by Anne Mather
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 calle
d ‘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 d
own 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.
