A/N: Partial post...the rest is in progress. Something of a comedy this time around...hope you enjoy, and as ever, thanks to PDXWix, jtbwriter, Harry2, Kyryn and BishopT!
§ § § - March 29, 2003
Their second fantasizing party on this spring morning made Roarke smile. "So she did come," he said, "after nearly backing out twice and having to reschedule four times. Ms. Lori Browne, from Akron, Ohio—but you and the rest of North America know her better as Miss Jasmine Bellflower, residing in New York City."
Leslie stared at the whip-thin supermodel picking her way down the landing dock in four-inch heels, followed by two of the young native men each carrying three bags. In the woman's arms was a tiny, fluffy dog. "Okay, let's say I assume that each and every person on this planet has a fantasy," she said while Roarke studied her curiously, "and let's say that I accept that. Let's also assume that some fantasies are more obvious than others."
"Very well," agreed Roarke, playing along.
"I am also," Leslie went on, "operating under the recollection of having seen this woman's request letter some months back, along with the further recollection that it was something weird. So I'm going to make the semi-educated guess here that she wants to be ugly and not famous for one weekend."
Roarke grinned broadly. "You are at least in the general district, if not in the same neighborhood as the actual fantasy," he said. "But it's too obvious. No, as a matter of fact, the lady's fantasy is to improve her looks."
"I knew it was weird!" Leslie said, snapping her fingers. "I just forgot how weird. And why, pray tell, would a supermodel want to improve the looks that brought her fame and fortune in the first place?"
"She's quite insecure, I'm afraid," Roarke said, "and hides it beneath a demanding and very unpleasant attitude. She puts up a grand façade that fools all comers, but deep inside she is afraid she just doesn't measure up. She's twenty-nine years old and already in her declining years as a model; it is her hope to be able to squeeze a few extra years into her career, to build up the nest egg on which she hopes to retire."
"I guess that's understandable, when you put it that way," Leslie mused. "What I'd like to know is how we're going to give her her fantasy—and more than that, whether she gets to keep the new and improved face after the end of the weekend."
"That's entirely up to her," Roarke said, at which point he accepted his usual champagne flute, raised it and toasted their guests. Jasmine Bellflower shifted the wriggling little dog in her arms and took a healthy swig of her frosty orange-red tropical drink, peered into the glass with wide-eyed appreciation and tipped it back once more, draining its entire contents. Leslie snickered softly, wondering if they were all going to need some sort of artificial fortification for the weekend.
‡ ‡ ‡
Jasmine Bellflower had requested a full two hours before her appointment at the main house, so Roarke and Leslie had a chance to handle a little business before her arrival. Once they'd launched the first fantasy, Leslie went over to start up the computer while Roarke made a phone call; she sat down and pressed the button, but nothing happened.
"Oh no," she mumbled and pressed it several more times, still to no avail. Swiftly she examined the machine for the obvious reasons it might not be working; she wasn't married to a computer expert for nothing. But the power strip was on and everything was connected as it should be. She turned the surge protector off and then on again, pushed the button one more time, and still got nothing.
By then Roarke had hung up and was watching her. "Is there a problem?"
"The computer isn't working," said Leslie. "I've checked the power supply and all the connections, and everything's where it should be. Something tells me this isn't going to be a simple problem. Let me call Christian and check with him."
Roarke cast the silent computer a thoughtful look. "He may have quite the challenge on his hands," he observed. "That's the same machine on which he originally uploaded the island's website, and it's been nearly seven years since then."
"Death by old age," Leslie said with a faint grin, picking up the phone receiver and punching 464. "But Christian's pretty good at resurrecting extinct species. Hi, Julianne, it's Leslie—is Christian in?" She paused, then smiled, and Roarke chuckled silently: that smile could only mean he was. Sure enough, Leslie said, "Hi, my love…are you busy?" A slight pause. "Good, because I think we have a major project for you. The computer decided to die on us, and I think this calls for your delicate touch." She giggled at something Christian said. "All right, then, how about 'light-fingered'? Anyway, come on over, would you, please? Everything's connected properly and it's getting power, but it just doesn't work, and I have this feeling we'll be dealing with Murphy's Law all weekend as it is. Oh, good…okay, see you in a little bit." She hung up. "Christian's on his way. Meanwhile, do I need to do anything to get us ready for the great plastic-surgery project?"
Roarke eyed her and inquired, "So you think we're going to those lengths, do you?"
"If not, then what?" Leslie asked.
