Roarke's Kingdom Page 4

  But Jennifer wasn’t listening. She was staring, instead, at a framed photograph on the bulkhead wall next to him. It was a shot of a grinning man standing beside a car, something low and fast-looking.

  Something exactly like the car that had run into hers.

  Roarke Campbell Takes First Place in Coast Race, the headline read, and all the slim hopes she’d clung to during the past half hour fell away.

  The man in the photo and the man standing in front of her, waiting impatiently for her to lift her head for his ministrations, were one and the same.

  “I’m not going to do surgery, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  She looked at him. He was laughing—at her, she knew—and why wouldn’t he? She probably looked as if she were about to faint.

  “It—it’s the peroxide,” she said quickly, nodding toward the open bottle he’d placed on the table beside her. “The smell of it takes me back to when I was little. I fell and cut my knee, and—and I had to have it stitched.”

  “This cut’s too small for stitches,” he said, frowning as he drew her hair back from her temple. “Tell me if it hurts.”

  It might have hurt; she had no way of knowing. Her head was whirling as she tried to sort out everything that was happening. Had Dr. Ronald lied to her?

  “Are you sure my baby’s going to a good home?” she’d said anxiously that last morning, and he’d put his arm around her shoulders and assured her that he’d personally chosen the people who were adopting her child.

  “Good, solid folks,” he’d said, “the both of them.”

  Her eyes flickered across Campbell’s face. He was swabbing the cut, his mouth narrowed in concentration. Would she—would anyone—call him good and solid?

  No. There were better ways to describe that hard, almost harsh face with its square jaw and piercing eyes with their dark, thick lashes.

  “…looked at. All right?”

  Jennifer blinked. She looked up, and their eyes met. “I—I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Did you—did you say something?”

  “I said, what really matters is this bump on your forehead, not the cut. Does it hurt when I touch it?”

  His fingers brushed lightly across her skin. His touch was cool, soothing against her flesh. She swallowed, then pulled back.

  “A little.”

  He frowned. “You might want to have a doctor take a look when you get to San Juan.”

  “I—I don’t think the cut will scar.”

  “Neither do I.” His gaze swept over her face, lingering for a heartbeat on her parted lips. “It would be a pity to let anything spoil such a—” His frown deepened, and suddenly he stepped away from her. “Well,” he said briskly, “that’s taken care of. Now for the phone calls. If you give me the name of the rental agency, I’ll notify them for you while I’m at it.”

  “Ace Rentals,” she said.

  Why argue?

  He was taking charge of things easily, as if he did this every day of his life. Well, that was dumb. He did do this every day of his life. He was the head of a multi-billion-dollar company that bore his name.

  He was L.R. Campbell.

  Her head felt as if someone were trying to punch a hole through it.

  She turned away and made her way carefully up the steps into the open cockpit. The air had cooled a little, enough so that the wind coming in from the sea sent a feathery chill along her flesh. She pushed the hair back from her eyes, leaned her arms on the railing, and stared out over the water.

  It was peaceful here with no sound except the sigh of the wind and the creak of the mooring lines, but she’d have traded all that tranquility for the security of her San Juan hotel room. There was so much to sift through, so much to try to sort out, and she couldn’t do it here, not with Roarke in the cabin. Just seeing him was confusing enough. Trying to imagine him as her child’s adoptive father was impossible.

  Unless—unless he wasn’t.

  Jennifer’s heart lifted a little.

  Campbell was really a fairly common name. Maybe the detective had found the wrong man. Yes. That had to be it. Yes. To think anything else was insane. Dr. Ronald wouldn’t have deceived her. He’d guided her through the darkest days of her life and he’d never once let her down, not even on that terrible last morning when she’d almost lost her courage.

  He’d stepped into her hospital room and found her huddled in bed, sobbing her heart out into the pillow.

  “Jennifer,” he’d said, in that soothing voice she’d come to rely on, “what is it, dear? Come, you can tell me.”

  Jennifer had shaken her head. “I can’t—I don’t—giving my baby away—” she’d whispered. “I don’t think I can go through with it.”

  “Look at me, dear.” Slowly, she’d raised her tear-stained face to the doctor’s. “You can’t keep this child. You know how ill your mother is. And—I’m going to be blunt, Jennifer—the news that you’ve had a baby might finish her.”

  The words were harsh, but there was no denying their truth. Janet Winters had suffered through surgery, chemo and radiation. Then she’d undergone surgery again. The prognosis was bleak. It had been the deciding factor in the terrible decision Jennifer had made, although not the only one.

  Even if her mother had been well, what could she have offered her child except a sad replay of her own unhappy life?

  “I know,” she’d said finally, through her tears. “But—but giving her up without seeing her, without counting her fingers and toes…”

  The doctor had taken her hands in his. “Trust me, Jennifer. You baby is healthy and perfect.”

  Jennifer had looked up at him pleadingly. “Does she—does she look like me?”

  His face had softened a little. “I suppose she does.” Jennifer’s eyes had filled, and the doctor had cleared his throat. “Seeing her will only make it harder for you. Trust me, dear. The people who are adopting her will love her very much.”

