by Trish Morey
Simone had witnessed the pain in her grandmother’s eyes, had witnessed the anguish in her grandfather’s and understood nothing of what was going on, except the raw agony that these new people in her life—people that she had grown to love and know that they were important to her—were feeling.
Anguish that had transferred to her.
‘My parents brought me to Spain when I was seven,’ she said. ‘Felipe paid the fares. He was trying to reach out to my mother but, of course, I know he wanted to meet me too, as his only grandchild. The visit started well. I remember a week or two of relative peace—or maybe they were just trying to hide the worst from me as a child—but then it ended badly. It was always bound to end badly.’
Horribly.
She could still hear her father’s shouting and accusations. She could still hear her mother’s shrill cries that she had never been welcome in her own home.
And most of all she could remember the look of desolation on Felipe’s and Maria’s faces as she’d been ripped from their arms, as if they knew this was the last time they would ever lay eyes on any of them ever again.
She hadn’t understood what was going on, but she’d been torn. She’d loved them all and she couldn’t understand why they couldn’t love each other. And she couldn’t understand the hurt. She would make up for it one day, she’d promised then and there. She would come back and make up for their pain.
‘I said I’d come back,’ she said. ‘In the midst of all the shrieking, I promised them I’d return.’
‘You did,’ Alesander said. ‘You’re here now.’
She dipped her shaking head. No. She’d meant to come back years before now. She’d meant to return when she was old enough to make the travel plans herself. But life and university and lack of funds had meant that promises of years gone by were overtaken by the needs of the present. She would still go back to Getaria, she’d repeatedly told herself—one day.
Except that she hadn’t. She’d let life get in the way of good intentions. And now Maria had died without ever seeing her again, and Felipe was dying too.
And good intentions, she realised, were not enough. Not when guilt that she had done nothing weighed so heavily upon her.
‘I’ll see you back at the house,’ she said.
He watched her go, lonely and sad, and just for a moment he was almost tempted to go to her. But why? What would he say? They were nothing to each other, even if he understood why she was doing what she was doing a little more.
But her demons were her own.
It was not his job to fix them.
CHAPTER SIX
‘HE’S HERE AGAIN,’ Felipe growled as Alesander arrived for the sixth time in as many days, but this time his voice contained less censure, more tolerance. Alesander had called by the vineyard every day. On one day he’d brought the contracts for her to sign and she’d read them in the privacy of his car parked out of sight, carefully checking to ensure the agreement included all the terms she’d asked for—the no sex clause, the termination, the consideration. Then, and only then, she’d put her signature to the contract.
But every day he’d stopped by the house to talk to Felipe and always finding something to repair while he was there, and for all his gruffness, the old man was enjoying talking to another man, she could tell.
‘Of course, he’s here, Abuelo,’ she said, emerging from her room. ‘He’s come to take me to the party. How do I look?’
Felipe craned his head around and blinked, his jaw sagging open. ‘What have you done with Simone?’
‘It is me,’ she protested before she caught the glint in her grandfather’s eyes and realised he was joking, the first time she’d heard him joke since she’d arrived. ‘Oh, Abuelo,’ she said, laughing, giving his shoulders a squeeze, trying to stop a tear squeezing from her eyes and ruin her eye make-up, ‘stop teasing.’
‘Who’s teasing?’ Alesander said from the open front door.
‘Felipe, the old rogue,’ she said without looking up. ‘He’s wondering what I’ve done with Simone.’ And then she lifted her head and saw him, in a dark-as-night evening suit and snow-white shirt, his dark hair rippling back from his sculpted face. Her mouth went dry. He looked—amazing.
‘You’d better go tell her to hurry up,’ Alesander said, ‘I don’t want to be late for Markel’s 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 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 woman was stunning, her gown like a sheath that flared into a sequin-studded skirt slit to the hip. The man looked equally potent.
