Читать книгу The Sanchez Tradition - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 7

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 called ‘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 down 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.

‘See!’ he said, pointing. ‘Palmerina!’

Rising out of the azure waters was a small island, lushly foliaged, palms fringing the coral sands, reaching almost to the shoreline in places. From the launch the island appeared deserted, the hinterland rising to shallow hills, overgrown with a forest of trees. To Rachel, expecting the civilised cultivation she had experienced on Conchera, Palmerina was wild and primitive and much more beautiful.

‘Well?’ said Vittorio, glancing her way as the launch negotiated the perils of the reef. ‘What do you think?’ He smiled. ‘It’s not what you expected, is it?’

‘Frankly, no. Where is André’s house?’

‘Inland. There’s a lagoon, you’ll see.’

The launch drifted in with the tide, and now Rachel could see a wooden jetty which projected some feet into the water. The launch bumped gently against its sides, and was moored by one of the men before Vittorio leapt out on to the wooden boards. He put a hand down to Rachel and she climbed out too, swaying a little after the rhythm of the boat.

Then she looked about her. Away in both directions the beach curved out of sight while the foliage she had seen from the launch was just as dense close at hand but interspersed with tropical blossoms of hibiscus and oleander. Ahead, a narrow road ran from the jetty into the trees and parked on this narrow road was a small utility vehicle with a driver behind the wheel. Collecting her case, Vittorio escorted her to the vehicle, smiling a greeting to the black-skinned boy who climbed out to offer Vittorio the seat behind the wheel. Rachel was seated beside him and the boy climbed in the back. Then, leaving the two men behind them, they drove away.

The track wound between the trees for some distance and then they gathered speed up an incline emerging through a belt of pines whose scent was sweet and crisp on to a ridge. They were crossing to the other side of the island and as they began the downward sweep Rachel saw the lagoon nestling on the valley floor. Now she could see a cluster of roofs that indicated that there was a village, and beyond, standing square to the lagoon was André’s house, its roof contrasting with the others because it had red tiles. The lagoon had a channel at the furthest side which led to the sea, and Rachel commented on this to Vittorio.

‘It is possible to sail round the island and reach the house through the channel by crossing the lagoon,’ he said, ‘but this way is quicker, and while I should like to show you the island, I have very explicit orders.’

A quiver ran along Rachel’s spine at his words. For a while she had been engrossed in her surroundings to the exclusion of everything else, but now his statement brought it all back to her, most particularly her reasons for being here. Feeling she had to say something, she said: ‘It’s very beautiful. More beautiful than Conchera.’

‘And much less accessible,’ remarked Vittorio dryly. ‘Here, one can only breach the reef at one point, the one we used. André employs a guard who lives, with his dogs, in a house hidden by the trees you saw when we arrived. There is a telephone link with the house. No one reaches Palmerina without André being warned.’

‘And by air?’ questioned Rachel, intrigued in spite of herself.

‘Impossible, except by a chopper. André uses one, of course. But the airfield is small, and so long as his is in occupation, there’s little chance of anyone taking him unawares.’

‘A veritable stronghold, in fact,’ murmured Rachel, almost to herself.

‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’ Vittorio had overheard her. ‘Rachel! Don’t go on with this antagonism. André’s much harder now than he was. You made him so!’

‘I?’

‘Yes, you.’ Vittorio put the vehicle into a lower gear to negotiate the curve into the village. ‘André loved you, Rachel, and you destroyed that love.’

Rachel’s cheeks turned scarlet. ‘Everyone seems to know my husband better than I do,’ she exclaimed, turning to attack rather than defence. ‘André only wanted another possession, a human one this time!’

Vittorio gave her a quelling glance. ‘You don’t believe that!’ he stated calmly, ‘so don’t expect me to.’

Rachel heaved a sigh. ‘Well, anyway, that’s all in the past. He has—Leonie, now. Who is she, by the way?’

‘Leonie?’ Vittorio looked thoughtful. ‘Her father owns a big oil concession in Trinidad. Her name is Leonie Gardner, and her parents are of French-Canadian descent, I believe. At any rate, they’re very well established in New Providence. They have a house near Nassau.’

