by Anne Mather
‘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 bee
n 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 sudden
ly. ‘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.’