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Nothing of that description fitted the man holding her in his arms. He emanated power and vitality, not comfort. He would know nothing about children—but everything about women. The way he held her, the way he’d looked at her, even when he was angry, told her that.
He had to be an impostor; but that didn’t matter right now because he was striding off with her, carrying her on board the boat that he claimed was his.
Jennifer’s heart thudded with fear.
She pounded against his chest, hard enough so that she felt the energy of the blows reverberate through her wrists and up her arms, but he didn’t pause or miss a step, not even when she let out a blood-curdling shriek.
“Jesus,” he said, “are you trying to puncture my eardrums?”
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you won’t get away with it. Do you hear me? I swear, I’ll—”
“You’ve read too many bad novels, Miss Hamilton.” A slow smile tilted across his mouth as he set her down in the cockpit. “Or indulged in too many fantasies. The slave trade’s been dead in these islands for years.”
Jennifer faced him angrily, chin elevated and eyes glittering. “Look, Mr.—Mr. Whoever-You-Are…”
“I t
old you my name.”
“Yes,” she said grimly. “You’d like me to believe you’re L.R. Campbell.”
The brilliance of the tropical sunset had given way to velvety night and his face, with its look of amused derision, was clearly visible in the bright glow of the stars.
“Roarke. How much better acquainted must we be before you call me that?”
He was laughing at her, damn him. And he sounded so convincing. A chill danced along her skin. Could he—was it conceivable that he really was…?
A sharp pain flared in her temple. No. He wasn’t. She couldn’t let herself think that way; not if everything she’d believed for the last years was to have any meaning.
“You’re not…”
The words turned into a moan.
“What is it?” he said.
“My head. It—it hurts.”
The boat rolled gently on the swell, and her stomach rolled along with it.
“Are you all right?”
No. She was not all right. Things were coming apart in front of her. And the pain in her head was—was—
“Miss Hamilton.” His hands cupped her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just—I’m a little tired. It’s been a long day.”
His mouth narrowed as he let go of her. “One that hasn’t ended yet,” he said, selecting one of the keys from the ring in his hand. He unlocked the cabin door and reached inside. Lights blazed on, illuminating the deck and what was visible of the area below. “Let’s get started, shall we? I’ll tend to that cut, and then I’ll phone for a tow truck.”
“And a taxi.”
“And a taxi.” He made his way down the steps, turned and held out his hand. Jennifer hesitated for a long moment. Then she took his hand carefully followed after him.
The main cabin was much larger than she’d expected—larger than her living room back home, and certainly more handsomely furnished.
“Sit wherever you like,” he said, his hand sweeping out in an imperious gesture that took up the entire area. She hesitated, then perched gingerly on the edge of a mahogany table, watching as he stripped off his jacket and tie, then unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. He slid back a wall panel, revealing neatly stacked shelves on which sat gauze pads, bottles of antiseptic, and assorted tins and bottles of tablets. “Right,” he said. “Now, just tilt your head up to the light.”
But Jennifer wasn’t listening. She was staring, instead, at a framed photograph on the bulkhead wall next to him. It was a shot of a grinning man standing beside a car, something low and fast-looking.
