A Price Worth Paying?

by Trish Morey

  ‘Don’t be worried,’ her attendant said from the front seat. ‘Celebrations always follow the harvest. This is just one more cause for celebration.’

  It was, apparently, as cameras clicked and buzzed around her as the bridal party made it from the car. Felipe took the longest time, untangling his legs but still smiling as he took his granddaughter’s arm for the walk down the short aisle.

  Ezmerelda set off first, serene and magnificent and so calm it lent Simone strength. She followed on Felipe’s arm, his steps faltering and slow, but he beamed proudly to everyone along the way.

  This is his moment, she thought, much more than mine, and she slowed her steps to match his, and let him have his moment. He was back, celebrating with the people he’d lived with all his life, the people he’d been cut off from, first with his wife’s illness and then with his own disease.

  He was in his element and he was lapping it up.

  And then she saw Alesander waiting for her.

  So tall and broad, and so breathtakingly handsome beyond belief, and smiling indulgently, as if he knew what she was doing taking so long making her way down the aisle.

  His smile worked its way into her bones. No wonder it was so hard to tell herself she should hate him.

  Finally they were there and she kissed Felipe on the cheeks as he left her with her husband-to-be. She’d done it, she thought as she listened to her vows. Her crazy plan had worked out.

  Or almost worked out.

  And minutes later, as they were declared man and wife and they kissed, now it was almost done. Now there was just the reception and Alesander’s contract amendments to work through …

  The reception was the easy bit. Ezmerelda was right, the village was in the mood to celebrate, and Felipe was not missing out on anything. She saw him stagger his way onto the dance floor as Alesander whirled her around the floor, and she wondered how long his strength would last, but how could she stop him when he was having so much fun?

  Alesander whisked her past. ‘However did you do it?’ he asked. ‘However did you get Ezmerelda on side to be your attendant?’

  She smiled and looked across to the couple who had danced non-stop since the music had started, the couple the photographers were almost one hundred per cent focused upon. ‘All I had to do was tell her I knew nothing about weddings and I needed her help.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Okay, it did help when I mentioned who your best man was.’

  He laughed. ‘You are an amazing woman, Señora Esquivel.’

  She blinked up at him and wished things could be different. ‘And you are an amazing man.’

  He pulled her to him and they shared that moment as he spun her around the dance floor, and this time she let herself relax and be held because it felt so good when this man held her and she knew it wouldn’t last.

  It didn’t last. Barely a minute into the dance they heard the cries of panic.

  It only took a second to work out why the music and dancing had stopped.

  Felipe had collapsed on the dance floor.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘YOU SEEM tense,’ Alesander said, as the car cruised through the quiet streets, his arm wound around her shoulders, his warm fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

  ‘Do I?’ She wasn’t really surprised. She’d thought she was relaxed when they’d left the hospital. She’d accepted his arm around her shoulders and let herself tap into his strength, but on reflection she hadn’t been relaxed at all. She’d just been relieved—that Felipe, in his weakened state, had simply overdone things and would be released after a night’s observation. But the relief hadn’t lasted long. Because almost as soon as the car had left the hospital she’d realised where they were headed.

  To Alesander’s apartment.

  To Alesander’s bed.

  And the relief at knowing Felipe was in good hands for the night was no match for the apprehension that had followed. The pressure of his arm around her shoulders—the stroke of his fingers across her skin—the press of his strong thigh against hers—all of these sensations only served to ratchet up her tension and heighten her anxiety.

  Because he had decreed that in spite of the agreement they’d both signed—the agreement that stipulated that this was a marriage in name only—that he intended to exercise all of his marital rights and bed her.

  No, she thought on reflection, not decreed. Because this man had blackmailed her to make it so.

  The fact he’d waited until their wedding night for it to happen didn’t help at all.

  Not now that night was here.

  ‘The doctors say Felipe will be all right,’ he said beside her, squeezing her shoulder, trying to reassure her, misinterpreting her nervousness. And that only made her angrier. Because this marriage was a device—a convenience—nothing more. Alesander didn’t know the first thing about her. He didn’t know what made her tick. He had no concept of what was troubling her like a man who loved her—like a real husband—would.

  And yet he was expecting to take her to his bed and share the ultimate intimacy, as if he were that real husband—as if he actually cared about her.

  Damn him! They’d made an agreement. They’d both signed it, only for him to go and change the rules mid-play, and all because he couldn’t handle the thought of a woman who wasn’t interested in him, who didn’t throw herself at his feet as he was used to.

  ‘That must be a disappointment for you,’ she countered, shifting herself as far as she could along the seat, wanting to put distance between them, or at least distance between their warm thighs, ‘or it might have been the shortest wedding in history. You could already have been halfway to owning the entire vineyard.’

  Something hard and sharp glinted in his eyes as they met hers. ‘I guess we are stuck together a little longer, in that case. And as much as that might bother you and inconvenience us both, luckily there is a silver lining attached to every dark cloud.’

  She gave an unladylike snort. ‘Really? So name it.’

