Книга - The Sanchez Tradition

The Sanchez Tradition
Anne Mather


Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.Once a Sanchez, always a SanchezWhen her beloved father finds himself in trouble, the only person Rachel can turn to is her estranged husband Andre Sanchez. She is determined there will be no strings and no involvements - it had taken all of her will-power to escape possessive Andre and his suffocating family’s hold five years ago. But is she strong enough to resist Andre’s magnetic pull? Especially when it becomes increasingly clear that he won’t let her get away so easily this time…










Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




The Sanchez Tradition

Anne Mather





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#ueba05902-d7d2-543e-aee5-c37341c35171)

About the Author (#ude2bfb7e-bd3e-5afc-b638-bec50565f96d)

Title Page (#u9ffd7321-9a5a-585f-a1b9-482eb1c0a4f4)

CHAPTER ONE (#u757f55ca-65ff-52eb-b46d-703497ca3640)

CHAPTER TWO (#u52226e18-2c1d-5f24-9429-42e4dcf9f53d)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_1bf76486-2070-57b2-a4e2-27a5e78507a4)


THE casino at Pointe St. Auguste stood on the promontory overlooking the jagged rocks which had once earned the point its dangerous reputation. That there was little chance now of some craft foundering on the rocks below the point had not dispelled its air of mystery and allure, and the casino was a highly popular night spot for tourists from Nassau only a few miles away. There was a restaurant adjoining the casino which seemed actually poised above the precipice and it was not inconceivable that a loser might consider ending his life by a leap from the balcony rails. Many people came to gamble nightly, and while there might be any number of losers, it was the winners who attracted the attention.

Rachel sat alone at her table in the restaurant at the head of the flight of stairs which led down into the casino proper. From here, she had an advantageous view of the whole gambling area, and her eyes flickered almost cynically over the fabulously jewelled female who was presently extolling her fortunes at the roulette table to the whole company. That she had won was obvious, but her naïve excitement was so unnecessary when she so obviously did not need the money.

Rachel looked away from the chattering throng, studying the amber liquid in her glass with intensity. Would this wealthy patron arouse any interest from the management? She opened her sequined evening bag and produced her cigarette case, placing a cigarette between her lips. But before she had time to flick her lighter a waiter forestalled her, holding a flame to the tip of her cigarette with smiling dexterity. Rachel acknowledged the gesture with a slight smile, glad at least that it was not the young man who had endeavoured to thrust his company upon her earlier in the evening. Sitting alone in a place like this was inviting trouble, she supposed almost wearily, but during the course of the last three days she had spent time alone in much less salubrious surroundings in an effort to achieve her objective.

She looked about her. Everywhere there was evidence of the power that money emanated, and it was depressing to speculate on the waste of it all. Here she was, sitting above an enormous casino, without any intention of joining the tables, yet embarked upon the biggest gamble of her life. She drew deeply on her cigarette. He must come here tonight, she told herself passionately. Her funds were running desperately low and she could not, she would not, return to England without even having seen him. What would she tell her father if she was forced to do just that? Would he secretly believe she had funked the whole thing? Could he have done any better in her place? She cupped her chin on one slim hand and drew imaginary circles on the polished surface of the table with the other. Could he have done any worse?

But it hadn’t been easy, she had to justify herself. You couldn’t just arrive in an area like the Bahamas and expect to find one man in the space of a few hours, even if that man was well known and affluent. There were over seven hundred islands in the group scattered over some ninety thousand square miles of the south Atlantic. He could have been anywhere. He might even have been in London. It was not impossible. She knew he visited there occasionally. After all, hadn’t she met him on just such a visit? She supposed it had been foolish to imagine he would still own the house on the out-island, Conchera, but at least a telephone call had taken care of that and she had not wasted precious time and money chartering a boat to go to the island. He no longer had any part of the hotel to the west of Nassau above that marvellous beach where once they had used to swim, and he had sold the restaurant on Bay Street. Everywhere, she had seemed to draw a blank, and if people knew his whereabouts they were not saying. Of course, using her unmarried name of Jardin she had not aroused any interest or curiosity, and very likely those people she had asked had presumed her to be some kind of crank. It was logical at that. Someone who knew him and who he wanted to know would know of his whereabouts. But she couldn’t bring herself to use any other name. She had no intention of giving him the advantage of being forewarned of her presence in Nassau. Maybe that was a foolish and prideful thing to do, but she couldn’t help it.

And then, after spending hours in the Tourist Information Office, reading lists of hotels and night clubs, she had happened upon this place. It was the location that had done it. Years ago, he had told her that St. Auguste’s Point would make a marvellous site for a night club, and although then he had made no enquiries into its ownership, it was something he might have done in later years. Further enquiries had produced definite proof of ownership, and the head of the syndicate was the man she wanted to see.

She stubbed out her cigarette in the conch shell that served as an ashtray, and swallowed the remainder of her drink. It seemed obvious that it would take more than someone’s minor eruption at the tables to attract the attention of the club’s management. She frowned. There was nothing for it. She would have to go to the manager’s office and ask the whereabouts of the man she wanted to see. It was now or never. She might not get another opportunity. After all, it cost money just sitting here, drinking ginger sodas. And already the waiter was watching her with a speculative gaze. Maybe he thought she was some kind of confidence trickster, or possibly simply a thief. And if she were, there was certainly plenty of game here tonight. The ear-rings the girl was wearing on the adjoining table must be worth somewhere in the region of five thousand pounds, and the necklace that matched them was incalculable. She glanced down at the only ornamentation she wore, a broad gold band on her forearm. It was plain, but at least it was real, the only piece of jewellery she had retained. Her gown, however, could not compare with any of the creations worn here tonight. It was no Paris model, nor was it richly encrusted with jewels, but its plainness gave it an attraction she was unaware of amongst so many peacock plumes. And the smooth sweep of light chestnut hair was thick and shining, and she looked very young to be in such an adult place.

A man who had been watching her for several minutes unbeknown to her from the vantage point behind a trellis-work of climbing plants nodded decisively to the waiter who had drawn his attention to her and advanced towards her table. Reaching her side, he said in a low voice: ‘Are you waiting for someone, madam?’

Rachel looked up, and her eyes darkened with slight impatience. The man’s face reflected his absolute astonishment, and he drew out the chair opposite and sat down almost compulsively.

‘Rachel!’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

Rachel linked and unlinked her fingers. At last a familiar face, she thought with relief, and yet also with a feeling of disappointment, for now he would learn of her presence with or without her volition.

‘Hello, Ramon,’ she said, managing a smile. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, fine!’ Ramon Sanchez was impatient. ‘I asked—what are you doing here? Does André know you are here?’ Then he smote a fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘Of course he does not, or I should have known!’

Rachel waited for the brilliance to die out of his eyes, and shrugged her shoulders slowly. ‘Your brother doesn’t know everything, Ramon.’

Ramon leaned forward. ‘Obviously not, but he has only yesterday returned from New York. How long are you here?’

Rachel managed to maintain a cool front. ‘Do you mean how long have I been here, or how long am I staying?’ she queried calmly.

Ramon chewed his lower lip. ‘Both.’

Rachel smiled. ‘You’re as impulsive as ever, Ramon. Tell me, is it by chance you’re here, or do you work here?’

