A/N: This story was inspired by a song written by Toni Tennille; I borrowed its title as well. The disclaimer is due up again, so here goes: Mr. Roarke, Tattoo, Lawrence and Julie are the products of the imaginations of Aaron Spelling, Leonard Goldberg and Gene Levitt. Anyone else was born in my own imagination, and if you want to borrow one or more of them, I'm the one to ask. Thanks as ever to PDXWiz, Harry2 and jtbwriter, and to anyone else who may cruise through this category and take time out to read and especially review. Enjoy…
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§ § § -- August 17, 2002

"Good morning, Father!" Leslie said cheerfully, crossing the porch with Christian at her side. "What a beautiful day!"

Roarke looked curiously at her. "Wasn't it you who made a point of observing in the past that there is no such thing as a non-beautiful Saturday on this island?"

Christian smirked. "It's not the weather, Mr. Roarke. Since we decided to see how it would work out to let me bring Leslie here early on Saturday mornings from now on, rather than dropping her off Friday evening after dinner, she's been delirious. One more night for us to be together."

Roarke grinned at that. "I see," he said, chuckling at the dirty look Leslie shot her husband. "I hope you'll be able to concentrate on your job today."

Leslie pivoted on the ball of one foot and poked Christian in the chest, eliciting a look of comical surprise from him. "You," she announced, "are a tattletale, Christian Enstad."

"I didn't have to be, my Rose," he said smugly. "You have a look about you that tells all the world you're hopelessly in love with me. And if you want the honest truth, the more people who see that, the better. You're mine, and you always will be." He kissed her firmly and grinned. "Before we're all late for work, I'd better get going." He dropped a last kiss on his wife's lips, nodded jauntily at Roarke, and jogged down the steps to the Enstads' car. They watched him drive off around the bend in the lane, and Leslie crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head.

"He's entirely too pleased with himself," she remarked fondly.

"He's also correct about you," Roarke observed, "but fear not, my child: he can no more hide his delight over your extra night together every week than you can. I suspect he will be in for some energetic teasing from his employees." Leslie burst out laughing and he chuckled with her. "Let's go and greet our guests."

Leslie's buoyant mood lasted till their second guest came down the dock, carrying what appeared to be a briefcase; there was something familiar enough about him to make her tilt forward a little and squint. Roarke watched her mouth drop open in shock. "You can't be serious," she said, horrified. "What on earth is he doing here?"

Roarke smiled with satisfaction. "So you recognize Mr. Simon Lightwood-Wynton, all the way from London, then. Very good."

"Actually, 'very good' is about the last thing this is. Father, for heaven's sake, this is the third time that flake's been here. I thought you had a rule about repeated trips by the same guests. How much did he bribe you to get around it?"

Roarke gave her a highly offended look. "My dear Leslie, as you are certainly well aware, there are mitigating circumstances. Most obviously—or, at least, it should have been obvious to you, and you merely refuse to admit it—Mr. Lightwood-Wynton's first two visits were not of his own volition. His initial trip here was in the company of his mother, who had the fantasy on that occasion; and his second trip was with the storm-chasing group, whose leader was the one with the fantasy. Therefore, the rule did not apply to him."

Leslie snorted ungraciously, glaring daggers at the obnoxious Londoner. "He gives all Brits a bad name. So tell me, whose fantasy is he riding on this time?"

"His own," Roarke assured her, finally getting her direct attention. "Yes, this will be his final trip here, my child. He tells me that his parents have been after him for quite a few years to find, and I quote, 'a good little wife', so that he will settle down and produce the next generation. However, love seems to elude the man, and it's his hope that we can help him in that regard."

Leslie's gaze became speculative. "Hmm. I have an idea. Why don't we arrange for him to meet up with Cupid, so he can get his explanation directly from the source?" She caught Roarke's look. "Come on, Father, there's got to be some reason Cupid hasn't shot that arrogant jerk by now. Are you saying he's never been married?"

