‘That was absolutely delicious,’ she said, some time later.

      ‘You seem surprised.’

      She was, Zoë realised. Not only had Rico kept to his part of their bargain, he was an excellent cook. ‘I am.’

      ‘Because I can cook?’

      Zoë smiled. It was hard to concentrate on anything apart from Rico’s face as he stared at her. It wiped her mind clean, made her long to know him better. Physically, he was everything she knew to avoid. But they were alone together, and she wondered if she had misjudged him. He was still proud, male and alpha, but he had a sense of humour too—something she hadn’t anticipated. ‘I’m not surprised you can cook. I’m just surprised that you can cook so well.’

      ‘Is there any reason why I should be incapable of feeding myself?’

      ‘Of course not. It’s just that most men—’

      ‘Most men?’

      She loved the way one of his eyebrows tilted a fraction when he asked a question. She’d been thinking of her ex, sitting at the table waiting for his meal after they had both put in a long day at work. He’d only commented on her food when it hadn’t been to his liking. She had never received a compliment from him for her cooking.

      ‘Most men wouldn’t know their way around a warm barbecued vegetable salad with anchovies.’

      ‘Escalivada amb anxoves?’ Rico translated for her. ‘It’s a great dish, isn’t it? My mother is a fabulous cook, and she taught all her children how to prepare food. It is no big deal.’ He got to his feet to collect their plates.

      ‘Your mother?’ Instantly Zoë was curious. Either Rico ignored her interest, or he didn’t notice. But she noticed the fact that he was clearing up after them. He wouldn’t even allow her to help, just pushed her gently back down in her chair again.

      ‘Save your strength for the dancing.’

      His eyes were glinting with humour again. Not mockery, humour—humour shared between them. Feeling her confidence returning, Zoë smiled back. ‘You know your way round a dishwasher too. I’m impressed.’

      ‘You must have known some very strange men in your time, Zoë.’

      Zoë smiled faintly. You don’t want to know how strange.

      Rico insisted on doing everything—even wiping down the surfaces and clearing the condiments from the table. Only when the kitchen had been returned to its former pristine condition did he turn to her.

      ‘Now it is time for you to dance, Zoë.’

      His eyes, she noticed, were already dancing—with laughter and with challenge. But somehow it gave her courage. He gave her courage.

      ‘I’m ready. After that meal I’ve got a lot to live up to, so I’d better limber up before I begin. I would hate to disappoint you.’

      ‘I will tune my guitar while you prepare.’

      How long would that take? she wondered. Not long enough for her to be ready to dance for him, that was for sure!

      As fast as Zoë’s courage had returned, it vanished again. She wanted to impress Rico, and doubted she could. She wanted his gaze to linger on her, to bathe her in his admiration. She wanted him to want her as much as she wanted him.

      She wanted to know more about his mother, Zoë corrected herself fiercely.

      ‘Why don’t we have pudding first, and talk a little longer?’

      ‘You can’t put it off all night. Are you having second thoughts, Zoë?’

      ‘Not at all.’

      ‘Then no more delaying tactics,’ Rico said, reaching for his guitar. ‘Sweet things come later, when we have earned them.’

      How good his command of English was! His few words had set her on fire. She hadn’t given a moment’s thought to later, but clearly Rico had.

      Subduing a rush of apprehension, Zoë led the way into the Great Hall. Rico sat on the stool she had placed there for him, and began adjusting the strings of his guitar.

      ‘You have a beautiful guitar.’ Under Rico’s hands it had come to life, producing sounds that were rich and lovely.

      ‘It’s a flamenco guitar, made of spruce and cypress.’

      ‘So it really does represent the music of the region?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ he murmured.

      Zoë looked away first.

      While Rico strummed some chords, testing them for clarity and tuning, Zoë centred herself, bending and stretching before the dance began.

      Rico seemed to sense when she was ready to begin, and turned his head. With a brief nod, she walked to the centre of her improvised performance space in the centre of the vast square hall.

      At first she was stiff and self-conscious, but Rico second-guessed her every move. She had never danced with such a sympathetic accompanist before—in fact she’d never danced with a real live accompanist before, and certainly not one who made her thrill even more than the music.

      Rico made no allowances for the fact that she was new to flamenco, and in truth she didn’t want him to; after just a short time she didn’t need him to. Their partnership was as tight as Zoë could have wished, and after a few minutes all her tension disappeared.

      There were some large ornate mirrors in this part of the hall, which was why she had chosen it. She could see Rico sitting cross-legged on his stool. He appeared lost in the music, but then he looked up and Zoë was lost in his eyes.

      Instead of hesitating, Rico picked up the pace, his gaze boring into her as he drew rhythms hotter and more powerful than Zoë had ever thought possible from his guitar. His fingers moved at speed across the fretboard, producing an earthy sound that throbbed insistently through her. She could feel herself growing more abandoned with every step, until she was whirling in time to a rhythm of Rico’s choosing. Then, abruptly, he slowed the tempo so that it rose and fell in waves of sound that dropped at last to a low and insistent rumble.

      The sound was so faint Zoë could barely hear it. She might not have known he was still playing had it not been for the fact that she could still feel the music in every fibre of her being.

      ‘That’s enough for tonight,’ he said