‘The casino is my concern,’ replied Ramon reluctantly. ‘I am here most nights. I will be honest. My man, Arnoux, he noticed you here earlier, and he has been keeping an eye on you.’

Rachel gave a short laugh. ‘A suspicious character, is that it?’

‘Something like that,’ Ramon admitted. ‘But necessary, you must agree. One cannot be too careful.’

‘No, one cannot,’ she agreed, rather dryly.

Ramon rose abruptly to his feet. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We cannot talk here. We will go to my suite.’

Rachel looked up at him lazily. ‘What have we to talk about?’

‘André.’

Rachel’s cheeks coloured slightly. ‘It’s André I wish to see.’

‘I know that.’

Rachel frowned. ‘Is it inconceivable to a member of the Sanchez family that I should be in New Providence for any other reason than to see your brother?’ Her tone was harsh.

Ramon bent, resting his hands on the table. ‘Yes,’ he said bleakly. ‘At this time—yes.’

‘At this time?’ Rachel’s frown deepened. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Do not pretend to be naïve with me, Rachel. Come: I insist. We cannot talk here.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Then you will never see André!’

Rachel compressed her lips. She knew better than to doubt his word, and this might be her last chance to achieve what she came for. With a resigned sigh, she rose to her feet, gathering her gloves and purse. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I’ll come with you.’

Ramon’s eyes narrowed. ‘I rather thought you might,’ he remarked.

They descended the steps into the casino, the brilliance of its lights contrasting sharply with the intimate lighting of the restaurant. The noise was terrific, and Rachel wondered how the players managed to hear what was going on. Trays of champagne cocktails and heavier spirits were being carried about, and the atmosphere was filled with the scent of perfume and cigar smoke. The thick carpet underfoot was embedded with stubs of cigarettes and cigars, and she wondered how often new carpets were laid. From the opulent appearance of the place it must be redecorated every couple of months or so.

At the far side of the hall was a door marked ‘Private’ and Ramon unlocked it with some keys from his pocket, nodding casually to the two men who stood, one to either side like bodyguards. Rachel shivered. She rememberd the bars of this gold cage so well.

Inside the office the furnishings were equally as opulent. There was a plentiful supply of drinks on a cabinet, and a positive network of telephones on the wide desk. Ramon crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured her a drink, but she shook her head when he offered her the glass and accepted a cigarette instead. Ramon poured himself a drink, and then walked behind the desk and stood, regarding her intently.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ he requested, nodding to a comfortable chair, and as her legs felt slightly shaky, she did as he suggested. When he was seated too, he said: ‘You’re looking very beautiful, Rachel. But you don’t need me to tell you that.’

Rachel bent her head. ‘Where is André?’ she asked blankly.

Ramon shrugged, and lay back in his chair. ‘What have you been doing with yourself—all these years?’

Rachel compressed her lips. ‘Where is André?’ she repeated quietly.

Ramon swallowed half his drink and looked deep into his glass. ‘He won’t see you, you know,’ he said chillingly.

Rachel looked up. ‘Shall we let him decide?’ she asked shortly.

Ramon finished his drink, and getting to his feet walked over to the cabinet again. Rachel’s eyes followed him. He was so calm, so aloof, so different from the exuberant young man she remembered. He wasn’t much like André really. He was shorter, broader, and younger, of course. During the past five years he had shed that air of youthfulness, and now, at thirty, he was poised and assured. But then all the Sanchez family were poised and assured. It was a family resemblance, and en masse it could be destructive.

‘Tell me, Ramon,’ she said at last, as he poured himself another drink, ‘what did you mean when you averred you knew I was in Nassau to see André?’

Ramon turned and came back to his seat. ‘You had his letter?’

‘His letter?’ she echoed incomprehensively.

‘The letter from his solicitors, then,’ amended Ramon.

‘I’ve had no letter!’ exclaimed Rachel, shaking her head. ‘No—no letter at all.’ She frowned. ‘What was in this letter?’

Ramon looked sceptical. ‘You don’t know?’

Rachel clenched her fists. ‘If I did, would I be asking?’

‘You might. You might have thought of some clever ploy to thwart André’s plans!’

‘Plans? What plans?’ Rachel got to her feet. ‘I tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ramon. I wish I did. At least if I’d had a letter from him—or his solicitors—I would have known where to find him.’

‘I doubt it. André’s whereabouts are not for publication.’

Rachel drew herself up to her full height of five feet six, and gripped her purse tightly. ‘I’ll ask you for the last time, Ramon. What is this all about?’

Ramon chewed his lip, studying her thoughtfully, as though trying to decide whether or not to believe her. Then he lifted his shoulders and said: ‘Sit down, Rachel.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I prefer to stand, thank you.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, sit down,’ he snapped. ‘All right, all right, so you’ve had no letter. Why are you here?’

‘That’s my business!’

‘You’re not prepared to tell me?’

‘No. It’s a private matter I want to discuss with André.’

Ramon heaved a sigh. ‘I doubt very much whether André will see you, whether he believes you received his letter or not,’ he replied. ‘He’s finally gotten you out of his system. I don’t think he will wish to admit you even to his thoughts again.’

Rachel’s colour deepened. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Ramon smote his fist on the table. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Rachel. Five years ago my brother wanted to kill you!’

Rachel shivered again. ‘But he didn’t!’

‘No, but he damn near killed himself!’ muttered Ramon furiously. ‘God, what am I doing, sitting here talking with you? I ought to just have you ejected from the club!’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I still want to see André!’

Ramon got to his feet. ‘All right, I’ll tell him you’re here. Where are you staying?’

Rachel ran her tongue over her dry lips. ‘Couldn’t I see him tonight? It’s—it’s rather urgent!’

Ramon stared at her. ‘No. No chance!’

Rachel twisted her fingers together. ‘Couldn’t you make a concession?’ she exclaimed bitterly. ‘You don’t know what happened five years ago, you only think you do! And I have feelings, too, you know!’

‘Feelings? Feelings?’ Ramon was harsh. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word!’

‘I do—I do!’ Rachel’s voice almost broke on a sob, but she fought it back. ‘All right, warn your big brother—tell him I’m here! Give him time to put extra bodyguards about him! I don’t care! Just so long as I get to see him!’

Ramon reached for a cigar from the box on the desk. ‘I can’t promise anything. Whatever you’re here for, this is the wrong time to choose.’

Rachel suddenly remembered the solicitor’s letter. ‘The letter?’ she questioned. ‘What was in it?’

Ramon lit his cigar with deliberation. ‘Can’t you guess?’

A chill invaded her bones. ‘Not—not—a divorce?’ she asked, almost knowing then that the question was unnecessary.

‘How astute you are!’ he mocked coldly. ‘Now do you see how hopeless your chances are?’

She turned away, breathing swiftly. This was something she had grown out of the habit of considering. Five years ago it had seemed a possibility, a very real possibility, but as the years passed and there was no word, she had begun to accept her strange marriage as lasting. The money had always been there, the first of the month on the dot, and if there had been no communication except through solicitors, she had accepted that, too. She had had her dreams, of course, and in all honesty she had acquired a kind of unsatisfied curiosity about him, but so long as the ties were there, a thread of contact had remained to strengthen her. She didn’t know what she had expected to happen in the years to come. Perhaps she had imagined circumstances could alter drastically, but now, faced with the blankness of Ramon’s statement, she felt bereft, desolate, and utterly alone.

