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?”