The Sanchez Tradition

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

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!’