8 Magnificent Millionaires. Cathy Williams

for the oven.

      She paused, inhaling the faint salty tang of the sea rising from the cool, fresh ingredients, her mind straying back to the earlier events of the day. How had the tio known she had been riding with Rico? Did everyone in the village know? Was it coincidence that Maria had found her at the market?

      Suddenly Zoë wasn’t sure of anything. Had she imagined she could ride out with Rico, bathe in his glamour, and get away with it? Frowning, she turned back to her cooking. She had already made some rich fish stock laced with strands of deep red saffron, and she poured that over the raw ingredients. Standing back, she had to admit she was delighted with the finished product.

      The tio’s last piece of advice had been to wrap the paella in newspaper once it was cooked. Then the finished dish should be left for ten minutes for the rice grains to separate. But wouldn’t the newsprint spoil the striking colours?

      Newsprint. Banner headlines. Zoë actually flinched as she turned away.

      The icy fingers of the past were with her again, clutching at her heart. Star Sells Sex. Three words that damned her for ever in her own mind, even though they were lies. As far as the world at large was concerned, the story had brought her to wider public notice, and, in the topsy-turvy way of celebrity, had actually boosted her career. Going along with public perception had actually helped her to get through things. Keeping a smile fixed to her face had become such a habit that gradually the reality that lay behind the headline had been consigned to the back of her mind like a sleeping monster.

      The Zoë Chapman who didn’t appear on the television screen or at book signings was careful never to wake that monster—but she knew it would stir if she allowed herself to feel anything too deeply again. The shame, the failure, the brutality that lay behind it—all of that would rise up and slap her down into the gutter, where her ex-husband thought she belonged. So far she had frustrated his attempts to see her eat dirt, but it had been a long road back.

      But she had made it back, Zoë reminded herself, and that was all that mattered. Every time the past intruded she pictured herself as a cork being held down in the water—she always broke free; she always bobbed up again. It was only men with brutally strong characters she had a problem with now. Men like Rico Cortes.

      She had to get over this—get over him. She had to force her thoughts back on track. Perhaps she would wrap the paella in one of her huge, freshly laundered cloths when she removed it from the heat, and allow it to settle that way…

      She could relax at last. The paella looked great on camera. It had been filmed at each stage of its preparation, and she had been sorry for the film crew, who had had to carry the loaded pan back and forth between the set in the Great Hall and the kitchen, where she was working.

      Philip, her director, was demanding, but he was the best—which was why she had hired him. She trusted his judgement, and his decision to do things this way had kept everyone out from under her feet. Her own ‘to camera’ shots would be added later, when make-up and wardrobe had been let loose on her. It wasn’t easy to cook and appear as cool as a cucumber at the same time.

      Now she had finished the paella, Zoë’s thoughts turned to pudding, which was her favourite part of any meal. She planned to serve a chocolate and almond ice cream, garnished with her own guirlache, which was crushed and toasted almonds coated with a sugar and lemon juice toffee. And there would be hot orange puffs dusted with sugar, as well as figuritas de marzapan, marzipan shaped into mice and rabbits for the children.

      She concentrated hard, loving every moment of the preparation. Cooking was an oasis in her life that offered periods of calm as essential as they were soothing. She counted herself fortunate that her love of food had brought her success.

      Resisting the temptation to sample one of everything she had made, Zoë finally stood back, sighing with contentment. It all looked absolutely delicious.

      Someone else thought so too—before she knew what she was doing Zoë had automatically slapped Rico’s hand away as he reached for a marzipan rabbit.

      ‘Rico!’ She clutched her chest with surprise. ‘I thought it was one of the crew! I didn’t realise it was you…’ And then all she could think was that her chef’s jacket was stained and her face had to be tomato red from the heat in the kitchen. ‘I didn’t expect you until tonight.’

      ‘It is tonight.’ He gazed past her through the open window.

      ‘I must have got carried away. What time is it?’

      ‘Don’t worry. Not time to panic yet.’

      Not time to panic? So why was her heart thundering off the chart? Zoë tried to wipe her face on her sleeve without Rico noticing. ‘What brings you here so early?’

      ‘I thought you might need some help. It looks like I was right.’

      ‘I’m doing fine.’

      ‘I brought drinks.’

      ‘Drinks… Drinks! That was what was missing!’ She turned to him. ‘I’ve made some lemonade to pour over crushed ice for the children, and for anyone who doesn’t drink…’

      ‘That’s fine, but you should have plenty of choice. It’s going to be a long night.’ Going to the kitchen door, he held it open and a line of men filed in. They were loaded down with crates of beer, boxes of wine and spirits, and soft drinks.

      ‘Cava, brandy, sherry, and the local liquor…’ Rico ticked them off, shooting an amused glance at Zoë as a man bearing a huge earthenware flagon marched in.

      ‘Oh, no—not that!’

      ‘You don’t have to drink it,’ he pointed out, smiling when he saw her expression.

      ‘You’re far too generous. Of course my company will pay for everything—’

      ‘We’ll worry about that later.’

      ‘The crew will drink everything in sight, given half a chance.’

      ‘Not tonight. Just worry about getting the white wine and cava chilled.’

      ‘What do you mean, not tonight? Once they’ve filmed Maria, and taken a couple of crowd shots, the crew will join in the party—’

      ‘Haven’t I told you not to worry?’ Rico slipped the lead man some banknotes to share around as tips.

      ‘You don’t know the crew like I do. I don’t want to spoil it for them, but, bluntly, with all this drink around—I just can’t face the mess in the morning.’

      ‘Let me assure you that your crew are going to be far too busy to get into any mischief. You have my word on it.’

      ‘Rico, what are you talking about?’

      ‘Your director has arranged for another feature to be filmed tonight. Hasn’t he told you yet?’

      ‘No…’ Zoë frowned. How could that happen when they always discussed everything in advance?

      ‘He is very enthusiastic.’

      ‘That’s why I hired him.’ She resigned herself. It had to be something good. She couldn’t imagine the man who was the mainstay of her team asking everyone to work late unless it was really worthwhile…

      ‘He’s got everyone’s agreement to work overtime,’ Rico added.

      ‘Can you read my mind?’

      ‘From time to time.’

      Zoë looked at Rico, looked at his lips, then dragged her gaze away. ‘It must be an excellent feature.’

      ‘Last minute.’

      ‘Yes, I guessed that.’ She couldn’t be angry with Philip, though she was curious. She welcomed suggestions from anyone in the team. The strength of her company was that they worked together, with no one person riding roughshod over another. She knew from bitter experience that those tactics never worked. ‘Do you know