§ § § - April 6, 2012

It had been a busy Friday for Christian and Leslie and their family. Roarke was back for a visit, so that he could assist with some immigration matters—in fact, he had just that afternoon met one of the latest arrivals, who belonged to his own clan—and spend some downtime with his daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren. Though there were many other issues on their minds, there was one thing the triplets insisted on: they wanted their mother and grandfather to spend at least one evening retelling stories of the old days, when Leslie was still in high school and Tattoo had been Roarke's assistant.

Roarke and Leslie finally consented to do this on a spring Friday, when the triplets wouldn't have to be up early the next day for school, and he came to the Enstad house for supper with his family. Christian's nephew Roald, who was also on the island for a protracted period after splitting from his wife, Arcolos' Princess Adriana, had joined them with his three young sons, Staffan, Johan-Erik and Markus. Afterward, with the children enjoying bowls of ice cream around the coffee table in the living room, Roarke studied the triplets with a smile. "And what stories are you three interested in hearing your mother and me tell tonight?"

"We having sto-wees?" Anastasia asked, perking up. She enjoyed being read to as much as her brother and sisters did. "Me go get a book?"

"Not from a book, sweetie," Leslie said, grinning. "These are stories about when I was a girl. Not a little girl, but not grown up yet." She looked up at Roald. "I think there was one in particular that you wanted us to tell."

"That's right." The thirty-two-year-old prince turned to Roarke. "Aunt Leslie told the barebones story to me and Uncle Christian a while back, about the village we're living in, where the clan immigrants are settling. She said it's been abandoned for years, and that there was some kind of curse on the former inhabitants. We've started cleaning and beautifying the place, and I keep wondering about the people who used to live there. What were they like, and what happened to them all?"

Roarke settled himself more comfortably in his chair and smiled. "Ah, yes...I recall precisely the people you're speaking of. Leslie may have told you that they were very insular, and they did not welcome outsiders—not even other islanders." Roald nodded, and Roarke cast Leslie a glance before clearing his throat. "As to what happened to them—that's a tale we can tell you right now."

"By all means, go ahead," Christian urged. "I must admit to being curious myself."

"It happened when I was in my last year of high school," said Leslie. "I was maybe a couple of months away from my graduation and already trying to get more involved with the fantasies, anticipating taking a bigger role in Father's operations. But there were still some fantasies that weirded me out, even before Tattoo left and Lawrence took over and kind of dragged in a whole boatload of major changes along with him. This was one of the weird ones..."

§ § § - March 19, 1983

Standing in their usual places awaiting the arrival of their latest guests, Leslie watched the attendants moor the plane into place and pop the hatch while Roarke motioned the band and dancers into action and buttoned his suit jacket. Right on cue, a tall blond man stepped out; he had the sort of youthful face that made him look naive and too trusting. "Ah," said Roarke, "Mr. Carl Peters, a travel agent from Philadelphia."

"Oh, that sounds like a fun profession," commented Leslie.

"Sure does," Tattoo agreed. "What's his fantasy?"

Roarke half-smiled. "Apparently, he is obsessed with finding a beautiful young woman."

"Aren't we all?" said Tattoo with a conspiratorial grin.

"Speak for yourself," Leslie suggested, folding her arms over her chest.

Roarke chuckled and said, "Perhaps, Tattoo. But this particular young woman ran away before he could discover his true feelings for her."

Leslie peered curiously at her guardian while Tattoo asked hopefully, "Will he find her? Will he fall in love?"

"Oh yes, Tattoo," murmured Roarke, in a tone that snared Leslie's attention and raised a stew of dread in her gut. "So much so that he may even be willing to die for her."

Tattoo frowned at that, and Leslie shook her head slightly, wondering how it would feel to love that deeply, before the Frenchman's attention was distracted by a blonde woman in a blue dress, wearing an expression of beaming excitement. "Oh, boss, here comes my old friend Susan!"

"Your old friend?" echoed Leslie.

Tattoo nodded, and Roarke explained, "Yes, Miss Susan Henderson, the young woman who saved him from a runaway taxicab in Paris years ago."

"That's right," Tattoo said smugly, "and if it wasn't for her, he wouldn't have a terrific assistant like me." Leslie snorted and reached behind Roarke to swat Tattoo lightly on the shoulder; Roarke tossed him one quick look and nod, gave Leslie a mildly quelling glance and cleared his throat slightly.

"Yes...so in gratitude, you have arranged a fantasy for her—to make a man she has loved from afar fall in love with her," he said.

