§ § § -- August 3, 1991

It happened, in fact, that she had nothing to fear on that front at least. Mid-morning on Sunday, Maureen appeared unexpectedly in the main house, where Roarke and Leslie were preparing to start their usual rounds. They stopped and greeted her, both with considerable surprise. "How was your date?" Leslie asked.

"Good morning, Mr. Roarke," Maureen responded. "Hi, Leslie. Uh…about that date. I didn't get much out of it, but I think your friend Errico did. He spent almost the entire time grilling me about you, Leslie."

"Me!" Leslie said, staring at her. "What did he ask you?"

"Everything," Maureen said, shrugging. "How old you are, how long you've been on the island, how long you were married, where you were born, whether you liked kids, all sorts of stuff. I finally decided just to leave. I told him if all he was going to do was ask me about you, there wasn't any point in me wasting more of my time."

Leslie finally turned to Roarke to see his reaction; he looked thoughtful. After a moment he asked Maureen, "So it's your opinion that Mr. Bartolomé is interested in Leslie?"

"I thought it was kind of obvious," Maureen said. "What other conclusion can I draw when he was with me but couldn't talk about anything but her?"

"I'm sorry, Maureen," Leslie said helplessly.

"Oh, it's not your fault," Maureen said and smiled at her. "I just thought you two might like to know. Especially since I know you aren't interested in getting involved with someone else right now, with Teppo being gone only about a year. That way, you can decide if you want to put the brakes on things now, or wait and see if you're overreacting."

"After what you just told me," Leslie said, "I don't think it'd be possible for me to overreact. It's not as if he doesn't realize I'm still grieving for Teppo. He saw my ring at lunch yesterday, and Mr. Roarke put it to him about as plainly as anyone can."

Roarke remembered something and observed, "Perhaps he heard the word 'widowed' and decided it gave him something in common with you. He did look overtly interested after I told him that." He started to mention his earlier misgivings about Bartolomé's reasons for not letting Leslie in on his secret, then checked himself.

"Was there more, Mr. Roarke?" Leslie asked.

"No, no," he said dismissively. "Continue to treat him normally, Leslie. Simply be the man's hostess. If something does happen, however, let me know as soon as you can."

"Is he a crook on the lam and you're trying to nail him?" Maureen asked, face lighting with new interest. "I mean, it sounds like you want to warn him off Leslie."

Roarke laughed. "No, nothing like that, Maureen. But it's clear that Leslie has no interest in another relationship. Losing Teppo hit her very hard; and only she can decide when she is ready again. If Mr. Bartolomé continues his pursuit of her, and if she finds herself unsuccessful in discouraging him, I may have to step in."

"Oh, I'll set him straight quick enough," Leslie said, scowling. "He's had eight years to adjust to the death of his wife. I'm not sure I'll ever get over Teppo."

Maureen bit her lip. "Well, I guess I should be going so you can get to work."

"Thanks for coming over," Leslie said. "Frankly, I appreciate it."

Roarke laughed quietly. "Indeed," he said, a touch of irony in his voice, and she turned pink but smiled. "Thank you for your input, Maureen. Please excuse us."

"Of course," she said and left with some haste. Leslie watched her go and then blew out a great sigh.

"I suppose it's only fair to give him the benefit of the doubt," she admitted to Roarke after some thought. "I mean, he hasn't actually approached me." She stood contemplating something for several minutes while Roarke gathered some papers, folded them and slipped them into an envelope. As he was sliding this into the inner pocket of his jacket, he noticed her expression and stance.

"Is something wrong, Leslie?" he asked.

She regarded him with an almost plaintive look. "Do you believe there's such a thing as love at first sight, Mr. Roarke?" she asked. "I mean, I realize it's probably happened here on countless other occasions. But how long do you think those connections lasted once they left the island and the romantic glow fell off?"

"Oh, a number of relationships that began with love at first sight have thrived for many years," Roarke said. "It doesn't always work out, of course, but then again, neither do all relationships that culminated in marriage only after several years of mutual knowledge and familiarity. When it comes to love, my daughter, the only certain thing is that nothing is certain." He grinned when she rolled her eyes.

"That figures," she said. "So what you're telling me is just to wait."

"Precisely. As you yourself said, he has yet to approach you, so let him take whatever course he plans to take; and when he has made his intentions clear, then you may explain your own position. And if necessary, I will back you up."

Leslie finally relaxed. "All right. Thank you, Mr. Roarke."

He smiled. "No need. For now, let's begin our rounds and find out what the day holds in store."

§ § § -- August 5, 1991

On Monday morning, after seeing off most of their other guests, Roarke and Leslie returned to the main house to find Lauren waiting for them on the front veranda, pacing a small area at the top of the steps from the sidewalk and looking agitated. "Are you okay?" Leslie asked the moment she and Roarke stepped out of the car.

"Just mad," Lauren said, shaking her head. "Do you mind if I come in for a few minutes? There's something I think you ought to know about."

"By all means, Lauren," Roarke said, and the threesome made their way into the house, where Lauren sank into a chair at Roarke's invitation while Leslie began to gather crystal water goblets onto a tray that sat on the nearby table, to take to the kitchen for washing. "Now, what exactly is troubling you?"

"Your guest Mr. Bartolomé," Lauren told him. "He and I ran into each other in Amberville yesterday afternoon, and he asked me out for last evening. I figured he and Maureen must not have gotten along too well, so I agreed. He took me to the hotel restaurant, and then all we ever talked about was Leslie."

