§ § § -- March 5, 1979

Going through the lunch line seemed to take forever, Leslie thought; she was bursting to talk about her incredible weekend with her new friends, and it was all she could do not to push her way to the front of the line so she could start talking. Finally she did make it through and almost ran back to their table with her tray, glad the others had already sat down and were waiting for her. "You sure look excited," Lauren remarked. "Was your weekend that great?"

"It was fabulous," Leslie said eagerly. "You won't believe it—I almost didn't. Mr. Roarke and Tattoo let me come with them to the plane dock and greet their guests, and I even got to watch Mr. Roarke fulfill their fantasies!"

"No kidding, really?" Myeko asked, eyes popping.

"Yeah! I mean, after I first got here and he helped me break the curse on my family, he said maybe I could help him and Tattoo with the fantasies on the weekends. I was afraid he was just saying that, you know how adults are…so I asked him if he really would do it, and he said he thought it'd be a great way to earn an allowance."

"Neat idea," Lauren said.

"What kind of fantasies did he grant?" Michiko asked curiously.

"Well, there was this lady who gave up her twin son and daughter for adoption—she wanted to be at their birthday party, just once, 'cause she never saw them again after they got adopted. They turned 30 this weekend. The other one was even better—this guy wrote a book about ghostbusting, and he came off sounding like a real authority about it, except for one thing—he'd never actually busted a ghost. So he wanted Mr. Roarke to provide him with a real ghost he could bust, just to prove his book was legit."

"Wow," her friends uttered, looking at one another with interest. "So," Myeko added, "did he get one?"

"Well, sort of. It turned out it was just this character playing pranks and trying to discredit the proprietress of that rich-girls' school that's closing down," Leslie said. "But he fell in love with the proprietress and she left the island with him. So even if he didn't really bust a ghost, he got something a lot better."

"Really cool," Lauren said, and Michiko and Myeko nodded. "So are you gonna be backstage for all Mr. Roarke's fantasies from now on?"

Leslie shrugged. "I hope so. At least, he said I could."

"Cool!" her friends exclaimed, and Leslie grinned, finally feeling as though she had something to contribute to their lunchtime conversations. Mondays would be a lot less crummy, she thought, now that she could regale her friends with these stories.

When she returned to the main house, Roarke was at the desk trying to catch up on the accounting he never had time for other than on Mondays. He looked up as she came in. "Hello, Leslie, how was your day in school?" he inquired.

"Not too bad for a Monday," she replied, dropping her books into one of the club chairs in front of his desk and sitting down in the other. "I have homework in only one subject, and I think I did pretty well on a science test, but I won't know till tomorrow."

"Good for you," said Roarke warmly.

"And lunch was great too. I finally really had something to talk to my friends about. I told them all about what a fantastic weekend I had," Leslie said enthusiastically.

That seemed to freeze him; he paused, then focused on her with a sudden odd quality in his gaze. "What exactly did you tell them?"

Uneasily she said, "Well, I just told them a little bit about the fantasies, and how I get to be in on them a little bit now…" She trailed off, seeing the growing disapproval on her new guardian's face. Her gut squeezed in that old familiar panic she'd always gotten when her late father discovered she'd done something she shouldn't have. His wrath had been something to behold; and while she'd enjoyed it whenever Kelly deliberately provoked it, as she so deftly did, it had been entirely another story when it was directed at her. She had no reason to believe this man was any different. "I messed up, didn't I?" she asked in a tiny voice. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Roarke, whatever I did…"

Roarke straightened up from the desk and then sat back in the chair, looking relaxed but wearing a stern expression. "Did you have permission to tell anyone else about those fantasies, Leslie?"

Leslie squirmed in her chair and hunched into herself, barely able to meet his gaze. "N-no," she admitted, barely audible to herself, never mind him.

But he heard her. "Perhaps in part it was my fault; I should have advised you of this before we began," he said, half to himself, "although I didn't expect to have a reason to do so. Nevertheless, I'll tell you now: it is my strict and unbreachable policy to uphold my guests' privacy. Their reasons for coming here are their own, no matter how exotic or glamorous or even peculiar they may appear to be. Every person's private fantasy is legitimate and sacred to that person, and everyone deserves to have their dreams brought to life in confidence and security. What happens here on Fantasy Island does not go beyond our borders. I don't discuss my business with anyone—not even other islanders, at least those who are not directly in my employ. I want you to remember that from now on."

