The Sanchez Tradition Page 5

  André lay back in his chair studying her with a piercing scrutiny. She wondered what he was thinking, what pleasure her submission has given him. In his place she doubted whether she could have been so restrained. She would have been unable to prevent a taunting reproof. But André merely moved his shoulders in an expressive gesture, and said:

  ‘All right, Rachel, sit down, and tell me why you came.’

  Rachel subsided on to her chair again wishing he would not stare at her so intently. It was difficult to think coherently with his eyes wandering over her body, and woman that she was she wondered whether he still found her attractive. She was slimmer, of course, but things hadn’t been easy one way and another, and she had never eaten a lot. But she kept her hair in good condition, and her skin was as soft and smooth as it ever was. And the tangerine dress suited her creamy colouring. But if he found anything attractive about her he did not show it and there was a chilling insensitivity about the quality of his appraisal.

  It was difficult to know where to begin, so she said slowly: ‘It’s my father.’

  André showed no surprise. ‘As it ever was,’ he commented dryly.

  Rachel’s eyes flickered, and then she sighed. ‘As you say.’ Her tone was forcibly subdued. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this.’ She shook her head a trifle desperately. ‘I couldn’t believe it myself when I first heard it.’ She sought about for words to express herself. ‘It’s to do with the store—or at least the antiques themselves.’

  André leaned forward again. ‘Go on. Has your father gotten into debt? Is the store losing money? The antique business can be a pretty precarious proposition, but your father knew that when we bought the place.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Rachel compressed her lips. ‘Oh, if it only was money,’ she exclaimed passionately. ‘We could have sold the store!’

  ‘Without informing me?’ queried André coldly.

  Rachel sighed. ‘You gave the store to Father,’ she reminded him quietly.

  ‘I know that!’ muttered André grimly. ‘But without his source of livelihood, what would your father do? Or you either, for that matter?’

  Rachel lifted her shoulders expressively. ‘When you bought the store, my mother was newly dead, and my father was rapidly becoming a self-pitying creature, drinking himself into a pleasanter world.’ She sighed again. ‘You gave him back his self-respect, you installed him in the store, and made him whole again.’

  André shrugged. ‘So what has gone wrong? Has he started drinking again?’

  Rachel spread her hands. ‘The business wasn’t doing too well about eighteen months ago and he was approached by some men, I don’t know who they were, but they offered him a kind of deal. If he agreed to sell some of their stuff for them, he would get a big commission.’

  ‘Oh God!’ André looked disgusted and got to his feet. ‘So that’s it!’ he muttered impatiently. ‘Did you know about it?’

  Rachel shook her head vigorously. ‘Of course not. Do you think I’d have let him agree to something like that?’ She hunched her shoulders. ‘I didn’t know a thing about it until three weeks ago. Then my father told me what was going on. The police had been to the store while I was out and although they hadn’t accused him of anything, they’d certainly frightened him. To be brief, he refused to take anything else from these men, and now he’s threatened with exposure or blackmail!’

  André said nothing, but crossing to a cabinet he opened it to reveal a comprehensive display of alcohol. Taking a glass, he poured himself a stiff measure of whisky and swallowed it at a gulp. Then he lit another cigar and came back to her, looking down at her rather exasperatedly.

  ‘So you came to me,’ he stated bluntly.

  ‘Yes.’ Rachel linked and unlinked her fingers. ‘I’m sorry—but there didn’t seem anyone else I could turn to.’

  André uttered an expletive. ‘Why didn’t you come to me eighteen months ago when the business first started to go downhill?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I suppose at first I didn’t think it was serious, I thought things would pick up, and after they did I never questioned where the money came from.’

  ‘And the money I sent you?’

  Rachel bit her lip hard. ‘We used that, too. Father needed a car to get about—and then he did some entertaining!’

  ‘Your father spent the money?’ André’s tones were violent.

  ‘Some of it,’ she prevaricated.

