§ § § - July 14, 1996
Leslie watched the limousine's taillights vanish east along the Ring Road before turning and picking her way barefoot through the total blackness that was the passage into her favorite secluded little lagoon not too far from the fishing village. She had never put her murderous high heels back on, and now that she thought about it, she realized she had dropped them on the floor of the car and forgotten to take them with her when she got out here. No matter, the shoes would find their way back to her father in their own time. She'd torn runs in her pantyhose fleeing the lawn back at the ballroom where March Beaumont and Gina Clay were undoubtedly still having a blast, and equally undoubtedly innocent of the knowledge that she was gone. By the time she got into the sheltered depression that held her favorite rumination spot on the island, she discovered she had shredded the hose beyond all redemption, and had to stop and pull them off as well.
That left no other petty nuisances to distract herself with, so she plodded dejectedly to the little waterfall-fed pool toward the right-hand, eastern end of the depression. Her heart felt as though it were going to crack into a thousand sharp little slivers. Why had he had to spoil it by asking her to marry him? "Christian, Christian, why?" she whispered, her eyes filling with tears at last as she sank onto a large flat rock at the edge of the pool.
The irony of it all was that, if things had been different and she had been someone else, she would have accepted his proposal on the spot. Nothing would have stopped her, for the fact was that she loved him. The thought galvanized her for a moment, and she pulled in a slow, shocked breath. Oh sure, she'd told him so at the party—but now that she sat here feeling ready to shatter, she knew it was the unassailable truth and that she could never go back to her quietly single state. She had no idea how Christian had managed to do it, but in the mere week or so that they'd known each other, she had fallen deeply and hopelessly in love with him. There was no reversing the feeling, either; she was here for good.
She devoted some thought to wondering what had happened, what it was about him that had drawn her in so inexorably. After what she had been through five years earlier with Prince Errico of Arcolos and his asumption that she had to marry him just because he told her to, she had been sure ever since then that royalty would never again impress her in any way except at how thoroughly entitled they all seemed to think they were. She backhanded some tears aside, reflecting with regret that she'd have to rethink her prejudices, for Christian wasn't like that at all. Even after she'd discovered he was a prince, he had never been anything but friendly, open, warm, kind...they had laughed so much, talked even more, found they had practically everything in common. In short, he was just about everything she had ever wanted in a man, ever since she'd been old enough to consider the idea at all. He even beats out Teppo for how perfect he is for me, she realized, with a faint jolt of guilt in regard to her late husband. Wow, I sound like a traitor. But I guess Father would tell me it's long past time I got over Teppo. And after all, Teppo did have his faults. He was pretty hardheaded a lot of the time...and he sure wasn't in a hurry to try to get me away from his godawful family. She winced at the memories and shook her head hard to scatter them.
However, that brought back her agony over Christian. She hitched up the skirt of her gown till she had exposed her knees, then dangled her feet in the water, watching the reflections of stars rippling and distorting in the gentle wavelets she kicked up. What made him propose to me in the first place, anyway? she wondered. I'm just a nameless orphan without any family left on the entire planet, except for Father—and I'm only his adopted daughter, at that. Who in the world would ordinary old Leslie Hamilton be to someone like Christian—a prince from an actual ruling royal family, rich and well-known and used to the spotlight and all the best things in life?
But then she remembered the beach she had taken him to, and how he'd brought her nearly to the brink of ecstasy with just his kiss—holy paradise, but that man can kiss!—and the words he'd breathed into her ear: "I love you, my Leslie Rose." Now that she thought back, she realized it had registered at the time, but sat somewhat dormant in the back of her mind till now. At the time she'd been so high and witless from his long, sensuous kiss that she hadn't had the presence of mind to react. But his whispered declaration seemed to ring in her head like church bells now, resounding through her memory and making her eyes fill again. Princes never fall in love with nobodies, she argued with herself. Why me? How?
But even as she sat there asking herself this, she knew these were specious arguments that served only to hide her true reason for turning him down. She remembered her first thought in the second immediately following his proposal, and winced sharply: I could never do that to him. Not then, not now. If I married him, I'd destroy him. Sooner or later he'd die, and just like with all the others, it would be because of me, the jinx!
But she also remembered his stunned, deeply wounded expression in that last second before she'd run away from him. His voice had been full of that same anguish as he'd shouted after her. She knew she'd hurt him by turning him down, and it hurt her just as much; having found this amazing man and fallen so crazy in love with him, she wished with all her heart that she could have accepted. The memory was enough to break her down at last, and she dissolved into sobs. "Christian, oh Christian, why did you have to be so perfect?" she bawled aloud. "Why do I have to be such bad luck?"
She cried and cried, till eventually she emptied herself out and her eyes felt like a couple of broiled prawns. She had lost all track of time and had no idea how she was ever going to get home. Her face felt tight with dried tears, and for a moment she looked around for something to wipe it with before giving up and lying on her stomach on the rock, then hitching herself forward till she could lower her face into the water. She sucked in a breath, squeezed her burning eyes closed and dipped her face below the surface for a moment.