‘I see.’ Rachel listened with interest. ‘I—I wonder why André waited until now to get the divorce. If he has been thinking of getting married for some time, I’m surprised everything wasn’t taken care of before this.’ She couldn’t prevent the hint of sarcasm that crept into her voice. ‘After all, he arranges everything so clinically, doesn’t he?’ She bit her lip.

Vittorio sounded annoyed. ‘He hasn’t been thinking of getting married for some time,’ he returned shortly. ‘I must admit, I’d be chary of the institution after—–’ He broke off. ‘Besides, André doesn’t have to marry a woman before…’ He halted again. ‘Goddammit, you know what I mean!’

Rachel bent her head. ‘And have there been many? Women, I mean?’

Vittorio raised a lazy hand in greeting to some of the villagers that were standing by the roadside watching their progress, and then sighed. ‘For someone who professes to despise my brother, you’re inordinately interested in his affairs,’ he observed mockingly, and Rachel’s fingers gripped her bag tightly.

The vehicle was running along beside the lake now and Rachel could see a yacht anchored out in the centre. That must be André’s boat. He was a keen sailor and when he was home they had had some wonderful trips together. She felt a tightness in her throat and a conviction that whatever her reasons she ought not to have come here, not to the Bahamas, not to New Providence, and most definitely not to Palmerina.

As they neared the house she could see it was two-storied, with green shutters at the windows and washed in a cream paint. It was surrounded by gardens, colourful with the many varied blossoms to be found in the islands, and stood in the shade of tall, feathery palms. Double doors stood wide, opening on to a panelled hall which Rachel could see as Vittorio brought their transport to a halt at the foot of shallow steps leading on to a low veranda. Tubs of tropical plants tumbled near the entrance, while the slats of the veranda were overhung with bougainvillea. There was so much beauty and colour it almost hurt her eyes, but she removed her dark glasses and stepped out on to the paved courtyard.

Immediately, a dark-skinned woman in a scarlet dress and sparkling white apron appeared at the double doors, and stood staring at them incredulously. Rachel looked at the elderly woman, then at Vittorio.

‘Why, it’s Pandora!’ she exclaimed, in welcome astonishment.

Vittorio nodded, and even as he did so, Pandora uttered an exclamation of delight and hastened down the veranda steps to greet her.

‘Miss Rachel, Miss Rachel!’ she was saying over and over again. ‘You’ve come back!’

Rachel felt herself engulfed in a bear-like embrace and drawing back a little, she said gently: ‘Oh, Pandora, it’s wonderful to see you, too. Everything’s changed—everything except you!’

‘Oh, Mr. André! He hasn’t changed,’ answered Pandora, her eyes a trifle moist. ‘My—my—he’ll be so pleased to see you back, Miss Rachel!’

Rachel felt slightly emotional herself at this welcome, but she tried to sound casual as she said: ‘I’ve not come to stay, Pandora. Just—just visiting, that’s all.’

Pandora’s face changed. ‘You’re not staying?’ she said, aghast. ‘Why are you here, then?’

Rachel sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Pandora. I’ll tell you some other time.’

Vittorio joined them looking thoughtfully at his sisters-in-law. Then he looked at Pandora. ‘Where is my brother?’

Pandora gestured with her hands. ‘Out back. He’s down at the boats. Shall I tell him you’re here?’

Vittorio shook his head. ‘No, don’t bother. We’ll go down. Come on, Rachel. We’ll go through the house. It’s quicker.’

Rachel accompanied him up the steps and through the double doorway into a marble-tiled hall. Arched doorways opened to left and right into lounges and dining areas. Some doors were closed, but those that were open revealed magnificently appointed apartments with crystal chandeliers reflected in polished wood, and soft leather furnishings. Some floors were carpeted, but others were polished and strewn with rugs and smelt deliciously of beeswax. Crossing the hall, Vittorio led the way out through another archway on to a patio tiled in a multi-patterned mosaic of muted colours. Rachel halted for a moment here. The view was magnificent, a backcloth of lake and hillside, and away to the right the channel that opened out into the ocean. The patio was broad, and beyond steps led down through lawns and flower gardens to where a pine-logged boathouse had been built beside a small wooden jetty. And it was here they found André Sanchez, working on the engine of one of his motor-boats, dressed casually in dark shorts and a dark shirt, unbuttoned to his waist. Nearby another man was working inside the boathouse, and he came out at their approach, obviously to see who was joining them. He nodded when he saw Vittorio, and André looked up, wiping his oily hands on a rag.

