The Spanish Billionaire's Mistress. Susan Stephens
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and went to join him. Resting her hands on her knees to help her make the steep ascent up the wooden steps to the stage, she looked her age, but when she straightened up Zoë saw an incredible transformation take place.
Giving the audience an imperious stare, the woman snatched up her long black skirt in one hand and, raising the other towards the sky, she stamped her foot once, hard.
A fierce energy filled the air as the woman began her performance. Zoë had no idea that Rico was watching her. She was aware of nothing outside the dance.
‘Did you feel it?’ he murmured, close to her face, as the woman finished and the crowd went wild.
‘Did I feel what?’ she said, moving closer so he could hear.
‘Duende.’
As he murmured the word she looked at his mouth. ‘Duende.’ Zoë tasted the word on her own lips. It sounded earthy and forbidden, like Rico Cortes. She sensed that both had something primal and very dangerous at their core.
‘You wanted real flamenco,’ he said, drawing Zoë back to the purpose of her visit. ‘Well, this is real flamenco. This is wild, impassioned art at its most extreme. Are you ready for that, Zoë Chapman?’
She heard the doubt in his voice. Perhaps he saw her as a dried-up husk, incapable of feeling passion of any sort—and why not? He wouldn’t be the first man to think that. ‘I’m just really grateful to have this chance to see flamenco at its best.’
‘You don’t see flamenco. You feel it.’
‘I know that now.’ He thought of her as a tourist out for a cheap thrill, Zoë realised. But she was a long way from the tourist trail here. She was a long way from her old life too— the old Zoë Chapman would have backed off without a fight, but there was no chance of that now. She knew what she could achieve, with or without a man at her side. And she hadn’t come to Spain to be insulted. She had come to make a programme, a good programme. She wasn’t going to let Rico Cortes distract her from that goal. ‘Can you explain this word duende to me?’
‘You’ll know it when you feel it.’
‘What—like an itch?’
‘Like an orgasm.’
Zoë’s mouth fell open. Not many things shocked her. OK, so she’d been less than reverent in response to his cutting remarks, but it had been a serious question. She had been right about him. Rico Cortes was a man of extremes—a man who was looking at her now with a brooding expression on his face, no doubt wondering if his shock tactics had been sufficient to scare her off.
‘An emotional orgasm, you mean?’ She was pleased with her composure under fire.
‘That’s right.’
There was a spark of admiration in his eyes. It gave her a rush—maybe because there was passion in the air long after the woman’s performance had ended. Vibrations from the flamenco seemed to have mixed with his maleness, taking her as close to duende as she would ever get. She held his gaze briefly, to prove that she could, and found it dark and disconcerting. Her body was trembling with awareness, as if an electric current had run through her.
‘So, you have taken a summer lease on Castillo Cazulas,’ he said, staring down at her as if he knew what she was feeling. ‘And you want to make a programme about flamenco. Why here, of all places? Hardly anyone outside the village knows about the Confradias Cazulas flamenco camp.’
‘People who know about flamenco do. And I enjoyed the walk.’
‘But how will you find your way back again? It’s almost dark.’
He was right, but she was prepared. ‘I have this.’ Digging in her pocket, Zoë pulled out her flashlight. Suddenly it didn’t seem adequate. She should have remembered how fast daylight disappeared in Spain. It was as if the sun, having blazed so vigorously all day, had worn itself out, and dropped like a stone below the horizon in minutes.
They both turned as some more dancers took the stage. They were all talented, but none possessed the fire of the first woman. She had already found her guest artist, Zoë realised, but she would still need an introduction.
Glancing up, she knew that Rico was her best chance. But there were man waves coming off him in torrents, and he smelled so good—like pine trees and wood smoke. His sexual heat was curling round her senses like a blanket. And lowering her guard! She hadn’t come to Spain to indulge in an adolescent fantasy over some arrogant stud. Her interest in flamenco was purely professional. Work was all she cared about; a new man figured nowhere in her plans.
By the time the stage had cleared again it was pitch-dark, with no moon. Quite a few people had come by car, parking in a clearing not too far away. Zoë watched with apprehension as their headlights glowed briefly before disappearing into the night.
‘You really think that little light of yours is going to be enough?’ Rico said, as if reading her mind.
Zoë glanced at him. ‘It will have to be.’ Shoving her hands in the pockets of her track suit, she tilted her chin towards the stage. ‘Was that the last performance for tonight?’
‘You want more?’
‘How much would it cost to hire someone like that first performer—the older woman?’
She saw an immediate change in his manner.
‘All the money on earth couldn’t buy talent like that. You certainly couldn’t afford it.’
Zoë bit back the angry retort that flew to her lips. This was no time for temperament: everyone was leaving—the woman too, if she didn’t act fast. Their gazes locked; his eyes were gleaming in the darkness. This man frightened her, and she knew she should turn away. But she couldn’t afford to lose the opportunity.
‘I’m sorry—that was clumsy of me. But you can’t blame me for being carried away by that woman’s performance—’
‘Maria.’ His voice was sharp.
‘Maria,’ Zoë amended. She felt as if she was treading on eggshells, but his co-operation was crucial. She generally made a very convincing case for appearing on the show. Right now, she felt like a rank amateur. There was something about Rico Cortes that made her do and say the wrong thing every time. ‘Maria’s performance was incredible. Do you think she would dance for me?’
‘Why on earth would she want to dance for you?’
‘Not for me, for my show. Do you think Maria would agree to dance on my programme?’
‘You’d have to ask her yourself.’
‘I will. I just wanted to know what you thought about it first.’ Zoë suspected nothing happened in Cazulas without Rico’s say-so.
‘It depends on what you can offer Maria in return.’
‘I would pay her, of course—’
‘I’m not talking about money.’
‘What, then?’
A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘You would have to win her respect.’
Did he have to look so sceptical? ‘And what do you think would be the best way to do that?’
They were causing some comment, Zoë noticed, amongst the few people remaining, with this exchange, conducted tensely head to head. It couldn’t be helped. She had to close the deal. She wasn’t about to stop now she had him at least talking about the possibility of Maria appearing on the show.
‘You’d have to bargain with her.’
An opening! Maybe not a door, but a window—she’d climb through it. ‘What do you suggest I bargain with?’ She smiled, hoping to appeal to his better nature.
‘Are you good at anything?’ Rico demanded.
Apart, that was, from joining the hordes who spied on him and