She gripped the back of the chair for support, her mind buzzing with the complications this could instigate. Her task was made doubly difficult, and doubly humiliating.

‘Are you all right?’ Ramon had come round the desk to join her, looking at her anxiously. ‘You really didn’t know, did you?’

Rachel shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, and Ramon released her cold fingers from the back of the chair, and put her into it instead. Then he walked across to the cabinet and mixed her a drink, bringing it back and putting it firmly into her chilled fingers. ‘Go on,’ he said commandingly. ‘Drink it!’

Rachel raised the glass to her lips. It was brandy and the raw spirit caught her throat, causing her to cough convulsively for a moment. Then she recovered and sipped a little more, silently. Ramon studied her thoughtfully, and then when she had finished the drink took the glass from her. Replacing it on the tray, he said: ‘Do you feel better now?’

Rachel looked up, a little of the colour returning to her pale cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

Ramon uttered an exclamation and went down on his haunches beside her, taking one of her cold little hands in two of his and warming it gently. ‘Oh, Rachel,’ he murmured huskily, ‘what am I going to do with you?’

Rachel’s green eyes slanted a little mischievously. This was the Ramon she had known so well and with whom she had shared so many happy hours, escaping from the bars that bound her inside that golden cage.

‘What would you like to do with me?’ she asked teasingly. ‘Drop me over the balcony rails on to the rocks below?’

Ramon shook his head impatiently, bending his mouth to her palm even as an outer door opened without warning and a man and a woman came into the room. Immediately Ramon straightened, dropping Rachel’s hand like a hot coal as his eyes met those of the man who had just entered.

Rachel’s eyes widened, too, and the colour drained from her face for a second time. With or without Ramon’s assistance, she had met André Sanchez at last.

There was absolute silence in the room for several seconds, all of which seemed like aeons to Rachel and during the space of those few seconds she looked again on the man who was her husband and whom she had not seen for the past five years. André Sanchez was all she remembered him to be and more, tall and lean and dark and painfully attractive. His tanned skin was darkened further by the long sideburns he wore, and the ravens-wing blackness of his hair lay thick and smooth against his well-shaped head. He was perhaps thinner than she remembered and at forty years of age there were several strands of grey amongst the darkness at his temples. But physically he looked years younger, the dinner suit he was wearing with such ease and assurance accentuating his leanness. His eyes were the only light thing about him, being of a particularly clear shade of blue, while lines etched either side of his mouth drew attention to the sensual curve of his lower lip. Rachel felt a quiver of awareness run through her body, and a sense of incredulity that she should ever have dared to defy this man. He appeared so arrogant, so invincible; so much the master of his fate.

Ramon spoke first as Rachel’s eyes moved to the woman who accompanied her husband. She was tall, too, taller than Rachel, with classically styled hair, and thin aristocratic features. Dressed in a chiffon evening gown that swathed her slender body closely, she was every inch his counterpart, and Rachel could not wholly dispel the sense of antagonism the woman roused in her. There was possession in the way she clung to André’s arm, and intimacy in the glances she bestowed upon him. But now Rachel looked at her brother-in-law as he said, rather uncomfortably: ‘I didn’t expect you to come here this evening, André!’

André Sanchez released himself from his companion’s caressing fingers, and moved into the room. ‘Obviously not,’ he observed contemptuously, his eyes running over Rachel with chilling intensity. Any shocking impact her presence here might have had upon him had been immediately disguised, if indeed there had been any, and no one could tell from his indifferent observation that he was in any way perturbed by this unexpected turn of events.

Ramon gave the woman behind his brother an apologetic smile, and said: ‘Good evening, Leonie. I’m sorry about all this.’

The woman called Leonie moved forward, a frown marring her perfect features. ‘But what is all this, Ramon?’ she enquired, in a husky voice. ‘I do not understand. André? Do you know this woman?’ She looked at Rachel with appraising eyes. ‘Is that why you are all acting like statues newly come to life?’

André Sanchez thrust his hands into the pockets of his dinner jacket and stepped to one side of her. ‘I am sorry, Leonie,’ he said, rather grimly. ‘It was not my intention to create this situation. However, as my brother has seen fit to acquaint himself once again with my wife, I must introduce you.’

‘Your wife!’ echoed Leonie, a trifle sceptically. ‘You cannot be serious, André!’

‘It’s not what you think, André!’ began Ramon protestingly, but Rachel was chilled once again by the look André turned in his brother’s direction.

‘Leonie, this is Rachel—my wife!’ he said bleakly, and Rachel wondered rather wildly whether she was expected to shake hands. But fortunately, Leonie made no such gesture and instead looked up at André appealingly.

‘But why is she here?’ she demanded. ‘You told me you had already contacted your solicitors!’

‘So I have,’ replied André, glancing in Rachel’s direction. ‘It may be that their instructions were not explicit enough.’

Rachel had had enough of this suddenly. The numbness she had felt when she first encountered André Sanchez’s icy blue gaze was beginning to wear off, and anger was rapidly taking its place. Everyone was acting as though she were a deaf-and-dumb spectator to their theatrical production. No one had seen fit to address a single word to her, and in addition André was acting as though her presence here was beneath contempt. He had not even had the decency to introduce her to the woman who was to be his wife. What right had he to treat her so diabolically? They were not divorced yet! The agony of it all was that when she looked at him she didn’t remember the bad times at all, only the good, and memories could tear her apart.

With a stifled exclamation, she brushed past all of them, making for the door, aware that she was destroying any chance she might have had of making André see reason for her father’s sake. All she wanted was escape; escape from the coldness of André’s eyes, escape from the compassion in Ramon’s, escape from the pitying disdain in Leonie’s.

But as she passed her husband, his hand shot out and caught her wrist in a cruel grasp, preventing her headlong flight, and bringing her closer to the bleakness of his face. ‘A moment, Rachel,’ he murmured harshly. ‘Do not imagine you can make a fool of me and get away with it a second time!’

Rachel glared at him, aware that she was fighting back stupid emotionalism as tears burned the back of her eyes. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she cried bitterly. ‘Let me get out of here!’

André shook his head slowly. ‘I think not. At least—not until I know how and why you are here, and what lies you have been telling my brother.’

Rachel’s hand stung across his cheek before he could prevent it, but he still did not release her wrist, tightening his grip so that she felt the blood drain away. She could not see Ramon’s expression, he was behind her, but the woman, Leonie, stared at her in disgust. ‘André darling—–’ she began, touching his arm appealingly, but André’s attention was centred, for the moment, on Rachel.

‘Still the same old Rachel!’ he snarled. ‘Did you enjoy doing that? Do you know how near I came to returning the compliment?’

Rachel trembled. ‘Oh, let me go! God, I was a fool to come here!’

‘I would agree with you there,’ he commented savagely. He looked across at Ramon. ‘You tell me! Why is she here?’

Rachel cast a compelling glance in Ramon’s direction, and although he opened his mouth to reply he closed it again, and merely shook his head.

André’s expression grew cynical. ‘Ah, I see. Already you have bewitched poor Ramon again. What did you promise him if he let you in here?’

Rachel struggled to free herself. ‘You are a brute!’ she exclaimed fiercely.

‘Why? Because I jump to obvious conclusions?’

‘They’re only obvious to you.’

