A/N: Here's a story I'd wanted to write for some time because of my own intense interest in tornadoes. At the end I make another reference to the episode "The Chateau/White Lightning". If you haven't read Be Careful What You Wish For, which precedes this story, check under my profile; I had trouble posting it, and when I finally got it online, it appeared only there and not under the Fantasy Island category. Once you have, I hope you will then enjoy this story. Special thanks as always to Harry2 and Terry L. Gardner!

§ § § -- March 16, 1996

"…and now the weather for Coral Island and Fantasy Island. Plenty of sunshine is expected, and the high temperature will top out at 88 degrees for Coral Island and 86 for Fantasy Island, with low humidity. A rogue thunderstorm may sweep across Coral Island on Sunday, but Fantasy Island should be clear throughout the weekend, with the next chance of rain possible late Monday night. Stay tuned to Radio Amberville, broadcasting from the largest town on beautiful Fantasy Island, for further news and weather updates…"

Leslie shut off the radio alarm and sat up in bed, satisfied with the forecast. She had just crossed the room to open the window when Roarke's voice said pleasantly, "Well, good morning, Leslie. Are you ready for another weekend?"

"Of course," she said, turning to smile at him. "According to the forecast, the weather should be just as perfect as always."

Roarke got an odd look about him; it wouldn't have been readily noticeable to most, but Leslie had lived with him too long and knew him too well for it to be lost on her. "Perhaps you should keep a careful eye on the sky nevertheless, my child," he said. "You never know what may come up, and you should be prepared for anything."

Leslie wanted to laugh, but something in his tone of voice kept her silent. She was still trying to gauge his odd new mood when he suddenly shook it off and smiled at her. "I will meet you on the veranda for breakfast," he said. "Don't hurry, there is plenty of time."

"Okay, Father, see you there," she said and stared at the empty doorway for some moments after he had left, wondering what lay in store. She sighed, decided there was no point in fretting about it, and went to the closet for her weekend attire.

Two hours later they stood at the plane dock watching a fairly large group of guests disembarking. "Is this some sort of joint fantasy?" Leslie asked.

"After a fashion," Roarke told her. "Six of the seven individuals you see before you are from various countries around the world; they make up a very unusual tour group. The tour leader is the young man in front, wearing the denim vest with all the patches. His name is Wayne Blanchard, and he hails from Enid, Oklahoma." Roarke hesitated, making Leslie turn to him curiously, and then returned her gaze with some intensity. "Tell me, Leslie, how much do you know about tornadoes?"

"Tornadoes?" she echoed in surprise. "Well, I guess I know about as much as the average person would know. I mean, most people have seen at least photos and footage of them, and I know that certain areas of the U.S. are especially vulnerable to them. But I never saw the need to study them to any real extent, since I never lived in a tornado-prone state. Why do you ask?"

"That is the type of tour Mr. Blanchard leads," Roarke said. "I presume you have heard of 'tornado chasing'. A number of people have set up vacation packages that revolve around chasing, so that the layman with an interest in tornadoes can experience the thrill of pursuing such storms."

Leslie gave Wayne Blanchard a once-over; he was a lanky young man, perhaps her own age or a little younger, with dark hair and good looks. "Okay, I'm with you so far. Is that one of his groups?"

"Yes," said Roarke. "However, this may well be Mr. Blanchard's last tour. He has been leading groups of tornado enthusiasts on chase tours throughout tornado season for the last three years, and in all that time, he has spotted not one tornado. Therefore, his fantasy is for him and his tour group to finally catch one of the elusive storms he has been pursuing for so long."

"On Fantasy Island?" Leslie asked, amazed. "But the forecast said—"

"Don't you know that weather forecasts are said to be wrong at least fifty percent of the time?" Roarke countered, his dark eyes twinkling, and she grinned in response before his countenance sobered and he directed a concerned gaze in the direction of the awed band of storm chasers. "Unfortunately, I am not at all convinced that even Mr. Blanchard, who purports to be a professional, has any real idea what he's getting into."

Leslie frowned. "That doesn't make any sense. He's from Oklahoma, isn't he?—and after all, that's supposed to be one of the most tornado-prone states in the U.S."

Roarke merely watched Wayne Blanchard in silence for a moment before a native girl brought his drink and he immediately switched gears, raising the glass and welcoming their newest guests. A small fluttering tickled Leslie's stomach and she strove to keep her budding apprehension out of her smile of greeting.

‡ ‡ ‡

They greeted the full crowd of seven in the main house about an hour later. Wayne Blanchard looked excited, filled with contagious anticipation that had communicated itself to all six of his tour-group members. He let them introduce themselves: Enzo DiSandro, an Italian with a killer grin and an utterly transparent devil-may-care nature; Hannelore Niemeyer, from Germany, a tall athletic-looking young woman with honey-blonde hair cut close to her head and inquisitive green eyes; Jiro Tamori, a handsome Japanese college student; Joachim Albarran, who spoke with Roarke momentarily in Spanish while the two compared places they'd seen in Spain; Sangeeta Madichetty, an unusually adventurous and independent woman from northern India; and finally, to Leslie's complete astonishment, Simon Lightwood-Wynton from England. His presence jolted to life the memory of his trying visit the summer she was seventeen, when his mother had brought him to the island and she had been forced to be what amounted to a combination of tour guide, cruise director, babysitter and prison warden to him while Mrs. Lightwood-Wynton had a very elaborate fantasy fulfilled. Simon seemed as startled to see her as she was to see him.

Roarke recognized him as well. "Welcome back, Mr. Lightwood-Wynton," he said, extending a hand. Simon shook it, still looking a bit amazed. "How is your mother?"

"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Roarke." He glanced at Leslie. "So your ward still works for you, then?"