And they watched as the music became more dramatic and the dancers circled each other almost warily before starting their attack. And it almost seemed like an attack to Simone—a chase, a seduction, rejection and sex. The dance was unmistakably about sex.
She felt it through each dramatic gesture, each silken caress, all of them purposeful and part of the game. They were exhilarating. But the last was the best, the music evocative and sexy and the dancers, now gleaming in the light with sweat, turned the music physical with their bodies. ‘What is this music?’ she whispered, moved by its powerful emotion.
‘It’s called Sentimientos,’ he whispered back, close to her ear, his warm breath fanning her ear and throat while his thumb traced lazy circles on the back of her hand. ‘It means feelings.’
It didn’t surprise her. It was the most beautiful music she had ever heard.
Just as the dancers’ physical expression of the music was the sexiest thing she had ever seen. She felt breathless with the spectacle, and never before had she been so acutely aware of the man standing beside her, of his steady breathing, of all the places where their bodies touched.
She liked how it felt.
She hated that she liked it.
And when the dancing was over and Alesander released her to applaud, she took the opportunity to flee to the powder room, closing the door behind her and hushing out the sounds of the party. She leaned both hands on the counter and breathed deep. She would have to go back out soon and smile and try to look relaxed, as if she was enjoying herself, but for now, for just a few short moments, she didn’t have to pretend.
She heard the door open and close behind her but didn’t bother looking up. It wasn’t as if she knew anyone. ‘I like your gown.’
Except maybe her.
She opened her eyes. Ezmerelda was standing by the door, watching her. Would it be paranoid of her to think the woman had followed her in here? She tossed up whether or not to apologise, to say she hadn’t known it was her dress when they’d bought it, but that would mean she knew and maybe it was more politic to pretend to know nothing. ‘Thank you. As it happens, I like yours.’
She shrugged the compliment aside. ‘In fact I almost bought one similar to yours recently. Remarkably similar, in fact. Until I decided it was too trashy for such a significant event such as this. It suits you, though.’
Ouch. Mind you, she could hardly blame Ezmerelda being irate after the stunt Alesander had pulled. Not that it meant she’d take this woman’s ire lying down.
‘What a coincidence,’ she replied evenly. ‘I do believe I saw one like yours too. B
ut I decided this one was so much sexier.’
Ezmerelda’s eyes glittered as she swept a path to the counter, digging a lipstick from her purse, touching it to her blood-red lips. ‘I expect Alesander bought it for you?’
Simone smiled at the other woman. Did anyone here not believe it? She shrugged. ‘So what if he did?’
‘You’re sleeping with him then.’ She nodded. ‘I thought as much.’
Simone didn’t bother denying it as Ezmerelda calmly went back to checking her make-up. She’d clearly made up her mind and, besides, wasn’t that what they wanted people to think? And then, just as abruptly, the woman stopped preening and stared at her in the mirror.
‘I like you, Simone. You don’t pretend to be anything that you’re not and I really do understand. You sleep with him—he buys you a dress and takes you to a big party. It’s a simple arrangement. I can see the appeal.’ She shrugged. ‘And because you have been honest with me, I, in turn, will be honest with you.’
‘I appreciate it.’ Simone waited as the other woman reshaped two perfectly arched eyebrows with her finger.
‘Alesander likes his women. Everybody knows that. But everybody here also knows that family comes first, whatever distractions he finds along the way.’ She tilted her head and smiled sympathetically. ‘And believe me, there have been plenty of distractions along the way. But our two families have always had an understanding and perhaps you should also understand. Alesander and I are to be married.’
Really? Funny how Alesander hadn’t mentioned that little fact along the way. ‘Do you love him?’ she ventured uneasily. She suspected not—Ezmerelda didn’t look as if she was pining for a man who didn’t seem to know she was alive, but she’d already inadvertently stolen a gown out from under her. She didn’t want someone’s broken heart on her conscience as well. That hadn’t been part of her plans.
