A Price Worth Paying - By Trish Morey Page 0,1
her hands folded meekly in front of her looking as cool and unflurried in the face of his outburst as a quintessential Mother Superior. Her composure only served to feed his outrage. ‘What the hell gave you the right to sack Bianca?’
‘You were gone the entire month,’ Isobel Esquivel countered coolly, ‘and you knew what a dreadful housekeeper she was before you left. This apartment was a pigsty. Of course I took the opportunity to sack her and engage a professional cleaner while you were gone. And just look around you,’ she said with a flourish of her diamond-encrusted fingers around the now spotless room. ‘I don’t know how you can possibly be so irritated.’
His mother thought him irritated? Now there was an understatement. After a fifteen-hour flight from California, he’d been looking forward to the simple pleasure of a hot shower before tumbling into bed and tumbling a willing woman beneath him in the process. He suppressed a growl. During her brief tenure, Bianca had proven to be particularly willing.
Finding his mother waiting for him in Bianca’s place had not been part of his plans. And so he dredged up a smile to go with the words he knew would irritate his mother right back. ‘You know as well as I do, Madre querida, that I didn’t employ Bianca for her cleaning skills.’
His mother sighed distastefully, turning her face towards the view afforded by the large glass windows that overlooked the Bahia de la Concha, the stunning bay that made San Sebastian famous. ‘You don’t have to be crude, Alesander,’ she said wearily, her back to her son. ‘I understand very well why you “employed” her. The point is, the longer she was here, the less interested you were in finding a wife.’
‘Oh, I assumed finding me a wife was your job.’
Her head snapped back around as the seemingly cool façade cracked. ‘This is not a joke, Alesander! You need to face up to your responsibilities. The Esquivel name goes back centuries. Do you intend to let it die out because you are too busy entertaining yourself with the latest puta-del-dia?’
‘I’m thirty-two years old, Madre. I think my breeding potential might be good for another few years yet.’
‘Perhaps, but don’t expect Ezmerelda de la Silva to wait for ever.’
‘Of course I would expect no such thing. That would be completely unreasonable.’
‘It would,’ his mother said speculatively, her eyes narrowing, but nowhere near enough to hide the hopeful sheen that glazed their surface. She took a tentative step closer to her son. ‘Do you mean to say you’ve come to your senses while you’ve been away and decided to settle down at last?’ She gave a tinkling little laugh, the sound so false it all but rattled against the windows. ‘Oh, Alesander, you might have said.’
‘I mean,’ he said, his lips curling at his mother’s pointless hopes, ‘there is no point in Ezmerelda waiting a moment longer when there is no way on this earth that I’m marrying her.’
His mother’s expression grew tight and hard as she crossed her arms and turned pointedly back towards the window. ‘You know our families have had an understanding ever since you were both children. Ezmerelda is the obvious choice for you.’
‘Your choice, not mine!’ He would sooner choose a shark for a wife than the likes of Ezmerelda de la Silva. She was a beauty, it was true, and once in his distant past he had been tempted, but he had soon learned there was no warmth to her, no fire, indeed nothing behind the polished façade, nothing but a cold fish who had been raised with the sole imperative to marry well.
Whether married or not, he would settle for nothing less than a hot-blooded woman to share his bed. Was it any wonder he had populated his bed with nothing less?
‘So what about grandchildren then?’ Isobel pleaded, changing tack, her hand flat over her heart. ‘If you won’t consider marrying for the sake of the family name, what about for my sake? When will you give me grandchildren of my own?’
It was Alesander’s turn to laugh. ‘You overplay your hand, Madre. I seem to recall you don’t like children all that much. At least, that’s how I remember it.’
The older woman sniffed. ‘You were raised to be the best,’ she said without a hint of remorse. ‘You were raised to be strong.’
‘Then is it any wonder I wish to make my own decisions?’
His mother suddenly looked so tightly wound he thought she