The Spanish Billionaire's Mistress. Susan Stephens
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she liked. And if plastic castanets were her style, Señor Testosterone would just have to put up with it.
Reaching out, she took them from him. ‘Thank you.’ His hands felt warm and dry. They felt great. ‘Can I help you with anything?’ Her voice was cool, but she was trembling inside.
‘Yes, you can. You can get all this trash out of here.’
‘Trash?’
‘You heard me. I want it all removed.’
‘Oh, you do?’ Zoë said, meeting his stare. ‘And what business is it of yours, exactly?’
Ignoring her question, Rico paced the length of the set, shoulders hunched, looking like a cold-eyed panther stalking its prey. ‘You can’t seriously expect an artist of Maria’s calibre to perform in this theme park?’
‘No, of course I don’t—’
‘Then get all this down! Get rid of it! Do whatever you have to do to put it right—just don’t let me see it the next time I’m here.’
‘Next time? There doesn’t have to be a next time, Rico,’ Zoë assured him with a short, humourless laugh.
‘Oh, forgive me.’ He came closer. ‘I thought you invited me here for Tuesday.’
‘If you feel so bad about all this—’ Zoë opened her arms wide ‘—there’s an easy solution.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ll just withdraw my invitation, and then you won’t have to suffer another moment’s distress.’
‘That would be too easy for you.’
‘Easy?’ Zoë rested one hand on her head and stared at him incredulously. What the hell was easy about any of this? As far as she was concerned, nothing had been easy since she’d run up against Rico Cortes.
‘If you want Maria to dance, I’ll be here.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Zoë said sarcastically. ‘You own Maria. You make all her decisions for her—’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’
‘So what do you think is going to happen here, Rico? As far as I know we’ll be making a television programme. I’ll be cooking, Maria will dance, and everyone in the village will have a great time at the party. Is that so terrible?’
He made a contemptuous sound. ‘You make it sound so straightforward.’
‘Because it is!’ What was he getting at? Why didn’t he trust her?
They glared at each other without blinking, and then Rico broke away to stare around. His expression hardened. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to allow my friends to come to a place like this on Tuesday night.’
‘Oh, so now you own the whole village? I didn’t realise the feudal system was alive and well in Cazulas. I suppose it’s never occurred to you that my neighbours might be capable of thinking for themselves?’
‘Your neighbours don’t know what you plan to do here.’
‘What do I plan to do, exactly?’
‘You don’t respect them.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘You don’t respect their culture.’
‘How dare you say that?’
‘How dare I?’ Rico’s voice was contemptuous as he glared down at her.
He was close enough for her to touch—or attack—but she would never lower herself to that. She wasn’t about to lose control, like every man she had ever known, and let Rico add that to her long list of shortcomings.
‘You come here to Cazulas—Cazulas, of all the flamenco villages in Spain! And you try to tell me it’s just a coincidence? And then you bring Maria into it. Another coincidence? I don’t think so.’
She’d had enough. She wasn’t going to stand by and let him rant. ‘You’re right, Rico. Bringing Maria into my plans was no coincidence. The reason I asked her to appear on my programme is because she is easily the best dancer I have ever seen. She is certainly the best performer in Cazulas. That’s no coincidence; it’s a fact.’ Zoë couldn’t be sure if Rico had heard her or not. He was so tense, so angry—like a wound-up spring on the point of release.
‘You come here with your television cameras and your questions.’ He gazed around the half-finished set contemptuously. ‘You throw together some cheap items and pass it off as a Spanish setting. You really think that’s going to convince me that you’re putting together some worthy programme about cultural influences on Spanish cooking? You must think I’m stupid.’
‘You’re certainly mistaken.’ But she could see that he might think she was putting up the plastic rubbish, rather than taking it down.
He was so still, so keyed up, he reminded her of a big cat before it pounced. Zoë was beginning to ache with holding herself so stiffly. She sagged with relief when he pulled away from her with a jerk.
‘I’ll be back to check up on you later. If this rubbish isn’t removed by then you can forget Tuesday. Maria will not be dancing for you.’
‘Doesn’t Maria have a mind of her own?’
Rico was already striding towards the door. He stopped dead. He couldn’t believe that she would still dare to challenge him. ‘Yes, of course Maria has a mind of her own. She will take one look at this mess and refuse to dance.’
‘Oh, get out!’
As he wheeled around he saw the local produce—fresh fruit, greenery, even some attractive pieces of hand-painted pottery. His lips curled in a sneer of contempt. Someone had planned to do something classy for the programme, something appropriate to the area. What a shame Zoë Chapman didn’t have any taste.
She really was no better than the rest. Even if she didn’t work at the gutter end of television, he would not stand by and see her discard Maria the moment her usefulness was at an end. Maria was too soft-hearted for her own good. It was up to him to protect her from people like Zoë Chapman.
Zoë jumped as the door slammed. Contempt for the disastrous set was about where her dial was pointing, too. But that didn’t give Rico Cortes the right to come storming in, ordering her about.
Snatching a plastic parrot down from his perch, she tossed it into the bin bag with the rest of the rubbish. She hated being caught on the back foot, hated leaving Rico Cortes with the impression that this was all her doing. Most of all she hated the fact that he was coming back to check up on her later. Who the hell did he think he was?
But it would have been far worse still if he hadn’t planned to come back at all.
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