“And where’s the cunning plan?”
“The cunning plan is that every day I’ll give you a few pesetas and every time you are paid by a customer and open the till you’ll slide them in discreetly.”
“So that’s your plan …”
“That’s the plan. As you can see, there’s nothing perverse about it.”
Isabella frowned again.
“It won’t work. He’ll notice there’s something wrong. Señor Sempere is nobody’s fool.”
“It will work. And if Sempere seems puzzled, you tell him that when customers see a pretty girl behind the counter they let go of the purse strings and become more generous.”
“That might be so in the cheap haunts you frequent, not in a bookshop.”
“I beg to differ. If I were to go into a bookshop and come across a shop assistant as pretty and charming as you are, I might even be capable of buying the latest national book award winner.”
“That’s because your mind is as filthy as a henhouse.”
“I also have—or should I say we have—a debt of gratitude to Sempere.”
“That’s a low blow.”
“Then don’t make me aim even lower.”
Every self-respecting persuasive ploy must first appeal to curiosity, then to vanity, and lastly to kindness or remorse. Isabella looked down and slowly nodded.
“And when were you planning to set this plan of the bounteous goddess in motion?”
“Don’t put off for tomorrow what you can do today.”
“Today?”
“This afternoon.”
“Tell me the truth. Is this a strategy for laundering the money the boss pays you and for purging your conscience, or whatever it is you have where there should be one?”
“You know my motives are always selfish.”
“And what if Señor Sempere says no?”
“Just make sure the son is there and you’re dressed in your Sunday best, but not for Mass.”
“It’s a degrading and offensive plan.”
“And you love it.”
At last Isabella smiled, catlike.
“What if the son suddenly grows bold and allows his hands to wander?”
“I can guarantee the heir won’t dare lay a finger on you unless it’s in the presence of a priest waving a marriage certificate.”
“That sounds a bit extreme.”
“Will you do it?”
“For you?”