§ § § -- March 16, 1996

No sooner had Roarke settled behind the desk at the main house than the door flew open and in walked a young woman with a cap of shiny dark hair and snapping green eyes. She spied him immediately and stalked inside. "Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke arose. "Yes, may I help you?"

"I think you better. My name's Denise Young, and I'm Wayne Blanchard's fiancée." Denise Young paused in front of the desk, one hand on her hip, eyeing Roarke accusingly. "You just granted Wayne's ridiculous fantasy, didn't you?"

Roarke half-smiled. "Under duress, Ms. Young, I assure you."

She squinted at him, disarmed for a moment. "Excuse me?"

"Please sit down," Roarke invited, indicating the chair beside her. With a sigh she did so, and Roarke took his own seat as well. "Your fiancé is a determined man, Ms. Young. I spent considerable effort trying to deter him from his intentions, but he would have none of it. He insisted on going through with his…'ridiculous fantasy', as you put it, and all six members of his tour group were of the same mind." He hesitated, making Denise's gaze sharpen, and then added reluctantly, "My daughter insisted on accompanying them, for her own reasons, so she is with them and can get in touch with me if need be."

Denise gaped at him, shocked. "Good God, Mr. Roarke, you put your own daughter in danger too? Just what kind of man are you, anyway?" She rolled her eyes while he sat back, his expression frosting over. When he remained silent, she blew out her breath. "Well, since you did the damage, you might as well go all the way. Take me wherever you took Wayne and his group and your daughter."

"The weather conditions have deteriorated considerably since I accompanied Mr. Blanchard's party to the island where they will be conducting their chasing excursion," Roarke said with a distinctly chilly tone to his voice. "Our only hydrofoil launch has been docked for the remainder of the day, and it's unlikely you'll be able to find someone who will take you there."

"I'll find somebody," Denise said, "and if I can't, then you'll do it yourself, Mr. Roarke. After all, you're responsible for sending them into this folly in the first place. I have to get out there and talk Wayne out of this idiocy."

"I wish you luck, Ms. Young," said Roarke flatly. He stood up when she did, but otherwise did not move; and when she had left he settled down again and gave a quiet sigh of frustration. What Denise didn't understand, and what he had discovered through many years of fantasy-granting, was that sometimes, the only option available was to give the requestor what he or she wanted, and let them learn on their own exactly what they had put themselves in for. But that wasn't what bothered him so much as the fact that Leslie had jumped into this particular pressure cooker right along with all the rest.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie, Hannelore and Sangeeta had decided to share one hotel room to conserve costs; Blanchard and Joachim Albarran, who were more or less of an age, were sharing a second room, while Jiro Tamori and Enzo DiSandro had a third. Simon Lightwood-Wynton, of course, took a room for himself. He struck Leslie as no less insufferable now than he had been in 1982; but she was determined to keep a lid on her temper as she had been unable to do then. She figured if she could manage to stay as far away from him as was feasible, things should be all right.

The three women hadn't had much of a chance to get acquainted before Blanchard came around and gathered everyone for supper at a diner that had been recommended by the front-desk clerk. The breeze had picked up and the sky was still cloudy, but so far there had been no rain. The tour group chatted desultorily on the way to the diner; once there, they were all shown to booths, and sat studying menus for a few minutes.

The waitress who stopped beside the women's booth recognized Leslie. "Why, Leslie Hamilton, what brings you to Cedar Heights?"

Leslie stared at her for a moment before she placed the face, and her mouth fell open. "Holly Oberlein, is that you? When did you move here?"

"Right after we graduated," Holly said cheerfully. "I'll never forget all the help you used to give me in tenth- and eleventh-grade study halls. You really saved my butt in those English-lit classes. You still live on Fantasy Island with Mr. Roarke?"

"You got it," Leslie said, grinning. "In fact, I'm his assistant. Did you know I'm his daughter now, not just his ward? He formally adopted me as his graduation gift to me."

"That's great!" Holly exclaimed, beaming. "We should sit and chat awhile. My shift's over in half an hour. Do you think you can hang around here that long?"

"Don't see why not," said Leslie. "I'm here with a group for a fantasy, actually, and there are seven of us, so we may be here awhile."

Holly nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, good." She glanced at the interested smiles of Sangeeta and Hannelore. "What kind of group are you folks with?"

"We are here to chase a tornado," Hannelore said.

Holly seemed to freeze momentarily, and her pale-blue eyes grew wide with concern. "I suppose you know the reputation this island has," she said guardedly, biting her lip. "And we've been hearing weather warnings all day today. There's supposed to be some really nasty stuff on its way in."

"That's what our tour leader wants," Sangeeta said with a wry little smile, and that broke the tension enough for them all to laugh.

