Roarke's Kingdom

“No. You’d never, because I’m not going to give you the chance.” He stalked across the room to a chair, snatched up a handful of clothing—not hers, she realized—and dropped it on the bed beside her. “This stuff should fit. Constancia has a daughter just about your size.”

“Thank her for me, but—”

“Forget the but routine. Just get dressed. Your breakfast is ready.”

“I’ll get dressed in what I choose to wear when I’m good and ready. And I don’t want breakfast,” she said. Her voice trembled a little. “I don’t want anything from you.”

She cried out as he bent and caught hold of her shoulders. The pressure of his hands was harsh, but not as harsh as the way he looked at her.

“Don’t argue with me,” he said warningly.

“Or?” she said defiantly, forcing her eyes to meet his.

His hands tightened on her. “Or,” he said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper, “I’ll strip that robe off you and dress you myself.”

Jennifer’s heart thudded against her ribs. “Never,” she said with amazing calmness.

One hand lifted from her shoulder, curved around her neck, then slipped to the back of her head. His fingers threaded into her hair, and he tilted her face up to his.

“But I’ve already dressed you once before,” he said silkily. “It would be no trouble at all to do it again—especially now that you’re awake.”

The image came to her again, more clearly this time. She, awakening in the small hours of the night, shaking with a chill; Roarke, slipping off his shirt, pulling down the blankets, stripping off the soaked nightgown, putting his shirt around her, his hands moving lightly across her flesh…

Waves of color beat into her cheeks. “Turn your back,” she said stiffly.

He looked at her a moment longer, and then he laughed and did as she’d asked, his arms folded arrogantly across his chest.

“As you like.”

Her hands shook as she unbelted the robe, then pulled on her clothing as quickly as she could manage.

What she’d like, she thought, was to get off this island. And that was exactly what she would do, as soon as she could—and if Roarke Campbell didn’t care for the idea, he could just go to hell.

Barely five feet away, Roarke was thinking the same thing—how much he wanted to get this woman the hell off his island and out of his life.

Having her here was not a good idea.

It was the reason he’d been so sharp with her and he knew it, same as he knew she didn’t deserve his anger.

If there was anyone to be angry at, it was him.

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

He should not have brought her here.

And he certainly shouldn’t have the ridiculous desire to have her stay.

* * *

When she was dressed, he all but carried her down to the dining room, where he deposited her at the table.

Constancia bustled in and greeted her with a broad smile.

“Buenos días, señorita. It is good to see you awake. I hope my daughter’s things are to your liking.”

The pink T-shirt and white pants were very much to her liking, but that didn’t change the fact that she hadn’t been given any choice about wearing them. Still, that wasn’t the housekeeper’s fault and Jennifer knew it.

“They’re fine, thank you.”