Standing up, she used the edges of her hands to push away as much water as she could, and wrung out her dripping bangs. She patted around the rock for the discarded pantyhose but couldn't find them, and made a halfhearted face.
Wondering if the island shuttle bus was still running, she picked her way barefoot out of the lagoon and back to the Ring Road. The moon had long since disappeared, and all she could hear was nature: crickets, the calls of night criers, the distant rush of the ocean, the occasional breeze rustling the trees. She shook her head; if she had to walk home, she wouldn't make it back till at least breakfast tomorrow. There had to be a better way.
She loitered by the side of the road, hoping a bus would be along, till she got fed up with the fruitless wait and struck out on her bare feet, taking the middle of the smooth pavement for a while. As she plodded along the road, remonstrations began to fill her head. Leslie Susan Hamilton, you have to be the dumbest thing alive, turning down that man just because you think he's going to drop dead merely from being around you. Wouldn't your father be the first to tell you that's just idiotic superstition and you should know better? But what if it happened again, though? What if I said yes and within a year he dropped dead for no reason at all? And it would've been because he was my husband. It's just not right; I kill everyone who tries to get that close to me. Father's immune because...well, because he's Father. But all the others—if Christian joins that list, he's going to be just the next in line.
Somewhere in the back of her head, there was a tiny voice trying to deal out reason, telling her that she hadn't been responsible for her mother's and sisters' deaths—that had been Michael Hamilton's fault. After all, how could she ever forget that horrible night in September 1978, watching him prime the house for fire and then seeing that hellish conflagration that had followed? Okay, okay...but still! And on top of all that, think about where you are, will you? It's Fantasy Island, where anything in the world can—and does—happen. Suppose some stupid vestige of that damn curse on my family sneaked back to haunt me and did Christian in? Once more her sore, swollen eyes filled with tears, stinging all the worse now. I love him so much, more than I ever thought I could love again...but I just can't do that to him. I can't marry him and then spend every day wondering if it was our last.
There was a roar behind her and the road lit up; she gasped and darted to the side, then realized there was a shuttle bus after all. She had no idea where she was or how long she'd been walking, but when it stopped for her, she climbed right aboard and gave the surprised driver a grateful smile.
Within twenty minutes she was home again, and in her room she was more than a little stunned to see that it was after 2:30 AM. It was a relief to remove the ballgown and pull on her favorite nightshirt, but she was still too wound up and tormented to sleep. Half wishing Roarke were awake, she padded back downstairs and out onto the veranda, again listening to the night creatures, wishing futile wishes.
Then she thought she heard a faint, regular crunching noise, as of footsteps on dirt, and turned to see a human figure slowly rounding the fountain. The stars didn't provide enough illumination for her to see who it was, and the one streetlight was mostly hidden by foliage. She took a step or two back toward the door, ready to flee inside the house.
"Leslie? Is that you?" a male voice called softly.
She stood up straight with surprise. "Christian?"
He hurried across the lane and scaled the four steps onto the porch in two eager jumps, then stopped a few feet away from her, one hand on the support post as if to brace himself. He was dressed only in white running shorts and a pair of ratty-looking sneakers, and seemed unsure of himself. "Hello, Leslie."
Absurdly, she missed his nickname for her. Nobody to blame but myself, she thought with an inward sigh. "What're you doing here at this hour?"
"I couldn't sleep. Why are you out here on the porch?" he countered.
"Same reason…but at least I'm still here at home," she said, hesitantly teasing. "How'd you wind up all the way over here?"
Christian grinned, flooding her with relief. "Well, perhaps my wandering wasn't as aimless as I hoped it would look," he confessed, and she giggled softly. "Oh, Leslie Rose, I was so shocked and worried about you. Why in the world did you run from me?" he asked, his voice soft and plaintive.
She bit her lip and hung her head, sighing long and deep. "I was afraid…" After a moment she made up her mind that he deserved to know the truth. "Christian, if I marry you, something might happen to you. Everyone related to me in any way at all, even by adoption, has died, except Father. I don't want that to happen to you."
"What makes you think it would?" he asked.
"I'm a jinx," she informed him, in a flat, hopeless voice.
"That's ridiculous," Christian announced firmly, coming to her and taking her hands in his. "Leslie, you aren't thinking rationally about this. Don't you realize that none of those deaths was your fault? You didn't cause any of those people to die. Your family died because of a curse, not because they were related to you. Your husband died because of some strange vendetta, not because he was married to you. Tattoo died because of health problems, not because he was your adopted uncle." He nodded when she stared at him in astonishment. "Am I making sense to you? Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"
"How did you…" she began, overwhelmed.
