ‘It will have to be.’ Shoving her hands in the pockets of her track suit, she tilted her chin towards the stage. ‘Was that the last performance for tonight?’

‘You want more?’

‘How much would it cost to hire someone like that first performer—the older woman?’

She saw an immediate change in his manner.

‘All the money on earth couldn’t buy talent like that. You certainly couldn’t afford it.’

Zoë bit back the angry retort that flew to her lips. This was no time for temperament: everyone was leaving—the woman too, if she didn’t act fast. Their gazes locked; his eyes were gleaming in the darkness. This man frightened her, and she knew she should turn away. But she couldn’t afford to lose the opportunity.

‘I’m sorry—that was clumsy of me. But you can’t blame me for being carried away by that woman’s performance—’

‘Maria.’ His voice was sharp.

‘Maria,’ Zoë amended. She felt as if she was treading on eggshells, but his co-operation was crucial. She generally made a very convincing case for appearing on the show. Right now, she felt like a rank amateur. There was something about Rico Cortes that made her do and say the wrong thing every time. ‘Maria’s performance was incredible. Do you think she would dance for me?’

‘Why on earth would she want to dance for you?’

‘Not for me, for my show. Do you think Maria would agree to dance on my programme?’

‘You’d have to ask her yourself.’

‘I will. I just wanted to know what you thought about it first.’ Zoë suspected nothing happened in Cazulas without Rico’s say-so.

‘It depends on what you can offer Maria in return.’

‘I would pay her, of course—’

‘I’m not talking about money.’

‘What, then?’

A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘You would have to win her respect.’

Did he have to look so sceptical? ‘And what do you think would be the best way to do that?’

They were causing some comment, Zoë noticed, amongst the few people remaining, with this exchange, conducted tensely head to head. It couldn’t be helped. She had to close the deal. She wasn’t about to stop now she had him at least talking about the possibility of Maria appearing on the show.

‘You’d have to bargain with her.’

An opening! Maybe not a door, but a window—she’d climb through it. ‘What do you suggest I bargain with?’ She smiled, hoping to appeal to his better nature.

‘Are you good at anything?’ Rico demanded.

Apart, that was, from joining the hordes who spied on him and the idiots who thought an important part of his heritage had the same value as the cheap tourist tat along the coast. She had manoeuvred him into starting negotiations with her, though. She was sharper than most. He should have got rid of her right away, but his brain had slipped below his belt.

He shouldn’t have stayed away from Cazulas for so long. He should have kept a tighter hold on who was allowed into the village. But he had trusted such things to a management company. He wouldn’t be doing that again.

‘I don’t just make programmes,’ she said, reclaiming his attention. ‘I present them.’

‘I apologise.’ He exaggerated the politeness. ‘Apart from your ability to make programmes and present them, what do you have to bargain with that might possibly interest Maria?’

‘I cook.’

Removing her hands from her pockets, she planted them on her hips. She smiled—or rather her lips tugged up at an appealing angle while her eyes blazed defiance at him. Her manner amused him, and attracted him too. ‘You cook?’

‘Is there something wrong with that?’

‘No, nothing at all—it’s just unexpected.’

‘Well, I don’t know what you were expecting.’

Just as well. He had been running over a few things that would definitely make it to the top of his wish list, and cooking wasn’t one of them. Outsiders were practically non-existent in the mountains. It was a rugged, difficult terrain, and yet Zoë Chapman, with her direct blue-green gaze and her wild mop of titian hair, had come alone and on foot, with a flashlight as her only companion, to find—what had she expected to find?

Rico’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. In his experience, women made careful plans; they didn’t just turn up on the off chance. ‘We’ll discuss this some other time. I’ll have someone see you home.’

‘When I’ve spoken to Maria.’

Her mouth was set in a stubborn line. He liked her lips. He liked her eyes too—when they weren’t spitting fire at him. She was about five-five, lightly built—but strong, judging from her handshake. The rest was a mystery beneath her shapeless grey track suit. Maybe it was better that way. There were very few surprises left in life.

But this was one mystery parcel he had no intention of unwrapping. The gutter press could use subtle tactics to succeed. Zoë Chapman might be working for anyone—how did he know? The television company, even the programme she was supposed to be making, could all be a front. Cazulas was special—the one place he could get some space, some recreation—and no one was going to spoil that for him.

‘So, you’ll introduce me to Maria?’