Roarke's Kingdom

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “Well, I suppose—I suppose I can understand that. After all—”

Roarke caught hold of her shoulde

rs and swung her toward him. His eyes were very dark and very still on hers.

“No, I doubt if you could possibly understand.” One hand slid to her throat and curved lightly around it. He smiled, and his thumb smoothed gently along her mouth. “I guess I am apologizing,” he said. “We got off to a bad start. And I’d like to change that.”

Jennifer stared at him. Her thoughts were whirling in tight circles while she tried to sort things out. Where was the cold, imperious Roarke Campbell she knew? For that matter, where was the unfeeling man with no heart whom Constancia had described?

“Well? Do you think we could start over? Try and get along?”

Tell him, she thought suddenly. Tell him the truth, tell him what brought you to Puerto Rico, what you at first believed and now know was a lie…

Tell him the whole ugly story? How she’d let a man get away with date rape. How she’d given away her baby. How she’d lied to him about who she was and why she’d gone looking for him. For the man she’d thought he was…

“Hey.” His voice was soft. There’s no reason to cry.”

She shook her head. “I’m not—I’m not crying. There’s—there’s sand in my eye…”

“Where?” he said. He put his hand under her chin, tilted her face up to his. “I don’t see any sand. What I see is a beautiful woman…”

His head dipped toward hers. The brush of his lips was soft, almost hesitant, and then his mouth opened on hers. She rose on her toes and leaned toward him, and suddenly the sea and the sand spun away.

When he finally lifted his head, she was trembling.

And he—he was a second away from taking her in his arms, taking her down to the sand, taking her, taking her, taking her…

Roarke drew a hard breath. “Constancia’s probably got lunch ready.”

Jennifer nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

Together, keeping a polite distance between them, they headed for the house.

Chapter Six

Days slipped by.

Life on the island had an easy, natural rhythm and Jennifer was becoming part of it.

Roarke must have spoken with Constancia, because the housekeeper’s insistence on not letting her do anything had eased. And Mendoza had given his approval of letting her resume most normal activities.

She had gone from feeling like a prisoner to feeling like part of Isla de la Pantera.

Today, as late afternoon sunlight filtered into the kitchen, casting a golden light over the old-fashioned butcher-block worktable, she was arranging flowers she’d picked from the garden in a woven basket.

Constancia was humming as she shelled peas into a terracotta bowl.

Jennifer looked up and smiled. “That’s a pretty tune. What is it?”

The housekeeper laughed. “It is pretty, sí, but not when I sing it, I am afraid. My musical talent leaves much to be desired.” She went to the sink, turned on the tap and rinsed her hands. “It is just something I used to sing to la chica when she was very, very tiny.”

Jennifer tucked the last flowers into the basket. “Susanna is a sweetheart,” she said softly.

“Sí.”

“Constancia?” Jennifer hesitated. “When you said those things about someone in this house being cold and heartless—you were talking about Señor Campbell’s wife, weren’t you?”

“Sí. Of course. Of who else would I say such things?”