  ‘Most of it,’ he ground out heavily. ‘And now I suppose he’s resorted to the bottle again!’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘Sometimes,’ she had to admit. ‘But he tries hard—he really does! Only nothing ever seems to go right for him.’

  ‘He tries hard!’ mimicked André relentlessly. ‘Your father is a born loser!’

  ‘That’s not his fault!’

  ‘No, and it’s not mine either!’ André said savagely. ‘When I met you you were trying to pick your father up after one disaster! Now you’re trying to pick him up after another! And they’re all his own fault! He must have known what he was running into, just as when your mother died he knew that turning to drink wouldn’t do anything constructive towards his livelihood!’

  Rachel had to defend her parent. ‘When my mother died he lost his job, I know, but Mr. Lorrimer didn’t understand how much Father felt my mother’s loss!’

  André looked sceptical. ‘I agree, Lorrimer didn’t understand, but then nor do I! It’s a common failing, just as you’ve never understood me!’

  Rachel got to her feet. ‘So you’re not going to help us?’

  André glared at her. ‘Stop jumping to conclusions! I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You implied it!’ Rachel was defensive.

  ‘Implied? Implied? What does that word mean? An implication means many things.’ He raked his hand through his hair. ‘You can’t expect to come here and tell me that my father-in-law has been casually swindling me for the past five years and not get any reaction!’

  ‘The money you sent me was mine.’

  ‘I agree. But you didn’t spend it, did you? And from the location of the hotel you chose here, you haven’t saved it either! The Empress Hotel!’ He almost spat out the words.

  Rachel pressed a hand to her throat. ‘I don’t think there’s anything constructive to be gathered by my staying here,’ she ventured. ‘I—I’ve got to go back to London. Apart from anything else, I can’t afford to stay here any longer.’

  ‘Afford! Don’t use that word to me,’ he said angrily. ‘As for the rest, you can give up any ideas of leaving for the next few days!’

  Rachel stared at him. ‘And where am I supposed to stay?’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Your brother and his henchman cancelled my reservation at the hotel!’

  André looked at her intently. ‘You can stay with my mother, on Veros. It’s an island not far from Palmerina.’

  Rachel gasped, ‘I couldn’t stay with your mother!’

  ‘Why not? She knows you’re here.’

  Rachel swept back her hair, looping it behind her ears. ‘You must know that would be impossible,’ she exclaimed. ‘After all that’s happened, I wouldn’t expect your mother to want me there.’

  ‘Nevertheless, that is where you will stay,’ he replied adamantly.

  ‘You can’t order me now, André.’

  ‘Can’t I? In this instance, I think I can. Unless, of course, you want to stay here.’ His eyes darkened suddenly, and he ran the fingers of one hand along the smooth bare skin of her forearm. ‘It might be quite amusing at that. Taking a wife—as a mistress!’

  Rachel’s cheeks burned. ‘Don’t you have one of them already?’ she asked insolently, taking refuge from her treacherous emotions in rudeness.

  André’s eyebrows ascended. ‘I’ve never possessed such a virago as you, Rachel,’ he replied distinctly, and she turned away from him, hating him for humiliating her still further.

  ‘I—I’ll stay—with your mother,’ she murmured, in a small
voice.

  ‘I rather thought you might,’ he said dampeningly, and she realised the whole gambit had been yet another attempt to show her exactly what he thought of her. For the first time she felt a sense of frustration with her father for forcing her into this situation. He had had no misgivings about sending her here, apparently unaware, or uncaring, that she might be humiliated by the man who had once been the whole axis on which her world turned, and who now regarded her with less esteem than one of the serving girls in his employ.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE helicopter which André had piloted from Palmerina to Veros landed in a field only a short way from his mother’s house, and Rachel climbed out of its bubble-like interior with quaking legs and a nervous stomach. She had no idea what kind of reception she would receive, and she could not accept that André’s mother would find it easy to be civil to her after all that had happened. She thanked Gilroy, one of André’s bodyguard, who assisted her to alight, and then looked back reluctantly at her husband who was extricating himself from behind the controls. Dressed formally now in a biscuit-coloured lounge suit and a cream shirt, he looked every inch the businessman he was.