"Never even been in love," Roarke affirmed. "He claims it's merely because no woman has ever truly caught his fancy."

"Really? Are you sure? How could someone with such a brilliant wit and sparkling personality possibly have missed being snapped up by some pretty young thing? After all, he's the utter epitome of charm, grace and poise…not to mention sterling manners," Leslie said, poisonously sweet-voiced. In spite of himself Roarke had to control a wayward smile. "But of course, there's the topper—he's filthy, dirty, rotten, stinking rich. And we all know there's not a woman alive who can resist a rich man."

"I am quite happy to see you're so willing to welcome him and make his stay as enjoyable as you possibly can," Roarke said in a pointed but teasing tone. Their gazes met for a long moment; then he smiled and she let out a long frustrated groan.

"All right already. I give up—obviously he's here and there's nothing I can do about it now. I ask only one favor. Whatever else you do with him, please, I'm begging you—don't put me in charge of his fantasy, or I'll start thinking you're a true sadist."

Roarke laughed heartily. "I'll see what I can do, Leslie." He deftly plucked a delicate champagne flute off the tray presented by a native girl and raised it. "My dear guests! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

Simon Lightwood-Wynton looked startled by the welcome; then his gaze met Leslie's and he sneered before noticing that Roarke, too, was watching him. Quickly he changed the sneer to an insincere smile and then hid the lower half of his face behind the wide, shallow bowl of the glass containing his tropical drink. Leslie rolled her eyes in disgust and Roarke smiled serenely.

‡ ‡ ‡

Simon Lightwood-Wynton's clipped, brisk British lilt somehow brought Mephistopheles to Leslie's mind; she wondered flippantly if they happened to know each other. "I'm a busy man, Mr. Roarke," their visitor said. "This trip really was a last resort for me, to placate my mother and father. It's not enough for them that my younger sister and brother have produced offspring. Oh no, the firstborn absolutely must present the family with progeny. Unfortunately, I've not met a suitable woman in all the years I've looked. Actually, women are such flighty, foolish creatures, don't you agree? I've yet to encounter a single one who puts the lie to this." Leslie clenched her teeth and told herself to rise above this idiot. "Not a one out there with anything resembling a brain in her head. They fail to understand so many things that are important to a man. They're all obsessed with fashion and makeup, and can never seem to stop talking."

"Mr. Lightwood-Wynton," Roarke said, "are you looking for a wife, or a servant?"

Simon stared at him, and one quick squall of laughter escaped Leslie before she could regain control over herself. When Simon looked at her, she had a too-innocent expression on her features. He snorted and gestured at her. "There, Mr. Roarke, is a perfect example of what I've found," he said snidely.

"Indeed? Then you have found many young women who were perfectly willing to give you a fair chance? Who have their own hopes and dreams and plans for the future? If there are truly so many women out there like my daughter, then I fail to see why you're having such a problem finding someone suitable," said Roarke.

For once Simon looked flustered. "I think we're straying from the subject at hand," he said. "I just want a woman who knows exactly what a man wants and needs."

"Without being told?" Roarke inquired. "That's quite a tall order, Mr. Lightwood-Wynton. No woman is capable of mind-reading. Furthermore, not all men want exactly the same things out of life. Surely you are well aware of that."

"Very well, then," said Simon impatiently, "I want a woman who knows exactly what I want and need."

"Again—without being told?" Roarke repeated, a bit pointedly.

"Shouldn't it be obvious?" Simon demanded. "I am the scion of a very old and distinguished family, Mr. Roarke. Many of us have gone on to stellar careers in a wide variety of professions. I am the direct descendant of the silent-film director Niles Cameron, and I am distantly related to one of the singers in a very well-known eighties group. I myself am a very prominent banker in the city; whole futures rest in my hands."

"My goodness," said Leslie, blinking with exaggerated amazement. "And how many widows and orphans have you thrown out on the streets of your fair city?"