She felt like the Incredible Shrinking Kid. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke," she whispered helplessly, letting her head fall forward. "I…I promise I'll never do it again." She began to wish she had never opened her mouth at lunch. Now her friends were going to expect to hear about her weekend adventures every Monday at school, and all she'd be able to tell them was that her guardian had said she had to keep it a secret! "Is…is it okay if I go up and do my homework?" she mumbled, wanting nothing more than to get out from under his disapproving stare.

"Yes, very well, Leslie," he agreed, and she seized her books and fled up the stairs as fast as her feet would take her. She quietly closed the door to her room, toed off her shoes and shoved them in the closet, and sat at the small desk, trying to concentrate on her English grammar homework. Fortunately the subject was easy for her and she was able to make short work of it, despite her inability to keep her mind on what she was doing. She dreaded going down for supper; by then she suspected Roarke would have some horrible punishment waiting for her—maybe even forbidding her to help with the fantasies! She curled up in the window seat and stared unseeingly out, certain she'd never truly fit in here. She missed her mother and sisters more than ever, and over and over again had to battle back the tears she had been conditioned by Michael Hamilton never to shed.

At supper she was subdued and quiet, eating what was on her plate without joining in the conversation, waiting for Roarke's verdict to crash down on her head. Maybe if she ate fast enough, she could get away and back to her room before he remembered…

Halfway through the meal, Tattoo asked, "Leslie, why aren't you talking? Don't tell me you got laryngitis from somebody at school."

Leslie glanced up at him and tried to smile, but failed utterly. "No, I'm okay," she said and hurriedly turned her attention back to her plate.

"If you're okay, then why do you look like somebody beat you up?" Tattoo wanted to know. "Something's wrong, you ought to tell us about it."

She dared not look at Roarke. "I don't want to talk about it." With that she huddled over her plate, desperately wishing Tattoo would just pretend she wasn't there.

Suddenly she heard Roarke chuckle from the other end of the table. "She committed a minor breach of etiquette at school today, when she told her friends about her weekend and described our guests' fantasies to them."

"Oh, I see," Tattoo drawled thoughtfully. After a moment he asked, "What exactly did you say to them, Leslie?"

There was something sympathetic in his tone of voice that gave her a slim thread of hope. Looking up at him, she said pleadingly, "I just kind of summarized the fantasies and a little bit about how one of them ended. I didn't tell them anyone's names or anything like that, honest." She bit her lip. "I thought it'd be…exciting. I don't like just sitting there like some dopey moron while they're talking about stuff at lunch. I'm so new I don't know anything yet…I don't know where the girls hang out on the weekends or whatever. I just wanted to be able to join in the conversation."

"Hey, that's only natural," Tattoo said, nodding. He looked at Roarke, who had been watching in a slightly bemused silence. "So how were you planning to punish her, boss?"

"Punish her?" echoed Roarke with real surprise. "I had no such thing in mind. I merely explained to her my privacy policy with regard to my guests, and she agreed not to speak of it anymore. The matter is closed, as far as I am concerned."

"But she didn't really say that much—you heard her. Come on, boss, have a heart. Leslie's brand-new here and she's just trying to fit in with her new friends. She says she didn't give out any names or other details, just explained what the fantasies were."

"Tattoo, you know full well that privacy is a paramount concern in a business such as mine," Roarke said reprovingly.

"Oh, I know that," Tattoo said, a trace of impatience in his voice. "But these are a bunch of girls. What are they gonna do with that kind of stuff? All they want is to hear how Leslie spent her weekend. You see what I mean? It's not the people they're interested in, it's the fantasies. And I bet they're more interested in how the fantasies come to life than in why the guests want them."

Roarke stared at him. "Tattoo…"

"Boss, seriously. They're teenage girls, not government spies!" Tattoo exclaimed.

Leslie, slightly encouraged by his unexpected defense, spoke up timidly. "I wouldn't tell anyone except my friends, Mr. Roarke, and I can trust them not to blab. And it's like Tattoo said, it's really the fantasies, not the people."