  ‘That’s easy,’ he said as he smiled and touched his hand to her forehead, where the ends of a stray curl had tangled in her lashes. With an all too gentle swipe of his fingers against her brow, he pulled the offending curl free. She shivered under the touch of his fingertip on her skin, and at the tug of hair against lash. She shivered again when she realised how much his touch affected her and how very much she didn’t want it to. ‘Because I get to make love to you, of course. What else could it be?’

  And if she didn’t already harbour enough resentment towards this man, she could hate him for the smug certainty that tonight it would happen. That tonight they would make love.

  And even as he sought to relax her with the touch of his hand and the stroke of his fingers across her skin, instead his hand felt like the weight of obligation on her shoulders, his fingers heavy at the expectation of what this wedding night should bring.

  A wedding night that should never be.

  It was all so wrong.

  It was all so false.

  She looked out of the window, silently fuming, breathing deep, pretending interest in the buildings of the Platje de la Concha rather than look anywhere near him—at this man who was now her husband in name and who very shortly intended to make himself her husband in every intimate sense of the word.

  And yet still not a husband at all. A real husband would marry you because he loved you. Because he wanted to be with you and wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.

  Not just because he thought he could get the vines you would inherit and get into your pants in the same deal.

  ‘Stop the car,’ she vaguely registered hearing, confused when they were still blocks away from his apartment.

  The driver pulled in along the kerb. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked as he stepped from the car and held out his hand to her.

  ‘Making an executive decision,’ he said, his smile at odds with his tight features. ‘It’s such a beautiful night I thought we mi
ght both benefit from a walk along the beach.’

  She looked up at him, searching his eyes in the night light, searching for meaning or another, darker, motive, but she could find none. And while it was a relief to know he wasn’t so desperate to get her on her back that he would head straight to his apartment, it was disturbing too, that perhaps he wasn’t as oblivious of her feelings as she had assumed. ‘Thank you,’ she simply said, because a walk along the beach suited her too, if only because it gave her much needed breathing space. She slid across the seat and took his hand to join him in the dark night air. ‘I would appreciate that.’

  The car pulled away, the driver dismissed, as Alesander tucked her arm into his and led her along the wide lamplit walkway. The mild night air kissed her skin, whispering in its salty tongue, while a fat moon hung low, sending a ribbon of silver across the water. From somewhere came the sounds of music, the strains of a violin to which the low waves whooshed in and out along the shore. Beside her Alesander said little, seemingly content also to absorb the evening, their war of words and wills temporarily suspended.

  He was right, she thought, as they strolled their slow way around the bay. It was a beautiful night, a night made for lovers, a night where the air held a note of expectation, almost as if it was holding its breath waiting for something. And that thought left her sad, that this night and all its romance was wasted on them. Because she had no expectations. Hers was an obligation. Hers was nothing to look forward to.

  Although …

  She stole a look at his strong profile. His was not a face you would be disappointed waking up to after the night before. His body was not one you would regret reaching out for. And then she shivered a little, turning her eyes back to the path and trying not to think too much about that night before.

  The night to come.

  Was she pathetic to feel so nervous? She’d got naked with a man. She’d had sex. She knew how it worked and where the various bits went. Sometimes she’d even enjoyed it. But that had been with Damon, and they’d been a couple for almost a year. She’d even imagined she loved him at one stage—before she’d found out he was happily having sex with her best friend behind her back. But they’d been friends before they’d become lovers. Of course there had been times it had been good with him.

  But sex with a virtual stranger?

  Sex with a man who had blackmailed her into his bed?

  There was no way she could enjoy that.

  And there was no way she could trust her feelings when she did. Intimacy came with a price, one she wasn’t sure she wanted to pay again.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, as if he’d sensed her tremor.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, wishing he hadn’t noticed, not wanting him to know anything about her, uncomfortable with the thought he was reading her body.

  ‘Then why don’t we walk on the beach?’

  ‘Take our shoes off, you mean?’

  ‘Unless you can walk in high heels on the sand.’ And his smile caught the moonlight and his teeth glinted white to match the spark in his eyes and the idea was so unexpected that she laughed.

  ‘Why not?’

  She slipped off her silver sandals and unhooked the stockings from her suspenders, slipping them down her legs while he shrugged off his shoes before taking her hand. The sand was cool under her feet and tickled the sensitive skin between her toes. His hand was warm, his long fingers curled around hers, his thumb drawing lazy circles on her wrist.

  She tried to concentrate on the sand and the squeak of their steps on the sand, on the lights of the buildings reflected into the bay, on the stars and moon above, but his touch wasn’t easy to ignore. Damon hadn’t liked holding hands. He’d said it signalled possessiveness and argued that people weren’t possessions.

  Was Alesander being possessive or just … neighbourly? Whatever, he had nice hands and a nice touch. She didn’t mind the feel of her hand wrapped in his as they walked along the sand. And meanwhile the silver ribbon on the water shimmied, the shoreline spun with gold of the reflected city and the night air was fresh and clean.

