by Anne Mather
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 [email protected] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.
The Sanchez Tradition
Anne Mather
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
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 po
ssibly 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.