Roarke looked back and forth between the two for a moment, then suddenly started to chuckle resignedly. "So this is how it's to be, is it, then? The two of you ganging up on me?" Tattoo just grinned unrepentantly, and Roarke finally laughed outright. "Perhaps you have a valid point, my friend. Very well, Leslie, you may tell your friends about your weekends—but no more than you told them today at school. And I think it's a good idea if you let them know that I prefer they not talk about it with anyone else they know, either at school or at home. Just tell them it's a strict rule I have, and they will understand."

"There you go," said Tattoo cheerfully, patting Leslie's arm. "That way the boss is the bad guy, and you're off the hook."

"Tattoo…" Roarke said warningly, and Leslie giggled, relief flooding her. Spirits back up once more, she resumed eating her meal.

§ § § -- November 14, 2005

"And every Monday after that," Leslie concluded, "up till the last week right before our graduation, I told the girls about my weekends. That's all there was to it."

Christian laughed. "I just find it interesting that you got into such trouble within two weeks of your arrival here. Was that a pattern?"

"No," Leslie shot back defensively, then snapped her mouth closed, seeing the enormous amusement on Roarke's and Christian's faces. "Oh, brother, I've really created a monster now, haven't I. You won't quit till every stupid thing I did between the ages of thirteen and twenty has been hung out to dry."

"Oh, we won't go quite that far," Roarke assured her. "Otherwise we'd be here till tomorrow afternoon." He chuckled at Leslie's dirty look, which this time she meant wholeheartedly. "But that was just the first of many scrapes that she managed to get herself into. Fortunately most of them were minor, but there was one incident I found it quite difficult to overlook. I'm sure you know which one I refer to, Leslie."

She tensed in spite of herself; the memory was still a sore spot even a quarter-century later. "The time-travel incident?"

"The very one," Roarke said with a nod. He saw her wince and let out a laugh. "Perhaps it will help lessen the sting you apparently still feel if you tell Christian about it yourself, since after all I'm sure he'll want to know just what you saw."

Leslie sighed. "It wasn't even worth it," she muttered, and Roarke laughed again.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense," Christian urged, "tell me about it."

§ § § -- September 6, 1980

"And this guest may hold a bit of interest for you, Leslie," Roarke introduced their second fantasizing guest of the weekend. "Her name is Amy Olsen, and she currently lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico; but she grew up in Susanville, California, and it is her hope to return to her senior year of high school there and revisit what she says were the best memories she has ever had."

Leslie stared at the blonde, Scandinavian-looking woman who stepped off the dock in a pair of impossibly high heels, daintily holding a large drink glass in one hand. Amy Olsen was quite tall; her hair gleamed buttercup-yellow in the late-summer sun, and she was clad in an elegant, tailored and undoubtedly very expensive skirt, blouse and blazer. "She grew up in Susanville?" she finally asked, unsure of her feelings about that. Susanville represented a wealth of turbulent memories for her, and her departure from that town just shy of two years ago now had been one of mingled relief and fear. "How come she doesn't still live there, if she wants to go back so badly?"

"She received a very lucrative job offer in Santa Fe after her graduation from college three years ago, and she enjoys her job very much. But lately she has been thinking about her old friends from high school, all of whom she has since lost touch with, and she says she has begun to wonder if her high-school memories are as good as she recalls them. So she wishes to return to that year, the spring of 1973, and find out. She has a chance to move back home, but it would mean a reduction in pay; she is wondering if it would be worth it."

Leslie slanted Roarke a look, wondering if he knew more about her than she thought. If she had a chance later, she was going to ask him. "Huh."

"Is she going to revisit just a weekend, or how do you mean to do it?" Tattoo asked.

"She will spend two days in school with her friends, as if she were a teenager once again," said Roarke. "We have provided the wardrobe that was current in those days, and she will be visiting a hairstylist, so that she will fit in properly."

"Is this real time travel?" Leslie asked, frowning. "I mean, wouldn't she run into herself from back then?"

Roarke said nothing, only cast her a faintly reproving look. "Don't ask too many questions, Leslie," Tattoo advised, favoring his boss with a resigned glance. "You'll never get any answers. Trust me, I know—I've been here more than twenty years. Anyway, the boss gets around that. He always does, you know."

