§ § § -- January 10, 1999
Roarke never did return home the rest of the afternoon; in fact he missed supper at the main house, and by now Leslie was beside herself. It was all she could do to end Daniel Kearney's fantasy without revealing the frenetic turmoil inside her; but she must have succeeded, she supposed, since he looked satisfied with his weekend and didn't ask her any questions. Must be Father's subtle training across the years, she thought. I've finally figured out how to be poker-faced. She returned to the main house with a sense of relief at the weekend's coming conclusion and went directly to bed as she had done the night before; this time, for the first time since her confrontation with Michael Hamilton seven years before, she had a nightmare and bolted straight up in bed. The room was dark; only her bedside clock was visible, and it said 2:58. She sat catching her breath and calming herself down for a moment, then tried to remember what she had dreamed about. She could recall a sense of abandonment, and in the dream she remembered crying out for someone without getting a reply. Just before she'd awakened, she'd seen an impenetrable blackness consuming everything around her.
What was that supposed to mean? Leslie had never had a penchant for ESP, but she had the nagging feeling that the dream had been some sort of warning. No one was around to help her; but she had no idea how she could possibly prevent anything from occurring on her own.
That led to her wondering where Roarke was, and she slid out of bed, venturing into the hallway and scanning the bottom of the closed door to his bedroom. There was no line of light there, but she had no idea whether that meant he was home or…somewhere else. Her brain shied away from the idea that he might be with Paola. That woman ought to be leaving in the morning, Leslie thought hopefully, as most weekend guests did. She veered into the bathroom and, working by the little seashell nightlight there, dampened a washcloth and patted her still-hot face with the cool terry fabric.
The hallway light came on then and she squinted in the harsh illumination, at first seeing only a silhouette. Then the figure asked, "What are you doing up?"
"I had a nightmare," Leslie said, recognizing Roarke's voice, but not feeling relieved at all. It had to be his tone: he had sounded irritated. "I just wanted to refresh myself before I went back to sleep. Did I wake you up?"
"You had better get some sleep," he told her, a little more conciliatory. "We have to be at the plane dock early in the morning, and then I have many things to do." Roarke didn't wait for her response; he turned and went back down the hall, dousing the light.
He's still being evasive, Leslie reflected uneasily, slipping back into her own room and into bed. I should bet my salary for the next six months that Paola's not leaving on tomorrow's charter. I could put a nice fat down payment on a mansion over in the Enclave. Her own black humor merely unnerved her that much more, and it took her some time to get back to sleep again.
§ § § -- January 11, 1999
Roarke was unfailingly polite to his guests, as he always was, but Leslie took special note of the fact that Paola did not come to the dock and decided that next time, she was going to actually place the bet. Daniel Kearney reacted to the amused look that thought produced and thanked her warmly for the chance to learn things he'd never suspected about being royalty. "How did you know it would be this way?"
Leslie simply smiled. "I have good sources," she said. "I'm just glad you enjoyed the weekend. Have a safe trip home." They shook hands; Kearney bid Roarke farewell and was soon boarding the plane.
The very second the moorings were disengaged and the plane started to bob away from the dock, Roarke muttered absently, "Elixir," turned and began to walk down the dirt lane toward the Ring Road, without even waiting for the car. Leslie stared after him, totally disoriented. Never before had he gone through an entire morning without one word to her; he hadn't even spoken to her at breakfast. What on earth was Paola doing to him that had him so single-minded? Leslie sighed heavily, seeing another long day ahead, even though Monday was usually clean-up day and the one with the lightest workload.
As it happened, she was right. Roarke spent the entire day away from the main house while she was all but chained to his desk, placing orders for food and flowers, dispatching the housekeeping staff to the bungalows, getting reports from the hotel, restaurants, casino and amusement park, sorting mail, paying a few bills, scheduling fantasies and taking phone calls. Several of them dealt with messy issues whose particulars she had no clue about; the callers were upset to learn that Roarke was unavailable and took it out on her. After the third such call, she resolved to let the machine pick up all calls for the rest of the day.
