A Price Worth Paying - By Trish Morey Page 0,3

enough to even let her in, let alone seriously consider her proposal.

And why should he, when it was the maddest idea she’d ever had? She’d get laughed out of San Sebastian, probably laughed out of Spain.

She almost turned and fled back along the Playa de la Concha to the bus station and her grandfather’s house in Getaria and certain refuge.

Almost.

Except what other choice did she have? Getting laughed out of the city, the country, was better than doing nothing. Doing nothing would mean sitting back and watching her grandfather’s life slide inexorably towards death, day by day.

Doing nothing was no choice at all. Not any longer.

How could she not even try?

She swallowed down air, the sea breeze that toyed with the layers of her favourite skirt flavoured with garlic and tomatoes and frying fish from a bayside restaurant. Her stomach rumbled a protest. She could not stand here simply waiting to cross this busy road for ever. Soon she must return to her grandfather’s simple house and prepare their evening meal. She had told him she needed to shop for the paella she had planned. He would be wondering why she was taking so long.

And suddenly the busy traffic parted and her legs were carrying her across the road, and the closer she got to the building, the larger and more imposing it looked, and the more fanciful her plan along with it.

She must be crazy.

It would never work.

He’d just stepped out of the shower when the buzzer to his apartment sounded. He growled as he lashed a towel around his hips, wondering what his mother had forgotten, but no, Isobel was not the sort to give advance warning, not since he’d once lent her the key she’d made a habit of forgetting to return.

So he chose to ignore it as he swiped up another towel to rub his hair. He did all his work at his city office or out at the Esquivel estate in Getaria. Nobody called on him here unless they were invited. And then the buzzer sounded again, longer this time, more insistent, clearly designed to get his attention.

And he stopped rubbing his hair and wondered. Had Bianca been waiting for his return, keeping a safe distance from his mother? She had known his travel plans. She’d known he was due back today.

Serendipity, he thought, because she could hardly read anything into one last night if she’d invited herself back. Why not enjoy one last night together for old time’s sake? And tomorrow or the next day, for that matter, he could tell her that her services were no longer required.

‘Bianca, hola,’ he said into the intercom, feeling a kick of interest from beneath his towel and thinking it fortuitous he wouldn’t have to waste any time getting undressed.

His greeting met with silence until, ‘It’s not Bianca,’ someone said in faltering Spanish, her husky voice tripping over her words and making a mess of what she was trying to say. ‘It’s Simone Hamilton, Felipe Otxoa’s granddaughter.’

He didn’t respond for a moment, his mind trying to join the dots. Did he even know Felipe had a granddaughter? They might be neighbours but it wasn’t as if they were friends. But no—he rubbed his brow—there was something he remembered—a daughter who had married an Australian—the one who had been killed in some kind of accident some months back. Was this their daughter, then? It could explain why she was murdering his language. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in English.

‘Please, Señor Esquivel,’ she said, and he could almost hear her sigh of relief as the words poured out, ‘I need to speak to you. It’s about Felipe.’

‘What about Felipe?’

‘Can I come up?’

‘Not until you tell me what this is about. What’s so important that you have to come to my apartment?’

‘Felipe, he’s … Well, he’s dying.’

He blinked. He’d heard talk at the estate that the old man wasn’t well. He wasn’t unmoved but Felipe was old and he hadn’t exactly been surprised at the news. He still didn’t see what it had to do with him.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, but what do you expect me to do about it?’

He heard noises around her, of a family back fresh from the beach, the children being scolded by their mother for tracking sand back to one of the lower apartments, a father, grunting and grumpy and wearying of his so-called holiday and probably already dreaming about a return to the office. She tried to say something then, her words