"I spoke with Mr. Roarke," said Christian. "He enlightened me quite a bit. Leslie, these things didn't happen because of some imaginary jinx. The causes in every case were circumstances that were beyond your control. You can't possibly tell me that if you didn't exist, they would all still be alive. The curse predated you by a dozen generations; your husband's trouble with that Finnish crime lord, or whoever he was, began before he met you; and Tattoo's ailments were with him from birth, long before you were ever born, never mind before he thought of you as his niece. Don't you see it?"
She gaped at him, astounded and speechless. She couldn't even find the words to admit to him that she had never looked at the situation that way. He smiled, watching his argument sink in, and slowly stroked her hair, waiting patiently for her to absorb it all.
Finally Leslie dared let herself think he might have a point. "It never occurred to me to see it like that," she said faintly. "Even Father never suggested any such thing to me."
"Maybe he hoped you would come to realize it for yourself," Christian said. "But you so stunned me by turning down my proposal, I thought I needed to point it out to you."
She shivered and half turned away from him. "But there were so many. Mormor, Mom, Kristy and Kelly, Teppo, Tattoo…even that poor misguided fool who gave me his surname. That's seven people close to me who've died. Doesn't that strike you as suspicious?"
"No," Christian said. "Unlucky, perhaps, but hardly suspicious."
Unconvinced, Leslie let her head drop back and sighed. "I still don't want to risk anything happening to you."
Christian, clearly searching for another means of persuasion, tensed with the strike of an idea. "Leslie, if you're afraid I'll take you away from here…you have my word you'll never have to leave this island."
That brought her back around to stare at him. "But if we were married, how could we be together if I didn't leave? You have to be on Lilla Jordsö—you're one of its royal family!"
"That doesn't necessarily mean anything," Christian told her, again taking her hands in his. "Listen to me. My oldest brother, King Arnulf, has three daughters to succeed him. If somehow they all met with early demises, then there's my second brother, Carl Johan, who has two sons. And if they were suddenly out of the picture, my sister Anna-Laura would take over as queen; and she has a daughter and a son of her own." He grinned when he saw he'd flabbergasted her again. "The point to all this is that there's no danger of my ever having to assume the throne of Lilla Jordsö, barring some localized natural disaster or an ambitious assassination plot. And I seriously doubt the imminence of either event. I'm tenth in line for the throne, and with so many before me, I daresay they can easily do without me. There's no shortage of successors to the monarchy. So that would free me to leave Lilla Jordsö and take up residence here on Fantasy Island, so that you could stay here and continue to be Mr. Roarke's assistant."
"But you're a prince, and that obligates you to do a lot of—" Leslie began.
Christian rolled his eyes. "Herregud, Leslie Hamilton, you can find a thousand excuses to refuse me. Truly, I find it extremely tedious at best. My nieces and nephews can take on all those princely duties you think I'm supposed to be shouldering. In any case, the monarchic rules of Lilla Jordsö state that any prince or princess who leaves the island to live with a spouse must forfeit his or her royal status. And I'm more than willing to do that."
"You'd give up your royal title just for me? And you'd move here to Fantasy Island, lock, stock and barrel?" Leslie asked incredulously.
"I certainly would," Christian replied without hesitation. "I love you that much." She blinked up at him, feeling herself wavering. He'd managed to shoot down all her protestations, yet she was still leery, and she knew he could see it. "Leslie, my darling, what does it take to get you to see the light?" He considered for a moment, then lit. "Ah, here's something. The deaths of your loved ones all happened elsewhere, didn't they? Your family in the United States, your husband in Finland, Tattoo in France. If I came here to the island, that might afford me some measure of protection."
Leslie frowned slightly, dubious at first; but as she turned over the concept in her head, it grew on her and she began to think maybe there was something to it. Could it really be possible? Hope sneaked in despite her better judgment, and she stole a peek at him from under her bangs. "Maybe you have something there," she murmured slowly. His own hope-filled smile caught her eye and she rested a finger over his lips. "Let me think about it, okay? I need to sleep on it."
"Don't keep me waiting too long, Leslie Rose," he requested quietly, "please."
"I'll see what I can do," she teased and grinned, then softened. "If it's any consolation, it killed me to say no. I love you, Christian—you worked a miracle on me, making me feel love when I thought it would never happen again." She lifted herself on tiptoe, unable to resist after all, and gave him a lingering kiss that left him short of breath. "I'll see you in the morning, I promise." He moaned, obviously frustrated, and she grinned again. "I know, I feel the same way. It's tempting to stay with you, but I need to think about this. Please be patient with me. I know I'm a pain in the neck, and I really appreciate it."
"Hah," he grumbled with exaggerated annoyance, and she laughed softly. "All right, but you'll see me back here immediately after breakfast." He kissed her and then shuffled off the porch, wandering away into the night. Leslie, her brain already working overtime, let herself back into the house and headed for her room, seeing that the clock showed well after three now, wondering if she was ever going to get any sleep at all tonight. Could Christian be right? Would his residence on the island be enough to keep him safe? Father, you always seem to have all the answers. Please, oh please, let this one be what I hope it'll be… She ultimately tossed and turned for almost an hour before drifting into a restless doze.