Zoë watched with mixed feelings as the raised square wrestling ring was erected in the middle of the courtyard. A beautiful day had mellowed into a balmy evening, and there was scarcely the suggestion of a breeze. Wrapping her arms around her waist she knew she had to pull herself together and stop fretting. Half-naked men would definitely be a bonus for her viewers. She could do this. She had to do this. How hard could it be?

      The ring was almost finished, and people were starting to arrive. Soon it would be showtime. Surely it couldn’t be that bad? She wouldn’t have to watch it all—though she would have to be in shot for at least some of the time.

      Firming her jaw, Zoë took a final look through the ropes at the empty ring. She still had to take a shower and prepare for the programme. Turning back to the castle, she hurried inside.

      By the time she returned to the courtyard it was packed. Men had come from all over the region to test their strength. She guessed it was something of a marriage market too, judging by the flirtatious glances several groups of girls were giving their favourites.

      The thought of Rico stripping off and stepping half naked into the ring was enough to make anyone shiver. Zoë tried hard not to react when she spotted him at the opposite side of the courtyard, surrounded by a group of supporters. At first she thought he was just greeting friends and she relaxed, but then he stepped away from the others and she saw he was naked from the waist up. Maria and the wise old tio from the village were standing with him; it seemed every soul in Cazulas had come to support him. They were a good-natured group, and cheered him on as he strode to the ringside.

      Zoë turned away, but then she guessed Rico must have vaulted over the top rope, because the applause around her was suddenly deafening. She looked up. She couldn’t help herself. She had to see him for herself.

      He was everything she found attractive in a man—and everything that terrified her too. It was impossible to believe that any of the other men had a physique to equal Rico’s, or could match the fierce, determined look in his eyes. He was, after all, the champion. Rico Cortes was El Paladín.

      Zoë fought down the panic struggling to take control of her mind. He was about to become a guest on her programme—no one said she had to sleep with him. She shivered, feeling fear and excitement in equal measure as she watched him flex his muscles in the ring. The woman standing next to her shouted something in Spanish, and then grabbed hold of her arm in her enthusiasm.

      All the women wanted Rico, Zoë saw when she glanced around. For one crazy moment she felt like climbing into the ring and laying claim to him herself. And then the television lights flared on and she was working.

      Smiling for the viewers, Zoë looked properly for the first time at the ring. She had to observe everything carefully so she could provide an appropriate voiceover for the film.

      Clinging to her responsibilities certainly helped her through. But how to describe how she really felt at the sight of Rico’s smooth, bronzed torso without turning her cookery programme into something for late-night viewing?

      His belly was hard and flat, and banded across with muscle, whilst the spread of his shoulders seemed immense from where she was standing. And she couldn’t stop her gaze tracking down to where his sinfully revealing wrestling shorts proved that it wasn’t just the spread of his shoulders that was huge.

      She wanted to look anywhere but at the ring—but how could she when she knew the camera would constantly switch between her and El Paladín? She had to stare up at Rico Cortes, and she had to applaud enthusiastically along with the rest of the crowd.

      As the evening wore on the temperature began to rise. Rico was red-hot.

      She would see it through because she had to. It was only a sport, after all, Zoë told herself. But by the time the bell rang and the first bout was over she was shaking convulsively from head to foot.

      Making her excuses over the microphone to Philip, she eased her way through the crowd and went back into the castle, where she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom. Sinking onto the chair in front of the dressing-table, she buried her face in her hands.

      How could she go back? Lifting her head, Zoë stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was pallid beneath her tan, and her hands were still shaking. She tried to apply some fresh lipgloss, and gave up. She couldn’t risk a smudge of red across her face. And why was she trying to make herself look appealing? Did she want to attract trouble? Was she asking for it again, as she had done in the past?

      When the shuddering grew worse, Zoë sat with her head bowed until she’d managed to bring herself back under control. She had to go back outside again eventually. She couldn’t let everyone down—not Maria, not the tio who had helped her so generously, nor the film crew. And, most of all, she couldn’t let herself down. She had fought hard to get her life back. She had to get over this.

      There was a soft knock on the door. Marnie, the girl in charge of Wardrobe, had brought her a fresh top to change into. It was identical to the one she was wearing—low-cut and sexy—and the brash cerise looked good with her jeans. It was meant to stand out on camera when she was in a crowd. It certainly did that, Zoë thought as she viewed herself critically in the mirror. The colour was identical to the skintight flamenco dress the girl named Beba wore on the poster at the mountain hut.

      ‘I’m going to change.’ She started tugging off the top.

      ‘You can’t, Zoë. What about continuity?’