“Oh, God,” she whispered. “I made a mess of your boat, didn’t I?”
He smiled. “You were the perfect passenger. Desperate as you were, you somehow made it to the rail.”
“But how did I get here? Is this a hospital?”
“No. It’s not a hospital.”
No, it couldn’t be. Even in the darkness, even with things doubling themselves, what she could see of this room spoke of luxury and wealth. He had taken her to a hotel—the island’s finest, probably. Well, one night wouldn’t wipe out her finances. At least, she hoped it wouldn’t.
“How did I get to this hotel, then?”
“It’s not a hotel, either.” He reached to the nightstand and took a cool cloth from the basin lying there. “Here,” he said, spreading the cloth across her brow. “How does that feel?”
“But if it’s not a hotel—”
“This is my home.”
She stared at him, speechless. His home? She was tucked into a bed in Roarke Campbell’s house? God, it was incredible, one of those horrid little tricks the demons of life liked to play from time to time. Only a few hours ago she’d been skulking around like a spy in a B movie doing everything she could to learn where he lived, and now here she was, under his very roof.
Confusing? Absolutely. Even more confusing was the fact that despite his gruffness, he seemed to be a decent man.
“Would you like a sip of water?”
She considered saying no, but what would that prove?
“Yes,” she said. “Please.”
“Here,” he said, slipping his arm under her shoulders and lifting her head from the pillow. “Slowly. Mendoza says your stomach’s going to be touch and go for a while.”
Jennifer’s brow furrowed. “Mendoza?”
Roarke eased her down to the pillows. “My physician. He examined you, took X-rays in his office before—you don’t remember that either?”
She shook her head a little, as much as she dared.
“No. I don’t remember anything after the boat. I—”
But she did, suddenly. Images flashed before her. The gently probing hands of a man with a soft Spanish accent. Roarke, lifting her into his arms, carrying her up a wide, curving staircase as if she were weightless, lowering her gently onto this soft, canopied bed…
Her hands flew to her throat. It was bare and she knew, instinctively, that she was wearing something other than her own clothes.
“Relax,” Roarke said. “It was Constancia who put you to bed.”
“Constancia?”
“My housekeeper.” He rose from the bedside. “I suggest you get some sleep now. If you need anything during the night, there’s a bell on the nightstand.”
Jennifer closed her eyes wearily. “I’ve bothered you enough already.”
There was a heavy silence, and then Roarke made a sound that might have been a laugh.
“Yes,” he said. “You have. Good night, Jennifer Hamilton. Sleep well.”
She had meant the words as a polite apology. It would have been nice if he could have managed an equally polite, if insincere, response, and she opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow, ready to tell him so—just in time to see the door close after him.
She drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly while she stared at the ribbon of moonlight that lay draped across the room like an ivory streamer.
What a strange man Roarke Campbell was. He’d seemed hostile and unyielding, yet he had taken care of her in her illness, even brought her to his home.
It was just as well he wasn’t the man she’d come seeking.
He would never do as a father.
It was even difficult to imagine him married. A man like that would never find a woman to please him. He was too private, too harsh, too—
She thought suddenly of how he’d held her close to him on the boat when she’d felt dizzy, of how he’d carried her to this room. She had sensed the repressed power in his touch, the strength of his hard body. What would it be like to feel that body pressed against hers, to tremble in his arms? What would it be like to cry out for his possession…?
A hot flush rose along her skin.
Was this what a concussion did to you? Did it make your imagination run riot? Make you think things you’d never, in a million lifetimes, thought before?
“Señorita?”
Jennifer turned toward the door. A plump, middle-aged woman smiled tentatively at her.
“I did not wish to disturb you. But the señor thought you might like some fruit juice.”
“No, thank you. Not just now.” She hesitated. “Constancia? That is your name, isn’t it?” The woman nodded. Jennifer touched her tongue to her lips. “I was just wondering—is Señor Campbell married?”
Constancia’s eyes seemed to darken. “No,” she said after a moment, “he has no wife. Good night, señorita.”
The door swung shut, leaving Jennifer alone with the absolute knowledge that Roarke Campbell was not the man who’d adopted her child.
He was a bachelor
If she’d had any last, lingering doubt that he was the man she’d set out to find, it was gone.
She’d have to put today behind her and start her search all over. And what a day it had been. She felt as if she’d spent it wandering through a house of mirrors. Things looked real until you got close, and then they turned out to be nothing but illusion.
Like Roarke. Was he cold and unfeeling? Or was there another side to him after all?
Jennifer’s lashes fluttered to her cheeks. It didn’t really matter, she thought hazily. By this time tomorrow, she’d be back in San Juan, and Roarke Campbell would be nothing but a memory. A memory…
Her sigh drifted into the still night air, and she tumbled into a long, deep sleep.
Chapter Four
Jennifer awoke abruptly.
At first, she was disoriented. This wasn’t her bedroom. It wasn’t her hotel room…
Then it all came back.
