Roarke's Kingdom

And now he hated her.

It was agony to know that she would never see him again, but to know that he believed Alexandra’s ugly lies was even worse.

She bit back a moan. At least she thought she had, but the couple standing beside her at the luggage carousel looked at her, then at each other. She turned and walked quickly to the other end of the revolving belt and when her one suitcase came into view—it was all she’d needed, since she’d left behind all the things Roarke had bought her—she snatched it up and hurried from the terminal.

She was almost dizzy with fatigue by the time the bus dropped her off in front of the dark post office in Broadwell. The little town, wrapped in the icy silence of late winter, seemed foreign after the warmth and brightness of Isla de la Pantera. But it was home, and it had never looked as welcome as it did now.

Jennifer ducked her head against the wind and wheeled her suitcase through the frigid streets to her apartment.

The small rooms were cramped and stuffy. How close she’d come to giving up the place, she thought as she dragged her suitcase into the bedroom and hoisted it onto a chair. Roarke had urged her to cancel her lease and put her things in storage when she’d first agreed to stay on as Susu’s nanny.

“I’ll take care of the arrangements,” he’d said.

But something had urged her not to cut all her ties to home and now, as she turned on the kitchen light and filled the kettle for tea, she was glad she hadn’t. She was weary to the bone with the kind of numbing exhaustion that was not so much physical as it was emotional, and she knew that to have had to make any kind of decision now, even one about where to spend the night, would have been overwhelming.

She drank the tea. Brushed her teeth. Showered and fell into bed.

What she needed now was to empty her mind of everything for a few days. And then—and then—

Darkness rolled up and swallowed her.

* * *

She lost touch with reality.

The one thing that had seemed important—locating Dr. Ronald—faded in her endless need for sleep.

Time passed.

She knew it did because sometimes she woke to sunshine, sometimes to darkness. She ate when she was hungry, taking stuff from the kitchen cupboard without reading labels, eating cereal or crackers or soup or whatever came tumbling out of the cans and boxes she opened.

What did it matter what anything tasted like?

The only thing that counted was sleep.

Sleep took away the pain of all

that she’d lost and it brought her dreams—sweet, wonderful dreams—of Roarke and of the time she had spent with him.

Then, one day, as she turned from the sink to put the kettle on to boil, she looked out of the kitchen window. The previous spring, in a rare moment of whimsy, she’d bought a flat of pansies and planted them in a window box.

“They’re so beautiful,” she’d told the florist. “I love the way they seem to be smiling.”

“Yup. They’re certainly cheerful looking.”

“I just hope they survive.”

“They will,” he’d said positively. “They’re tough as nails. Just don’t expect them to come back, miss. They’ll bloom this season, and then they’re done.”

She set the kettle down and opened the window. Spring had come at last; the scent of green growing things was in the air, but the miracle that had caught Jennifer’s eye was the one unfolding in the window box.

No one had told the pansies that they’d never see a second summer. Soft green shoots were pushing up through the soil, heralding the velvety flowers that would soon appear.

Jennifer touched the delicate shoots in wonder. Then she looked around the kitchen, seeing for the first time the dishes piled in the sink, the overflowing the garbage can. She moved slowly through the apartment, her fingers leaving trails in the dust that covered the furniture, inhaling air that smelled of staleness and despair.

When she reached the bedroom mirror and looked into it, she winced.

Her hair hung in unruly tangles. She was wearing pajamas that looked as if she’d slept in them for days—and she had.