Rachel felt suddenly a mass of nerves, and she hovered uncertainly on the path, unwilling to venture on to the jetty. André said something to his companion, and then vaulted up the slope to their side, raking back his dark hair with a lazy hand.

‘So. You came,’ he remarked, unnecessarily.

Rachel bit her lip. ‘I didn’t have much choice.’

André half smiled. ‘No, you did not, did you? Okay, Vittorio, I can take it from here. I want you to go back to Nassau and see Kingston.’

‘All right.’ Vittorio nodded. ‘What about Ramon?’

‘I’ll see Ramon later,’ replied André, looking thoughtful. ‘You know what to do?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good.’ André nodded, and Vittorio gave Rachel a rather amused smile, and walked away through the rose gardens and round the side of the house. Alone with André, Rachel was bereft of speech, and when he indicated that she should precede him into the house she did so with some misgivings.

Once inside, André led the way into a cool lounge that overlooked the rear of the building, with the lake and the trees beyond. Excusing himself for a moment, he left her alone, and she seated herself in a soft red leather armchair by the french doors and lit a cigarette. She might as well compose herself. Until he chose to tell her why he had brought her here there was little she could do.

When he returned, he had washed his hands, and he walked over to a bell and pressed it before sitting down in the chair opposite her. When a manservant appeared a few moments later, he ordered coffee for two, and then reached for a cigar from a box on a nearby table. As he did so, Rachel studied him surreptitiously. The previous evening she had been too disturbed to register every detail about him, but now she found she enjoyed just looking at him. His limbs were tanned a deep brown and looked much more attractive than the pale bodies of men she had seen sunbathing in England. But then he lived in an ideal climate, and had that kind of colouring that took to hot weather. Besides, he had Spanish blood in his veins only slightly diluted by his English mother. His chest was darkened still further by the hairs that grew there, and she could see a silver medallion shining in the darkness. He had made no concessions to formality and Rachel wondered if it was an attempt on his part to disconcert her. He must have known she would be expecting a business-like encounter.

Getting to her feet, she moved restlessly over to an exquisitely carved relief in ebony. It was the head of an Indian, and the planes and angles of his face were almost lifelike.

‘This is attractive,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Where did you get it?’

André rose also and came to stand beside her, taking the head from her unresisting fingers. He replaced it on the small table it had previously occupied, and stood looking down at her with curiously enigmatic eyes. ‘You didn’t come here to talk about ebony reliefs,’ he remarked distinctly.

Rachel caught her breath. ‘I don’t know why I am here,’ she said tightly, gripping one hand painfully with the other.

André put his cigar between his teeth. ‘Do you not?’

Rachel was breathing rather jerkily. ‘You know I don’t. After—after last night—I’m surprised you can bear to speak to me!’ There was anger in her voice, and a kind of defiance.

André shrugged, and moved away from her, momentarily restoring her breathing to normal. ‘Last night you caught me unawares. I foolishly allowed my—what shall I call it? Anger? Yes, anger, to—well, gain the upper hand.’

Rachel took a breath. ‘And now?’

‘Now?’ He turned to look at her. ‘Well, now I’ve had time to think, time to put things into perspective. I realise my behaviour was completely uncalled-for.’

‘I see. You mean the computer has taken over from the man again. That’s normal!’

André did not look perturbed. ‘I can see that you are still angry, Rachel.’ His eyes were mocking. ‘Why should that be? What have I ever done to arouse your anger? Apart from living, of course.’

Rachel’s cheeks suffused with colour. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’

His eyes darkened. ‘Why? Your actions five years ago were designed to hurt me, were they not?’

Rachel bent her head. ‘How does a puppet hurt its master?’

André uttered an exclamation and stepped towards her ominously, her quiet words arousing him as no amount of anger could have done, but the manservant chose that moment to return with the tray of coffee, and Rachel returned to her seat. The man placed the tray on the low table beside her and she was forced to take charge of it, handling the silver coffee jug with trembling fingers.