  He dropped down on to the grass beside her issuing instructions to the other man, Sheridan, and then looked down at her thoughtfully.

  ‘You look scared stiff,’ he remarked, rather impatiently. ‘Why? I thought you liked my mother. She is a countrywoman of yours, after all.’

  Rachel sighed. ‘Of course I like your mother. It’s just—well, you’re her son!’

  He shrugged and took her arm to guide her across the field towards the attractive house which could be seen in the distance. ‘And you’re still her daughter-in-law,’ he reminded her softly.

  Rachel glanced at him swiftly. ‘But not for long,’ she said sharply, and he inclined his head.

  ‘You could be right,’ he agreed annoyingly.

  Rachel bit her lip. ‘André, about Lilaine—-’

  His eyes were guarded. ‘What about Lilaine?’

  ‘Vittorio told me. I’m so sorry. I wanted to ask you whether I should mention it to your mother or not.’

  André considered her question gravely. ‘My mother has got over the worst of it now,’ he said at last. ‘Three years is a long time. But maybe it would be as well to let her raise the subject in her own good time.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘But why did it happen? It all seems completely crazy!’

  André’s eyes darkened. ‘You would never accept that the improbable was not impossible, would you, Rachel?’ he asked harshly.

  Rachel looked away from the anger in his eyes. She knew to what he was referring, but she still found it hard to believe that such things could happen to people around her.

  However, just at that moment their attention was distracted by the sight of a small girl who had darted out of the house in the distance and who was running rapidly across the grass towards them. She couldn’t have been more than three or four, and was round and chubby with rosy cheeks and dark curly hair. Rachel looked at André in surprise.

  ‘Who is that?’ she cried, in astonishment. ‘Oh, she’s adorable!’

  André ignored her, but strode ahead to swing the little girl up into his arms, where she clung lovingly round his neck, rubbing her cheek against his. Then he turned back to Rachel. ‘This is Maria,’ he said, his eyes expressionless. ‘The daughter of my brother, Marcus, and his wife, Olivia.’

  ‘Oh!’ Rachel swallowed hard. ‘Are they here?’

  ‘No, they are holidaying in Europe. Maria is staying with her grandmother while they are away, are you not, Maria?’ He smiled at the child, a complete transformation from the chilling coldness with which he had looked at his wife. ‘Have you been a good girl?’

  Trying not to feel hurt at André’s attitude, Rachel stepped forward and smiled at the little girl. ‘Hello, Maria,’ she said gently. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  Maria studied her silently, and then turned back to her uncle. ‘Who is that?’ she asked clearly.

  André frowned, and stood her down on her sturdy little legs. ‘This is your Aunt Rachel,’ he replied, with obvious reluctance.

  ‘My aunt?’ exclaimed the little girl with surprise. ‘But where is Aunt Leonie?’

  Rachel’s cheeks burned, but she would not let André see her embarrassment. Instead, she went down on her haunches beside the child and said: ‘You will see Aunt Leonie another day. Now, will you show me where your grandmother is? I’d like to meet her, too.’

  Maria glanced up at her uncle, and then back at Rachel. ‘All right,’ she agreed, with a nod, and let Rachel take her hand. ‘Have you come to stay?’

  ‘For a little while,’ agreed Rachel. ‘Do you like staying here?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Maria frowned. ‘Do you have any boys or girls for me to play with?’ She sighed. ‘There’s only Tottie here, and she doesn’t run very fast.’

  Rachel bit her lip. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any boys or girls at all,’ she said, wondering whether André was aware of the tensions that Maria was creating. Had he known and realised what coming here and seeing Maria would do to her? If so, then it was a cruel plan indeed.