"Well, I hope you'll be as careful as possible," Holly said. "Are you ready to order?"

As the tour group ate, many of the other occupants of the diner gathered around to chat with them. Sangeeta peered at Leslie in surprise. "Mr. Roarke didn't mention how friendly the locals are."

"Well, they don't get many visitors," Leslie explained. "This island has gained quite a reputation as the magnet for the worst weather in this sector of the South Pacific. Nobody knows why, and most of the people who come here are meteorological scientists and forecasters and folks of that ilk."

"Right," said Holly Oberlein, joining them with a pitcher of tea with which she was making rounds of refills. "I have to admit, you folks are the first tornado chasers to come here. We seem to get three or four tornadoes every year, but we've been lucky—they're just little ones, and they usually stay out in farm country where they don't encounter many man-made structures. Those weather-freak types are always so gung-ho when they get here, all excited about cloud formations and jet-stream conditions and stuff like that. They throw around some pretty technical jargon; but they're the nearest thing we get to having tourists, and they do bring in plenty of cash."

Simon Lightwood-Wynton, having twisted around on a stool at the counter where he had sat apart from the group, snorted. "Little wonder, I daresay. What a bleak, benighted place this is. How can you stand to live here?"

Holly eyed him coolly. "It's home," she said simply and turned away from him.

"Mister, it isn't your call to question us," someone else remarked in icy tones, addressing Simon as well. "Mind you, if you don't like the conditions here, you're always free to leave…if you can find anyone who'll take you out in this weather." Right on cue, there was a growl of thunder, and everyone's attention was called to the windows. Rainwater streamed down them in rivers, and it was clear that it had been raining for some time.

"Then this is perfect," Wayne Blanchard announced excitedly. "It has to be a good sign. Anyone heard a local weather forecast lately?"

The gathered locals exchanged glances. "Supposed to be rain and thunderstorms all night," Holly finally ventured, "and I understand there's a very bad squall line heading this way. A whole enormous and well-organized weather system that just might give you that tornado you folks are looking for."

"Hallelujah," Blanchard exulted. "I told you Mr. Roarke'd come through. We're gonna see that twister yet! Thanks for the info, miss." He launched into excited conversation with Albarran, DiSandro and Tamori; both Sangeeta and Hannelore got up and moved over to get in on the chatter. Leslie watched them dubiously, then blinked when Holly scooted into the booth beside her.

"I thought you were scared of thunderstorms, Leslie," Holly said questioningly.

"I am," Leslie admitted quietly. "But I talked Father into letting me come here with the stormchasers. It's time I conquered that phobia."

Holly winced. "Oh dear. You really picked a lulu of a storm for doing the conquering, but I sure wish you luck." She smiled and squeezed Leslie's hand. "But it really is good to see you again, Leslie. I hope we get a chance to visit before you leave."

"Me too," Leslie agreed warmly. Before she could say any more, however, the bell over the entry door jangled and a young woman shouldered her way in out of the pouring rain, stopping just inside the door and peeling off her dripping raincoat. Two booths down, Wayne Blanchard shot to his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

"Denise?" he blurted, sounding shocked.

The woman at the door looked around and zeroed in on him. "So there you are! Wayne, damn it, what's wrong with you?"

"How'd you get here?" Blanchard exclaimed.

"Just arrived by fishing boat," Denise Young told him, striding over to join the stormchasers and the townsfolk sitting nearby. "I talked to Mr. Roarke, and I have to say, I really question his judgment, agreeing to let you stroll right into a freaking tornado. Not only that, but to send his own daughter into one…"

Leslie stood up too. "Is there something we can do for you?" she asked. "I'm Leslie Hamilton, Mr. Roarke's daughter and assistant—and by the way, I made my own decision to come here."

Denise eyed her. "If that's true, then you're as dumb as all these amateur tornado nuts here. Ten to one you've never seen a twister, just like everybody else here."

"And you have, then?" interjected Simon from his counter stool.

"Several, buddy," Denise confirmed. "I doubt any of you has any real idea what you're trying to let yourselves in for."

"Then why is it you aren't leading this tour?" Simon challenged.

Denise glared at him. "Because I'm not fool enough to go running after twisters on purpose, that's why. Look, we have one chance to get out of here. I heard a weather report on the trawler I came here on, and the squall line that's approaching this island is getting bigger and gaining a lot of strength. It's supposed to have hurricane-force winds, heavy wind-driven rain and very dangerous lightning. Obviously you see the potential for tornadoes in this thing. You gotta come back now."

"We're not leaving, Denise," Blanchard informed her flatly. "I've told you again and again, this is my livelihood, and in spite of what you think, I know what I'm doing." He turned his attention to the group and Leslie. "How about we head back to the hotel and make out our itinerary for tomorrow. My chase van's in the parking lot there, thanks to Mr. Roarke, and we'll start out at sunrise tomorrow morning."