A musical crash resounded through the room and Roarke looked up sharply; Lauren twisted in her chair at the same moment. Leslie stood looking dumbfounded, one hand half curled as if around a glass; jagged shards of crystal lay at her feet, some of them resting atop her shoes. "Leslie," Roarke said, gently admonishing.

She didn't seem to have heard him. "You talked about me?" she demanded.

"He asked me questions all night," Lauren said, glancing one last time at the glass at her friend's feet before focusing on her face. "Wanted to know how long you and I have been friends, and what sort of person you are, and what kind of family history you have."

Roarke cleared his throat. "I apologize, Lauren," he said. "But as you may have known, Mr. Bartolomé is in the market for a wife, and—"

"Oh, I knew that, and you shouldn't feel you have to apologize for him, Mr. Roarke," Lauren said, standing up. "But he was so single-minded about Leslie, I just thought it was a good idea to mention it. I know she isn't really over poor Teppo yet, and I thought it would help if she knew so she can warn this guy to back off once and for all."

"As a matter of fact," Leslie said grimly, "you just read my mind, Lauren. I appreciate your telling us—more than you know." She started for the foyer, heedless of the glass that fell off her shoes and crunched beneath them.

"Leslie, I suggest you wait here," Roarke said firmly, stopping her in her tracks. To Lauren he said, "Thank you for coming, Lauren. I believe Leslie and I can handle it from here. I am sorry, however, that you didn't enjoy your evening."

Lauren grinned. "Oh, that's okay, Mr. Roarke. I ordered the boeuf à la bourguignon, which is one of my favorite dishes, and it was all on his dime. So I got an excellent meal out of it at least." Roarke chuckled and her grin got wider. "Look for the silver lining, I always say. Well, I'll let you two get to work, or whatever you have to do. Good luck, Leslie." She slipped past her friend, dropping a pat on her arm along the way, and let herself out.

"Now can I go over there and knock some sense into his head?" Leslie demanded as soon as Lauren was gone.

"Leslie, I think perhaps you had better take a seat and get some control over your temper before you go anywhere," Roarke said sternly. She opened her mouth to argue, but at that moment the door opened again and the very object of their discussion poked his head in, glancing quizzically around and lighting up when he saw Roarke and Leslie.

"Ah, Mr. Roarke, Miss Hamilton!" Errico Bartolomé exclaimed, beaming. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No, not at all, Mr. Bartolomé," Roarke said warmly. "Please come in."

Bartolomé promptly acted on his invitation, giving Leslie a broad smile as he came down the steps. She merely watched without responding; his smile faltered and he glanced away, clearing his throat and looking faintly puzzled before turning his attention to Roarke. "I have had two dates so far," he announced, "and neither of them has been particularly successful. The ladies in question were both very kind, but unfortunately, not quite what I'm looking for."

"Maybe," said Leslie unexpectedly, frost coating her words, "that's because you've already settled on your candidate."

Bartolomé turned to her with amazement on his dark features. "However did you know that, my lady?" He beamed suddenly. "Why, of course, I forget where I am. The famous Fantasy Island, where the hosts know all. Then you have already realized that I have indeed settled on a candidate for my new wife, and that would be you. May I call you Leslie, my dearest?"

Leslie, who had been fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind, stared at him; even Roarke couldn't think of anything to say for a long moment, though he understood instinctively that the situation was slipping swiftly out of his control. Neither of them had expected Bartolomé to so baldly state his intentions so quickly.

Bartolomé took their stunned silence as assent on Leslie's part and came to her, lifting her hand and kissing it with a rather lingering motion. "My dearest Leslie," he said softly, "I know we shall be very happy together. I want to make a formal proposal—"

"No!" she burst out, coming quite abruptly to life and recoiling from him. "No, Mr. Bartolomé, I have no interest in being your wife. I have no feelings for you, and frankly, you strike me as more than a little bold. Maybe even a bit rude. You asked my friends Maureen and Lauren out for a pleasant evening, and then drove them both crazy talking about me all night, plying them with questions that really aren't any of your business. Let me make it as plain to you as I possibly can, Mr. Bartolomé. I am a widow. I was very much in love with my husband, and we had five wonderful years together before he was killed. This happened just over a year ago, and I have no interest in starting a new relationship with anyone, including you. I haven't yet finished grieving for Teppo, and I don't want another husband: not now, maybe not ever. The answer is no, Mr. Bartolomé—absolutely, positively no!" She yanked her hand out of his and stepped back. "If you'll excuse me, I have some errands that have to be taken care of." She shouldered past him and finally made her escape; Bartolomé was too stunned by her vociferous protest to stop her, and Roarke merely let her go, aware that she needed time to cool down.

Mariki appeared in the foyer about five seconds after Leslie slammed the door. She glanced at Roarke, at his guest, and then at the glass scattered on the study floor. "Let me get a dustpan and clean that up, Mr. Roarke," she said, sneezed loudly and unexpectedly, and headed back to the kitchen with brisk strides.

Her voice finally jarred Bartolomé from his astonishment. "Well, Mr. Roarke," he said thoughtfully. "It seems your Leslie knows her own mind."

"She always has," Roarke observed, a touch ruefully. "At any rate, I believe she has made herself quite clear. I apologize for her rather strong manner of delivery…"

Bartolomé chuckled. "That bothers me not a whit, Mr. Roarke. I know exactly what needs to be done now. Thank you, my dear sir, and do excuse me." He walked out, leaving behind a puzzled and somewhat concerned Roarke.