§ § § -- August 10, 1991
Roarke and Leslie dropped in for only a few minutes at the Saturday-night luau, just so they could check on a few guests and be certain things were running smoothly. They made a quick detour at the supper club, where dinner was still in progress but dancing would commence soon, and then went on to the hotel. It was here that they walked in on a near-mutiny: quite a few hotel staff had gathered in the lobby and were talking in low, ominous tones. They all straightened and faced Roarke when he and Leslie came in.
"What's the meaning of this?" Roarke inquired crisply.
One of the front-desk clerks leaned over the check-in desk and put in, "I've been trying to get Mr. Omamara out here, Mr. Roarke, but someone's got him tied up on the phone and won't let him go."
At this point Jean-Claude barreled through the kitchen doors and stomped across the dining room to join them; his already touchy nature had clearly been inflamed to the point of inferno. "I cannot work for zees man anymore!" he exploded. "M'sieur Roarke, 'e ees totally unreasonable. 'E ask for everything I do not 'ave and zen abuse me when I say eet ees not avellable. I ask you, 'oo allowed zat man on ze island?"
"Of whom are you speaking?" Roarke inquired, though he and Leslie both had a feeling they already knew.
"Zat 'orrible actor," Jean-Claude barked. "Ah, zut alors, I would geev up my retirement to 'ave just one sairving of fugu for 'eem…" Leslie clapped a hand over her mouth and tried to swallow a giggle, but the action caught the attention of the staff and they grinned in sympathetic response. Roarke sighed with some exasperation.
"Jean-Claude, you already know my position on that," he said. "I suggest that all of you return to your duties immediately. I'll speak with Mr. Omamara and we will try to handle Mr. St. Anthony, but his behavior does not excuse you from performing your jobs."
There were murmurs of assent and the gathered staff scattered. The desk clerk opened the employee-access door for Roarke and Leslie, who promptly made their way back to Jimmy Omamara's office. He was still on the phone, forehead resting in one hand, his black hair standing out in tufts as if he'd been running his hands through it. He looked up when the door opened and seemed overtly relieved to see Roarke and Leslie there.
"Excuse me," he said into the phone, "but someone very important is here…" He halted abruptly and rolled his eyes. "As a matter of fact, sir, I think I can accommodate you there. We'll be right up." He hung up the phone and blew out his breath. "Mr. Roarke, you have no idea how glad I am to see you."
"Russell St. Anthony, I presume," Leslie said dryly.
"Hasn't he been called the Beast of Broadway?" Jimmy demanded, standing up and raking his hand through his hair yet again. "He's been living up to that name all day, ever since the moment he got here with his agent and his personal staff and his publicist and his freaking hairdresser…and about twenty suitcases, I might add. Poor Johnny was lucky he got a tip—it came from the agent, rather than St. Anthony." He came out from behind his desk and added, "I just got off the phone with him, and he's demanding to see you."
"Indeed," said Roarke. "What is his complaint?"
"Everything," Jimmy snorted. "You name it and it isn't good enough for him. Just what's he doing on the island anyway, Mr. Roarke?"
"He is here at the invitation of one of our guests who is holding a formal gala tomorrow," Roarke explained. "I'm sorry that Mr. St. Anthony has been putting you and the staff through such trials, Jimmy, but he refused to take a bungalow."
"The staff has a calendar on the wall in housekeeping," Jimmy informed them as they headed for the elevators. "They're literally counting down the hours till St. Anthony checks out and heads back to New York." Roarke smiled ruefully and Leslie laughed outright.
On the top floor they noted harried members of St. Anthony's entourage scuttling repeatedly back and forth across the hallway, while several voices in the near distance competed for dominance. They followed the sounds and stopped in front of what was normally the honeymoon suite, which had been taken over by St. Anthony. Jimmy reached out and knocked sharply on the open door to get their attention.
"Oh, dammit, what is it now?" snapped an imperious voice, and the classically-hand-some blond man pacing the floor near the window stopped long enough to look. "Well, it's about time. Roarke, I want out of here. This simply isn't good enough."
"We have no other accommodations, Mr. St. Anthony," Roarke replied courteously, "and you requested to be housed in the hotel."
"Well, it's not good enough," Russell St. Anthony reiterated. "Someone around here said there's a cluster of mansions on this island. I want one of those."
"None are available at this time," Roarke said.