Later, as she tended to do, Leslie remained a quiet background observer while Roarke explained to Amy Olsen how her fantasy would take place and what she needed to do before she began. The young woman accepted this without appearing to consider any of the thorny time-travel questions Leslie had been unable to quit thinking up, and instead asked, "Where do I go in order to go back?"

"When you return, dressed as the high-schooler you were seven years ago, you will go through that door," said Roarke, gesturing at the door beside the stairs that led to what Leslie had early on dubbed the time-travel room. "From there, your fantasy will begin."

When Amy Olsen had departed for her bungalow and her transformation into an early-70s teenager, Leslie looked accusingly at her guardian. "How'd you know?"

"Know what?" Roarke asked, handing Tattoo a stack of envelopes.

"That we moved from Connecticut to California in May 1973," she said, as if issuing him a challenge. "She's going back to a time when I was there with my parents and my sisters. For all I know, she even babysat us."

Roarke chuckled. "Do you have that much trouble recalling babysitters from your childhood?"

"We had hardly any," Leslie said. "My jerk of a father saw to that. We got sat for only once that summer, because Mom actually threatened to leave him if he didn't just once do something for her. So he took it seriously and they went out to eat or something, and the twins and I had a sitter. I can't even remember her now, we never saw her again. But it could've been Amy Olsen."

"Perhaps," Roarke said. "But I expect that's not the issue at stake here, is it?"

"No," Leslie said, relieved just this once that he was so perceptive. "Mr. Roarke, you know the anniversary of…of the fire is only three days from now. You brought Amy Olsen here this weekend, right before that date, on purpose, didn't you?"

Roarke paused, and both he and Tattoo stared at her. "Leslie, I can assure you that the dates are a mere coincidence," Roarke said. "I never set out with such an intention."

She wasn't convinced. "If you say so."

Roarke regarded her with some unreadable look for a couple or three more seconds, then changed the subject. "Suppose you take Tattoo over to town so that these letters can go out. There's a great deal of incoming mail to pick up, and it will take both of you to collect all of it and get it back here."

Sensing the subject was closed, and no more willing to argue with her guardian than she had ever been, she shrugged agreement and got up, taking a car key. But for the rest of that morning, she couldn't get it off her mind. It just seemed too fishy to her.

By the time she went to bed that night, she was consumed. If Amy Olsen, and who knew how many other guests, could go back in time, why couldn't she herself do it too? She supposed the only reason she hadn't had the chance was that she was somehow disqualified, like the employees of a company sponsoring a contest, just because she was Roarke's ward. But he never seemed to have any trouble letting others revisit their pasts. Why not her too? Fair was fair, wasn't it?

The problem was that she knew he wouldn't let her go back—especially not in this case, even though she had plenty of reason to want to. Though the thought of revisiting Susanville made her shudder because of the memories of that fire and its aftermath, the idea of seeing her mother alive, one final time, was far more than she could resist.

Amy Olsen wasn't going to be back in the present day till sometime tomorrow evening, Leslie knew. That meant the window to the past would still be open, as Roarke would put it, and the link through the time-travel room would be active. She lay in bed staring into the darkness of her room, swamped with longing to see her mother and talk to her just one more time. The first anniversary of Shannon Hamilton's death the previous year had left her depressed for several weeks, and so blue on the actual date that nothing either Roarke or Tattoo did could coax her out of it. This year it was as though Roarke had dropped a gift right into her lap, whether he knew it or not. Why shouldn't she take advantage?

Mind made up, she slipped out of bed and changed quickly into jeans and a T-shirt, then picked up her sandals to carry with her till she was actually back in the Susanville of 1973. No need to make a lot of noise on the steps with her shoes. Easing her bedroom door open, she checked the hallway carefully to make certain all the lights were out, then picked her way out of the room and down the stairs, one cautious step at a time.

She made it down the stairs without incident and paused in front of the time-travel-room door, taking a couple of deep breaths and imagining what it'd be like to see her mother alive and well again. A small smile crossed her face, and she reached out and grasped the knob, turning it slowly, easing the door open.