The Campbell building. The car.
The accident.
She hissed softly as she rolled onto her side. Her head still hurt a little, but she’d got away lucky. She grimaced as she thought of the injuries she might have sustained. But it hadn’t been her fault. Following the man she’d believed had adopted her daughter…
Necessary, if she wanted to find her baby. And she had to find her.
Didn’t she?
She shifted uneasily beneath the soft cotton quilt.
Why hadn’t she ever asked herself that question before? Maybe because the answer had always seemed obvious.
But it didn’t now.
If anything, her quest seemed hard to justify. The hours she’d spent spying, the accident that had cost two cars and a concussion—that was quite a price to pay for self-indulgence.
The thought made her grimace.
No. It wasn’t self-indulgence. It couldn’t be. She had a right to see her baby, hadn’t she?
She caught her lower lip between her teeth.
Maybe not.
Considering how badly she’d bungled everything so far, who knew what might happen if she did locate her child? Could it be that she would only bring suffering and confusion to her daughter and to the man and woman who loved her?
Could she risk that?
Was she really that selfish?
What would it accomplish? Not just for her, but for her baby and the people who loved her?
Jennifer turned on her back, then flung her arm across her eyes.
Suddenly, everything that had driven her during the past months seemed blindly egocentric. It was as if the blow to her head had driven sanity into it. Herself, that was all she’d considered, and never mind anybody else—not even her child.
She had to stop her search.
Tears rose in her eyes.
There was nothing to be sad about, she told herself. Her little girl had a happy life somewhere. She was sure of it.
But the tears flowed anyway, and she
buried her face in the pillow and cried until, finally, there were no tears left.
And then, for the first time in months, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
When she awoke again, the room was filled with sunlight. There was a dull throb in her temple, but she felt rested and she knew it was as much because of the decision she’d reached during the night as anything else.
Carefully, making no sudden moves, she inched herself upright against the pillows.
What she wanted right now was a shower.
She looked at the bell on the nightstand. Ring if you need anything, Roarke had said. But the en suite bath was just across the room; surely she could get that far on her own.
She pushed back the covers, swung her legs to the floor and counted to ten, then rose to her feet.
“So far, so good,” she said aloud—and then the room shimmered as if the sunlight had suddenly exploded all around her.
She grasped the bedpost and clung to it with both hands. A chill beading of sweat rose on her forehead, and she glanced again at the bell. If she rang it, would Constancia answer? Or would Roarke? Somehow, the thought of Roarke helping her, of his arms going around her and supporting her, was unsettling.
Images flashed into her mind again, but this time they were only of Roarke.
His hard face bent over her as she moaned with pain.
His strong arms supporting her as she leaned over a basin.
His big hands using a soft towel to wash her face, then helping her into an oversize cotton shirt…
No.
She’d had on a nightgown.
Roarke had said Constancia had helped her into it.
But the nightgown had been replaced with this shirt.
Roarke’s shirt.
She knew it was his. She could smell his scent on the soft fabric and all at once the memory came again, even more clearly. His hands on her. His fingers brushing lightly across her throat as he buttoned her into the shirt, brushing lightly across her nipples.
Heat spiraled from her breasts to her belly.
She took a deep breath.
“Let’s go, Jennifer,” she said briskly.
It was time to make the million-mile journey to the bathroom, back to this bedroom and then out of this house, but just getting to the bathroom left her trembling with exhaustion.
She clutched the rim of the sink, bowed her head until her bones stopped feeling as if they were made of rubber, then lifted her head and peered into the mirror.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Despite everything, laughter rose in her throat.
She looked as if she’d gone into the ring with the world’s heavyweight boxing champion.
Actually, that was putting it kindly.
Her skin was pasty, her dark hair a wild tatter. There was a discolored lump the size of a robin’s egg on her temple, and yet that was not the worst of it.
Jennifer leaned closer to the mirror. Her eyes were not just black and blue, they were pink and purple and violet. It was enough to put any eye shadow she’d ever tried to shame.
Her laughter burst free as she peeled off the shirt and dropped it on the floor.
Making her way back to San Juan would be interesting, to say the least.
Her oversize dark glasses were where her sun hat was—in the disabled rental car back at the marina. There’d be no disguise to hide behind.
Well, she’d remedy that as soon as possible. There had to be a shop nearby where she could purchase new glasses, darker and bigger than her old ones, and then she’d head for the ferry or whatever public transportation it was that took people from Isla de la Pantera to San Juan, and she’d put this disastrous trip behind her.
She set the shower to hot, waited until the steam billowed like the fog rolling in from Lake Michigan, and then she stepped into the stall and closed the door, groaning with pleasure as the hot water cascaded down her body.
Once her muscles had unknotted, she washed and rinsed her hair, then turned her face up to the spray.
Lovely,” she sighed—but the sigh turned into a shriek as the shower door was flung open behind her. Hands clamped on to her elbows and lifted her bodily from beneath the spray.