Unfortunately, when the phone rang again and the machine kicked in, the person on the other end insisted that the receiver be picked up. "I know someone's there," he said, "so come on. I'm tired of getting the runaround." Driven by guilt, Leslie picked up and was subsequently treated to a round of verbal abuse that left her shaking. In the middle of it all, Roarke walked in, an empty vial in one hand. He paused in the foyer to observe her travails, but neither spoke nor moved otherwise.
"Quite frankly, Mr. Allen, I'd give my eyeteeth if he were here," Leslie suddenly said wholeheartedly into the phone. "If I could summon him with a snap of my fingers, I'd do it, believe me. At the moment—" She happened to look up then and cut herself off. "One moment, please." Jabbing the hold button, she stood up and held out the receiver towards Roarke. "Father, please, will you handle this guy? He's haranguing me about safety issues at the amusement park, and I can't make him believe that we had all the rides inspected just a week ago. He wants to deal directly with you."
"You appear to be doing a fine job, Leslie," Roarke said with an absentminded smile, a vague bit of praise that did nothing for her. "As you can see, I am busy."
"With what?" Leslie asked point-blank. "What are you doing that you refuse to tell me about? You've left me out of the loop all weekend and I've hardly seen you, and when I do, you act as if I'm not even here. What's going on?"
Roarke's dark eyes narrowed slightly and he came into the study to face her head-on. "Paola's problems are far more serious and complicated than can be solved in one mere weekend. I was just on the way to make a fresh batch of elixir for her migraines when I saw you in here." He glanced at the desk, though Leslie had a feeling that the sloppy mess atop it didn't register with him at all. "Nothing has gone wrong, so it's reasonable to assume that you are handling everything with competence. I simply have far more important matters to attend to."
"Why is she so much more important than your business, and your guests, and your employees?" Leslie cried. "All day long people have been calling expecting to talk to you, and without exception, they're taken aback to get me. I've already had several people yell at me for one thing or another, and this latest guy is giving me grief solely because I'm not you! Please, Father, at least get this character off our backs…I'm begging you." She stretched across the desk, trying to get him to take the phone receiver.
Without warning Roarke's expression iced over. "Leslie Susan, you have yet to learn that there are some things that simply transcend all else." He started to leave, then hesitated long enough to eye her coldly over his shoulder. "However, the documents you need are in the credenza, second drawer, in the folder labeled 'Safety'." With that, he walked out.
"What is she doing to you?" Leslie screamed after him, at her wits' end. But she might as well have saved her breath. She found the papers she needed, managed to fend off the obnoxious caller, and hung up—only to break down at last into hopeless, body-wracking sobs. Three straight days of Roarke's absence, his completely uncharacteristic behavior, the unusually heavy workload that she'd handled entirely alone, and her shot-to-pieces nerves had finally taken their toll. She simply gave in to her fear and despair and let her storm of weeping control her utterly.
The sound of her wailing brought Mariki in from the kitchen; she hastened around the desk and pulled Leslie out of the chair, gathering the sobbing young woman close and trying to shush her. "Take it easy, Miss Leslie, things will be all right," she kept repeating, to no avail. In the midst of this, Julie walked in with a room list, stopped and stared.
"Good Lord, what on earth is wrong?" she exclaimed.
"It's a long story, Miss Julie," Mariki said. "Tell me, have you seen Mr. Roarke at all this weekend?"
Julie frowned, clearly having to think it over. "No, actually I haven't," she said. "That's not exactly unusual for me, but now that I think about it, I'm surprised he isn't here now. I mean, it's Monday, and he's always available on a Monday."
"Exactly," Mariki said, pouncing on this statement with a sharp nod. "He hasn't been in this house, except to eat and sleep, for the last three days. He's acting completely unlike himself. Miss Leslie's had to deal with almost everything on her own, and I think the strain got to her." She lowered her voice as if in confidence to Julie. "I noticed last evening on my way home that Mr. Roarke was out at the beach with some woman. I never saw her before, but they were acting pretty chummy…if you get my drift."