An exhausted-looking man in his mid-forties, sporting a sizable paunch and a rapidly-receding hairline, interjected, "Russell, I told you that's the answer we'd get. You're gonna make yourself sick again if you keep this up. Come on, it's been a long day, so why don't you get some sleep?"
"I have lines to learn!" St. Anthony shouted. "I can't just drop everything and sleep now. Besides, the bed is lumpy, and you know I told you to bring my personal featherbed. I really don't know why I keep you on, Pete."
"Because nobody else will come within three miles of you, never mind work for you," Pete said wearily. "Come on, let me handle this, all right?"
St. Anthony threw his hands in the air. "You'll just botch it up, Pete. Everybody out. Roarke, I have some bones to pick with you…and who's the woman?" He stared at Leslie with a particular contempt, which she returned in equal measure.
"She is my daughter and assistant, Leslie," Roarke informed him briskly, while Leslie and Jimmy watched St. Anthony's agent and the others in the room file out through a connecting door to the next room. "What is the problem, Mr. St. Anthony? We have done all we can to make you comfortable."
"Oh yeah," barked St. Anthony and pointed at Jimmy. "Go back to your office, pal. Don't need you here anymore now that you've finally managed to do something I asked." Jimmy promptly swung around and left the room without further ado, and St. Anthony focused on Roarke. "The only thing that'll make me comfortable is getting a mansion. I don't care if you have to throw someone out—do it, because I want something separate and removed from all these damned gawkers around here. All I get is idiots staring at me and asking for autographs and fawning all over me about my shows. I never really wanted to waste my time coming to this stupid party for this minor prince from his hole-in-the-wall country in the first place; but Pete, the fool, pointed out that it was probably the only way I'd be able to get here without getting slapped onto the tail end of a long waiting list. As if I should even be on a waiting list."
Roarke frowned slightly. "What waiting list would that be, Mr. St. Anthony?"
"To be granted a fantasy," St. Anthony said with an exaggerated eyeroll, as if Roarke should have been able to read his mind. Leslie's eyes went huge with disbelief, and he caught it and sneered, "Yes, even Russell St. Anthony has a fantasy."
Roarke stood silently and studied the temperamental actor with the sort of penetrating stare he rarely found occasion to use, without saying anything for some time. It was plain enough to Leslie that he was taking the man's measure, assessing what he saw and weighing St. Anthony's demand. St. Anthony stared back, as if it were a contest; but even he couldn't seem to withstand Roarke's minute scrutiny and eventually began visibly shifting his weight. An impatient look crossed his face.
"Well?" he demanded.
Roarke said nothing for several more minutes, simply continued to watch him. Finally he said slowly, "I must confess to having a number of misgivings, but very well, Mr. St. Anthony. However, I have other duties this evening; so I won't be able to discuss your request until tomorrow at 11 A.M."
"Is that when my fantasy starts?" St. Anthony asked.
"You have not told me your fantasy," Roarke explained calmly but coolly, "so that would be quite difficult. Furthermore, I have not yet agreed to grant your fantasy; this is to be a discussion only. And before I make my decision, I must insist that you cease harassing the staff, and accept the fact that there are no other lodgings for you at the moment. For tonight, you must remain here."
"Oh, fine," muttered St. Anthony grudgingly. "But I will get that mansion, Roarke, one way or another. I know you've got properties standing vacant all over this island, and I mean to have one of them. Meantime, I guess I'll have to settle for this." He waved a disparaging hand at his surroundings. "See you tomorrow morning, then."
"At eleven precisely," Roarke said flatly, in a tone that Leslie had learned many years before would tolerate no argument whatsoever. "If you do not appear at the main house by exactly that hour, I shall consider the matter closed and assume that you changed your mind about your fantasy. My time, too, is valuable, Mr. St. Anthony. Will you excuse us? Leslie." So saying, he turned and left the room without waiting for any acknowledgment from St. Anthony, with Leslie right behind him. She was more than happy to pull the door shut.
"Wow, Mr. Roarke," she said in the elevator, "I think you actually subdued him."
"He's a very difficult man, Leslie," Roarke said, dark eyes thoughtful. "And he has a serious problem as well. Perhaps we will know more tomorrow."
‡ ‡ ‡
Michiko felt lighthearted for the first time since arriving home; dancing with Prince Errico had been more than enough to make up for the barrage of questions, many of which she herself would have considered too nosy to ask, that her family had put her through during supper at the Tokita homestead. Fortunately, she had been able to keep secret her involvement with Russell St. Anthony; no one had asked much about her love life after she had half-lied and said she didn't have one. Since Russell, she hadn't.