‘Oh no. Not only to me.’ He released her abruptly, and she stood before him rubbing her wrist into which the blood flowed with painful intensity. ‘However, it seems apparent that this is neither the time nor the place to indulge in arguments of this kind.’ He rubbed the back of his hand down his cheek where the marks of her fingers could still be seen. ‘Ramon. Where is she staying?’

Ramon shrugged. ‘I don’t know. In all honesty, André, I don’t know.’

André looked at Rachel’s mutinous expression and then raised his dark eyebrows thoughtfully. ‘And of course you will not tell us,’ he remarked bleakly.

Rachel took a deep breath. ‘Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide. Besides, I know you well enough to realise that if I refuse to tell you you have only to make half a dozen phone calls to find out.’ She smoothed her hair behind her ears. ‘I’m staying at the Empress Hotel. It’s in one of those small streets behind Bay Street.’

André’s eyes darkened. ‘I know it. It’s little more than a pension! And it has a doubtful reputation. Why in hell are you staying there? Why aren’t you at one of the decent hotels, or a beach club? As my wife, you would be entitled—–’

Rachel glared at him. ‘But I’m not here as your wife! My name is Jardin—Miss Jardin!’

André’s expression was grim. ‘Nevertheless, you are still my wife, Rachel, and until you are not—–’

‘Don’t you threaten me, André!’ she exclaimed furiously. ‘What I do is my affair, and mine only. Or do you want to make it otherwise, with your—your—girl-friend looking on!’ Her deliberate attempt to antagonise him succeeded, and she stepped back from the burning anger in his eyes.

Controlling himself, he turned to Ramon. ‘We have to go, Ramon. Leonie’s parents are expecting us. I wanted to discuss the new extension, but that can wait until tomorrow.’

‘Yes, André,’ Ramon nodded.

‘That’s all, then.’ André took Leonie’s elbow in his fingers. Then he glanced back at Rachel. ‘Oh, and Ramon! See that—my wife—gets back to her hotel, will you?’

‘Of course.’ Ramon nodded again.

‘Good.’ André turned to go, and Rachel turned away, willing him to go quickly. She couldn’t maintain this mask of indifference much longer, but she refused to make a fool of herself in front of him or his proposed fiancée. Ramon walked with them to the outer door, and she heard the rumble of male voices as André’s bodyguard joined them. He went nowhere without an escort, and Rachel felt that chilling feeling envelop her again. The doors closed, and Ramon came back into the room, closing the inner door behind him. Then and only then did Rachel’s composure desert her, and she sank down weakly on to the chair she had previously occupied and buried her face in her hands.

Ramon came to her side, sinking down on to his knees beside her chair and forcing her fingers away from tear-wet eyes. ‘Hey,’ he said softly, ‘what is all this?’

Rachel brushed the tears away with a hasty finger. ‘Nothing,’ she denied miserably. ‘It was just—well—everything!’

Ramon frowned. ‘You could hardly expect André to feel kindly disposed towards you,’ he said reasonably. ‘Naturally he was cruel. You were pretty cruel to him yourself.’

‘I know, I know. Oh, Ramon, my journey here—–’ She lifted her shoulders hopelessly. ‘It’s all been for nothing. I couldn’t ask him for anything now.’

‘And what did you come to ask him?’

She shook her head. ‘I’d rather not discuss it,’ she said quietly.

Ramon gave her a regretful smile, and rose to his feet. ‘So what will you do now?’

‘Go back to England,’ she replied, rising too.

Ramon studied her green eyes which still glinted with unshed tears. ‘Tell me something,’ he said softly. ‘Was it money?’

Rachel coloured. ‘I’d like to leave now,’ she said, evading a reply. ‘I—I can easily get a cab. Th-thank you, Ramon, for everything.’

Ramon shook his head. ‘You’ll get no cabs here,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘This isn’t the West End of London, you know. Come, my car is outside. I will take you back to your hotel. After all, that is what André instructed me to do.’

Rachel hadn’t the heart to refuse. Instead, she accepted his offer passively, and after he had made the necessary arrangements with his manager, she accompanied him out of the side door on to the car-park. They were immediately joined by a tall, broad man who looked rather like a wrestler in city clothes, and Rachel glanced at Ramon in wonder.

‘You, too,’ she murmured incredulously.

Ramon shrugged defensively. ‘You can’t be too careful at night,’ he remarked smoothly. ‘Henry doesn’t intrude. But when he’s around, nor does anyone else!’

Rachel glanced again at the huge black man who walked just behind them. ‘But why?’ she exclaimed. ‘Why?’

Ramon halted beside a low-slung white limousine, and inserted his key in the lock. Swinging open the passenger door, he helped Rachel inside. Then he walked round and slid in beside her, behind the wheel. Henry climbed into the back, levering his bulk on to the softly padded seats almost silently. Rachel looked at Ramon, waiting for his answer, and with a gesture he said:

‘As the owner of the casino at Pointe St. Auguste, I have many enemies.’ He swung the limousine round in an arc and allowed it to run smoothly down the ramp on to the road. ‘All my clients can’t be winners!’

‘But that’s ridiculous!’ gasped Rachel, staring at him. ‘Oh, Ramon, I thought you were free of this cage that surrounds the Sanchez family, but you’re not—you’re not!’

Ramon glanced her way. ‘Don’t we all have cages, of one kind or another?’ he queried gently. ‘Do you think you are freer now, living the life you have chosen?’

Rachel did not immediately reply, but looked out on the beauty of the night. She could inhale a thousand perfumes at a breath of the many flowering shrubs and trees, and in the car’s headlights the brilliance of poinciana and hibiscus, growing in profusion by the roadside, excited the senses. There was a magic about the place, she had to admit, and in honesty the thought of returning to London wrapped in the drabness of January was not appealing. But freedom was a mental as well as a physical thing, and while money could buy many things, it could not buy happiness, this she had discovered. For money had seemed to create all the problems in her life.

Now she said: ‘No one is ever completely free. But freedom comprises many things, and bars need not be tangible things. Some people make bars where no bars exist.’

Ramon sighed. ‘I guess you’re talking about André.’

‘I guess I am.’

‘He only wanted what was best for you.’

‘You think so?’ Rachel’s voice was impassioned suddenly. ‘He took me—he moulded me—he controlled me! All he wanted was a puppet on a string!’

‘He made you unhappy?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ Rachel was adamant.

‘But you loved him.’ He frowned. ‘At least—so you said.’

‘I did!’ Rachel bit her lip until she tasted blood in her mouth. ‘Of course I loved him. But then I discovered that the man I loved bore no resemblance to the man I married!’

‘You’re talking in riddles.’ Ramon sounded impatient.

‘No, I’m not. Once we were married—once André took me to Conchera, I was expected to fall in with his every wish!’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I wasn’t even allowed to go out alone!’

‘You were André Sanchez’s wife. You were vulnerable,’ intoned Ramon, and Rachel thought he sounded a little like André used to sound.

‘How was I vulnerable?’ she snapped. ‘No one troubled me! No one knew me! Why couldn’t I act like any other tourist in Nassau?’

Ramon swung the wheel through his fingers. ‘We are at impasse,’ he commented, controlling any annoyance he might have felt at her avowals of injustice. ‘You cannot see my way—André’s way—and I cannot see yours.’

‘You used to be able to.’