"It sounds like uncle's found a new romance," Julie said, shrugging.
Leslie looked up at that; the sight of her face visibly startled Julie. "This is about the last woman I want him to find love with," she croaked, her voice nearly unrecognizable due to her emotional state. "She supposedly has some sort of fantasy, but all I can see is that Father's mixing up potions to get rid of her migraines."
Julie stared at her; her expressive, still-girlish face registered puzzlement. "So?"
"So he keeps saying she has serious problems, but he won't explain what they are. For that matter, he barely talks to me at all. And for some reason, all the manure on the island decided to hit the fan at the same time, and I've been trying to defuse tempers and clear up problems all weekend long."
Julie approached the desk, obviously trying to understand. "I still don't get it. What is it about this woman that's got you going?"
Leslie shook her head impatiently, snagging a tissue from the box on the desk and trying to mop her face. "I can't explain it, Julie, not and make you understand. I don't even think I understand it myself. All I know for sure is that my instincts have been screaming she's trouble, from the moment she got off the plane Saturday morning. I don't know just what it is, but she's so…" Her voice gave out and she threw her hands into the air, at a loss for words. "My gut says she's bad news, and that's all there is to it."
"Really," said Julie. "How come you're the one who thinks so and uncle hasn't got a clue? I hate to say it, Leslie, but it sounds like a fish story to me."
"Then wait around," Leslie snapped, "and try to get his attention when he comes back up here with more tender loving care for dear, sweet Paola. I promise you, Julie MacNabb, he'll barely realize you're even alive!"
Mariki, who had stood by watching, reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "Calm down, Miss Leslie. Miss Julie, if you don't believe her, then I should tell you I've seen him too. I'm a witness, and I'll back up every word Miss Leslie says. You do as she says and wait here till Mr. Roarke gets back from the basement. You'll see."
Julie looked back and forth between them, unable to scoff any longer with two of them offering testimony, but not quite able to accept their word. Mariki gave her a firm nod and folded her arms over her chest; Leslie eyed her rebelliously but in silence.
No one spoke till Roarke emerged from down the hallway, now with a filled vial in each hand. Julie looked at Leslie, who gestured in Roarke's direction with a "wait and see" look on her face. Julie shrugged and went to meet her godfather.
"Uncle, I've got the room list for this week," she said, holding out the sheet.
Roarke barely broke stride. "Very well," was all he said, and he walked right out the door. Julie's mouth dropped open and she gawked after him in astonishment.
"You see?" Mariki demanded. "He's different!"
"Yeah…I suppose he is," Julie mumbled, perplexed. After some rumination she offered weakly, "Maybe he's just really, really concerned for this woman."
Mariki made a rumbling sound of skepticism. "Miss Julie, you have a gift for understatement." To Leslie she said, "Are you going to be all right?"
Leslie nodded a little reluctantly. "I guess I'm over my crying fit now. But it doesn't solve anything, and nothing's changed. I honestly believe Father thinks he's in love with this woman, that somehow she's got him so deluded that he can't see what she really is."
"I still don't know how you get the jitters about her and he's totally blind," Julie complained. "How on earth do you explain that?"
"I can't," Leslie admitted, frustrated with herself. "I've racked my brain the last two nights and been awake till horrendous hours trying to make sense of this craziness, and I just plain can't." She pulled herself together with visible effort as Julie and Mariki watched, and drew a long fortifying breath. "Well, whatever state of mind Father's in, I still have to hold down the fort around here. I'll take the room list, Julie, and I'll get back to you with the names for next weekend." Suddenly she brightened hopefully. "You want to eat here this evening? I doubt Father's going to be around, and it'd be nice to have company."
"Sure," said Julie, "it'll give me a break from cooking. What time?"
They settled on an hour for her to arrive; then Julie left and Mariki returned to the kitchen. Leslie sank wearily into her father's desk chair, wondering if the next time Roarke dropped in to whip up some more headache tonic, she could filch a bit of it from him. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, and thus missed the dark wraith sliding silently into the shadows behind the terrace.