  She sighed wistfully. ‘It’s so beautiful here. You’re lucky to live so close to the bay.’

  ‘Do you live near the sea?’

  ‘No, not really. I live in a shoe box of a flat near the university where I’m studying. It’s about an hour to the coast, probably two to get to a decent beach.’ She sighed again. ‘The beach there is nice enough but it’s nothing like this.’

  They walked a few more steps, the strains of the violin haunting in the night air.

  ‘What are you studying?’

  And the question took her so unawares that she laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It just seemed odd—we just got married and here you are, asking me what I do. Normally you’d ask that before you got married.’

  ‘Normally a woman wouldn’t turn up on your doorstep and propose.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, looking at her feet. ‘I take your point. I’m studying psychology. I’m in my final year.’

  They neared a building that jutted out onto the beach—the same restaurant near where she’d crossed the road that first day—which meant his apartment must be just across the road. Here the music was louder, and she could see a small band of musicians playing on a balcony overlooking the sea, scattered patrons lapping up the last of the evening’s musical fare. The music tugged at her as they passed by, the violin so sweet over the piano and drums, so richly emotional that she stopped to listen. ‘What is that tune?’

  ‘That one?’ He smiled. ‘It’s an old folk song. The lyrics tell of the mountains and the sea and the people who settled here originally and made it home. But most times they don’t bother with the lyrics. They let the violin sing the words.’

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said as she watched the violinist coax his instrument to even sweeter heights.

  For a moment it was just the music and the tide that filled the space between and all around them, until he uttered the words, ‘You are,’ and she felt the night air shift sensually around her. ‘Very beautiful.’

  She looked back up at him, startled, to see him smiling down at her, and maybe it was the music that she could hear, the music that sounded so poignant and bewitching against the rhythmic shush of the tide, or maybe it was the velvet sky and the silver ribbon of moonlight on the water, but she caught the spine-tingling impact of his smile full on and then immediately wished she hadn’t. Because she didn’t want him to smile at her like that. She didn’t want him to smile at her at all. She didn’t want him to tell her she was beautiful and make out this marriage was something more than it was.

  And suddenly she regretted letting him take her hand and walk her along the sand as if they were friends or even lovers. They were neither. They had a business arrangement, that was all it was, the terms of which he’d changed to suit himself, and only after it was too late for her to get out of it, once she was already committed. And now this whole ‘walk on the sands holding hands’ episode spoke of nothing more than lulling her into some false sense of security—to make her think he actually cared—when his apartment was right across the street and it was clear that was where they were headed next—so he could finish this thing he’d started.

  She wasn’t having it. She shook her head, saying no to whatever it was he was offering, vaguely aware of another tune, violin over drumbeat, half familiar.

  Momentarily it threw her. Until she realised it was the music that had played at Markel’s birthday party, the tango to which the dancers had danced so seductively. So passionately.

  The music he’d told her was called Feelings.

  And the music told her what a marriage should be. The music told her what was missing from this marriage and could never be a part of it.

  Emotion.

  Powerful, strong emotion.

  It was the final straw.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this any m
ore.’

  ‘You cannot walk along the beach?’

  She wanted to lash out at him. Did he deliberately go out of his way to misunderstand her? Surely it was obvious? ‘The moon. The beach. Holding hands. All of it. I don’t want it. I cannot pretend to be some blushing bride. I cannot look forward to a wedding night that I wanted no part of, that you have blackmailed me into.’

  ‘Is it such a dire prospect that you face, making love with me?’

  ‘When it was unwanted all along? When it remains so? Of course it is!’

  ‘Unwanted?’

  ‘Haven’t I made that clear from the start?’

  He paused a moment, looking into space, almost as if listening to the building music, the evocative violin, before he looked back at her. ‘You’re the one who agreed to change the terms.’

  ‘Only because you threatened to tell Felipe our marriage was a sham! Do you know how much I hate you for that? You left me with no choice and then you have the gall to think I will happily fall into bed with you! I cannot believe how arrogant you are. You are everything I hate in a man and nothing I want in a husband!’

  She finished her tirade breathless and panting and mentally preparing herself for his next shot, expecting to receive the full force of his fury.

  ‘Dance with me,’ he said instead.

  ‘What?’

  His flashing eyes sent out a challenge as the instruments merged, their sound weaving together on the night air. He took a purposeful step. Or more a glide across the sand. And then another, his body straight, his head held high. ‘Dance with me.’

  ‘No. It’s too crazy. I don’t know how.’

  ‘You do,’ he told her, changing direction. ‘You are doing it now, with your tongue. With your words. Do it instead with your body. Show me how angry you are.’

  ‘No!’ she insisted, turning away, the idea of dancing with this man on the beach too ridiculous to consider. ‘There is no point.’

  But she’d barely taken a step before he’d grabbed her wrist and spun her bodily back into him, her shoes and stockings flung far from her grip. She collided bodily against his chest, her hands between them, the air knocked from her lungs and angry as hell at being plastered full length against him.