Roarke's Kingdom

by Sandra Marton

  “A week? No, that’s impossible,” she said, thinking of her flight back to the States on Monday. No. Wait. She’d been here two days? Then she’d already missed the flight!

  “…indeed, impossible, but Mendoza says that’s what it’s to be.”

  “What?”

  “I said, Mendoza says that’s what it’s to be, and I’m stuck with it.”

  Jennifer flushed. “You’re not ‘stuck’ with anything,” she said coldly as she pulled the towel from her hair and thrust her fingers into the dark locks, fluffing them away from her face. “After I’m dressed, if you’d be good enough to arrange to have a boat take me back to San Juan—”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m just about to do that, aren’t I? Let you take go back to the city and suddenly develop symptoms you never had while you were here, symptoms you and some fast-talking attorney conjure up between you.”

  She stared at him. “I’d never—”

  “No. You’d never, because I’m not going to give you the chance.” He stalked across the room to a chair, snatched up a handful of clothing—not hers, she realized—and dropped it on the bed beside her. “This stuff should fit. Constancia has a daughter just about your size.”

  “Thank her for me, but—”

  “Forget the but routine. Just get dressed. Your breakfast is ready.”

  “I’ll get dressed in what I choose to wear when I’m good and ready. And I don’t want breakfast,” she said. Her voice trembled a little. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  She cried out as he bent and caught hold of her shoulders. The pressure of his hands was harsh, but not as harsh as the way he looked at her.

  “Don’t argue with me,” he said warningly.

  “Or?” she said defiantly, forcing her eyes to meet his.

  His hands tightened on her. “Or,” he said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper, “I’ll strip that robe off you and dress you myself.”

  Jennifer’s heart thudded against her ribs. “Never,” she said with amazing calmness.

  One hand lifted from her shoulder, curved around her neck, then slipped to the back of her head. His fingers threaded into her hair, and he tilted her face up to his.

  “But I’ve already dressed you once before,” he said silkily. “It would be no trouble at all to do it again—especially now that you’re awake.”

  The image came to her again, more clearly this time. She, awakening in the small hours of the night, shaking with a chill; Roarke, slipping off his shirt, pulling down the blankets, stripping off the soaked nightgown, putting his shirt around her, his hands moving lightly across her flesh…

  Waves of color beat into her cheeks. “Turn your back,” she said stiffly.

  He looked at her a moment longer, and then he laughed and did as she’d asked, his arms folded arrogantly across his chest.

  “As you like.”

  Her hands shook as she unbelted the robe, then pulled on her clothing as quickly as she could manage.

  What she’d like, she thought, was to get off this island. And that was exactly what she would do, as soon as she could—and if Roarke Campbell didn’t care for the idea, he could just go to hell.

  Barely five feet away, Roarke was thinking the same thing—how much he wanted to get this woman the hell off his island and out of his life.

  Having her here was not a good idea.

  It was the reason he’d been so sharp with her and he knew it, same as he knew she didn’t deserve his anger.

  If there was anyone to be angry at, it was him.

  A muscle knotted in his jaw.

  He should not have brought her here.

  And he certainly shouldn’t have the ridiculous desire to have her stay.

  * * *

  When she was dressed, he all but carried her down to the dining room, where he deposited her at the table.

  Constancia bustled in and greeted her with a broad smile.

  “Buenos días, señorita. It is good to see you awake. I hope my daughter’s things are to your liking.”

  The pink T-shirt and white pants were very much to her liking, but that didn’t change the fact that she hadn’t been given any choice about wearing them. Still, that wasn’t the housekeeper’s fault and Jennifer knew it.

  “They’re fine, thank you.”

  Constancia smiled again. “I am glad. Now, please, what would you like for breakfast?”

  “I’m not really hungry…”

  “She’ll have toast,” Roarke said. “And poached eggs. And some fruit.”

  “But I don’t want—”

  “So long as you’re my responsibility, you will do what I think best.” Roarke poured two cups of coffee from a carafe on the sideboard and sat down across from her. “If you follow orders, you should be here no more than a week.”

  “No wonder you live on your own island,” she said coldly. “People in the real world would never tolerate you.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  So much for insulting him. Time to try another approach.

  “Besides, I can’t impose on you for that long.”

  “You’ve already imposed on me,” he said bluntly. “Another few days aren’t going to change that.”

  “Well, there are other considerations.”

  “Such as?”

  “I already missed my flight home. I’ll have to try and see if the airline will—”

  “You missed your flight?”

  “Yes. You said I’ve been here more than two days and my flight was on Monday.”

  “Then why were you at Campbell’s just a few days ago, looking for a job?”

  His voice fairly purred. Jennifer forced herself to take a swallow of orange juice. Such a stupid thing to have said! Think, she told herself, think.

  “Because—because I thought I’d stay in Puerto Rico for a few months, if I could.”

  Roarke leaned back in his chair and lifted his coffee cup to his mouth. Steam rose from the dark liquid, pluming across his face.

  “Just like that?”