"Well, it's simple, isn't it, boss?" Tattoo queried.

"We shall see, Tattoo," Roarke hedged calmly, with no more than one further glance at him. "We shall see." Leslie watched their expressions for a few more seconds, but when neither of them spoke again, she found herself looking forward to seeing exactly what would happen. Roarke received his champagne, toasted their new guests, and took in their reactions; Leslie and Tattoo peered at each other, suspecting it was going to be a very interesting weekend.

‡ ‡ ‡

At the main house, there was little time for further preparation before Carl Peters arrived for his appointment, looking hopeful and excited all at once, as so many had done before him. He shook hands with Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie, then took a seat in one of the white-satin-upholstered club chairs in front of the desk. "So, not to skip the niceties and all that...but when can I start my fantasy? When can I go see Hallie?"

"Mr. Peters, it's important that I know just how strong your feelings for Ms. Miller are," Roarke said after a moment, studying the earnest young man. "Are you certain you're in love with her?"

Peters got that look about him that suggested Roarke couldn't hope to have the first clue about the true depth of his emotions, the faintly condescending expression that said, You poor man, not even a hint of knowledge. "Mr. Roarke, since the day she disappeared, all I can think about is finding her again." He smiled a little. "Yes, I'm certain. Can you help me?"

"Yes, I believe I can," Roarke said briskly. "I've discovered that Ms. Miller has returned home, to a small village here on the island. A village that has a very..." He hesitated, no doubt fully aware that all eyes were on him. "...a very peculiar history."

"What do you mean, boss?" Tattoo asked, perplexed.

"The original settlers of the town came from New England long, long ago; they were a very rigid, puritanical people then. In 1692 it seems they held a witch trial; and the woman they accused was burned at the stake." He met Leslie's startled glance, well aware of the parallel this carried with her own family history, before taking in Carl Peters' slight frown.

"That's terrible," Tattoo said, distressed.

"Yes, it is, Tattoo," agreed Roarke, rising from his chair and rounding the desk, squeezing Leslie's shoulder along the way as he often did. "Ever since then, there have been rumors of other strange events, unexplained phenomena—"

Peters broke in with low-voiced impatience. "I don't care about anything that happened almost three hundred years ago. All I really want is to find Hallie."

Roarke regarded him, with one accepting shrug of his eyebrows, and acceded coolly, "Very well, Mr. Peters. If you'll follow Tattoo..."

"Please, this way," Tattoo said, gesturing out the French shutters, and started out as Peters arose and hurried around the desk to trail him out. Roarke and Leslie brought up the rear, crossing the terrace to where a car waited. Tattoo unearthed some keys from a jacket pocket and handed it to Peters. "Here's your car, and here's your key."

"Just follow the road, Mr. Peters," Roarke added. "The town is about fifteen miles from here, going west on the main road that circles the island. You won't have any trouble finding Ms. Miller; everyone there knows her." His expression sobered, giving Peters just enough pause to make him regard his host for a few seconds. But, somewhat to Leslie's disappointment, their guest was clearly too single-minded to ask any more questions. Instead, he turned to Tattoo and thanked him, shaking his hand and then Roarke's, before nodding to Leslie and getting into the car. They stood there and watched him ease the car across the grass at the northern side of the house, where some dead palms had recently been clear-cut and the beginnings of a garden staked out, before gaining the dirt lane in front of the house and driving out of sight down it.

"That's the village near the elementary school, isn't it?" Leslie asked, speaking only after the car had vanished. "The one we always drive straight through without stopping if we have to go beyond the resort."

Roarke nodded. "The utility buildings are located just south of their town square," he said. "I believe a few of the villagers work there, but most of the employees are other island residents, and the two groups have very little to do with each other. The villagers have a great distrust of outsiders, even those who also live here. It goes back to their original settlement, as I understand it. The natives had their own gods, which of course were pagan nonsense at best to the settlers. The two groups were, in any case, so fundamentally different each from the other that they stayed well apart forever after. It's been only in recent decades, since modernization measures were introduced here, that there has been any intermingling, and that only under duress." He sighed and gestured back toward the French shutters, a signal for Tattoo and Leslie to precede him inside. "Had the villagers their druthers, they would have preferred to maintain their isolation. But it so happened that their location was the most suitable one on which to build the plants for the power utility and the water and sewer services for the island. Only a handful of the villagers were willing to take jobs there, and it was necessary for others from around the island to fill the rest of the positions. It's my understanding that they still go out of their way to avoid each other, in every way they can help doing so."