  “You’ve met them?”

  “That’s the good thing about private adoptions, Jennifer. One can make the best choice possible.”

  Jennifer drew a shuddering breath as the night wind ruffled the waters of the Caribbean. Yes. That was what he’d said and it had made sense. He’d known her all her life. He’d known exactly the kind of parents she’d want for her child: a mother and father who’d love her child as much as they loved each other. She’d even formed a mental picture of them, which was why she’d felt as if she were almost seeing a familiar face when the private investigator had produced the photo of the man he’d identified as Campbell.

  To have all that disintegrate in an instant was staggering. It was almost more than she could comprehend. It was…

  “Bad news.”

  She spun toward the cabin. The sudden movement sent a bolt of pain rocketing through her skull.

  “What is?” she said, touching her hand lightly to her head.

  Roarke’s face was twisted into a dark scowl. He stepped on deck and leaned back against the opposite railing.

  “No taxi.”

  “What do you mean, no taxi?”

  “Did I say that in an incomprehensible tongue, Miss Hamilton?” His voice was cold. “I phoned three companies, but the answer was the same each time. Nothing—except for the last place. They said they’d send a car in a couple of hours.”

  “But it’s barely eight.”

  “Precisely.”

  She drew herself up. His attitude had changed again. He was as hostile as he’d been when the accident had first occurred, and she was damned if she knew why.

  “I don’t know why you sound so irritated,” she said sharply. “I’m the one who’ll have to cool my heels for the next two hours, not you.”

  Roarke’s jaw thrust forward. “If you hadn’t left your car in the middle of the road in the first place—”

  “Oh, please. Let’s not go into that again.”

  “You’re right,” he said, although the look on his face clearly told her he didn’t mean that
at all. “What’s done is done. We need to deal with the present, don’t we?” The breeze tossed Jennifer’s hair across her face, and she pushed her hand into it and thrust it back behind her ear.

  “What about a car rental agency? Perhaps they’d agree to deliver a car here.” Roarke laughed sharply, and her chin lifted. “Did I say something amusing?”

  “We’re on island time. No one’s interested in working at this hour.”

  “You could try.”

  “I already have.”

  “Well, then, I guess I’ll just have to sit in my car and wait until—”

  “Not until. If. The taxi company said they’d send a car; but I wouldn’t want to stake my life on it.”

  She stared out at the docks. There were street lamps strung along its perimeter, but not all the bulbs had come on and the ones that had cast only faint, yellow beams of light. The parking area and the road where her disabled car lay abandoned were swathed in darkness.

  A little shudder went through her. “The road’s not all that far,” she said with a great deal more enthusiasm than she felt. “A mile, perhaps.”

  “It’s at least four miles to the highway. Surely not even you would be foolish enough to attempt that by yourself.”

  “Look, Mr.—” His brows rose, and she swallowed. “Roarke,” she said. Actually, it was easier to call him that than to call him by the name of the man who’d sailed off on a cabin cruiser almost two hours ago. “As you said, it’s the present we have to deal with.”

  He glared at her, and then he nodded his head reluctantly. “You’re right.”

  “So if you’ve any suggestions…?”

  “Only one.” He seemed to draw himself up before he spoke and Jennifer sensed that whatever he was about to say was distasteful to him. “You can come with me.”

  She gaped at him. “On your boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean, you’d take me back to San Juan? Oh, but I couldn’t let you do that. It’s—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He turned away, leaned across the railing, and began hauling in a mooring line. “I’ll take you to Isla de la Pantera. From there, I can make arrangements to have you taken back to San Juan.”

  “What is Isla de—de…?”

  “…de la Pantera.” He hesitated. “It’s where I live.”

  Jennifer’s eyes widened. She had spent the past two days doing everything but getting herself run over to learn his address, and now…

  “Well?” He put his hands on his hips and looked at her. “Make up your mind, please, Miss Hamilton. Are you going with me or are you staying here?”

  “How could I turn down such a hospitable invitation?” she said sweetly.

  His eyes narrowed. “I take it that’s a ‘yes.’”

  She smiled. “You take it right,” she said, and she sank down into the cockpit seat and looked placidly out to sea.

  * * *

  Jennifer swallowed carefully.

  They’d been on the water for perhaps twenty minutes and her stomach felt as if it were somewhere in her throat, but at least she’d been able to stop herself from being sick all over the teak cockpit.

  She cast a quick look at Roarke Campbell, standing with his back to her at the wheel. Somehow, she doubted if he’d much appreciate her losing her lunch all over his highly polished deck.

  Not that she’d had much lunch hours ago in that little park. Still, her stomach was queasy. Worse than queasy. It rose and fell with each swell of the waves.

  And her head. She lifted her hand and touched the bump on it lightly. The pain was steady now, beating in tempo with her heart.

  . All in all, she felt absolutely rotten.

  Not that Roarke had noticed. The trip to the island would take just half an hour, he’d said, but it felt as if they’d been slamming through the sea for twice that now, and in all that time he hadn’t once looked at her or spoken a word.

  She knew why, of course. This man who guarded his private life so zealously, whose address had been harder to find than a winning lottery number, was taking her to his very doorstep.