  She shrugged. “Yes,” she said calmly, “just like that.”

  “What about your family? Your job?” He paused. “Surely there’s someone waiting for your return.”

  “Only Bernie.” That much was true enough, and it almost made her smile. “And he can replace me easily.”

  “That’s an interesting assessment of your importance,” Roarke said, putting the cup down and folding his arms across his chest.

  His voice was tinged with a hint of derision. Stupid move number two, to have made it sound as if she’d been talking about a lover.

  “Bernie is my boss,” she said flatly. “I’m a waitress. Believe me, it wouldn’t be very hard for him to find someone to take my place.”

  Roarke said nothing. Instead, he rose to his feet.

  “Then your staying on here won’t inconvenience anyone.”

  “Except you.”

  He swung toward her. “There’s really no choice, is there?”

  “Yes. There is.” Her head lifted. “Have your attorney draw up some kind of statement, and I’ll sign it.”

  His brows drew together. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the legal ramifications that have upset you so much, Mr. Campbell. I’ll be more than happy to sign something that says the accident was my fault entirely.”

  “A release,” he said with some amusement.

  She nodded. “That’s right. Once I’ve done that—”

  “Either you’re very naive or very clever, Jennifer. A release isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. Even the most incompetent lawyer could invalidate it by claiming you’d still been suffering the effects of concussion when you wrote it. Or, perhaps, that I’d intimidated you.” His lips drew back from his teeth. “I seem to remember you accusing me of that the first time we met.”

  Jennifer’s spine had been stiffening as he spoke. Now she lifted her head and looked straight at him.

  “Y
ou may own this island, Mr. Campbell, but that doesn’t make you its king.”

  A cool smile twisted across his lips. “Suppose I said that it does?”

  He’s challenging you, a little voice whispered within her. Let it pass—you can’t beat him at this game. You can’t even match him. But then she looked at that arrogant smile, at those dark, cold eyes, and she knew that she could not let him win so easily.

  “It’s what I know,” she said evenly. “Puerto Rico is governed by the laws of the United States—”

  He was beside her before the words had finished leaving her mouth.

  “There is no law on Isla de la Pantera except my law,” he said harshly.

  A whisper of fear rippled along her skin. He was not a man to cross. She had known that from the start. But how could she let him do this to her? She had a will of her own; she was not his property.

  It was the sudden narrowing of his eyes that told her she’d spoken the last words aloud.

  “Wrong, Jennifer. Everything on this island is my property.”.

  “Not me,” she said quickly. “Not—”

  “Everything,” he repeated, and his mouth dropped to hers. His hands cupped her face, framing it so that she couldn’t escape the kiss no matter how desperately she struggled.

  But she wouldn’t struggle. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She had fought against Craig, once she’d realized where all his soft caresses were leading, and what good had it done her?

  “You can’t fight me,” he whispered, drawing back a little, enough so that she could see the darkness in his eyes. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said. Her voice trembled. “Oh, yes, I understand that you’re stronger than I am.”

  He laughed. “That’s right. And a hell of a lot nastier.” His eyes swept over her face. “Don’t make this week more difficult than it has to be for either of us.”

  Angry tears scalded her eyes. “I hate you,” she hissed. He laughed again, this time more softly. “Do you?” he said, and he kissed her again.

  But his mouth was soft and persuasive, moving on hers, inviting her to kiss him back.

  Roarke lifted her to her feet. His hands swept down her shoulders, down her spine to her buttocks, and he brought her against him.

  “Open to me,” he whispered, and suddenly she wanted to, she wanted to feel his tongue in her mouth, feel his hands on her skin.

  She made a little moaning sound, desperation and something far darker mixed together, and she felt the sudden hardening of his body against hers.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice thick, and Jennifer raised her hands to his chest.

  She caught his shirt in her fingers, felt the thunder of his heart beneath her palms—and then his hands cupped her shoulders again and he put her from him.

  A wrenching coldness drove through her.

  He was watching her narrowly. There was no desire in his eyes, nor even the shine of arousal.

  Her throat constricted.

  What Roarke had done to her had been coldly deliberate. It had to do with domination, not passion. He had shown her, in the most elemental way, that this kingdom and everything in it was his.

  “You bastard,” she hissed, and she struck out at him, not with the flat of her hand but with her fist. But he was quicker and his hand clamped around her wrist, hard enough so that she felt the pressure of his fingers on the bones.

  She held her ground, her head high, waiting for whatever retaliation he might choose.

  “Do you always dance right up to the edge?” he said softly.

  Suddenly, a sound drifted through the house, carrying down the staircase and into the dining room. It was a soft sound, and yet it was enough to pierce Jennifer’s heart.

  It was a child’s voice.

  Her face paled. “A child?” she whispered. “Is there a baby here?”

  Roarke stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. “Constancia?” His voice rose. “Constancia!”

  The housekeeper hurried into the dining room with a heavily laden tray in her hand. “I am here, señor.”

  “Stay with Miss Hamilton.” He gave Jennifer a quick, cold look. “See to it she eats something.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “Ah, sí, she must if she is to get well.”