"It sounds to me like they're hiding something," Tattoo commented. "I mean, I can understand wanting privacy, but they're really going all out to maintain theirs."

"I have left them to their own devices," Roarke observed, pausing in front of the desk to open the ornamental gold box atop it where he kept keys to the jeeps and rovers. "They have abided by island laws at least, and they keep to themselves. But the world is changing too much, too quickly, and perhaps the time has come for them to join it." He chose a key and took in the looks Leslie and Tattoo exchanged, then smiled faintly. "Well, shall we? Miss Henderson is waiting."

They picked up the blonde at her bungalow and brought her back to the main house, where by now the kitchen staff, headed by Mana'olana, had set up a small table with four chairs, a silver tea service, three porcelain cups and saucers in translucent white, and a crystal mug of mango nectar for Leslie. By then Tattoo and Susan Henderson had had a cheerful reunion and a brief chance to chat, and Leslie was looking forward to finding out more. They all took seats around the table.

"Tattoo thought you might enjoy a spot of tea," suggested Roarke with a smile.

"How nice," murmured Susan, in a breathy, sweet, somewhat high-pitched voice that gave the impression that she wasn't especially bright. Leslie kept this to herself, though, and simply waited to hear what might be revealed during this little tea party.

"Now then, Ms. Henderson," said Roarke expansively, sitting down. "This, uh, man you wish to have fall in love with you...who might he be?" He gathered a rosy-red cloth napkin in his hands as he spoke, preparing to spread it across his lap.

Beaming with bashful self-consciousness, Susan told him, "His name is Carter Ransom."

Roarke's smile vanished and he stilled, staring at her with a hint of startled disbelief in his dark eyes. Leslie blinked twice in pure surprise, watching her guardian shoot one narrow-eyed look across the table at Tattoo. "Uh-oh," she murmured, mostly to herself.

"The concert pianist?" Roarke demanded.

Susan nodded, wide-eyed, as if she had gathered the depth of Roarke's incredulity; but before she could speak, Tattoo put in, "Yes, he's here on the island. He's staying in the Lilac Bungalow."

"Yes, I know," Roarke reminded him, before turning to Susan and adding, "Mr. Ransom is preparing for an upcoming recital in New York." His voice cooled gradually as he spoke, and Susan lowered her gaze in consternation, obviously cowed by his disapproval. "You see, he's had trouble concentrating on his work, and he's come to Fantasy Island for peace and quiet, Tattoo." His reproving regard shifted to his assistant as he concluded his speech.

"Well, maybe he needs some inspiration," said Tattoo, nothing daunted. "And what could be more inspirational than love?" He gestured toward Susan, brightening as he uttered the last word.

"Peace and quiet, maybe," Leslie offered, eyeing Tattoo. "That's what always worked for me."

"You're not even eighteen yet, and you've never been in love. Don't dismiss it when you don't know what you're talking about," Tattoo said, raising his chin a bit.

Leslie sat back in her chair and glared at him, arms folded over her chest again; Roarke shook his head. "That will do, thank you both very much." He lifted his cup and prepared to take a sip.

"I could help, Mr. Roarke," Susan ventured, arresting his motion, exchanging a glance with Tattoo that looked conspiratorial to Leslie. "I first saw him perform two years ago. He's everything I ever dreamed of in a man." She spoke to her teacup, as if reluctant to meet anyone else's gaze.

"Please?" Tattoo put in. "She's got everything that Mr. Ransom needs." Like what? Leslie wanted to ask, but this time she held her tongue.

To Leslie's surprise, Roarke gave in without further objection. "You do realize, Miss Henderson, that your fantasy will last only two days." Susan looked startled by this, then downcast, as Roarke added gravely, "After that, Mr. Ransom will no longer be in love with you. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Susan raised her dark eyes with a wistful, dreamy smile. "For once, I want to experience the kind of passion I've read about, even if it lasts for only a weekend."

Roarke's expression was extremely dubious. "Very well, Miss Henderson, if that's what you really want," he agreed reluctantly, gaze on the tabletop as though waiting for it to concur with his doubt. Then he seemed to come to terms with it and gestured at the Frenchman. "Tattoo?"