‘I was much younger then. I think I have matured now, Rachel!’

‘And I have not?’ she asked chokingly.

‘Maybe so,’ he agreed quietly, and Rachel turned and stared out of the car’s windows. Thereafter they did not speak, and not until they reached her hotel did Ramon break the uneasy silence which had fallen.

Then he said: ‘You know, Rachel, that I would do anything to make you smile again. My feelings for you were always transparent. They have not changed.’

The car was still and he turned towards her, his arm along the back of the seat. He seemed totally unaware of his man in the back seat, but Rachel was not, and she could not relax as she would have done had they been alone. Instead, she said: ‘You’re very kind, Ramon. If it is any consolation, you’ve made me feel a little better.’

Ramon touched the softness of her hair with a lazy hand. ‘You’re a very beautiful woman, Rachel,’ he murmured, ‘as I said before. If André does divorce you, will you marry again?’

Rachel bent her head. ‘That’s a little difficult to say,’ she prevaricated.

Ramon straightened, and swung round in his seat. ‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed. ‘I’m sorry. Goodnight, Rachel.’

‘Goodnight, Ramon.’

Rachel slid out of the car, appreciating its length and luxury. It had attracted quite a crowd of sightseers in a street like this, and she hastened inside before anyone should attempt to prevent her. She heard the limousine glide away, and her shoulders sagged. Was that all there was to be? Was that what she had come here for? Was her defeat so complete? She shook her head wearily, and climbed the stairs to her room. Outside, the town of Nassau was still alive and full of noise and excitement, but in her room, that small cubicle whose only claim to air-conditioning was provided by the slowly revolving fan in the ceiling, she sought the bleakness of her lonely bed and a sleeping tablet to dispel the memories that persisted in haunting her tired brain. Tonight, even the narcotic powers of the drug gave her no relief from the tortuous train of her thoughts, and she lay on her back staring at the night sky through the casement wondering whether there was some point in her life where everything started to go so wrong.

She considered her father, back home in London, waiting for news from her that his immediate problems were over. Was he managing adequately without her? Was he eating? And more importantly, had he found that bottle she had hidden so carefully in the bathroom cabinet?

She rolled on to her stomach, refusing to give way yet again to the self-pitying tears that threatened continually. Feeling sorry for herself would solve nothing and would merely make her eyes conspicuously puffy in the morning. The management of this small hotel were curious enough about her as it was without providing them with further room for gossip. Not that it mattered now, of course. This was probably her last night in Nassau.

The sky was ablaze with stars, and somewhere on New Providence or one of the outlying islands André Sanchez was sleeping. Was she in his thoughts as he was in hers? She doubted it very much. She was alone, but the chances that he was alone also were extremely limited. That woman, Leonie, she was not the type to withhold her favours, and André was a man with strong, passionate emotions, Rachel knew that so well from experience. And why was it that after all that had happened, all the hateful things he had done, all she could remember was the lean strength of his body and the demanding pressure of his mouth?




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_908c2f39-10e9-5ef1-b5fe-285d0bd77d9c)


DESPITE her disturbed state of mind Rachel eventually slept, to be awoken by the sound of someone knocking rather vigorously at her door. At first it was difficult to remember where she was, the sleeping tablet still confusing her brain, but as she roused herself everything came flooding back to her with depressing clarity. Blinking, she stared at the travelling clock on her bedside table and saw that it was barely nine o’clock. Who on earth could be waking her at this hour?

Calling: ‘Wait a minute!’ she crawled out of bed, groping for the cream silk dressing-gown she had left lying on the footboard and pulling it on, she tied the belt tightly about her slim waist. Smoothing back her tousled hair, she opened the door and stared rather incomprehensively at the young man who stood on the threshold. Frowning, she realised she knew him. It was André’s youngest brother Vittorio.

Stepping back, she said blankly: ‘What do you want?’

Vittorio smiled. When last she had seen him he had been a schoolboy of sixteen or thereabouts. Now he was an adult, and attractive as all the Sanchez brothers were attractive. ‘What a greeting!’ he complained indignantly. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

Rachel sighed. She was in no mood to be polite. ‘Not particularly,’ she replied. ‘Why are you here?’

Vittorio stepped past her into the room, looking about him with critical eyes. ‘What a dump!’ he pronounced, wrinkling his nose.

Rachel clenched her fists. ‘I don’t recall asking your opinion,’ she bit out angrily. ‘Now will you please state your business or leave?’

Vittorio lifted her suitcase on to the bed, and flicked it open. ‘Pack your things,’ he advised pleasantly. ‘We’re leaving!’

Rachel stared at him in astonishment at first, and then with something approaching frustration. ‘Just who do you think you are, coming here, giving me orders?’ she exclaimed. ‘I am certainly going to pack—but in my own good time, and then I shall be leaving—for the airport!’

Vittorio shook his head. ‘I think not, Rachel.’

‘What do you mean, you think not? I’m free, white, and over twenty-one. I can do what I like.’

‘No, you can’t, at least not here,’ he amended. ‘Brother André wants to see you, and he wants you out of this hotel right now.’ He half smiled. ‘He’d have had you out last night, if it wouldn’t have caused such a furore!’

Rachel was surprised to find she was trembling. ‘I spoke to your brother last night, and his words to me didn’t involve my seeing him again. I don’t believe André sent you. I think Ramon’s behind this.’

Vittorio shrugged. ‘I can’t alter your opinion, of course, but André sent me here, believe me!’

Rachel shivered. ‘Why? Why does he want to see me all of a sudden? Last night I got the impression that he wouldn’t care if he didn’t see me ever again.’

‘Maybe he still feels the same,’ observed Vittorio chillingly. ‘But he has agreed to see you, so come!’

‘Oh, go jump in a lake!’ retorted Rachel cuttingly. ‘I’ve no intention of humbling myself to your brother!’ But even as she said the words she wanted to withdraw them. She wasn’t here for her own amusement, she was here in an effort to help her father. She must not adopt this attitude, this stubbornness, this pride. If it was necessary to humble herself to André, then she must do it.

But as it happened, she was given a second chance without the need for apologies. Vittorio, standing straight and tall, delivered his ultimatum.

‘André told me to tell you that if you refused to accompany me he would see to it that you were brought forcibly to him if necessary. Rachel, André is a powerful man. Don’t doubt his sincerity in this.’

Rachel didn’t. On New Providence the Sanchez name was synonymous with affluence and authority. Biting her lips to stop them from trembling too, she said: ‘You’ll have to leave for a while. I need a shower and time to pack.’

Vittorio nodded politely. ‘All right. I’ll come back in half an hour. Be ready!’

He strode out of the door, closing it decisively behind him, and Rachel stared at the cream panels long after the sound of his footsteps had died away. What did André want with her now? What possible reason could he have for issuing this summons? So far as he was concerned she had come here in an attempt to prevent his plans for arranging the divorce. Why, then, was he removing her from the hotel? What did he intend to do with her? After all, it was as Vittorio had said, André was a powerful man on New Providence, and by coming here she had placed herself within his sphere, within his dominance. Then she remembered Leonie again, and reason took a sane hold on her rioting thoughts. Whatever he wanted, it would not be easy for her.

In the shower, allowing the cool water to cascade over her hot skin, a multitude of possibilities plagued her. Whatever happened, she should take this opportunity that had been offered to her, and somehow make André believe that her reasons for coming to Nassau were innocent of mischief-making.