"My daughter," Roarke amended with a smile, "and yes, she has been my assistant for the last five and a half years." He took in the entire group. "I am sure you'd all prefer to freshen up after your long journey; we have bungalows available for each of you. Although… Mr. Blanchard, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak with you for a few moments."

"I'll show the others to the bungalows, Father," Leslie offered.

"Thank you, Leslie," Roarke said and smiled at her, waiting till she and the multinational tour group had left the house before turning his attention to Wayne Blanchard. "If you would please have a seat…and if you would indulge me as to why you wish this fantasy to be made reality?"

Blanchard watched Roarke sit down himself before leaning forward. "Mr. Roarke, I grew up in Oklahoma, and I've always been interested in tornadoes. I admit, my profession is kinda weird, but it's new yet, and there's actually plenty of demand for it. There's good money in it because so many people are interested in these things." He sighed deeply. "See, the problem is, even in the deepest reaches of Tornado Alley, it's possible to get through a lifetime without ever seeing one."

"Indeed," Roarke said, eyeing the man knowingly, "and you would like very much to remove yourself from the ranks of those who haven't, would you not?"

Blanchard went very still; his face flushed. "How'd you know that?" he asked, breaking eye contact even as he said it.

"What's more," Roarke continued as though Blanchard hadn't spoken, "you are actually ashamed that you have never experienced a tornado."

Blanchard sighed loudly in defeat and stared pleadingly at Roarke. "The tour group doesn't know," he said. "I can't tell them that. They'd accuse me of incompetence and want their money back. Look, Mr. Roarke, just because I've never actually seen a real tornado, that doesn't mean I don't know what to do in the event of one. I know how to chase safely and I know all the procedures for protecting yourself from a tornado. These people are all safe with me, I guarantee it. But they paid me good money to see a twister, and I want to make sure they do. The only way I could do that was to come here."

"I have no doubt that you believe you have prepared yourself adequately for the eventuality, and it's plain to me that your enthusiasm is boundless. But that doesn't make up for the lack of experience, Mr. Blanchard—the true experience of someone who has survived an actual tornado. I don't believe that you have the full scope of knowledge necessary in such situations." Now it was Roarke who leaned forward, his stare penetrating, causing Blanchard to look away again in consternation. "You can't know what your reaction will be when the storm is bearing down on you and you are facing its fury in reality, rather than in theory. Nor can you know the reactions of your charges."

"I've listened to enough survivor stories to get a good idea," Blanchard protested.

"Even that is merely secondhand," Roarke said. "The incontrovertible fact remains that you have never seen, let alone survived the passage of, a tornado, and that all of your preparations have been made under the false security of certainty born of lack of practical experience. I find this dangerous in the extreme, Mr. Blanchard, and I implore you to reconsider your fantasy."

"I can't, Mr. Roarke," Blanchard said, his tone icing over. "I told those six people that they'd see a tornado once I brought them here. They came here in good faith, because they know the reputation you and your island have, and they're not gonna be happy to find they've wasted a lot of money on an empty promise. There's nothing you can say that'll get me to change my mind—period. They paid me, and I paid you, and I won't take no for an answer. So you better give up and grant the fantasy."

Roarke tried one more time. "And should something happen to one of those people in your care, where would that leave you—and me as well? Have you considered that tornadoes are among the most unpredictable forces in nature? That all your meticulous plans and preparations could go for naught if the storm does something you never thought to anticipate? Think about it, Mr. Blanchard, think very carefully. Sit there for a moment and give some real thought to the very great possibility that someone will be injured, perhaps even killed, in the course of this fantasy."

Blanchard scowled. "If it's a fantasy, Mr. Roarke, and if you're granting it, there's no reason to worry about that, because a fantasy's supposed to be the way you want it."

Roarke settled back in his chair and began to laugh softly, without humor. "I see I must explain what I have found it necessary to explain to so many others before you. I may have the power to grant a fantasy—but once it has begun, I have no power to either control it or stop it. If you take that tour group into your fantasy, there will be no going back. You should also be aware that I have no control over the forces of weather; so, should you in fact encounter a tornado, the storm will be what Mother Nature makes of it—not I."

Blanchard shrugged. "It would've been the same way if I'd encountered it in Oklahoma, Mr. Roarke. So that shoots down your last argument. The only difference is that with you involved, our seeing a tornado is guaranteed."

After a silence, Roarke said, "I can refuse your fantasy on principle."

"Yeah? Have you ever done that before?" Blanchard demanded.

"Rarely, but yes," Roarke said. "I would have grounds in this case, because you are endangering the lives of others, not just your own."

"They know the risks, Mr. Roarke," Blanchard said tightly, "and they elected to take those risks. In fact, they paid for those risks. And since they did, I have to deliver. I in turn paid for this risk, and that obligates you to deliver." He misread Roarke's narrow-eyed stare. "If you think I'm gonna sue you, rest easy. I know the risks and the possibilities, and I'm fully aware that you've tried to change my mind."

Roarke shook his head. "You misunderstand me, Mr. Blanchard. I merely wonder precisely how aware your clients really are of these risks. How much do they truly know about tornadoes? I hope you will have no objection if I speak with them."

"If you have to, then go ahead, but you won't change their minds either," Blanchard told him. "Like I said, they know and paid for the risks, and they'll be as determined to go through with it as I am. You might as well save yourself the trouble."

"I might," Roarke agreed with a thin smile, "but I choose not to." He cleared his throat and stood, his expression warming somewhat. "You might wish to freshen up while I'm speaking with your tour group. I will drive you to a bungalow. Shall we all meet back at the main house at eleven-thirty?"

"Sounds good to me," Blanchard said, rising. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke."