The Spanish Billionaire's Mistress. Susan Stephens

of close-fitting jeans.

      It was too early for the campfire to be lit, but there were still quite a lot of people around. Most of them were waiting for the children to finish their dance class. This meeting place served a number of functions, Zoë realised. There was the social side, and the performance opportunities, as well as the very valuable teaching that went on to preserve tradition.

      She could see the youngsters now, tense with excitement and anticipation as they clustered around their dance teacher, listening to what she had to say. In another area a couple of the boys were sitting at the feet of the guitarist who had played for Maria, watching engrossed as his agile fingers rippled across the strings.

      Pouring them both some juice from a covered jug that had been left for the children on a trestle table, Rico handed a glass to Zoë and then took her to sit with him on a flat rock out of the way. Crossing one leg over the other, he rested his chin on his hand as he listened to the music.

      The low, insistent rhythm of the solo guitar was the perfect soundtrack for Rico Cortes, Zoë thought, glancing at him surreptitiously as she sipped her drink. Dressed in simple black jeans and a black top, he made her heart judder, he looked so good. The close-fitting top defined every muscle and sinew across the wide spread of his shoulders, and the jeans moulded thighs powerful enough to control a wild stallion, or a woman…

      ‘You’re far too early to see any of the adult performers dance, you know,’ he said, his gaze lingering on Zoë’s face as the guitarist picked out a particularly plangent arpeggio.

      ‘I haven’t come to see them,’ she said, meeting his gaze steadily.

      ‘Oh?’ A crooked smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

      ‘Or you,’ she said immediately. ‘I hoped I might find Maria.’

      ‘Well, you will—but you can’t talk to her yet. So you might just as well settle back and enjoy the children rehearsing for our fiesta.’

      ‘Fiesta? That must be fun.’ Zoë turned to watch them. ‘Does everyone take part in the fiesta?’

      ‘Why don’t you come along and see for yourself?’

      She wanted to. She really wanted to feel part of Cazulas. Since the moment she’d arrived in the village she had felt an affinity with the area, and with the people. Rico made it sound so easy for her to become part of their way of life, but she wouldn’t be staying that long.

      ‘When will everyone else arrive?’ Zoë looked around. There were a few cars parked already, notably Rico’s rugged black Jeep.

      ‘Most people take a long, lazy siesta in the afternoon, when the weather gets hot.’

      ‘So Maria’s still in bed?’ Zoë could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. Where was she going with this line of questioning?

      ‘Many people are still in bed—but Maria is not one of them.’ Standing up, he beckoned to Zoë to follow him, and, walking ahead of her, he made for the stage where the children were still learning their steps.

      Once again, he reminded Zoë of a big black panther. He had the same grace and stealth of a big cat, and made her feel very small by comparison. It was impossible not to imagine how it might feel to be enclosed in his arms and held safe. Or to be pinned down by those long, hard-muscled legs, and— Stop it! Stop it now! This was dangerous.

      ‘Zoë?’

      ‘Maria!’ Zoë exclaimed, throwing her brain into gear. ‘I’m sorry, I was daydreaming. I didn’t realise it was you dancing with the children. It’s good to see you again.’

      ‘Why have you come here? Not to see the children, I think,’ Maria said, tapping the side of her nose.

      ‘No—no, of course not,’ Zoë said, recovering fast. ‘I came to see you.’

      ‘Ah,’ Maria said, staring at her keenly.

      ‘I wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind.’

      ‘Changed my mind? About dancing on Tuesday, you mean?’ Maria said. ‘Why would I?’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Zoë said, suddenly embarrassed at the weakness of her supposed mission. She was conscious of Rico watching them, arms folded, with the same brooding look that made her quiver. ‘I just wanted to be sure no one had put you off the idea.’ She stopped, thinking frantically for something to explain her visit. ‘After all, you don’t know me—’

      ‘Stop worrying,’ Maria insisted. ‘I will be there for you on Tuesday, Zoë. Your television programme will be made, and everything will turn out for the best in the end.’

      Would it? Zoë wondered. There were moments when she wished she had never come to Spain. A fresh start was supposed to be just that—not a rerun with a matching set of characters that just happened to have different names.

      Was she overreacting? She really hoped so. Men like Rico had always been her downfall: big, powerful men like her ex-husband. Men who oozed testosterone through every pore; men who made her believe she could be desirable and might even find sexual fulfilment with them.

      Unconsciously, Zoë made a small sound of despair. She was a sexual oddity—and likely to remain so. She was frightened of sex, it always hurt, and she wasn’t sure how to improve the situation. Her husband had grown tired of her excuses. She had made him hate her. Small wonder they had divorced.

      But that was behind her now. She had rebuilt her life. She couldn’t allow anyone, especially Rico Cortes, to fan her past insecurities into flame…

      ‘Zoë?’ Maria asked softly. ‘What is the matter?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Collecting herself, Zoë spoke firmly and smiled. ‘Now,’ she added quickly, before Maria could probe any deeper, ‘I’d like to discuss my outline plan for the programme in which you’re to appear. I want to be quite sure you’re happy with everything.’

      ‘Bueno,’ Maria murmured softly, frowning a little as she allowed Zoë to lead her away from Rico.

      The two women remained deep in conversation for some time. They were both on the same wavelength, Zoë realised. Maria was only too pleased to have the opportunity to bring genuine Spanish culture to a wider audience, and Zoë liked to present her food in context, rather than offering individual, unconnected recipes. This was her definition of lifestyle TV—a show that was genuine in every single respect—and now she had control over the content of her own programmes it was exactly what she delivered.

      It was going to be really good, she realised with a sudden rush of excitement. Maria’s talent would imbue the show with her own special quality. Rico had correctly identified it as something that no amount of money could buy.

      Glancing around, Zoë looked for him. But he must have left while she was talking to Maria.

      ‘Don’t look so sad,’ Maria insisted, chucking her under the chin. ‘I know what we will do,’ she added, getting to her feet.