Tattoo picked up a small clear crystal box with a hinged lid and extended his arm as far across the table as it would go, while Roarke eyed Susan with that lingering misgiving and Leslie looked on. Roarke took the box and raised its lid. "Thank you. This is a very special ring, Miss Henderson," he began, withdrawing it from its nest while Susan, Leslie and Tattoo watched avidly. He held out a hand and Susan extended her right hand, whereupon Roarke pushed the ring onto the third finger. "When you wear it, any man you touch with your ring hand will fall immediately and passionately in love with you." He lifted her hand, still resting in his, and covered it and the ring with his other hand, then closed his eyes for a few seconds as if in concentration. Leslie wondered if he got some sort of minor electrical jolt or something, for his brows popped up as though with surprise before he lifted the hand lying atop Susan's and peered underneath it at the ring. Sure enough, the large, clear oval jewel set in it was glinting brightly, blinking on and off like a decorative stage lightbulb. Susan withdrew her hand to examine the ring, and Roarke nodded, as if it were all settled.

Then he added, "However..." and all three of them froze to stare at him. "It will work only once—so you must be extremely careful."

Susan bobbed her head eagerly. "Oh, I will, Mr. Roarke, I will," she exclaimed, now bubbling over with delighted anticipation. "When can I go and meet Mr. Ransom?"

"Tattoo will take you to him," Roarke said, "but..." He fixed a stern gaze on his assistant. "If Mr. Ransom is busy practicing, don't disturb him. Wait until he is in a public area, at the very least, and you may then inquire as to his well-being and introduce Miss Henderson at that time. All right?"

"Got it, boss," Tattoo agreed, nodding. "Come on, Susan, let's see where he is now."

Roarke contemplated his teacup while Leslie watched Tattoo and Susan walk off the terrace and disappear down the path that led to the bungalows. "Well," she said after she was sure they were out of earshot, "there's another promise just waiting to be broken." She pitched her voice high and breathy in imitation. " 'Oh, I will, Mr. Roarke, I will!' " Catching Roarke's gaze, which had taken on a hint of amusement, she shook her head. "They always say they'll be careful, and they never are. If she botches things up with that ring, you really should leave it just the way it ends up. Maybe then she'd fall in love with somebody a lot more accessible than Carter Ransom."

"Indeed?" inquired Roarke, a grin beginning to form on his face. "Has it not occurred to you that perhaps the rich and famous are entitled to have love matches as well?"

"Yeah, well, rich and famous people have no trouble finding love," Leslie scoffed, shaking her head. "Their fans always wind up daydreaming about how they could be that one special person that the celebrity's been waiting his entire life to meet. Of course, that never happens, you know. They end up with people who are just as rich as they are, if not famous. I wonder why nobody ever wants to find love with some nice ordinary working stiff from Dubuque, Iowa, or someplace like that. They always want the famous, glamorous ones. The pretty people."

By the time she finished, Roarke was chuckling. "That may be, but what you say makes it more than plain that Tattoo was correct in his assessment of your knowledge of love. You have a great deal yet to learn, my dear Leslie. Now if you would, please, come inside with me, and clear the mail off my desk so that I have some room to work in my accounting ledger."

She agreed, but before long he noticed that she wasn't as absorbed in the task as she usually was. When he noticed that she had gone through only ten letters in half an hour, he turned to her, his movement catching her attention. "What's on your mind, Leslie?"

"That village," she admitted. "Susan Henderson is Tattoo's project, so I'm not so worried about that—though I admit to wondering who she'll actually end up with." She returned his smile before sobering again. "But that village...there aren't that many people there, are there?"

"Perhaps two hundred or so," Roarke said.

Leslie's eyes widened under furrowed brows. "But...you said they refuse to have anything to do with outsiders." At his quizzical nod, she protested, "Well then, how in the world have they kept up the population of the place without, well...you know, inbreeding?"

Roarke eyed her sidelong. "They haven't, I'm sorry to say. I don't suppose you've ever met anyone from that village who attends your school."

"No, I don't think so," Leslie said.

He nodded. "They homeschool exclusively. They have their own curriculum and simply refuse to send their young people to the island schools. It isn't for lack of attempt on the part of the constabulary and the island council to get them to obey the truancy laws, but homeschooling isn't any more illegal here than it is in other countries, so there wasn't exactly a legal leg for us to stand on. It was our opinion that it might be healthier for their young people to be exposed to the wider world; but clearly, they disagree."

"Do you think they'll do something to that guy, to Mr. Peters, when they find out he's hunting around for Hallie Miller?" Leslie asked.

Roarke settled back in his chair and let his gaze drift into the distance, a troubled look creasing his features. "I have no doubt whatsoever that they will."