  They were talking about her as if she wasn’t there, Jennifer knew; but it didn’t really matter. Every fiber of her being was centered on that one faint cry.

  After Roarke left the room, she looked at Constancia.

  “Was that—that was a child, wasn’t it?”

  “Sí.”

  The answer didn’t register. She was too upset.

  “Here?” she said foolishly. “In this house?”

  “Certainly.” Constancia smiled sadly as she set down the tray. “Such a pretty little one. The señor has not mentioned her to you?”

  Jennifer shook her head. “No. No, he hasn’t.” She hesitated. “Is it—is it his child? Señor Campbell’s, I mean.”

  The older woman’s brows rose. “Of course.”

  “But—you said he wasn’t married.”

  “I said that he had no wife, señorita.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The housekeeper sighed dramatically. “Señor Roarke and his wife are divorced.”

  Jennifer leaned forward. “What happened?”

  The woman’s eyes darted to the door. “I should not talk out of turn,” she said, but her expression was eager as she sank into the chair beside Jennifer. “How could the marriage last?” she whispered, “when that one is so cold, sí? Like ice. No feelings, no love in the heart.”

  Jennifer stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  Constancia shrugged expressively. “I mean what I say, señorita. No love for anyone—not even for that innocent child. I have never seen such—how do you say it?—such emptiness in a person.” She leaned closer, and her voice dropped even lower. “Sex,” she said, her face distorted with disgust. “That, yes. And the knowledge to charm when it is useful. But it is all false, it is only meant for gain.” She sighed and put her hand to her bosom. “Santa Maria, how my heart breaks for that poor little one—”

  “Constancia.” Roarke’s voice was frigid. The housekeeper paled, shoved back her chair, and leapt to her feet.

  “Si, señor.”

  “Surely you have better things to do than gossip.”

  “I am sorry. I was only—”

  “I know what you were ‘only,’” he said, his voice warping the word with anger. “You were ‘only’ interfering, as you so often seem to do.”

  “It was my fault,” Jennifer said quickly. “I asked her—”

  “If you have questions, ask them of me.” His voice was sharp. “Not of my staff. Is that clear?” She nodded, and he started to walk to the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned back. “Mendoza will be by later in the afternoon. Until then, I suggest you get some rest.”

  “All right.”

  His brows rose. “No argument?”

  She shook her head. “No argument. I mean—what choice do I have?”

  “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said since you opened your eyes this morning.” He fixed her with a cold look. “My staff are at your disposal—but I’ve made it clear to all of them that you are not to leave this island. Understood?”

  Jennifer nodded, then sank back in her chair as he strode from the room.

  Roarke didn’t have to worry about her trying to leave Isla de la Pantera, not any more.

  She had to find out if it was her child whose voice she’d heard.

  If her baby was here, in this cold, cold house, with no mother, with only a father who was, by his housekeeper’s own admission, a man with no heart, then all bets were off.

  She’d take her baby and leave, and no man, not even Roarke Campbell, could stop her.

  * * *

  Roarke moved quickly, taking the steps two at a time, getting to his daughter’s room just as the nanny did.


  “I have her, sir,” the woman said, but Roarke waved her off.

  “Ah, sweetheart,” he said, as he lifted his little girl from her crib. “What’s the matter? Did you miss daddy?”

  The child smiled through her tears.

  “Da-da,” she said, and wound her arms around his neck.

  He carried her to a big rocking chair, sat down with her in his arms and wiped away her tears.

  “I’m here, honey,” he said softly.

  The child snuggled against him.

  “I’ll always be here for you,” he whispered.

  And he would be.

  This was his daughter. The love of his life.

  There was no coldness to her, the way there had been to her mother.

  She didn’t play games.

  She loved him without reservation, just as he loved her.

  It was the sort of love her mother had not been capable of giving.

  “Da-da? You read me a story?”

  “Tonight, when I come home,” Roarke said, smiling as he caught one tiny finger between his lips.

  He’d been so wrong about her mother. About the woman who had been his wife. But he’d never be that wrong again. He knew what women wanted from a man like him. Money. Status. Jewels and designer clothes and expensive toys.

  Were they all like that?

  The woman who’d blundered into his life a handful of days ago seemed different. Jennifer Hamilton. His wealth, his power didn’t seem to mean a damn to her. She wasn’t impressed by any of it, and she certainly didn’t seem intimidated.

  A smile curved his lips.

  Amazing, how she stood up to him.

  How she’d tried to slug him.

  How she tasted. How she smelled. How she felt in his arms…

  Roarke frowned.

  Who gave a damn about any of that?

  Jennifer Hamilton had no place here, no place in his world or in his life—and the sooner he got rid of her, the better off he’d be.

  He got to his feet, walked briskly from the nursery and handed the baby to the nanny who stood waiting in the hall.

  “Time to get to work,” he said—but he paused long enough to kiss the top of his little girl’s head, and to remind himself that she was the only thing in his life that mattered.

  Chapter Five