  André strode ahead of them, and opened the gate that led into the garden of his mother’s house, and Rachel took a moment to look about her. The house was similar to, but smaller than, André’s, and as it was situated amongst palms above a coral beach, it was much more easily accessible. As they reached the doors, a young woman came out and stood watching their progress, a hand raised to shade her eyes. Rachel recognised her as her sister-in-law Irena. Irena was a little older than she was, and Rachel speculated that she must be about twenty-seven or eight now. Tall, and very thin, with angular features, she was like and yet unlike the other members of the family. Perhaps not marrying had soured her, although when Rachel had known her last she had not been so old, but there had always been that awareness about her that she was not as attractive as the other members of the Sanchez family and she had resented this terribly. She had never liked Rachel, but she had been forced to accept her, and when Rachel had at last deserted André to return to England after that last terrible quarrel, she had willingly made all the arrangements. Thinking back to that terrible day, Rachel shivered even in the heat of the noonday sun, and wondered how Irena would react seeing her here again, even if it was only a temporary arrangement.

  André greeted his sister, and Irena gave Rachel a cool nod, successfully banishing any necessity to utter platitudes that would mean absolutely nothing to either of them.

  ‘Mother is waiting lunch for you,’ she said, to her brother. ‘You’re late.’

  André shrugged impatiently. ‘There were things to do,’ he replied vaguely. He looked back at Rachel, still holding Maria’s hand, and talking desultorily to the child. ‘Come along,’ he urged. ‘Maria! Go and find Tottie. She’s probably looking for you.’

  Maria looked mutinous. ‘But I want to eat with you, Uncle André,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Not today, sweetheart. Run along, there’s a good girl.’

  Maria heaved a sigh, but she trudged away as they entered the house, giving Rachel a faint smile. Rachel felt a tugging at her heart, but then she gave her attention to the exquisite appointments of the house. It had the same taste and distinction as the house on Palmerina, and the cool hall was redolent with the scent of flowers placed in vases everywhere. The hall opened into a long light lounge that ran from front to back of the building, and it was here they found André’s mother, seated on a striped divan reading a newspaper. Madam Sanchez rose at their entrance, and Rachel saw how little she had changed. Widowed eighteen years ago, and left with six children and an empire to control, she had managed admirably, and as soon as André was old enough, he had taken the weight of the organisation from her shoulders. Her husband had been a shrewd businessman, investing his money wisely, and obtaining much of his resources from earlier explorations in South American mining. Nevertheless, André’s kn
owledge and expertise had revitalised the organisation, and now it ran on oiled wheels, each of the sons being allotted a share of the business as soon as they were capable enough to handle it. And behind them all, Madam Sanchez exercised her own will, helping and advising whenever necessary, but never intruding. She was tall and slim and dark, like her children, and if there were several more grey hairs at her temples then it was only to be expected after all she had suffered both with her husband, and her daughter. Rachel knew the break-up of André’s marriage had affected her excessively, but Rachel had found it impossible at that time to confide in her, or to seek her advice.

  Now Madam Sanchez came to greet her, a faint smile hovering about her lips. ‘So, Rachel, you have come back,’ she said consideringly. ‘Nevertheless, I am pleased to see you!’

  Rachel hovered by the entrance, unable to relax. ‘Hello—madam,’ she murmured awkwardly.

  Madam Sanchez frowned. ‘What is this? Madam? You used to call me Mother. Is it so impossible for you to do so again?’

  Rachel coloured. ‘Of course not, but—well—–’ She halted uncertainly.

  André strolled across to the cocktail cabinet. ‘I think Rachel needs a drink,’ he remarked laconically. ‘Something to calm her nerves!’

  Rachel cast him an angry glance, but his mother merely smiled. ‘Yes, perhaps you are right, André. After all, I can understand that Rachel will be nervous of us—how did she use to put it? En masse! Yes, that is right, en masse!’

  André’s lips twitched, and Rachel clenched her fists. ‘I—–I—–I’m sure you would rather I stayed in a hotel in Nassau,’ she began indignantly.