"Watch," Roarke said and gestured behind her, towards the foyer. She turned in time to see two young native men, around college age, toting in a large mirror, about six feet high, in an etched-glass frame on a stand. Carefully they edged it into the study and set it a few feet from the steps, facing Roarke's desk, at his instructions.
"Where did we get that?" Leslie wondered, sidling over to examine it at closer range. "It's very pretty. I love the frame."
"It's very special," Roarke told her. "In fact, it will be instrumental in Miss Bellflower's fantasy. Do you see the metallic gold cloth on the tea table there? Get that, if you would, please, and drape it over the mirror. It will cover it completely. You may or may not remember having gone to the shipping dock late last fall to pick this up."
Leslie, shaking out the folded expanse of cloth, thought back. "Oh, I think I remember it now. The package four people had to shove into the back of the car. So this is what it was. Unfortunately, the only connection I can see between the mirror and the fantasy is that supermodels need mirrors to check out their looks."
"Along with some actresses," noted a new voice, and she looked around to see that Christian had entered the foyer in time to hear her last remark. He grinned when she met his gaze, and she lit up. "So you have a sick computer?" he asked.
"It might already be beyond help," Leslie said, "but if anybody can resurrect it, you can. Come on in, my love." Christian stepped into the study and greeted Roarke, who returned it, then followed Leslie across the room.
"Herregud, you two actually still have this thing?" Christian asked, studying it and setting his briefcase on the floor beside the chair. "I seem to remember uploading your site from this very same machine, once upon a time."
"It is indeed," Roarke confirmed. "In all honesty, I had been preparing to make room in the budget for a replacement, so don't feel as if you are obligated to restore this one to working condition."
Christian laughed and settled into the computer chair. "Well, let me see what I can do with it anyway. Oh…incidentally, I hope I won't be in the way in case you need to deal with any guests."
"Not at all," Roarke assured him. "We do have an appointment in a little while, but there should be no problem."
"You didn't bring your thermal mug," Leslie noted. "I can get you something from the kitchen if you think you'll be here awhile."
"I may," Christian said, disconnecting all the cords. "But we'll see, and I'll let you know." He looked up and smiled at her. "I don't mean to chase you away, my Rose, but we both have jobs to do."
Roarke laughed. "As it happens, her usual task at this time of the morning is to check electronic mail, which obviously she can't do."
"Oh," Christian said and laughed as well. "Forgive me, then…and I suppose that means you can linger all you like." Leslie grinned, planted a kiss on his lips and went over to her father's desk.
About half an hour later—nearly an hour early for her appointment—Jasmine Bellflower swept into the house, her long white-blonde hair a brassy explosion of wild curls, her feet still encased in stiletto heels. She wore a mini-skirted sundress and carried her dog. "Well, well," she said, glancing around. "Very nice, Mr. Roarke. So, tell me, how're you going to handle this? Is it just a matter of me writing down what I want, and you waving a magic wand á la Harry Potter and saying 'hocus pocus'? Or maybe that should be 'abracadabra'." She put the dog on the floor and settled into one of the leather chairs while Leslie stared at her and Roarke watched with a vaguely pleasant expression, as if he were regarding a somewhat amusing child. "Or maybe I drink a potion, or pop a pill. I mean, for crud's sake, that wouldn't surprise me. Pills are the Great American Panacea. There's a flippin' pill for every ailment under the sun." She settled back and crossed one leg over the other, tugging absently at her tiny skirt. "No, hold it, I know…you borrowed some pixie dust from Tinkerbell."
Roarke smiled, while Leslie's expression grew chilly. "Nothing quite so obvious, Miss Bellflower," said Roarke. "All you need is a mirror."
"That I've got," Jasmine said, snorting. "I have loads of them. If that's all I needed, I could've stayed home." She tipped her head back and recited snidely at the ceiling, "Mirror, mirror on the wall…make me the gorgeous-est of 'em all."
"You're facing in the wrong direction," Leslie told her. Unbeknownst to her, Christian looked up and stared at her in perplexity.
"Huh?" said Jasmine.
"Not only that," Roarke said with a glance at his daughter, "you've phrased your request in the wrong way, and in too broad a fashion. Why don't you come over here, Miss Bellflower, and I'll explain." He arose and approached the mirror; Jasmine followed him and Leslie started to join them, only to nearly trip over the dog. Christian gasped at her stumble and half arose, and Roarke and Jasmine turned to see what was going on.
