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.