A Price Worth Paying - By Trish Morey Page 0,26

party.’

Felipe snorted beside her while Alesander’s mouth turned upwards into a smile.

She smiled back, a smile of thanks. ‘I’ll just go and get her in that case,’ and went to fetch her wrap.

‘Don’t keep her out too late,’ she heard Felipe tell him. ‘She’s a good girl.’

‘Don’t give away all my secrets, Abuelo,’ she gently chided, dipping her head to kiss his grizzled cheeks. ‘And you behave yourself while I’m out.’

Markel’s home looked more like a palace than any house she had ever had reason to visit, complete with porticoes and balconies and tall arched windows and doors, and all lit up so the pale walls turned to gold against the evening sky, every open window glowing a warm welcome. Strategically placed palm trees softened the bold lines of the exterior while a fountain tinkled musically in the centre of the driveway turnaround.

‘Help,’ she said softly to herself as he pulled the car up next to waiting doormen who smoothly pulled open their doors. She’d known she was out of her depth from the first time she’d looked up at Alesander’s apartment, but once again she was reminded just how far. This was a world where houses were palatial and came complete with tinkling fountains and where uniformed men waited on you hand and foot. This was so not her world.

She took a deep breath, careful not to trip on her gown, as she stepped from the car. There was music coming from inside, and the hum of conversation punctuated with the occasional peal of laughter, the note of which seemed to match the tinkling fountain. ‘Nervous?’ he said as he joined her, while his car was whisked away behind them for parking by the valet.

She nodded and smiled tightly, her fingers biting down on her evening purse. This was it. The night she not only met his family and friends, but paved the way for him presenting her soon as his fiancée.

Of course she was nervous.

‘Relax,’ he told her, his eyes massaging her fears away. ‘Tonight you look like you were born to this. You look every inch an Esquivel bride. You look beautiful.’

She blinked up at him. Did he really mean it or was it just one more of his build-her-up pep talks to make her believe they could do this—before he pulled the rug out from under her feet again, just in case she actually got to thinking this could become permanent?

He’d barely spoken in the car after she’d thanked him for playing along with Felipe’s joke and she’d guessed it was because he didn’t have an audience he needed to impress any more.

‘It’s true,’ he said, as if he was attuned to her unsaid thoughts and fears, his face perilously close to hers as he squeezed her hand so hard that she almost felt as if she wanted to believe him. But this was Alesander, she reminded herself. Alesander wasn’t in the business of being nice. He bestowed upon her courtesies to convince everyone else that they were a couple, and he needed her to believe enough to carry it off.

Nothing more.

And that was exactly the way she wanted it. Business, she reminded herself, taking a deep breath. This is business. She could do this if she remembered it was business. ‘Okay,’ she said with a determination she wished would stop wavering, ‘I’m ready. Let’s get this show on the road.’

But if arriving at Markel’s home had been daunting, inside was terrifying. So many people, so many women, all of whom seemed to know Alesander. All of whom were apparently keen to discover who she was.

Right now she might just as well have been a butterfly stuck with a pin inside a display case.

‘Alesander, you came.’ A woman’s voice broke through the laughter. ‘I knew you would.’

He leaned down and they kissed, cheek to cheek. ‘Of course, Madre, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

The woman’s gaze didn’t linger on her son, moving at laser speed over his guest, appraisal, judgement and summary execution in one rapier-sharp movement. ‘Oh, I see you found another cleaner.’

Cleaner? She looked up at him, waiting for an explanation, but Alesander only laughed.

‘Allow me to introduce you to Simone Hamilton, granddaughter of Felipe. Simone, my mother, Isobel Esquivel.’

Simone’s greeting was cut off, her proffered hand left hanging.

‘Felipe?’

‘Felipe Otxoa—our neighbour in Getaria. Remember?’

‘Oh, that Felipe. I didn’t realise he had a granddaughter.’

‘I’m from Australia,’ Simone offered in her rusty Spanish. ‘I haven’t been here long.’

The older woman smiled for the first