"I'm okay," Leslie assured her husband and turned to Jasmine. "What kind of dog is this supposed to be?" The animal was smaller than a Chihuahua.
"Oh," said Jasmine, "he's a toy poodle. Poor little thing, he was the runt of the litter."
Leslie stared down at the tiny dog, which peered up at her, its fluffy bud of a tail standing at attention. Then the little thing yapped at her, in such high pitch that it sounded like a puppy. "Is he housebroken?" she finally asked dubiously.
"He's two years old," Jasmine said, making her mouth fall open with disbelief. "Of course he's housebroken. Can we please get on with my fantasy?"
Leslie shrugged and stepped carefully over the dog; Christian resumed his chair, grinning to himself and shaking his head. His movement caught the animal's attention and it trotted over to sniff at the briefcase; for the moment Christian, engrossed again in his repair project, didn't notice it.
"Before we begin, Miss Bellflower," Roarke said, "perhaps you might explain your fantasy to us in just a little more depth."
"What more is there?" Jasmine asked incredulously. "I want to be prettier. How much explanation does that need?"
Leslie cleared her throat slightly. "The point is," she said, "you're already pretty, or else you wouldn't be a supermodel. What could possibly be wrong with your looks that you want to make them even better?"
Jasmine nodded comprehension. "Oh, I get it. Well, I'm about to tell you a secret, and you'd better keep this under your collective hat, or I promise I'll sue you for this entire island and everything on it." Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "What you see here is manufactured," Jasmine went on, catching their attention again. "I had a little bit of surgery here and there…tummy tucks, cellulite removal, a face lift, and breast enhancements. I have a gifted makeup artist…and this hair, well…" She turned bright red, gave them an apprehensive look, then sighed and wrapped both fists around generous hanks of the abundant curls before yanking with some force. The entire thing came completely off her head, revealing a mashed-looking, dead-straight mop of plain brown hair. It was cut short and stuffed under some sort of net to keep it in place beneath the wig. "My hair is the biggest bane of my existence. It's straighter than a ruler and more limp than wet pasta. And the color…I mean, look at it…a mouse's fur has better color than this stuff. I've hated it all my life, and I want lots and lots of curls, like in this wig."
Leslie stared at her; she and Roarke were both still startled by the unexpected removal of the wig. "What's the matter with straight hair? I've had straight hair all my life too, and I'm perfectly happy with it."
Jasmine reached out and gathered some of Leslie's hair in her hand, sliding it through her fingers. "But yours is gorgeous," she said. "The color's nice, and it's smooth and silky, just perfect. Mine's broom straw. It's dry and brittle, never holds a curl, and it has no color at all. I started shaving my head when I was ten and wearing wigs. My mother wigged out…ha ha, get it, 'wigged out'?" She brayed with laughter; Roarke smiled, solely to be polite, and Leslie looked over at Christian, who rolled his eyes and shook his head, making her snicker softly. "But I wouldn't let her argue with me," Jasmine went on, "and she finally learned to live with it. And I always chose wigs with loads of curls, like this one." She brandished the white-blonde wig. "I change colors every so often, but it's always curly like this. People think I get dye jobs occasionally. There are three people on the planet who know this: me, my mother, and my makeup artist. You two are numbers four and five. Oh, and I guess your handyman over there is the sixth now. Hey, you," she barked across the room at Christian, "you better keep the secret, because you can't afford to have me sue you."
Christian stilled completely, then stood up, allowing Jasmine to really see him for the first time. She recognized him, and her blush vanished with cartoon-like speed, eliciting another private smirk from Leslie. "Oh, my God," Jasmine muttered.
"I might be inclined to keep your secret," Christian said, "if you were a little nicer about asking me to do so." He smiled frostily.
Jasmine shifted her weight nervously and offered a hopeful smile. "My apologies, Prince Christian," she mumbled, her face flooding with color again. "Please, I beg you, don't tell anyone about my wig…I'd just die of mortification."
Christian regarded her thoughtfully. "Very well," he said after a minute or so, sounding unmistakably royal, and smiled again, somewhat less coolly, before resuming his seat and warming the smile for Roarke and Leslie. "Please excuse me," he said apologetically.
"Of course, Christian," Roarke said and smiled back. "Miss Bellflower, is it at all possible for us to see you in your, uh, natural state? Without makeup and the wig?"
"Not only that," Leslie said, "but do you have just ordinary clothes? A T-shirt and shorts, for example, and some flip-flops or sandals? It'd be a little easier for us to see what else you think needs to be improved on."
