The Sanchez Tradition. Anne Mather
Читать онлайн книгу.
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 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