Roarke gave her a highly disapproving look. "Leslie," he said warningly.

Simon waved her off. "Let her be," he said. "She's so deliciously easy to provoke, I do it mainly for the sake of entertainment. If it weren't for her, I'd be frightfully bored." Roarke eyed him with dubious surprise, and Leslie tried to wipe all expression from her face, deeply annoyed with herself for constantly rising to Simon's bait. "However, this doesn't pertain to the business at hand. What it boils down to, Mr. Roarke, is whether you can give me my fantasy. You've heard what it is I want. Now, can you do it?"

Roarke regarded him, letting the silence stretch out just till Simon's expression began to grow impatient; then he smiled, just a little. "I believe I can, but I am afraid you'll have to allow me some time," he said, a trace of apology in his voice.

"Well enough, then," Simon said, surprisingly agreeable. "Oh yes…and do you know someone who can repair this?" He lifted the briefcase he'd carried off the plane; only then did Roarke and Leslie see that in fact it was a sleek laptop computer.

"As a matter of fact," Roarke said, "we have an excellent computer specialist in town. Leslie will take you there, and I am sure he will be happy to help you. Afterward, if you wish, you may either take some time to rest in your bungalow, or—"

Simon interrupted, "I'd rather be left to my own devices, Mr. Roarke. I make it a point to take a walk in my gardens each day, and I haven't had the opportunity to walk as yet today. I assume your daughter knows a good walking spot."

"That she does," Roarke said. "Very well, then. Enjoy yourself."

"Thank you," Simon said brusquely and then looked at Leslie. "Well, are you going to take me to this computer specialist or not?"

Leslie studied him coolly. "What's the magic word?" she asked.

Simon stared at her in astonishment; then his gray eyes sparked with sudden indignation. "Please," he snapped gracelessly.

Instantly Leslie was bright and angelic, smiling warmly at him. "Of course I'll take you to the specialist. Right this way, my good man." She led the way out; Simon tossed Roarke a sharp look, then followed her. Roarke settled into his chair, shaking his head and wondering facetiously how he'd managed to fail to teach his daughter more than the smallest trace of tact. Though he didn't realize it, he was smiling slightly as he turned to the day's paperwork.

"Well," Simon remarked acidly, sitting back in the passenger seat of the rover, "I see this place is as relentlessly American as ever. You still drive on the wrong side of the road, and I see you use American spellings on all the signs. For God's sake, you even use American currency. I thought this place was sovereign in its own right. Why on earth don't you have your own money?"

"Ah yes, ever the banker," Leslie said lightly. "I should've known you'd like to talk about money. Is this about drumming up some business for your own bank?"

"Well, it certainly would behoove you to deal in British pounds sterling, rather than American dollars," Simon said. "The pound has always been worth more than the dollar, and there is little doubt it's more economically sound. Or, if you absolutely must pander to the entire world's fantasies—never mind the Americans—" He managed to make the last word sound like a disfiguring disease, and Leslie tightened both hands around the steering wheel to keep from delivering a solid punch to his jaw. "—then you could always use the euro. An up-and-coming currency, as I understand it. How much farther have we to go?"

Leslie rounded a bend and the town square appeared before them. "It's right in here. Another thirty seconds." She pulled up directly in front of her destination, parked and got out; Simon followed suit and trailed her to the storefront, peering at the name on the sign mounted over the covered walkway that fronted all the shops. "Enstad Computer Services?" he said. "Is this outfit reliable?"

"The best anywhere," Leslie said. "Not that you have much choice, because this is the only place on the island that can help you with this particular problem."

"Then in that case," Simon said flatly, "I want to see the owner."

"No problem," Leslie replied, a thread of anticipation curling through her—not just about seeing Christian, but about how he might handle the confrontation she knew Simon was going to instigate. She pushed open the door to Christian's office and was happy to see that everyone was there except for Anton, who presumably was out on a call.