  Well, not his doorstep. He would put her in a taxi and deposit her at an inn or a café while he arranged for her transportation back to the mainland.

  But she wasn’t going back, not tonight anyway. She would thank him for all his help, then tell him the accident had left her feeling rocky—which wasn’t any exaggeration at all—and that she’d decided to stay the night on Isla de la Pantera. Then, in the morning, she’d scout out the Campbell house and take a quick look at it, just to confirm what she already knew, that she’d been sent on a wild-goose chase. This was L.R. Campbell, all right—but not the L.R. Campbell who’d adopted her baby. Wait until she got home again. That damned private investigator had wasted her time and money, but most of all he’d given her false hope. Now she’d have to start all over again.

  The engine’s growling roar fell to a whisper. The boat slowed and Jennifer started to rise to her feet, but the deck seemed to tilt out from beneath her. She slid back into her seat, blinking with surprise.

  “What was that?” she said.

  Roarke turned toward her. “What was what?”

  She looked up at him. “Why did the boat—”

  A better question was why were there two of him instead of one?

  “I—I—” She swallowed and closed her eyes. “I just—I don’t seem to have my sea legs yet.”

  He looked at her, then he held out his hand. “Well, you’re never going to get them sitting there,” he said brusquely. “Take my hand and come on over here.”

  She did, clutching his hand as if it were a lifeline until she was standing next to him, looking out over the water. Lights glittered in the near distance and she could make out shapes—boats at anchor, she thought, but it was difficult to be certain.

  Every outline seemed superimposed on another.

  A tremor went through her.

  Roarke looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. A lie, because something was definitely wrong. Her stomach wasn’t just rolling, it was dancing. And when she raised her head, she saw two Roarkes watching her. “Nothing,” she repeated, but her voice shook.

  “Are you cold?” He slipped his arm around her before she could answer. His body felt warm and she had to force herself not to burrow closer. “You should have said something—there are sweaters below.”

  “I—I’m not cold. I just—” Her stomach rolled again, this time flooding her mouth with saliva. She winced as she swallowed. “I don’t feel very well, that’s all.”

  He turned her toward him. “What do you mean? Are you seasick?”

  She started to shake her head, then thought better of it.

  “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

  Roarke put his hand under her chin and tilted her face to his. “You’re as white as a sheet.”

  She drew a breath. “I—I feel strange.”

  “For God’s sake,” he said harshly, “can’t you be more specific than that?”

  Jennifer gave him a dazzling smile, but neither of the two Roarkes smiled in return.

  “Yes,” she said, “I can. I can see two of everything.”

  His arm tightened around her. “Jesus.”

  “And—” Her smile fled, and she moaned. “And I’m going to be sick.”

  And, with explosive violence, she was.

  * * *

  She was out cold by the time they reached the island.

  Roarke had called ahead, and his housekeeper and the doctor were at the dock, waiting for them.

  “What happened?” the doctor said.

  Roarke told him and Mendoza nodded.

  “Concussion, probably.”

  “I will get one of the men to take her from you,” the housekeeper said, but Roarke waved off the suggestion. The woman in his arms was light to carry. Besides, she was his responsibility. Maybe if he hadn’t been driving so fast, if he’d been more care
ful…

  Whatever the reason, he would be the one who would take her to a guest room.

  Then he’d let Mendoza examine her and Constancia get her out of her now-stained clothes and into something cool and flowing.

  Once those things were done, he’d go to his own rooms.

  Except, he didn’t.

  Constancia made her comfortable. Mendoza confirmed the concussion.

  And Roarke took off his jacket and his tie, and settled into a chair beside the bed.

  * * *

  They weren’t on the water anymore. She knew that because she wasn’t swaying.

  That was the good news.

  The bad was that her head hurt.

  “Jennifer.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Jennifer.” A hand brushed lightly over her cheek. “Come on, wake up.”

  She sighed and tried to burrow into the pillows. “I’m tired,” she murmured.

  The hand brushed her face again, then moved to her shoulder. “Can you open your eyes and talk to me? Just for a moment, I promise, and then I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

  Slowly, slowly, Jennifer forced her eyes open. At first, all she saw was a velvety blackness. Then, little by little, things began to come into focus. Moonlight, streaming through a set of French doors. Sheer lace curtains, moving gently under the touch of the breeze.

  And a man’s face, inches from hers. A man, bending over her as she lay in the center of a wide, soft bed.

  “Roarke?” She started to sit up, and fireworks went off inside her head.

  “Easy,” Roarke said softly. He cupped her shoulders and gently eased her back on the pillows.

  Jennifer swallowed. Her mouth and throat were dry as sand. “Where—where am I?” she whispered.

  He laughed softly. “I always wondered if people really asked that when they came to.”

  She blinked. Just for a second, there’d been two of him smiling at her, one mirroring the other like flickering ghost images on an out-of-focus TV screen.

  “Come to? What do you mean?”

  “You passed out on the boat. Don’t you remember?”

  “No. I—I—” She closed her eyes as fragments of what had happened began coming back. The lights on shore. The swaying deck. The sudden rush of illness…