"Lady, you're stuck here too," said one of the locals to Denise. "That fishing trawler you came here on? That's my son's boat, and he's not going out again in this weather. For someone who's so worried about getting flattened by a tornado, you sure were in a hurry to get out here and join the fray."

"I didn't come here to chase, I came to get these people back to Fantasy Island," said Denise hotly.

"Well, it's too late," the man said and gestured out the window, where the stormy sky had darkened with the approach of night. A strong gust of wind rattled the windows. "My son isn't going back out in that. I gotta tell you, it's a miracle you even got him to bring you out here, because I told that damn-fool kid to stay at the Fantasy Island marina tonight."

Denise shrugged. "Well, I guess he wanted to get home, weather or no. And okay, so I'm stuck here too." She regarded Wayne and his group. "Maybe I can make you see some sense and keep you crazy people from trying to flag down a funnel cloud."

Simon slid off his barstool and sauntered toward the entrance. "Maybe we'll drag you along with us, since you're the expert on this sort of thing," he remarked with a sardonic little smile at Denise. "You're here and you obviously know everything, so you should make yourself useful." He pulled on a raincoat and left.

"What a jerk," Denise said, astonished. "Who is that guy?"

"Nobody special," Leslie said with a wry smile of her own. "I think we should get back to the hotel while the getting's good." She turned to Holly while the tour group and Denise and Wayne began sorting out their raincoats. "You be safe, okay? Stay here in town and batten down the hatches, and you'll be one less person I have to worry about."

Holly grinned and squeezed Leslie's forearm in friendly fashion. "Don't worry, I've been through years of crazy weather here. I know what to do. You just be careful, Leslie, and make sure that tornado chaser brings you back to Mr. Roarke in one piece."

"I will," Leslie said, glancing out the window and taking a deep breath. "I'll make good and sure of it."

Back at the hotel, Denise Young accompanied Leslie, Sangeeta and Hannelore to their hotel room and surveyed the sleeping arrangements. "The three of you are crammed in here and that British snob has a room all to himself?"

"No one wants to share a room with him," Hannelore said and grinned. "This tour has lasted nearly two weeks, and we have learned in that time that he's a person to avoid at all costs. I think he comes from a very rich family and is heir to an enormous fortune."

"From several ancestors," Leslie put in, "if my information's right. One of said ancestors is the silent-film director Niles Cameron, according to him."

Sangeeta, Hannelore and Denise all looked at one another. "How do you know?" Denise asked.

"I've met him before," Leslie replied with a grimace. "Let's just say he and I didn't get along at all, and leave it at that." She reached over and turned on the television set, going through channels in search of a weather forecast. "I wonder if this island gets American cable TV. It's kind of far out from most of the others in this group."

"Looks like it does," Denise said as the picture brightened and focused on the screen. "Does it come out of Hawaii?"

Leslie nodded. "That way we get forecasts for South Pacific territories that the mainland doesn't usually get." She divided her attention between the conversation and changing channels in her search for the national US Weather Channel. "How many tornadoes have you seen, Denise?"

"Enough," Denise replied, scowling. "When I was ten, one of them totally destroyed our house. We lost absolutely everything. That's the kind of power tornadoes have, and it's impossible to know how it feels."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Leslie said with a shrug. "I've never seen a tornado myself, but I've had the experience of losing everything—twice, in house fires." She met Denise's surprised gaze. "I have my reasons for being here with the tour group, and I'm sure Hannelore and Sangeeta and the men have their reasons as well."

"Simon's is simply to watch a tornado destroying everything," Hannelore remarked.

"Well, then, he'll get his wish and then some," Denise said sourly. She peered at Sangeeta, who had sat quietly listening throughout. "What about you?"

"I saw a tornado as a child," Sangeeta said. "I admit, it was at a distance, and I merely watched it crossing the horizon. But I saw it do damage, and it frightened a healthy respect into me. Tornadoes are not confined to the States, you see. I am from India." She suddenly grinned wickedly, her big dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "Someone should tell Simon Lightwood-Wynton that England gets them as well!"

"Would that he could see one," Leslie intoned dramatically, and all four women broke into laughter. At that point there was a knock on the door, and Denise got up to answer it; it was Wayne.

"I gotta talk to you," he said insistently, and Denise sighed.

"All right, okay," she said and turned to the others. "Be back in a few."

"We'll let you in," Leslie promised and watched Denise walk out. I hope she doesn't wind up telling the entire tour group that he's never seen a tornado, she thought with a twinge of disquiet. That'd be all it would take to touch off chaos that'd probably rival that twister Blanchard's hoping we'll see!