Roarke's Kingdom
Not that Roarke had noticed. The trip to the island would take just half an hour, he’d said, but it felt as if they’d been slamming through the sea for twice that now, and in all that time he hadn’t once looked at her or spoken a word.
She knew why, of course. This man who guarded his private life so zealously, whose address had been harder to find than a winning lottery number, was taking her to his very doorstep.
Well, not his doorstep. He would put her in a taxi and deposit her at an inn or a café while he arranged for her transportation back to the mainland.
But she wasn’t going back, not tonight anyway. She would thank him for all his help, then tell him the accident had left her feeling rocky—which wasn’t any exaggeration at all—and that she’d decided to stay the night on Isla de la Pantera. Then, in the morning, she’d scout out the Campbell house and take a quick look at it, just to confirm what she already knew, that she’d been sent on a wild-goose chase. This was L.R. Campbell, all right—but not the L.R. Campbell who’d adopted her baby. Wait until she got home again. That damned private investigator had wasted her time and money, but most of all he’d given her false hope. Now she’d have to start all over again.
The engine’s growling roar fell to a whisper. The boat slowed and Jennifer started to rise to her feet, but the deck seemed to tilt out from beneath her. She slid back into her seat, blinking with surprise.
“What was that?” she said.
Roarke turned toward her. “What was what?”
She looked up at him. “Why did the boat—”
A better question was why were there two of him instead of one?
“I—I—” She swallowed and closed her eyes. “I just—I don’t seem to have my sea legs yet.”
He looked at her, then he held out his hand. “Well, you’re never going to get them sitting there,” he said brusquely. “Take my hand and come on over here.”
She did, clutching his hand as if it were a lifeline until she was standing next to him, looking out over the water. Lights glittered in the near distance and she could make out shapes—boats at anchor, she thought, but it was difficult to be certain.
Every outline seemed superimposed on another.
A tremor went through her.
Roarke looked at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. A lie, because something was definitely wrong. Her stomach wasn’t just rolling, it was dancing. And when she raised her head, she saw two Roarkes watching her. “Nothing,” she repeated, but her voice shook.
“Are you cold?” He slipped his arm around her before she could answer. His body felt warm and she had to force herself not to burrow closer. “You should have said something—there are sweaters below.”
“I—I’m not cold. I just—” Her stomach rolled again, this time flooding her mouth with saliva. She winced as she swallowed. “I don’t feel very well, that’s all.”
He turned her toward him. “What do you mean? Are you seasick?”
She started to shake her head, then thought better of it.
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
Roarke put his hand under her chin and tilted her face to his. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
She drew a breath. “I—I feel strange.”
“For God’s sake,” he said harshly, “can’t you be more specific than that?”
Jennifer gave him a dazzling smile, but neither of the two Roarkes smiled in return.
“Yes,” she said, “I can. I can see two of everything.”
His arm tightened around her. “Jesus.”
“And—” Her smile fled, and she moaned. “And I’m going to be sick.”
And, with explosive violence, she was.
* * *