“You damned little fool,” Roarke said furiously. “What in hell did you think you were doing?”
“Roarke,” she sputtered, “Roarke, you—you—”
A voluminous bathrobe fell over her shoulders and down her back. “Get that on.”
“Damn you, Roarke. How dare you?”
“Get into the robe.” His voice was grim. “We’ll talk about what I ‘dare’ later.”
Quickly, Jennifer shoved her arms into the sleeves, pulled the lapels of the robe together across her breasts and knotted the sash. Her blood was pounding in her ears and she spun around to face him without thinking of anything but how he had almost scared the life out of her.
That, and how he’d seen her naked.
“How dare you?” she said tightly. “How—”
Her face reflected a moment of surprise. Turning toward him that quickly hadn’t been a very good idea, she thought with amazing calm, and then her knees buckled.
Roarke cursed and scooped her into his arms before she could sink to the floor. When the room stopped spinning, she found herself staring into his hard face.
“Do you specialize in doing whatever damned thing comes into your head?” he said furiously. “Would it be too much to expect that you would once stop and think before you act?”
“Put me down, please,” she said in a shaky little voice.
“Why? So you can get into the shower again?” His face grew even darker. “Perhaps you were planning on going for a walk. Or a run.”
“Will you please put me down?”
“Gladly.” Jennifer could hear the rapid thud of his heart beneath her ear as he stalked into the bedroom. He was angry, she thought incredulously. He was angry!
“Just what in hell were you doing?” he said through his teeth.
Jennifer’s eyes flashed as she looked up at him. What right did he have to be angry?
“Why ask?” she said coldly. “I mean, you must have had a rather good view.”
His jaw jutted forward. “Playing Peeping Tom is not one of my hobbies.”
“Then what were you doing in my bathroom?”
He gave her a quick, cold smile as he deposited her on the bed. “It’s my bathroom. And I much prefer it as it is, thank you, without crumpled bodies in the shower stall.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her voice rose, following after him as he retraced his steps to the bathroom. “I was doing just fine until you came along and tried to scare me to death.”
Roarke reappeared with an oversize towel in his hands. “Did I or did I not tell you to ring if you needed help?”
“I didn’t need help. I was only—” Her voice grew muffled as he draped the towel over her soaked hair. She caught the ends and twisted them up into a turban. “I was only showering, for heaven’s sake. You make it sound as if I were—”
“It was a damned stupid thing to do.”
Jennifer felt her cheeks blaze with heat. “Look, I know you took me into your home—”
“Only because I had no alternative.”
“Is it impossible for you to be pleasant for more than five minutes at a time?”
“I’m simply being honest.” He walked to the French doors and opened them, letting in a warm, sea-laden breeze. “Believe me, if there’d been something else to do, I’d have done it.”
Her chin lifted. “If you felt that way, why didn’t you take me to a hospital?”
He smiled tightly. “There is no hospital on this island.”
“Well, then, you could have taken me to an inn. Or a hotel.”
Roarke put his hands on his hips. “Keep trying.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, I would have, gladly, if there were such a place.”
“I don’t unders
tand. What kind of island is this anyway?”
“A private one.”
“Well, don’t the other homeowners—” She broke off, flustered. “What’s so funny? Damn it, what are you laughing at?”
“Isla de la Pantera is mine.”
She stared at him. “Yours? You mean, you own it?”
“Exactly. All of it, from the harbor we docked at up to the ridge and down to the sea on the other side.”
He owned an island? The idea was hard to get her head around. The truth was, everything about Roarke Campbell was hard to get her head around.
“Well, then,” she said grudgingly, “I have to be grateful to you for taking me in last night. But—”
“You came here two nights ago.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What are you talking about?”
Roarke rocked back on his heels and folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t you remember?”
“No,” she said in a thin voice, “I don’t. Are you telling me I—I’ve been asleep for—for—”
“Unconscious, asleep, call it what you will. You’ve been floating in and out for almost thirty-two hours.”
The news stunned her. How could you lose a night, a day, and another night, and never be aware of it?
“What’s wrong with me?” she asked cautiously.
He sighed. “We’ve had this conversation before.”
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember talking with you at all, except that first night.” Her heart tumbled against her ribs. “Did I—did I say anything—anything…”
“Indiscreet?” His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you mean?”
“No,” she said quickly, knowing immediately that she hadn’t. Instinct told her that she wouldn’t still be here if she’d babbled about how she’d set out to stalk and follow L.R. Campbell. Even though she’d ended up with the wrong man, Roarke would not take kindly to knowing he’d been hunted. “No,” she said again, “it’s—it’s just a little upsetting not to know what you’ve said or done for almost two days.”
“Well, you’ll lose more than that if you push your luck. You have a concussion.”
“I remember you telling me that. But you said it was slight.”
“It is, compared to what it might have been. And you’ll be fine, so long as you take it easy for a week or so.”
Roarke's Kingdom Page 5