"Oh, well…" Jasmine shrugged and tugged at her skirt again, a bit self-consciously. "I can't exactly change my clothes in here, but maybe this'll help." She pulled off the heels and immediately lost two inches in height. "Is that any better?"
"Du värdelösa minidjur, ta dej bortifrån mej," Christian suddenly ordered from the other side of the room, and all three turned to stare at him. Jasmine's toy poodle had wrapped itself around his calf and was clearly preparing to do something very embarrassing.
Jasmine's eyes popped. "Sweetheart, come here," she called coaxingly.
Already annoyed, Christian gawked at her with rising outrage; Leslie stiffened with fury and glared. "What did you call him?" she demanded in a low, dark, very dangerous tone. At the same moment the dog whimpered and Christian, looking down, loosed a vicious-sounding jordisk curse before bodily plucking it off his leg.
Jasmine said impatiently, "I called him Sweetheart, of course. It's his name, for heaven's sake." She seemed suddenly to fully register Leslie's murderous glare and sighed. "It's my dog's name." Leslie's rage slid into bewilderment and then exasperation.
Christian arose and carried the energetically wriggling dog over to them, one-handed and by the scruff of its neck, holding it away from him as if it were contagious. "Do me a favor and keep it over here where it won't bother me," he said ominously. "I've already had to prevent it eating three memory boards out of my briefcase. If the dog doesn't stay at your side, I will most certainly reveal the secret of your hair, lawsuit or no."
Jasmine's mouth dropped open. "You wouldn't dare!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Sweetheart goes everywhere I go. He's too little to fend for himself, and he needs me. He was the runt of the litter, you know…"
Roarke cleared his throat and snared everyone's attention. "Forgive me," he said with a smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes, "but perhaps other arrangements can be made for the dog while you are here, Miss Bellflower. In the meantime, Christian, just put it down over here, and perhaps it will stay by its owner's side."
"Can you guarantee that, Mr. Roarke?" Christian asked dubiously, but put the dog on the floor anyway. "I'm sorry, but that was just going too far…"
"It's okay, my love," said Leslie, who had been trying desperately not to laugh. "I'll try to catch it if it runs off again." He smiled at her, fleetingly, then sighed and retreated to the computer again. Leslie turned back to the model and shrugged. "Well, I guess if that's the best you can do, we'll just have to work with it."
"Apparently so," Roarke said. "Perhaps you could tell us what else you would like to improve, Miss Bellflower."
"Obviously I'd like to be taller," she said, peering at her feet which the dog was now sniffing, "and geez, I never noticed how my knees turn in toward each other like that. Ugh! And look at my skin, all pasty white…I haven't had a chance to get any sun so far. And you know, I could always change my eye color…" Roarke stared at her; Leslie peered curiously at Jasmine's eyes. Unnoticed, the dog scampered off again.
"Anything else?" Leslie prodded, earning a slightly annoyed look from Roarke.
"Anything and everything," Jasmine groaned. "Might as well experiment."
Roarke nodded. "Very well. In that case, this mirror—"
"Ge det till mej!" shouted Christian. Leslie and Jasmine both whirled around in time to see him leap to his feet and chase the fleeing dog out the open French shutters. Jasmine turned red again and bit her lip.
"I'm really getting on Prince Christian's bad side, aren't I," she mumbled, abashed.
Leslie smiled faintly. "You didn't happen to bring a leash for…Sweetheart, did you?"
"It's probably in one of my suitcases. I was just so crazy to get my fantasy started, I was too lazy to go digging around for it. I promise, I'll get it once it's going." She gave Roarke a pleading look, but before he could say anything Christian came back in, again carrying the squirming dog by the scruff of its neck. He looked furious.
"Didn't you say you were going to try to catch it?" he demanded of Leslie.
"If you'll kindly recall, sweetheart," she said a bit acidly, "I was doing my job, as you suggested I do an hour or so ago." With that she looked at Roarke. "Should I take the cover off the mirror, Father?"
"If you would, please," Roarke agreed, casting Christian a quelling glance that made the younger man blink. While he stood there still dangling the dog from one hand, Leslie stepped around Jasmine to the mirror and tossed back the golden-silk shroud, revealing the mirror in its etched-glass frame. Jasmine stared at it.
"Nice," she said. "So what do I do with it, besides contemplate what a shipwreck I look like?"
"It will change your appearance in any way you desire," Roarke said simply.