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His big hands using a soft towel to wash her face, then helping her into an oversize cotton shirt…
No.
She’d had on a nightgown.
Roarke had said Constancia had helped her into it.
But the nightgown had been replaced with this shirt.
Roarke’s shirt.
She knew it was his. She could smell his scent on the soft fabric and all at once the memory came again, even more clearly. His hands on her. His fingers brushing lightly across her throat as he buttoned her into the shirt, brushing lightly across her nipples.
Heat spiraled from her breasts to her belly.
She took a deep breath.
“Let’s go, Jennifer,” she said briskly.
It was time to make the million-mile journey to the bathroom, back to this bedroom and then out of this house, but just getting to the bathroom left her trembling with exhaustion.
She clutched the rim of the sink, bowed her head until her bones stopped feeling as if they were made of rubber, then lifted her head and peered into the mirror.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Despite everything, laughter rose in her throat.
She looked as if she’d gone into the ring with the world’s heavyweight boxing champion.
Actually, that was putting it kindly.
Her skin was pasty, her dark hair a wild tatter. There was a discolored lump the size of a robin’s egg on her temple, and yet that was not the worst of it.
Jennifer leaned closer to the mirror. Her eyes were not just black and blue, they were pink and purple and violet. It was enough to put any eye shadow she’d ever tried to shame.
Her laughter burst free as she peeled off the shirt and dropped it on the floor.
Making her way back to San Juan would be interesting, to say the least.
Her oversize dark glasses were where her sun hat was—in the disabled rental car back at the marina. There’d be no disguise to hide behind.
Well, she’d remedy that as soon as possible. There had to be a shop nearby where she could purchase new glasses, darker and bigger than her old ones, and then she’d head for the ferry or whatever public transportation it was that took people from Isla de la Pantera to San Juan, and she’d put this disastrous trip behind her.
She set the shower to hot, waited until the steam billowed like the fog rolling in from Lake Michigan, and then she stepped into the stall and closed the door, groaning with pleasure as the hot water cascaded down her body.
Once her muscles had unknotted, she washed and rinsed her hair, then turned her face up to the spray.
Lovely,” she sighed—but the sigh turned into a shriek as the shower door was flung open behind her. Hands clamped on to her elbows and lifted her bodily from beneath the spray.
“You damned little fool,” Roarke said furiously. “What in hell did you think you were doing?”
“Roarke,” she sputtered, “Roarke, you—you—”
A voluminous bathrobe fell over her shoulders and down her back. “Get that on.”
“Damn you, Roarke. How dare you?”
“Get into the robe.” His voice was grim. “We’ll talk about what I ‘dare’ later.”