She dressed with care, choosing a flared-skirted dress in a delicious shade of tangerine. The low neckline drew attention to the smooth curve of her throat and the nape of her neck, and a matching bandeau secured her hair in place. Then she packed the few things she had brought with her and fastened her suitcase. She had barely finished adding a clear lipstick to her lips and some mascara to her thick lashes when Vittorio knocked again at her door, and she called ‘Come in’ as she lifted her handbag. Vittorio re-entered the room, accompanied by another man whom she assumed was his manservant, for this man took charge of her suitcase and waited until Vittorio had escorted her out of the room before closing the door and following them.

Downstairs, Rachel glanced longingly towards the restaurant. Although she wasn’t hungry, she would have appreciated a cup of coffee, but as though defining her thoughts Vittorio said: ‘Your bill has been taken care of, and a meal is awaiting you.’

Rachel opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again. She might as well accept that for the time being she was under the protection of the Sanchez clan, and as such she must accept their dictates. So she allowed Vittorio to escort her through the lobby, aware of the speculative gazes of the manager and his staff who all seemed to have gathered to watch her go. She felt rather like one of those political prisoners being ushered out of the sight of the press, except that she was no politician or she would have handled this situation more delicately than she had done this far.

Outside, parked in the narrow street, another of the luxury automobiles awaited them, a convertible this time in a delicious shade of ice blue. Vittorio seated her in the back, and then got into the seat beside the driver, while the man who had carried her suitcase stowed it in the boot before joining her, bestowing a slight smile in her direction. He was a man in his fifties, and Rachel wondered whether he was aware of her identity.

In the morning light, Nassau was brilliant and colourful. Even the side streets were attractive with pastel-washed walls and pitched roofs. Children stared at them unashamedly, and groups of coloured people on street corners gossiped in the sunshine. Out of the side-streets they emerged into Rawson Square, with its straw market and piazza of shops, and beyond, the bustle of Bay Street. But the automobile turned off the square and they drove along the quay where the out-island boats were being unloaded. Rachel saw the tanks of live turtles and the piles of fresh fruit, and smelt the overpowering aroma of rum, the island’s favourite beverage. There was plenty of activity at this hour of the morning, and for a few minutes her interest in her surroundings made her forget her reasons for being here, and she began to wonder where Vittorio was taking her.

Just as she was about to ask, however, the huge car drew to a halt beside a wharf where a sleek ocean-going launch was moored. Vittorio vaulted out of his seat on to the quayside and opening Rachel’s door helped her out too before either of his henchmen could bestir themselves. Cupping her elbow in his hand, he said:

‘Well? Beautiful, isn’t she?’

Rachel looked at the launch. ‘Yes—beautiful,’ she echoed, rather doubtfully. She glanced at her brother-in-law. ‘Where are you taking me? I thought you said André wanted to see me.’

Vittorio smiled and shrugged. ‘He does, he does.’ He glanced round at the two men. ‘Are you ready?’ and at their nod he guided her to the gangplank that led on to the vessel, but here Rachel halted firmly.

‘I have a right to know where you’re taking me,’ she averred stubbornly. ‘How do I know you’re really here on André’s behalf?’

Vittorio spread his hands. ‘You don’t, of course. Nevertheless, I can assure you we are. Now won’t you go aboard? I’m taking you to Palmerina!’

‘Palmerina?’ Rachel frowned. ‘What is Palmerina?’

Vittorio looked impatient. ‘My brother’s island. Now, will you go aboard?’

Rachel sighed, but did not demur further. There seemed no point, and besides, he had told her her destination. What more did she need?

There was another of the menservants aboard the launch which was equipped with the usual lavish accoutrements considered commonplace by the Sanchez family. A cabin was luxuriously furnished with soft banquettes that edged the panelled walls. There was a refrigerated cabinet for drinks, hi-fi equipment, and a portable Japanese television set. In a tiny alcove beyond she could see cooking equipment, and toilet facilities. The launch was powered by a motor that could achieve racing speeds, and in the stern was a pile of skin-diving equipment. It was the kind of luxury vessel one saw advertised in magazines, and Rachel thought it rather larger than life in many respects.

Presently, when she had refused to sit in the cabin and had taken a seat on deck, the engine was started, and they moved away from the busy quayside. As the perspective of the wharf grew smaller she saw the larger vessels that used the Crown Dock, and thought that nowhere were the colours more brilliant or clearly defined than here. A vista of sea and sky, blue upon blue, blended with the white sails of ships and the luxuriance of the foliage. A faint breeze fanned her cheeks, and she slid sunglasses on to her nose to save her eyes from the glare of the sun. Reflected in the water it was a dazzling sight, and in spite of her apprehension she could not suppress the surge of euphoria that enveloped her. She looked down into the blueness of the water, wondering what it would be like to swim in its warmth again. André had taught her to water-ski and to skin-dive, and when he had been at home she had been content. But when he had gone away and left her on Conchera she had desired nothing so much as escape. She had felt like a prisoner, treated now and then to the company of the gods. That wasn’t what marriage was all about. She had wanted to share his life, not just be a small part of it, a part that had to be protected from the rest of the world. But André had been so adamant, and she had been so stubborn….

Vittorio came to sit beside her, studying her thoughtfully. ‘What are you thinking?’ he queried gently. ‘You are so solemn.’

Rachel sighed. ‘Is it far? Palmerina, I mean.’

‘No, not too far. It will take perhaps an hour. Are you so impatient?’

Rachel grimaced. ‘You could say that. Do you know why he wants to see me?’

‘No. I merely received my instructions like everyone else.’

‘So André is still the dictator.’

‘He dictates the family, yes. But that is how it should be. He is the head of the family, after all.’

‘I know.’ Rachel bent her head. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ When they were both smoking, she asked: ‘And your mother? How is she?’

‘My mother is very well, thank you.’

‘And does she live on Palmerina too?’

Vittorio blew a smoke ring. ‘No. She lives with me and Irena on Veros, an island some short distance from Palmerina.’

Rachel frowned running mentally through the remaining members of André’s family. He had three brothers and two sisters. Marcus was thirty-four, and the second eldest son. ‘What about Lilaine and Marcus?’ she queried automatically.

‘Marcus is married and lives in Rio de Janeiro,’ replied Vittorio dispassionately. ‘Lilaine is dead!’

‘Dead!’ Rachel was horrified. ‘But how?’

Vittorio studied the tip of his cigarette. ‘She was kidnapped on a trip to the States.’

‘Kidnapped! Oh no! But…’ Rachel halted uncertainly.

Vittorio’s dark eyes flickered over her. ‘You’re wondering whether a ransom was demanded and whether we paid it, aren’t you?’ Rachel bent her head and he went on: ‘The answer in both cases is yes. But the police were involved, and at the end they killed her!’

Rachel shook her head disbelievingly. ‘But she was so young! How terrible!’ It was unbelievable. ‘Did—did they get the men?’

‘Oh yes.’ Vittorio sounded very certain. ‘André dealt with everything.’ And the way he said everything had a final ring to it as though André could be relied upon to do what was best for all concerned. But the news of Lilaine’s death had been a shock, and Rachel felt a fleeting anxiety, almost as though in some way Vittorio had revealed the vulnerability André had always been so conscious of; so overly conscious, Rachel had always thought. Shrugging these disquieting thoughts away, she tried to continue taking an interest in the islands they were passing, small atolls with little more than rock and sand to commend them, but a little of the brilliance had gone out of the day.

