Roarke's Kingdom

by Sandra Marton

  “Buenos días, Señorita Hamilton.” Constancia smiled as she set a platter of sliced oranges, mangoes, and bananas on the terrace dining table. “You look rested this morning. Are you feeling better?”

  Jennifer smiled in return. “Thank you, Constancia. I am feeling much better, yes.”

  “That is good.” The housekeeper poured a stream of coffee into a white mug and put it in front of Jennifer. “The señor will be pleased to see how smoothly your recovery goes when he returns.”

  Roarke had been away for two days. Things had been peaceful without him…

  And maybe a little empty. Which was, of course, ridiculous.

  “Will he be back today, do you think?”

  “Oh, sí, I am certain of it. By tonight, I would imagine.” Constancia whisked imaginary crumbs from the glass tabletop. “Is there anything else you would like?”

  “No. No, thank you. I’m going to walk along the beach.”

  “No swimming, señorita. Please, there is a strong current, and you are still weak—”

  It was an admonition that Jennifer had heard yesterday. Today she knew how to respond.

  “No swimming,” she said easily.

  Constancia nodded. “To lie on the sand will be good for you. The sun will bake your bones, and the sea air will put the roses back into your cheeks. If you wish someone to accompany you—”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  The woman smiled. “I think that is the truth. We will see you at lunchtime, then. I will make you a salad and an omelet, and some flan, perhaps.”

  Jennifer laughed. “Either a salad or an omelet, please, and definitely not the custard. As it is, thank you for laundering my clothes, but they barely fit after only two days.”

  Constancia paused at the door. “You are too thin,” she said promptly. “A little weight will not hurt.”

  The housekeeper fussed over her like a mother hen, partly out of her own concern, partly because of the orders Roarke had handed down before he’d flown off in a helicopter a couple of evenings ago.

  But at least there were ways to get around Constancia’s well-meant interference.

  When Roarke returned tonight, things would be different.

  Roarke Campbell was an arrogant, imperious bastard.

  Yes, he’d taken her in, but he hadn’t really had much choice—and he never let her forget it.

  As for that moment in his arms, when the earth had fallen away—well, she’d had plenty of time to think during the past two days.

  What had happened was completely understandable.

  She had a concussion and her reactions and emotions were all skewed. Roarke knew it. And he’d taken full advantage of her fuzzy state to impress her with his power over her.

  She had been fuzzy. Very. So much so that for a crazy little while, she’d not only melted in his arms, she’d even imagine that the child she’d heard crying was hers.

  But it wasn’t.

  It hadn’t taken any clever detective work to come up with that information, either. She’d simply walked into the kitchen, taken a deep breath, and asked Constancia straight out if the señor’s little girl was adopted.

  The housekeeper had looked at her as if the blow to her head had affected her intelligence.

  “Adopted? La chica? No, señorita. Certainly not. She is very much a Campbell.” Sadness had softened Constancia’s dark eyes. “The poor little one. It is sad to come into this world so unwanted.”

  Jennifer leaned back in her chair and sighed.

  It certainly was sad.

  The baby had been deserted by her mother and as far as Roarke Campbell was concerned, the child was invisible. Jennifer had not heard her except for that first day, and there’d been no sign of her since.

  Clearly, the nanny was very efficient.

  The only real mystery about Roarke Campbell’s daughter was why his wife had abandoned her.

  Constancia drew the line at talking about that part of her employer’s life.

  Whatever the reason, it was sad to contemplate, but such things happened all the time.

  Sunlight played on the tangle of bougainvillea that grew along the perimeter of the terrace.

  Whatever was going on here, Jennifer knew it had nothing to do with her. She had to concentrate on getting well enough to convince Roarke that he could safely let her go in another few days—and not go crazy while she waited for the time to pass.

  A flock of parakeets swooped overhead suddenly, their plumage as brilliant as jewels. They were beautiful birds, and her first sight of them had brought her great pleasure. Now they brought only a wistful tug to her heart. Juan, Roarke’s elderly gardener, had explained the flock’s origins to her.

  “It was Señor Campbell who had them brought to Isla de la Pantera, señorita.”

  “They’re not native to the island, then?” she’d asked. The old man had shaken his head. “But what keeps them here? If they’re not really from this place, I mean. Why don’t they fly away?”

  Juan had looked at her as if she were a foolish child. “The island is beautiful, no?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The birds have everything they could want. Here, they are safe, they are well cared for. Why should they leave?”

  “But what if they wished to leave despite all that?” Jennifer had insisted, as if there were some hidden meaning to their conversation.

  Juan had shrugged his shoulders as he dug his hoe into the rich soil and stepped down on it.

  “They do not try. Isla de la Pantera is too far from the main island for their fragile wings. They would not make it over the sea.” He’d looked up at her and smiled. “But it does not matter. They do not choose to—”

  “They cannot choose, you mean,” she’d said, her voice sharp. “The birds are prisoners here.”

  The old man had laughed as the parakeets swooped across the garden, tittering and chirping to each other. “Do they look like prisoners, señorita?”

