A/N: This is the first of a two-part story. The two island kingdoms I mention herein, Arcolos and Lilla Jordsö, are figments of my imagination; I created the former about 14 years ago for another writing project of mine. The latter is brand-new for this story. And as always, Mr. Roarke and Tattoo are the creations of Aaron Spelling, Leonard Goldberg and Gene Levitt, while all other characters are my own invention.
§ § § - August 3, 1991
It was still early in the morning; Leslie had yet to come down from her room, but Roarke was already on the veranda despite the hour. The letter he was perusing had come more than a month before, and its sender was scheduled to arrive on the island that very day; but Roarke still didn't like the request that had been added as an urgent postscript at the bottom. Normally he had no problem with keeping secrets; but he had never before been asked to hold something back from his own assistant. He had always told Tattoo whatever he felt the latter needed to know, and had done the same with Lawrence, all the assistants thereafter, and Leslie in her current tenure. Even if he didn't always reveal the full truth, he never completely hid anything.
Leslie should know, he thought, shaking his head slowly. It's only right that she know; but I can't violate a guest's request for privacy. He really didn't know why he had such a persistent feeling that something was going to go wrong somehow; but the feeling was there nonetheless, and he had learned countless years ago to heed that sense. The request left him in an extremely uncomfortable position. Perhaps, he finally conceded to himself, it's wiser that I err on the side of caution. I won't tell her immediately, but if the opportunity presents itself, I'll try to obtain his permission to do so. It was the best solution he could find to a bad situation, and he had to be satisfied with that.
"Mr. Roarke, is everything all right?" asked a voice, and he looked up to find Mariki standing near the table bearing a covered silver tray. He nodded, folding the letter and slipping it into an inner pocket of his jacket.
"Just fine, Mariki," he assured her. "What's on the menu this morning?"
A little less than two hours later, Leslie met her adoptive father on the veranda, and as always they greeted each other before going to the car that pulled up to take them to the plane dock. Roarke introduced their first fantasy: the young-adult daughter of two very well-known rock stars, who had been famous from the moment of her birth and now wanted to know what it was like to be a complete nobody. When their second guest strode down the docking ramp with unusual confidence, however, she all but forgot the first fantasy and stared at him, her attention snared in spite of herself. "He's got something," she mused aloud. "I can't put a name to it, but it borders on arrogance."
"Perhaps that's the best word there is to describe it," Roarke agreed, "along with charisma. Mr. Errico Bartolomé has both in abundance. He comes to us from the small Mediterranean island nation of Arcolos, and his fantasy is to find a wife."
"Arcolos!" blurted Leslie, astonished. "Has there ever been a guest from there before now, Mr. Roarke?"
"No, I believe this man is the first Arcolosian we have ever hosted," Roarke said with a slight smile. "As I said, he is looking for a wife. He was widowed approximately eight years ago and left with three young children, two sons and a daughter. He has been searching for quite some time, but tells me he is unable to find a suitable candidate, and that we are his last, best hope."
"We always have plenty of unattached women here," Leslie observed. "And with his looks and the charisma you mentioned, he'll have no shortage of admirers he can choose from. This should be an easy fantasy."
"Ah, Leslie," Roarke said with an exaggerated sigh, "have you forgotten so quickly? You've been here long enough to know full well that the course of a fantasy is impossible to predict, and that even the simplest fantasies have a habit of becoming complicated in the most unexpected ways."
"On their own, or with help from you?" countered Leslie, her eyes twinkling. Roarke gave her an overly mysterious look that made her laugh.
"As a matter of fact," he said, sobering for a moment, "the complications in this case are likely to arise from the fact that this man is not quite what he appears to be." And with that, he raised his newly arrived drink and proceeded to deliver his usual welcome to his new guests, while Leslie pondered that statement and hoped it didn't mean something sinister.
‡ ‡ ‡
It was almost the first thing Bartolomé said when he stepped into Roarke's study from the foyer. "You haven't told anyone, have you, Mr. Roarke?"
"No," Roarke said, frowning slightly at the reminder. "Are you quite certain that's the wisest course of action, Mr. Bartolomé?"
"It's necessary," said the dark, very handsome man who stopped at the desk and stared intently at Roarke across the surface. "I simply must have peace in order to concentrate on my fantasy, and this was the only way to get it." He spoke precise, correct English, flavored with a rich accent that to Roarke's practiced ears contained elements of several different Latin-derived languages.
"I see," Roarke said thoughtfully, then focused fully on his guest and gestured at a chair. "Please, Mr. Bartolomé, have a seat. I trust you have found your accommodations satisfactory, then?"
"Very much so," Bartolomé said warmly. "I have always thought my home island was lovely, but nothing can possibly match the beauty of yours. Now if you can grant my fantasy, it will be worth every centime I've paid."
Roarke loosed a soft chuckle and sat down as well, leaning back in his chair and regarding Bartolomé with some interest. "Tell me, Mr. Bartolomé, is there a specific type of woman you are looking for?"
This seemed to bring the Arcolosian up short for a moment; then he sighed. "She will need to be prepared to handle a great deal," he said slowly. "My lifestyle commands that I have such a woman to wife. She must be gentle, poised, able to control her emotions, comfortable in formal settings, and good with children."
