8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams

the dancing started soon. She couldn’t let some local brigand put her off. Forget the man! This was her target group. The only thing that mattered was persuading someone to perform flamenco on her programme.

      Dance was Zoë’s passion outside of work. She knew she would never make a professional, but part of her climb-back after the divorce had been to join a jazz dance exercise group. It had proved the best therapy she could have chosen—though right now it looked as if all her good work was being undone.

      She could not have prepared for this, Zoë reminded herself. She had not expected to run up against such a strong character again quite so soon.

      ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

      He beckoned her forward with a short, angry gesture, and his voice was cold. It brought back memories she didn’t need, but she was like a terrier with a bone when it came to work, and she focused her concentration easily. They were attracting a lot of attention. Perhaps one of the people around the mountain hut would agree to audition for her programme?

      The man held up his hand to stop her coming any closer. It was close enough for Zoë, too. He was quite something. Along with the aura of power and brute strength, she had to admit he had style. Why did she have to find such a man irresistible when she knew he had danger carved into the stone where his heart should be?

      Somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, he was around six feet two or three, and his build was every bit as impressive as she had thought from some distance away. Everything about him was dark: his eyes, his hair…his expression.

      ‘Why have you come here?’ he demanded.

      ‘I heard this is where flamenco enthusiasts gather, and I want to learn more about flamenco.’

      ‘So you can go home to England and show off to your friends?’ He made a derisive sound and clicked his fingers, mimicking the worst of the shows she had seen down on the coast.

      ‘No, of course not. I…’ His steely gaze remained fixed on her face, but she couldn’t let that get to her. ‘I am genuinely interested in flamenco.’

      ‘Are you alone?’

      ‘I am at the moment—’

      He cut her off. ‘At the moment?’

      ‘I know this looks bad—’

      ‘What do you mean, you’re alone at the moment?’

      ‘I’m working with a television crew. They’re not here right now.’

      Could his expression darken any more? She tried to explain, but her voice came out as a croak. Unconsciously, her hand flew to her throat. She should have brought some water with her. She had been at the mercy of the sun all afternoon, and now she was desperate for a drink.

      ‘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,