  No, she thought now, as she watched the tiny, feathered jewels settle on the lawn; they didn’t. But they were. They were captives the same as she was. Stone walls do not a prison make, some poet had said, but until two days ago Jennifer had never known how true those words were.

  She put down her cup, blotted her lips with a linen napkin and rose to her feet. There was no sense in trying to take her breakfast dishes inside. Constancia would only look at her as if she’d committed some terrible crime and launch into a gentle lecture, the gist of which was that the señor had left specific orders about her welfare.

  Her mouth turned down as she walked slowly toward the wide brick steps that led off the terrace. What the señor had left, she thought bitterly, were instructions for the care and feeding of Isla de la Pantera’s newest zoological exhibit.

  And she was going to put an end to that.

  Jennifer raised her face to the sun and closed her eyes, breathing in the mingled scents of sea and tropical foliage.

  “Buenos días, señorita. It is a lovely day, no?”

  She blinked. It was the maid. Lucia, she thought, or perhaps Anna. There were so many servants it was hard to keep track of who was who and who did what.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling. “It is.”

  “May I get you something, señorita? A cold drink, perhaps, or—”

  “Nothing,” Jennifer said quickly, following the somewhat sharply spoken word with a reassuring smile. “I don’t need a thing. Honestly.”

  The girl smiled. “If you do—”

  “If I do, I’ll let you know.”

  “Bueno. I will be on my way, then, señorita.”

  Jennifer nodded. Her lips felt stiff with smiling; as soon as she entered the thick rhododendron bushes that marked the boundaries of the garden, her mouth went lax.

  She was waited on hand and foot, her every need attended to. Someone made her bed in the morning, turned it down at night, laid out her clothes—and at this point she had her clothes, all of them.

  Later
that first day, after Roarke had so graphically made clear that she was his to do with as he chose, he’d sent his helicopter pilot to her.

  “If you’ll give me the name of your hotel, señorita,” the man had said politely, “I’ll take a quick run to San Juan and pick up your luggage.”

  “If you’re flying to San Juan,” she’d said quickly, “I’ll go with you.”

  “Ah, no, señorita, I am sorry, but I cannot take you along.”

  “Of course you can!”

  The pilot had looked away from her.

  “I have my orders, señorita. They do not involve transporting you to the mainland.”

  Fury had surged through her. She’d almost snarled at the man—but she’d caught herself just in time.

  This was Roarke Campbell’s kingdom. He made the rules here.

  Nobody else.

  “Fine,” she’d said in defeat. “At least I’ll have my own things…”

  But she wouldn’t. The pilot would ask for the luggage that belonged to Jennifer Hamilton—and Jennifer Hamilton didn’t exist.

  How would she get around that?

  “Wait,” she’d said quickly, as the pilot began to turn away. “Let me phone the Mariposa and tell them to have my things waiting at the reception desk. I’ll have them tag it Isla de la Pantera so that there won’t be any confusion about what’s mine.”

  The little subterfuge had worked like a charm and a few hours later her things had been delivered to the island.

  And, naturally, all her clothing had been pressed and put neatly away by one of the servants.

  Enjoy all this luxury, she kept telling herself. After all, she’d never known such pampering. When she was little, her mother had been too weary at the end of the long day to do much more than put together a meal. And the last few years, between caring for her mother and working at the Route 66 Roadside Café, luxury had been a once-a-week hot bath in lieu of her daily quick shower.

  But she couldn’t enjoy it. For one thing, it seemed sybaritic to lie around doing nothing when everyone around her was gainfully occupied. For another—

  For another, she was just plain bored.

  She’d almost said that to Constancia, but could she? There was something contemptible about saying such a thing to the woman who spent the day waiting on you. It smacked of the sort of pomposity Jennifer had despised when she was growing up, dealing with the women her mother had worked for, whose floors she’d scrubbed and kitchens she’d cleaned, who had sent her home with leftover food their own families were tired of, or clothing they’d no longer wear because it was out of fashion.

  Jennifer began walking along the curving path that wound through the garden to the sloping beach that was the southern boundary of Isla de la Pantera.

  “Just concentrate on getting well, señorita,” Constancia kept saying, as if it were a magical incantation.

  It probably was.

  Roarke must have drummed the need for her complete recovery into his staff. The sooner she was better, the sooner he could safely get rid of her.

  Well, the feeling was mutual.

  It couldn’t be soon enough.

  Ahead, sunlight glinted on a white sand beach. Jennifer slipped out of her sandals, then stripped down to her swimsuit, leaving her shorts and cotton T-shirt lying in a little heap beside a patch of beach grass. Sand kicked from her heels as she ran into the frothing surf. The water was warm, almost hot from the steady blaze of the sun. It curled around her calves and then her thighs like silk, and she felt the tension begin to drain from her body. Don’t swim, Constancia had warned, and the doctor too.

  “No strenuous activity,” he’d said sternly. “Not until you are completely well.”

  But swimming wasn’t strenuous, especially not if she just floated on her back and let herself ride on the gentle swells, as she’d done yesterday. She rolled her shoulders as the water lapped at her breasts. It felt wonderful. No prying eyes, no one to tell her what she should and should not do…

  “Damn it, woman! What in God’s name are you up to now?” Roarke’s voice roared across the silence. Jennifer gasped and spun around just in time to see him come splashing into the surf fully dressed.