Vittorio disappeared down to the cabin soon afterwards and when he returned he was carrying a tray on which reposed a gleaming coffee pot, warm rolls and curls of butter, and an apricot conserve. Rachel looked up into Vittorio’s face in amazement.

‘But how marvellous!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you do this?’

Vittorio smiled. ‘I helped,’ he commented lazily. Settling himself comfortably beside her, he went on: ‘Now, you talk to me. Tell me about yourself. What have you been doing these past five years?’

Rachel flushed. ‘Just living, I suppose. Helping Father in the store, keeping house….’

Buttering a roll she took a bite of the crisp crust, and Vittorio looked amused at her enjoyment. ‘Tell me,’ he said, suddenly, ‘didn’t you ever regret leaving? Didn’t you miss—well—all this?’

Rachel lifted her shoulders eloquently. ‘To begin with, when I was still young and foolish.’

Vittorio uttered an exclamation. ‘You are still young. What age are you now? Twenty-two—twenty-three?’

‘I’m twenty-five, and you know it,’ she retorted, with a smile. ‘How about you? Are you finished your schooling?’

Vittorio looked indignant. ‘Of course,’ he retorted, impatiently. ‘I am almost twenty-two myself now. I spent two years at college in the States, but at last I am home for good.’

‘To do what?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I am in André’s employ until he decides I am old enough to act on my own initiative, as Ramon is now.’

Rachel shook her head. The code of ethics practised by the Sanchez family had always intrigued her. There was never any family dispute. André was the head of the family, and therefore André made the decisions. And that was what she could not accept. They were all prepared to subjugate their desires to the good of the whole, and she had to admit, if she was honest, it worked admirably.

Later Vittorio offered her a cigarette and they smoked companionably discussing less personal topics. Vittorio seemed to sense that she did not wish to discuss her reasons for being in the Bahamas, and she refrained from questioning him too closely about his plans. Eventually, when she was beginning to wonder how much further they would have to go, Vittorio got to his feet, and leaning on the rail indicated an island with his hand.

‘See!’ he said, pointing. ‘Palmerina!’

Rising out of the azure waters was a small island, lushly foliaged, palms fringing the coral sands, reaching almost to the shoreline in places. From the launch the island appeared deserted, the hinterland rising to shallow hills, overgrown with a forest of trees. To Rachel, expecting the civilised cultivation she had experienced on Conchera, Palmerina was wild and primitive and much more beautiful.

‘Well?’ said Vittorio, glancing her way as the launch negotiated the perils of the reef. ‘What do you think?’ He smiled. ‘It’s not what you expected, is it?’

‘Frankly, no. Where is André’s house?’

‘Inland. There’s a lagoon, you’ll see.’

The launch drifted in with the tide, and now Rachel could see a wooden jetty which projected some feet into the water. The launch bumped gently against its sides, and was moored by one of the men before Vittorio leapt out on to the wooden boards. He put a hand down to Rachel and she climbed out too, swaying a little after the rhythm of the boat.

Then she looked about her. Away in both directions the beach curved out of sight while the foliage she had seen from the launch was just as dense close at hand but interspersed with tropical blossoms of hibiscus and oleander. Ahead, a narrow road ran from the jetty into the trees and parked on this narrow road was a small utility vehicle with a driver behind the wheel. Collecting her case, Vittorio escorted her to the vehicle, smiling a greeting to the black-skinned boy who climbed out to offer Vittorio the seat behind the wheel. Rachel was seated beside him and the boy climbed in the back. Then, leaving the two men behind them, they drove away.

The track wound between the trees for some distance and then they gathered speed up an incline emerging through a belt of pines whose scent was sweet and crisp on to a ridge. They were crossing to the other side of the island and as they began the downward sweep Rachel saw the lagoon nestling on the valley floor. Now she could see a cluster of roofs that indicated that there was a village, and beyond, standing square to the lagoon was André’s house, its roof contrasting with the others because it had red tiles. The lagoon had a channel at the furthest side which led to the sea, and Rachel commented on this to Vittorio.

‘It is possible to sail round the island and reach the house through the channel by crossing the lagoon,’ he said, ‘but this way is quicker, and while I should like to show you the island, I have very explicit orders.’

A quiver ran along Rachel’s spine at his words. For a while she had been engrossed in her surroundings to the exclusion of everything else, but now his statement brought it all back to her, most particularly her reasons for being here. Feeling she had to say something, she said: ‘It’s very beautiful. More beautiful than Conchera.’

‘And much less accessible,’ remarked Vittorio dryly. ‘Here, one can only breach the reef at one point, the one we used. André employs a guard who lives, with his dogs, in a house hidden by the trees you saw when we arrived. There is a telephone link with the house. No one reaches Palmerina without André being warned.’

‘And by air?’ questioned Rachel, intrigued in spite of herself.

‘Impossible, except by a chopper. André uses one, of course. But the airfield is small, and so long as his is in occupation, there’s little chance of anyone taking him unawares.’

‘A veritable stronghold, in fact,’ murmured Rachel, almost to herself.

‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’ Vittorio had overheard her. ‘Rachel! Don’t go on with this antagonism. André’s much harder now than he was. You made him so!’

‘I?’

‘Yes, you.’ Vittorio put the vehicle into a lower gear to negotiate the curve into the village. ‘André loved you, Rachel, and you destroyed that love.’

Rachel’s cheeks turned scarlet. ‘Everyone seems to know my husband better than I do,’ she exclaimed, turning to attack rather than defence. ‘André only wanted another possession, a human one this time!’

Vittorio gave her a quelling glance. ‘You don’t believe that!’ he stated calmly, ‘so don’t expect me to.’

Rachel heaved a sigh. ‘Well, anyway, that’s all in the past. He has—Leonie, now. Who is she, by the way?’

‘Leonie?’ Vittorio looked thoughtful. ‘Her father owns a big oil concession in Trinidad. Her name is Leonie Gardner, and her parents are of French-Canadian descent, I believe. At any rate, they’re very well established in New Providence. They have a house near Nassau.’

‘I see.’ Rachel listened with interest. ‘I—I wonder why André waited until now to get the divorce. If he has been thinking of getting married for some time, I’m surprised everything wasn’t taken care of before this.’ She couldn’t prevent the hint of sarcasm that crept into her voice. ‘After all, he arranges everything so clinically, doesn’t he?’ She bit her lip.

Vittorio sounded annoyed. ‘He hasn’t been thinking of getting married for some time,’ he returned shortly. ‘I must admit, I’d be chary of the institution after—–’ He broke off. ‘Besides, André doesn’t have to marry a woman before…’ He halted again. ‘Goddammit, you know what I mean!’

Rachel bent her head. ‘And have there been many? Women, I mean?’

Vittorio raised a lazy hand in greeting to some of the villagers that were standing by the roadside watching their progress, and then sighed. ‘For someone who professes to despise my brother, you’re inordinately interested in his affairs,’ he observed mockingly, and Rachel’s fingers gripped her bag tightly.

