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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 the idiots who thought an important part of his heritage had the same value as the cheap tourist tat along the coast. She had manoeuvred him into starting negotiations with her, though. She was sharper than most. He should have got rid of her right away, but his brain had slipped below his belt.

      He shouldn’t have stayed away from Cazulas for so long. He should have kept a tighter hold on who was allowed into the village. But he had trusted such things to a management company. He wouldn’t be doing that again.

      ‘I don’t just make programmes,’ she said, reclaiming his attention. ‘I present them.’

      ‘I apologise.’ He exaggerated the politeness. ‘Apart from your ability to make programmes and present them, what do you have to bargain with that might possibly interest Maria?’

      ‘I cook.’

      Removing her hands from her pockets, she planted them on her hips. She smiled—or rather her lips tugged up at an appealing angle while her eyes blazed defiance at him. Her manner amused him, and attracted him too. ‘You cook?’

      ‘Is there something wrong with that?’

      ‘No, nothing at all—it’s just unexpected.’

      ‘Well, I don’t know what you were expecting.’

      Just as well. He had been running over a few things that would definitely make it to the top of his wish list, and cooking wasn’t one of them. Outsiders were practically non-existent in the mountains. It was a rugged, difficult terrain, and yet Zoë Chapman, with her direct blue-green gaze and her wild mop of titian hair, had come alone and on foot, with a flashlight as her only companion, to find—what had she expected to find?

      Rico’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. In his experience, women made careful plans; they didn’t just turn up on the off chance. ‘We’ll discuss this some other time. I’ll have someone see you home.’

      ‘When I’ve spoken to Maria.’

      Her mouth was set in a stubborn line. He liked her lips. He liked her eyes too—when they weren’t spitting fire at him. She was about five-five, lightly built—but strong, judging from her handshake. The rest was a mystery beneath her shapeless grey track suit. Maybe it was better that way. There were very few surprises left in life.

      But this was one mystery parcel he had no intention of unwrapping. The gutter press could use subtle tactics to succeed. Zoë Chapman might be working for anyone—how did he know? The television company, even the programme she was supposed to be making, could all be a front. Cazulas was special—the one place he could get some space, some recreation—and no one was going to spoil that for him.

      ‘So, you’ll introduce me to Maria?’

      She was still here? Still baiting him? Rico’s jaw firmed as he stared at Zoë. The sensible thing to do would be to cut her, blank her out, forget about her. But she intrigued him too much for that. ‘It’s not convenient right now—’

      ‘Who says so?’

      ‘Maria!’ Rico turned with surprise. ‘I didn’t hear you coming.’

      ‘That is obvious.’ The older woman’s eyes were bright and keen as she stared curiously at Zoë. ‘But now I am here why don’t you introduce us, Rico?’

      ‘She won’t be staying—’

      ‘I will!’

      Maria viewed them both with amusement.

      ‘I didn’t think you would be interested in what Ms Chapman had to say,’ Rico said with a dismissive shrug.

      ‘So now you are thinking for me, Rico?’

      There was a moment when the two of them stared at each other, unblinking, and then Rico pulled back. ‘Maria Cassavantes—allow me to present Zoë Chapman to you.’

      ‘Zoë,’ Maria repeated, imbuing Zoë’s name with new colour. ‘I have heard rumours about your television programmes and I would like to talk to you. Forget Rico for a moment. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?’

      It was everything Zoë had hoped for—but forget about Rico? That was asking a bit too much. She saw him tense and she couldn’t resist a quick glance of triumph.

      Rico was seething. What was Maria thinking of? They knew nothing about this Zoë Chapman—nothing at all. What set her apart from all the other female sharks, with their bleached teeth and avaricious natures? Maria hadn’t a clue what she was letting herself in for—she was playing with fire…

      ‘We should know more about your cookery programme before Maria agrees to do anything.’ He took a step forward, deliberately putting himself between them. ‘I don’t see how flamenco could possibly be relevant.’

      ‘If you’d only let me explain—’

      ‘How can I be sure you’re not wasting Maria’s time?’

      ‘I said I don’t mind this, Rico.’ Maria put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I would like to talk to Zoë and hear what she’s got to say—’

      ‘I promise you, Maria,’ Zoë cut in, ‘I’m not in the habit of wasting anyone’s time, least of all my own. And if you need me to prove it to you—’

      ‘I really do.’ It was Rico’s turn to butt in.

      Maria was forgotten as they glared at each other. Then Zoë broke eye contact, allowing him a brief moment of satisfaction.

      ‘I’ll make everyone in the village a meal,’ she declared, gesturing extravagantly around the clearing. ‘How does that suit you, Rico?’

      Now he was surprised. ‘That’s quite an offer.’ There was just enough doubt in his voice to provoke her, to brighten her green eyes to emerald and make her cheeks flare red.

      ‘I mean it.’

      ‘Fine.’ He lifted up his hands in mock surrender, then dipped his head, glad of the opportunity to conceal the laughter brewing behind his eyes. Somehow he didn’t think Ms Chapman would appreciate humour right now. But there were about one hundred and sixty souls in the village. She would never pull it off.

      Ms Chapman. Who knew what was behind a name?

      Rico’s gaze flew to Zoë’s hands. Clean, blunt fingernails, cut short, but no ring, no jewellery at

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