  She turned and dived into deeper water, kicking furiously, but he was too fast for her. He caught her easily and drew her back against him, his arms enclosing her just beneath her breasts, so tightly that she could feel the hammer of his heart against her back.

  “Can’t you be trusted at all?”

  Jennifer slammed her hands against his forearms. “Let go of me, damn it!”

  Roarke turned her toward him. “What I ought to do,” he said grimly, “is lock you in your room. That’s the only way I can be sure you’ll behave yourself.”

  “I was behaving myself. In fact, I was having a perfectly lovely time until you—”

  “Mendoza told you not to do anything strenuous. And Constancia warned you about the currents.”

  Jennifer tossed the wet hair from her face. “It must be wonderful to be God,” she snapped.

  Roarke’s brows rose. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what it sounds like.” Her jaw shot forward. “Tell me, do you know all this because you can see it when you look down from Mount Olympus, or is it just that your watchdogs report in every hour on the hour?”

  He stared at her, and then a tight smile curved across his mouth.

  “Watchdogs?” he asked softly. “Is that how you would describe people who are concerned about your welfare?”

  “Correction,” she said coldly. “Your welfare. After all, we all want to make certain señor doesn’t end up with a seriously injured woman on his hands. She might sue for a billion trillion dollars!”

  Roarke started to tell her he’d given up that concern, but why bother? What she thought of him wasn’t his problem.

  “Come on,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get out of the water and into dry—”

  “Thank you,” she said, stepping free of his encircling arm as they reached the sandy beach, “but I’m comfortable just the way I am.” She glared at him. “What are you doing here anyway? Constancia said you wouldn’t be back until tonight.”

  “How could I stay away a minute longer than necessary when I knew you were pining for my return?”

  “Very funny, especially when you know the only thing I pine for is my departure from this place.”

  It was hard not to laugh. She was glaring at him, hands set on her hips…But what man would laugh at the sight of her? Water was beaded on her skin; days in the sun had turned it a delicate gold. And her face…the soft-looking mouth. The high cheekbones. Those eyes, hot with fury.

  In a heartbeat, he felt his body react.

  It shocked him.

  He had not reacted to a woman for months. His wife, his ex-wife, had left him damn near impervious to women, even to sex.

  The good news? His hormones were still working.

  The bad news was that if he wanted a woman in his bed, he sure as hell wasn’t going to do anything about it here on Isla de la Pantera. This was his world, his and Susanna’s, and that was how it was going to stay.

  Anger at himself for feeling desire, at Jennifer for being the cause of it, made his next words harsh.

  “Get up to the house.”

  “I don’t take orders from anybody, Mr. Campbell!”

  “If you want Mendoza to say you’re well enough to leave here, you’ll do what you’re told.”

  “I am not an invalid. I am not your prisoner. And I am not a child.”

  “No. You are most definitely not a child.”

  His voice had gone low and rough. She stared at him. He stared back, and she felt a flush rise over her body.

  Her swimsuit was one piece, cut for serviceability and not fashion, but she suddenly felt as if she were standing naked before him.

  Suddenly it was hard to breathe.

  She felt as if she’d touched something and got a l
ow electric shock, and when his gaze dropped a little, she felt her breasts lift, the nipples thrusting tightly against the thin nylon of her suit.

  His mouth twisted. His eyes met hers. And the flame she saw there made her dizzy.

  She took a quick step back. Then she spun away from him and started walking quickly up the beach.

  She hadn’t got very far before he fell in beside her.

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He’d pulled off his wet shirt and shoes, and now he was dressed only in soaked, skintight faded jeans. His arms and torso were deeply tanned and tightly muscled. Dark, silken hair lay in whorls across his chest, then arrowed down to his low waistband.

  The electric awareness danced along her skin again, and she stumbled as she swept her gaze straight ahead.

  He grabbed her elbow.

  “Easy,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” she said briskly.

  His hand tightened on her elbow. “Are you?”

  “Surely you’ve had a full report from Mendoza and Constancia, and probably from every other flunky in your—”

  She cried out as he swung her toward him. His expression was hard and unyielding, but all she could think of was what she’d seen blazing in his eyes moments ago.

  “Answer the question. Mendoza says you still get headaches.”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Are you still seeing double?”

  She wrenched away from him. “No. You can stop worrying. My recovery is uneventful.”

  A hint of a smile touched Roarke’s lips. “That sounds like a quote from Mendoza.”

  “It is. He checks me twice a day.” She began walking and Roarke fell in beside her again. “He lives on the island, too, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. He has a home on the other side.” He bent down and scooped up a tiny whelk shell. “He’s quite competent, in case you were concerned.”

  “It never occurred to me he’d be anything less,” she said frankly. “I’m just surprised you’d share your little bit of paradise with him.”

  Roarke drew back his arm and tossed the shell into the sea. “The arrangement suits us both. Mendoza is from New York. We met a few years ago. His wife had been taken ill and he’d brought her to the islands to recover. He was trying his damnedest to figure a way to resettle in a warm climate without retiring completely.”