She grinned. ‘Was that a hint?’
He ignored the comment. ‘In honour of your family I’ve brought over a group of flamenco dancers from Andalucía.’
‘That was very nice of you. Just don’t let my brothers sing,’ she warned with a slanting smile.
It was almost nothing, perhaps a brief window into another side of Sofia: a fun side, a family side, a carefree side of a woman he hadn’t seen so far.
‘Best leave singing to the professionals,’ she said.
‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘It’s your tradition. Will you dance?’
‘Flamenco?’ she exclaimed. ‘You just try and stop me.’
He had no intention of doing so, he mused as Sofia struck a pose. She looked so beautiful—alluring beyond belief. The sight of her wreaked havoc on his groin. ‘Tonight promises to be one to remember.’
‘For all the right reasons, I hope?’ she countered.
He stared into her eyes. She pleased and infuriated him in equal measure. How could she appear so frank and open after everything she’d done? If he judged Sofia by right here, right now, he’d say she was a free spirit who loved nothing more than to ride hard and live to help others. What had happened to change that? Surely she couldn’t have turned into a self-serving schemer overnight?
She shrugged when he didn’t answer and ended on a flippant note. ‘I’ll try hard not to disappoint you,’ she promised with one last flashing glance.
He watched as she walked away. What was she playing at now? Sofia Acosta was as sharp as a bag of monkeys, and twice as resourceful. She was determined to keep her retreat afloat, and had already shown she would stop at nothing to do that.
Yet still he wanted her.
Why not? he mused as he watched as Sofia met his sister Olivia halfway across the yard and fell into conversation with her. Both women were beautiful, and as spirited as his most challenging mare. With a back view as impressive as her front, he loved the way Sofia strode out. He loved the sway in her shapely body. Not for the first time, he thought her perfect. Would he sleep with the enemy? Why not? But first he must unravel the enigma that was Sofia Acosta. In spite of everything that had gone before, he wanted to know her both in and out of bed.
Nope. She hadn’t packed a party dress suitable for a flamenco party. All she had in her zip-up case were numerous pairs of jodhpurs and jeans in varying stages of disrepair, a stack of clean tops, two spare pairs of PJs, toiletries and comfortable underwear that could in no way be described as glamorous. This was a training camp after all. Not that it was a typical training camp. Everything was high quality and practical, but the suite of rooms Sofia had been directed to, for instance, contained enough tech to satisfy even her brothers. There was also every muscle-easing balm and potion known to man in the bathroom, which she intended to take full and luxurious advantage of. A separate room was devoted to massage, and there was a sauna, as well as a steam room and an ice bath. The latter she was determined to swerve.
She chose bubbles.
The bath was huge. The warm water was plentiful, and the selection of fragrances mind-blowing. She could happily have remained soaking all night, without the prospect of a party. Would Cesar be relaxed in an informal setting or would he still be cool and unreadable? Numerous images flashed through her mind, but for this one night she was going to forget the damning article and have fun.
Which meant sorting out an outfit for the party.
No problem, Sofia reflected as she towelled down. She had a tongue in her head and an exuberant group of gitanos had arrived from the mountains of Andalucía to entertain them. She could hear them in the courtyard now. There was a possibility they might have heard of her mother. Keeping the tradition of flamenco alive required a tight-knit if widespread community.
It had been on a night similar to this that Sofia’s aristocratic Acosta father had met his future wife. Sofia’s mother had danced for him and, according to her father, the firelight had not been able to compete with the fire in her mother’s eyes. It remained to be seen if tonight would be a damp squib for Sofia, or whether the traditional music and dance would thrill everyone with its upbeat message.
Sofia was welcomed into the gitanos’ fold like a long-lost sister, daughter, friend. She was deeply touched by how many women clustered around to help her pick out a gown. Cesar had housed the performers in some of the most luxurious accommodation so there was plenty of room for all the women and Sofia to gather, and plenty of room to prepare properly, which was fortunate as Sofia’s hair alone took a good deal of taming and grooming before it could be confined in the severe style worn by all the women. The last touch was an ornate comb for her hair, decorated with sparkling paste jewels, which held a flowing black lace mantilla in place. There was only one problem, in that Sofia’s new friends seemed to think that she would be one of the star performers tonight. ‘Your mother’s talent was legendary,’ the head dancer told her. ‘You can’t refuse.’
Neither would she. ‘Of course I’ll dance,’ she agreed with a flutter of nerves.
She tried out a few steps, and it was a relief to find that the childhood lessons from her mother had not deserted her.
‘And you must use a fan,’ one of the older women insisted. ‘The language of the fan is universal.’
And dangerous, Sofia reflected as she stared at the glorious bright red fan the woman wanted her to use. Flamenco was a sensual dance that ebbed and flowed as smoothly as silk, with rhythmic stamps to punctuate the dancer’s movements. This built tension and excitement, while a fan allowed grace and style to soften the repeated clatter of heels on wood. But a fan must always be used with discretion, Sofia remembered her mother telling her, as it increased the charm of the dancer’s spell.
She was taken aback when she caught sight of herself in a mirror, and thanked the women who’d helped her profusely. ‘I can’t believe the transformation!’ she exclaimed, as she took in the sight of her hourglass figure in a tight-fitting black and white dress. With its frills and ruffles—which she never, ever wore normally—the costume made her feel like a different person, one who was bold and who never suffered from doubt.
What would her brothers make of seeing her on stage? Whatever their differences, she was confident they’d cheer her on. She was an Acosta. They were family, and it was this deep and abiding love that would always protect her. Her brothers might think she had abused that love, and she could only hope that one day they would forgive her.
And Cesar? What would he think when he saw her on stage?
When he entered the room her stomach clenched with nerves at the thought of performing in front of him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