But she was beginning to have an inkling that that might change. Errico was warm and charming; perhaps not too subtle, just as Leslie had said, but he always meant well. He had treated her as if she too were royalty that evening, and the dancing had been all she could have dreamed of. They hadn't said much, simply enjoyed the music and each other's company. Now they strolled along the side of the Ring Road together, on their way back to Julie's B&B, enjoying the moonlit tropical night and talking aimlessly about inconsequential things. Michiko smiled dreamily at nothing, wishing she could stop time, or at the very least, freeze this moment to relive when she needed it.
The nameless tropical bird that Leslie had once called the "night crier" sounded off somewhere in the distance, with its two-part rising call in triplicate, then two mournful calls followed by a final shuddering cry. Errico fell silent when they heard it, tilting his head to one side and listening curiously. "What kind of bird is that?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't think anyone's ever actually seen one," Michiko remarked, chuckling quietly. "They're strictly nocturnal. I grew up falling asleep to their voices outside the window. They really bring back memories for me."
"You must miss this island badly when you're performing," he said.
"Oh, I do," Michiko said, "but now that my career's finally really taking off, I can afford to come home and visit more often. When I retire I'll come back and buy a little house here somewhere. I don't need a mansion or anything like that."
"I see," murmured Errico. Something in his tone alerted her, and she turned to look quizzically at him. He was watching the ground slip by with each step they took, a pensive expression on his face.
"Is something wrong, Errico?" Michiko asked.
Errico stopped there in the road and turned to face her, grasping her hands in his. "My dear Michiko, I don't know how to go on from here. I've already made so many mistakes and wasted so much time…now I'm afraid of moving too quickly. I fear telling you what's in my heart, for I know you've been badly hurt and you're surely wary of becoming involved again. If you prefer I stop now, please tell me so." He waited, but she was silent; so he blundered on. "Something is happening here. I feel it in my heart…cliché though it is, I truly do. I find myself reluctant to let this evening end." He sighed deeply and glanced over their heads into the star-spangled sky before returning his gaze to her. "Dearest lady, let me just get right to the point. There is a phrase in my language…and I believe it applies to you, so let me say it now. E ké'at aurissât."
"Which is the Arcolosian for…?" prompted Michiko, holding her breath.
"I love you," he told her. "I don't know how you've done it, but you've captured my heart in just one day. You need not respond to me now, dearest—I know I'm moving far too quickly for you." He cleared his throat and glanced away, looking self-conscious. "Come, we should be on our way."
"Wait," Michiko protested. "I have something to say, too." He stopped and eyed her with surprise and hope, and she smiled. "Frankly, I didn't think there was anyone like you left on this planet. But you know, I think you've restored my faith in humankind. For every Russell St. Anthony, there's a Prince Errico. You've done me so much good, and you've given me hope and happiness, and I'd never want to let go of that." She stretched up onto her toes and pressed her lips gently against his. "I've been falling in love with you all evening, and to tell the truth, I don't want this night to end either."
"Dearest Michiko…cari mie," he murmured, lapsing into his own tongue before kissing her. They stood there at the side of the road, lost in each other, unaware of everything around them. When at last they drew back to stare at each other, neither could move nor speak for a long moment.
"Would you…consent to be my wife? To become Princess Michiko and my future queen?" Errico whispered, as if afraid asking the question would break the spell.
"Oh Errico," she breathed, stunned. She had at one time expected Russell St. Anthony to propose to her, and had given up all hope after he'd thrown her out of his life; to hear the prince ask for her hand now was beyond anything she'd dared to dream of.
"Oh…Diento mie, your career," he blurted suddenly, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head at himself. "I forgot utterly. Dearest, please accept—"
"Stop apologizing," she interrupted, placing a finger against his lips. "I haven't even answered the question yet. If there's a recording studio in Santi Arcuros, there's no reason I couldn't pursue my career from Arcolos." He gaped at her, his mouth hanging open, and she giggled. "Yes, Errico, I'm accepting your proposal. I'll be very happy to be your wife."
"You have made me the happiest man on this earth," he declared, tracing a finger down one cheek, around her chin and up the other side of her face. "Michiko, cari mie, my princess, tomorrow we tell the world—but tonight belongs only to us."