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“You passed out on the boat. Don’t you remember?”
“No. I—I—” She closed her eyes as fragments of what had happened began coming back. The lights on shore. The swaying deck. The sudden rush of illness…
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “I made a mess of your boat, didn’t I?”
He smiled. “You were the perfect passenger. Desperate as you were, you somehow made it to the rail.”
“But how did I get here? Is this a hospital?”
“No. It’s not a hospital.”
No, it couldn’t be. Even in the darkness, even with things doubling themselves, what she could see of this room spoke of luxury and wealth. He had taken her to a hotel—the island’s finest, probably. Well, one night wouldn’t wipe out her finances. At least, she hoped it wouldn’t.
“How did I get to this hotel, then?”
“It’s not a hotel, either.” He reached to the nightstand and took a cool cloth from the basin lying there. “Here,” he said, spreading the cloth across her brow. “How does that feel?”
“But if it’s not a hotel—”
“This is my home.”
She stared at him, speechless. His home? She was tucked into a bed in Roarke Campbell’s house? God, it was incredible, one of those horrid little tricks the demons of life liked to play from time to time. Only a few hours ago she’d been skulking around like a spy in a B movie doing everything she could to learn where he lived, and now here she was, under his very roof.
Confusing? Absolutely. Even more confusing was the fact that despite his gruffness, he seemed to be a decent man.
“Would you like a sip of water?”
She considered saying no, but what would that prove?
“Yes,” she said. “Please.”
“Here,” he said, slipping his arm under her shoulders and lifting her head from the pillow. “Slowly. Mendoza says your stomach’s going to be touch and go for a while.”
Jennifer’s brow furrowed. “Mendoza?”
Roarke eased her down to the pillows. “My physician. He examined you, took X-rays in his office before—you don’t remember that either?”
She shook her head a little, as much as she dared.
“No. I don’t remember anything after the boat. I—”
But she did, suddenly. Images flashed before her. The gently probing hands of a man with a soft Spanish accent. Roarke, lifting her into his arms, carrying her up a wide, curving staircase as if she were weightless, lowering her gently onto this soft, canopied bed…
Her hands flew to her throat. It was bare and she knew, instinctively, that she was wearing something other than her own clothes.
“Relax,” Roarke said. “It was Constancia who put you to bed.”
“Constancia?”
“My housekeeper.” He rose from the bedside. “I suggest you get some sleep now. If you need anything during the night, there’s a bell on the nightstand.”
Jennifer closed her eyes wearily. “I’ve bothered you enough already.”
There was a heavy silence, and then Roarke made a sound that might have been a laugh.
“Yes,” he said. “You have. Good night, Jennifer Hamilton. Sleep well.”
She had meant the words as a polite apology. It would have been nice if he could have managed an equally polite, if insincere, response, and she opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow, ready to tell him so—just in time to see the door close after him.
