Roarke's Kingdom

Roarke’s brows lifted. “Well, then—”

It took a second until she understood. When she did, she shook her head vigorously.

“Absolutely not.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a teasing grin. “Absolutely not, the lady says.” He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers, and began tugging her toward the shop door. “You’ll have to phone my accountant and tell him that. I’m sure he’ll be interested to hear that I can’t afford that bit of fluff.”

“You know what I mean. There’s not a way in the world I’d let you buy that dress for me.”

Roarke rolled his eyes to the heavens. “You’d think the woman would learn, wouldn’t you? We’ve had this conversation before.”

Jennifer sighed. He was right, they had—in shops where all her protests hadn’t kept him from buying her enough things to make her wonder if they’d be able to fit them all on his boat.

“It makes me happy,” he’d kept saying, and she’d been helpless in the face of such irrefutable and loving logic.

But here, on this street, she’d drawn a firm line. The shops glittered with expensive stuff—earrings and necklaces and pins, crystal flagons of perfume, clothing bearing labels she’d read about but never actually

seen—and Roarke had been eager to buy them all.

“That would be lovely on you,” he kept saying, just as he was now, but she’d stood firm.

“No,” she’d said, each time adding an ultra-polite Thank you that made made him laugh.

This time, though, he ignored her protests, moved past her and opened the door to the little shop.

A saleswoman stepped forward, smiling pleasantly.

Jennifer narrowed her eyes. “I am not going inside that place.”

He folded his arms and leaned back against the open door. “Fine,” he said calmly. “I’ll just stand here.” A wicked grin curved across his mouth. “It’s another few hours until our dinner reservation. I’m sure the salespeople won’t mind.”

The salespeople were already looking at them.

Jennifer blushed. “This is silly,” she whispered.

“Yes. It is. Now, why don’t you behave yourself and try that dress on?”

She glared at him. Then she flounced past him into the shop.

“Fine,” she said coolly. “I’ll try it on and then you can explain to the saleswoman that I’m not the least bit interested in buying it. Will that satisfy you?”

She should have known it wouldn’t be that simple. Roarke spoke to the clerk in rapid Spanish, there were a lot of sí, señors and smiles, and then Jennifer found herself in an elegant fitting room, standing before a bank of mirrors with the saleswoman slipping the blue and green silk dress over her head.

It was even more wonderful than she had imagined, especially with a matching pair of high-heeled sandals.

“The señorita looks lovely,” the saleswoman purred.

“Lovely,” Roarke whispered when she stepped into the little salon and pirouetted before him, and when he caught her to him and kissed her, the smiling assistant looked discreetly away.

When she returned to the fitting room to take off the dress and put on her own clothes, she stopped dead. There was a tumble of garments piled on the chair and more hung from the rack.

“What is all this?” Jennifer asked helplessly.

The woman smiled. “Your novio asks that you try these things on, señorita.”

“My what?”

“Your fiancé. He is most charming.”