"Yes," Roarke agreed, drawing the word out a bit in contemplation. "Well, I see no reason you should have trouble finding such a woman here on Fantasy Island. And it's not very difficult to begin looking; we always have a full complement of guests, and wherever you choose to take your leisure, you can be assured that you'll find plenty of unattached young women from whom you may make your choice."
Bartolomé sat up in his chair and leaned forward. "Are many of your guests wealthy, Mr. Roarke?"
"Is that important?" Roarke inquired.
"It could be. A future wife of mine cannot allow her head to be easily turned by the prospect of great wealth—and we have that on Arcolos."
Roarke nodded. "Yes, the rainbow gems."
Bartolomé dug into a pocket of his blazer and extracted a fistful of loose stones that he dropped on the desktop. They scattered noisily over the surface; one bounced in Roarke's direction, and he easily caught it and examined it. At first glance it looked like a diamond; but when one looked more closely into the facets of the stone, it was possible to see light glinting off tiny chips of every color in the rainbow—hence the stone's name. "We call these stones arcafleurie in my language," Bartolomé explained.
Still gazing into the stone, Roarke slowly turned it over in his fingers, noting the many-hued sparkles that reflected through the facets and created colorful spangles of light across the walls and ceiling. "A name that combines parts of the Italian word for 'rainbow' and the French word for 'gem'," he said almost absently, "reflecting the fact that your language has evolved from what was originally a combination of French and Italian spoken by the first settlers on the island."
Bartolomé peered at Roarke in surprise. "Very knowledgeable, Mr. Roarke," he said, plainly impressed. "So you do know something of my country."
"I also know," Roarke said, looking up then and handing the gem back to his guest, "that these stones can be found nowhere else on earth, and that as a result, their mining and sale has made every inhabitant of Arcolos quite well off."
"There is not a single poor person on my island, Mr. Roarke," Bartolomé boasted. "We are all well-to-do, although some more so than others—it's simply a matter of degree. Only gold and diamonds are more highly prized than our rainbow gems. Now of course, we have a wonderful climate that makes us a desirable destination for visitors to southern Europe, and our postage stamps bring in revenue that rivals that of Monaco, Liechtenstein or Vatican City—but none of those would give us the standard of living we enjoy if we did not have the rainbow gems. Yet, on our island itself, they are so numerous, we use them for paperweights and decorations in children's mobiles."
"So," Roarke said, "such wealth would be extremely tempting to any woman, and it is obviously one of your fears that should a prospective candidate learn of that wealth, it may affect her response to you."
"You understand my position perfectly, Mr. Roarke, yes," Bartolomé said with satisfaction. He began to scoop the loose stones back into his hand as he spoke. "So you can see that there is a great need for secrecy here."
"Oh, but there's more to it than that, Mr. Bartolomé," Roarke reminded him quietly, but with a tone in his voice that made Bartolomé look up and then wince. However, before they could go any further along that tangent, the door opened and Leslie came in. Both men promptly arose from their chairs.
"Miss Sage is all set, Mr. Roarke," Leslie told him and came around to join him behind the desk, surveying the Arcolosian who stood with his hand in his pocket where he had just deposited his gem collection.
"Very good," said Roarke. He turned to their guest. "Mr. Bartolomé, may I present my assistant and daughter, Leslie Hamilton."
She nodded and smiled with the polite warmth of a host to a guest. "Hello, Mr. Bartolomé," she said, "it's a pleasure to meet you."
He bowed a little from the waist up, never taking his eyes off her. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Hamilton," he said, reaching clear across the desk for her hand and lifting it to his lips for a moment. Caught well off guard, she turned red, more than a little relieved when he let go. Roarke stifled a smile, but not before Leslie noticed it, and he cleared his throat.
"Perhaps you'd prefer to repair to your bungalow and settle in before you begin your search," he suggested. "Lunch will be served here at twelve-thirty, and you are invited to join us for the meal."
"I accept, thank you, Mr. Roarke," Bartolomé replied, glancing at him and beginning to sidle away from the desk, but still studying Leslie. She stiffened under his intense scrutiny, her discomfort growing, and it was all she could do to maintain her politely welcoming expression. "I shall return at that hour and apprise you of my progress. Until then…" He nodded, then finally left, at which point she exhaled loudly and relaxed.
Roarke looked at her curiously. "Are you all right?"
"Did you see the way he was staring at me?" Leslie asked. "I felt like a bug under a microscope. I started wondering if my dress was coming unraveled or if a bird was building a nest in my hair or something."
Roarke laughed. "I believe he finds you of aesthetic interest," he remarked.
"I'm not so sure it was purely aesthetic," Leslie retorted. "The way he looked at me, I found myself remembering that crazy Adam O'Cearlach. I desperately hope this guy doesn't create the chaos he did."
"I expect he'll create his own sort of chaos," Roarke observed cryptically. "In the meantime, I believe we should make our rounds and see what Jean-Claude has on this evening's menu."
"Octopus. Yuck," said Leslie and shuddered. Roarke looked at her askance, and she added, "I don't know how he does it. Somehow, every several months he manages to find some seafood dish that's either more incredibly exotic or more just plain disgusting than the last one he came up with."
Roarke laughed again. "In that case, I suggest we make all possible haste to the hotel and find out what the alternatives are to his latest seafood adventure. You may find yourself relegated to a Caesar salad."
"Or macaroni and cheese," she kidded. On that teasing note they left the house to make the aforementioned rounds.
