Roarke's Kingdom

The woman looked at him as if he’d told her his name was Frankenstein.

Roarke almost laughed at the wide eyes and the perfect O of her lips—except he wasn’t entirely sure that what was happening here was something to laugh at.

Bumping into her twice in two days seemed more than a coincidence. There was that strange way she’d gotten inside his offices yesterday. And now he was supposed to believe she’d just been driving around and fate had put the two of them at the same place at the same moment?

Maybe.

Then again, maybe not.

When you were rich, very rich, you leaned to be suspicious of things that might be coincidental, but could just as easily be careful planning.

The world was full of scammers and salesmen. It didn’t matter if they wore custom tailored suits or jeans, if they were male or female…

Roarke’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the woman.

Actually, it did matter.

Women could be better con artists than men could ever hope to be.

He knew that, first hand.

Especially women who were beautiful, and this one was.

Dark hair that curled softly around her face.

Eyes the color of the sky.

She was beautiful. He was rich. For all he knew, she’d set this whole thing up…

Hell.

The bruise on her forehead was real enough, and it was swelling. There was blood on her mouth. She was hurt, possibly concussed. The odds on her staging an accident that could easily have killed her were zero to none.

It was one thing to be a little suspicious and another thing altogether to be paranoid.

She was struggling against him as if he were carrying her away to do her harm.

Well, why wouldn’t she think that? He hadn’t explained anything. He’d simply picked her up and marched toward his boat.

She probably figured he was kidnapping her.

“Calm down,” he said.

The words had about as much effect as he should have figured they would. Worse, maybe, he decided as she punched a small but surprisingly powerful fist into his shoulder.

“PUT—ME—DOWN!”

“In a minute.”

“Not in a minute! Now. Right now, dammit, whoever-you-are, put me down!”

“I told you who I am. Roarke Campbell.” He gave a grim laugh as he shifted her weight. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself yesterday.”

Jennifer snorted.

Impossible! This man wasn’t the one she’d been searching for.

L.R. Campbell was older. He was middle-aged. Sedate, even staid. He was the sort of man who’d be comfortable beside a fireplace on a cool evening, who’d be content having a sleepy child cuddle in his lap.