A Price Worth Paying - By Trish Morey Page 0,27

time. ‘Oh,’ she said, giving Simone’s hand the briefest of acknowledgements with hers, ‘I hope you enjoy your holiday,’ and took Alesander’s arm, effectively excluding her from the conversation as she turned away to look for someone in the crowd. ‘By the way, darling, have you seen Ezmerelda yet? She looks fabulous tonight.’

Simone hooked a glass of champagne from a passing tray and almost had it to her mouth before Alesander claimed her arm and drew her back into the group. Wine sloshed over the rim of her glass at the sudden change of direction. His mother noticed, sending her a look of oh-you-so-don’t-belong-here, and she thought how terrified she’d be if Isobel was to be her real mother-in-law. Fortunately she didn’t have to be terrified.

‘Alesander’s always grabbing me at inopportune times,’ she shared with a conspiratorial smile. ‘It’s quite embarrassing.’

As if to agree, he smiled and pulled her in close to his body. She didn’t mind the display of affection. Not really. Other than what it did to her internal thermostat. But she could imagine worse places to be than against the hard wall of his body. And it was for a good cause. ‘Simone is actually staying a while,’ he said. ‘As long as Felipe needs help.’

His mother looked anywhere but at the places they made contact. ‘What’s wrong with Felipe?’

‘He’s ill, I’m afraid. He’s not doing so well lately.’ For a moment she almost thought she saw something like sympathy reflected in the older woman’s eyes but just as swiftly it was gone as she caught sight of someone in the crowd. ‘Oh, there she is. Alesander, I’ll be right back.’

‘So who’s Ezmerelda?’ she asked, easing herself away from the disturbing proximity of his body heat when his mother was out of earshot. ‘Should I be afraid?’

‘Markel’s daughter, to answer your first question, and probably a resounding yes to the second.’

‘And why, exactly, should I be afraid of her?’

He leaned close to her ear and whispered, ‘Because you’re wearing her dress.’

Shock forced her jaw to fall open. She stared at him, disbelieving. ‘What? So you knew all the time who wanted this dress? What kind of person would do that?’

‘A person who thought the dress would be wasted on her and look better on you. And it would have been and it does. Much better.’

She barely had time to digest that justification—for she could hardly call it a compliment, surely—when his mother was back with two people in tow. ‘Here they are,’ she said. ‘I told you Ezmerelda looked fabulous.’

Simone caught her breath. Not just fabulous, but stunning as she smiled a greeting to another couple as she passed, her bearing regal if not haughty, looking every inch a Spanish society princess with her black hair pulled back and woven into an intricate up-do, and wide dark eyes and flawless skin. Simone felt pale and uninteresting in comparison.

Markel reached them first, bowing a ruddy-cheeked face lower to catch her name, his smile wide as she wished him a happy birthday before he drifted off into the crowd for more congratulations. She liked the man on sight.

And then Ezmerelda turned her head and her smile widened as her gaze fell on Alesander, a smile that slid away when her eyes found her standing alongside, especially when she saw what she was wearing. Simone saw confusion in her beautiful eyes, and anger and something else that looked like hurt, and she wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

‘Alesander,’ she said, turning away once she’d recovered, ‘how lovely of you to come.’

They kissed cheeks. ‘You’re looking beautiful, as usual, Ezmerelda. I’d like you to meet Simone Hamilton.’

‘How lovely you brought a friend,’ she said with barely a glance in her direction, ‘but then when do you not have a friend? You’re simply too popular, Alesander.’

She wanted to run. It was like being in a lion’s den with a lioness whose cub she was trying to steal. A hungry lioness. But Alesander wouldn’t let her run. He had her pinned in tight next to his body and he wasn’t letting her go.

It was a relief when a band started playing. ‘Ah,’ Ezmerelda said, ‘the tango display is about to begin, a special treat for my father. I must find him.’

Simone almost sagged with relief, thankful now that he had such a tight hold on her.

‘Come,’ he said, ushering her to a balcony overlooking the floor below, where two dancers posed dramatically, metres apart, on the marble floor. The