The vehicle was running along beside the lake now and Rachel could see a yacht anchored out in the centre. That must be André’s boat. He was a keen sailor and when he was home they had had some wonderful trips together. She felt a tightness in her throat and a conviction that whatever her reasons she ought not to have come here, not to the Bahamas, not to New Providence, and most definitely not to Palmerina.

As they neared the house she could see it was two-storied, with green shutters at the windows and washed in a cream paint. It was surrounded by gardens, colourful with the many varied blossoms to be found in the islands, and stood in the shade of tall, feathery palms. Double doors stood wide, opening on to a panelled hall which Rachel could see as Vittorio brought their transport to a halt at the foot of shallow steps leading on to a low veranda. Tubs of tropical plants tumbled near the entrance, while the slats of the veranda were overhung with bougainvillea. There was so much beauty and colour it almost hurt her eyes, but she removed her dark glasses and stepped out on to the paved courtyard.

Immediately, a dark-skinned woman in a scarlet dress and sparkling white apron appeared at the double doors, and stood staring at them incredulously. Rachel looked at the elderly woman, then at Vittorio.

‘Why, it’s Pandora!’ she exclaimed, in welcome astonishment.

Vittorio nodded, and even as he did so, Pandora uttered an exclamation of delight and hastened down the veranda steps to greet her.

‘Miss Rachel, Miss Rachel!’ she was saying over and over again. ‘You’ve come back!’

Rachel felt herself engulfed in a bear-like embrace and drawing back a little, she said gently: ‘Oh, Pandora, it’s wonderful to see you, too. Everything’s changed—everything except you!’

‘Oh, Mr. André! He hasn’t changed,’ answered Pandora, her eyes a trifle moist. ‘My—my—he’ll be so pleased to see you back, Miss Rachel!’

Rachel felt slightly emotional herself at this welcome, but she tried to sound casual as she said: ‘I’ve not come to stay, Pandora. Just—just visiting, that’s all.’

Pandora’s face changed. ‘You’re not staying?’ she said, aghast. ‘Why are you here, then?’

Rachel sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Pandora. I’ll tell you some other time.’

Vittorio joined them looking thoughtfully at his sisters-in-law. Then he looked at Pandora. ‘Where is my brother?’

Pandora gestured with her hands. ‘Out back. He’s down at the boats. Shall I tell him you’re here?’

Vittorio shook his head. ‘No, don’t bother. We’ll go down. Come on, Rachel. We’ll go through the house. It’s quicker.’

Rachel accompanied him up the steps and through the double doorway into a marble-tiled hall. Arched doorways opened to left and right into lounges and dining areas. Some doors were closed, but those that were open revealed magnificently appointed apartments with crystal chandeliers reflected in polished wood, and soft leather furnishings. Some floors were carpeted, but others were polished and strewn with rugs and smelt deliciously of beeswax. Crossing the hall, Vittorio led the way out through another archway on to a patio tiled in a multi-patterned mosaic of muted colours. Rachel halted for a moment here. The view was magnificent, a backcloth of lake and hillside, and away to the right the channel that opened out into the ocean. The patio was broad, and beyond steps led down through lawns and flower gardens to where a pine-logged boathouse had been built beside a small wooden jetty. And it was here they found André Sanchez, working on the engine of one of his motor-boats, dressed casually in dark shorts and a dark shirt, unbuttoned to his waist. Nearby another man was working inside the boathouse, and he came out at their approach, obviously to see who was joining them. He nodded when he saw Vittorio, and André looked up, wiping his oily hands on a rag.

Rachel felt suddenly a mass of nerves, and she hovered uncertainly on the path, unwilling to venture on to the jetty. André said something to his companion, and then vaulted up the slope to their side, raking back his dark hair with a lazy hand.

‘So. You came,’ he remarked, unnecessarily.

Rachel bit her lip. ‘I didn’t have much choice.’

André half smiled. ‘No, you did not, did you? Okay, Vittorio, I can take it from here. I want you to go back to Nassau and see Kingston.’

‘All right.’ Vittorio nodded. ‘What about Ramon?’

‘I’ll see Ramon later,’ replied André, looking thoughtful. ‘You know what to do?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good.’ André nodded, and Vittorio gave Rachel a rather amused smile, and walked away through the rose gardens and round the side of the house. Alone with André, Rachel was bereft of speech, and when he indicated that she should precede him into the house she did so with some misgivings.

Once inside, André led the way into a cool lounge that overlooked the rear of the building, with the lake and the trees beyond. Excusing himself for a moment, he left her alone, and she seated herself in a soft red leather armchair by the french doors and lit a cigarette. She might as well compose herself. Until he chose to tell her why he had brought her here there was little she could do.

When he returned, he had washed his hands, and he walked over to a bell and pressed it before sitting down in the chair opposite her. When a manservant appeared a few moments later, he ordered coffee for two, and then reached for a cigar from a box on a nearby table. As he did so, Rachel studied him surreptitiously. The previous evening she had been too disturbed to register every detail about him, but now she found she enjoyed just looking at him. His limbs were tanned a deep brown and looked much more attractive than the pale bodies of men she had seen sunbathing in England. But then he lived in an ideal climate, and had that kind of colouring that took to hot weather. Besides, he had Spanish blood in his veins only slightly diluted by his English mother. His chest was darkened still further by the hairs that grew there, and she could see a silver medallion shining in the darkness. He had made no concessions to formality and Rachel wondered if it was an attempt on his part to disconcert her. He must have known she would be expecting a business-like encounter.

Getting to her feet, she moved restlessly over to an exquisitely carved relief in ebony. It was the head of an Indian, and the planes and angles of his face were almost lifelike.

‘This is attractive,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Where did you get it?’

André rose also and came to stand beside her, taking the head from her unresisting fingers. He replaced it on the small table it had previously occupied, and stood looking down at her with curiously enigmatic eyes. ‘You didn’t come here to talk about ebony reliefs,’ he remarked distinctly.

Rachel caught her breath. ‘I don’t know why I am here,’ she said tightly, gripping one hand painfully with the other.

André put his cigar between his teeth. ‘Do you not?’

Rachel was breathing rather jerkily. ‘You know I don’t. After—after last night—I’m surprised you can bear to speak to me!’ There was anger in her voice, and a kind of defiance.

André shrugged, and moved away from her, momentarily restoring her breathing to normal. ‘Last night you caught me unawares. I foolishly allowed my—what shall I call it? Anger? Yes, anger, to—well, gain the upper hand.’

Rachel took a breath. ‘And now?’

‘Now?’ He turned to look at her. ‘Well, now I’ve had time to think, time to put things into perspective. I realise my behaviour was completely uncalled-for.’

‘I see. You mean the computer has taken over from the man again. That’s normal!’

André did not look perturbed. ‘I can see that you are still angry, Rachel.’ His eyes were mocking. ‘Why should that be? What have I ever done to arouse your anger? Apart from living, of course.’

Rachel’s cheeks suffused with colour. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’

His eyes darkened. ‘Why? Your actions five years ago were designed to hurt me, were they not?’

Rachel bent her head. ‘How does a puppet hurt its master?’

André uttered an exclamation and stepped towards her ominously, her quiet words arousing him as no amount of anger could have done, but the manservant chose that moment to return with the tray of coffee, and Rachel returned to her seat. The man placed the tray on the low table beside her and she was forced to take charge of it, handling the silver coffee jug with trembling fingers.





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