The room within was pitch-black and she could see absolutely nothing; there wasn't any light anywhere. But somewhere, as if in the distance, she thought she heard voices, and carefully closed the door so she could hear them better. Is this what it's like for Mr. Roarke's guests to travel back in time? she wondered. Do they hear things first, and then see them after, or what? What do I do now so I can see Mom? She took a step or two forward (or at least she thought it was forward in this featureless dark), and the voices seemed to grow just a little bit louder. Encouraged, she put out a hand as a guide and began to inch forward.

It happened all at once. Light flooded the room, the distant voices went silent, and Roarke's stern, angry one took over, demanding low, "Precisely what do you think you're doing in here, Leslie Susan Hamilton?"

She'd been with him for a year and a half by now, and she'd thought she was used to him and his ways, but she'd never heard him sound quite that angry. It brought back too many memories of Michael Hamilton. Ever so slowly, she risked a peek over her shoulder at him and instantly cringed at the sight of Roarke's face. "Don't hit me," she begged before she could stop to think.

There was a moment of silence; then Roarke sighed, sounding just a little frustrated. "I thought you knew me better than that, young lady," he scolded, his anger with her only barely held in check, giving his voice a thick edge. "Have you so quickly forgotten my promise to you that I would never raise my hand to you in anger?"

Leslie felt heat flood her from head to toe and tried to huddle into herself. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke," she mumbled helplessly.

"We'll put that aside for the moment," Roarke said a little brusquely and grasped her arm, tugging her back into the study and dousing the light before closing the door behind her. The light she now saw him by emanated from the upstairs-hallway ceiling fixture. "I repeat, why were you in that room? Aren't you aware that it's active right now?"

"I know it is," Leslie murmured miserably, cursing her own impulsiveness. "But I just couldn't stop myself. I guess I didn't really want to."

"Stop yourself from doing what?" Roarke wanted to know.

She dared to meet his gaze, that yearning for Shannon overtaking her once more. It gleamed through in her plaintive voice. "I wanted to see Mom just one more time."

At that revelation, Roarke's expression shifted from anger to startled realization. "I should have known," he murmured, almost in a whisper, before focusing on her again. "You do realize why that isn't possible, don't you?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "No," she said, and suddenly her earlier thoughts came tumbling out of her, mixed with her thwarted need. "How come it's okay for Amy Olsen to go back, but not me? Am I ineligible because I work for you or live with you or something? You must've known it's almost the anniversary of when Mom and Kristy and Kelly died, and you had to've known I'd notice a guest from Susanville…come on, Mr. Roarke, why can't I see her, just once? Just once!" Her emotions overcame her, making her inarticulate and sending her into a flood of tears, to her disgust.

She felt Roarke gather her into his arms and try to comfort her. "Calm yourself a little, child, please. Why don't we go back up to your room and I'll try to explain it to you." She let him lead her up the steps, trying to curb her sobs and tamp down annoyance at that way Roarke always seemed to have of knowing too much. She'd been so sure he was asleep and that she'd been quiet going down there; how on earth had he managed to catch her before she could escape into the time tunnel, or whatever it was?

In her room, Roarke sat on the bed beside her and waited till she'd gotten enough control over herself to face him. "Leslie, before I explain anything to you, I need to be certain you understand what a risk you were taking. You cannot simply walk into that room when it's in active mode and expect to get the result you want. It's too complicated for me to explain to you in detail, but suffice it to say that traveling through time is not a task to be undertaken casually. For you to have attempted it without expert supervision would have been dangerous in the extreme."

Leslie nodded comprehension, but she wasn't really satisfied. "Sure," she said just to make him think she agreed with him, impatient to get to the real subject. But, again, he saw through her, to her chagrin and annoyance.

"I know you think I'm treating you like a small child who doesn't have the capacity to grasp the concepts we're dealing with here. Perhaps this will help: you know full well I have to make preparations at least a week in advance when I'm dealing with a fantasy such as Ms. Olsen's. Even I, with my powers, can't control the proclivities of temporal journeys without being very sure that the conditions are favorable. The calibrations have to be minutely exact for the venture to succeed. Think of it as a scientific undertaking."

Leslie didn't want to admit that she understood better now, but she did anyway. "Okay, Mr. Roarke, I get the picture," she said through a sigh. "But that still doesn't explain why she can go back and I can't, when we're going to the same place."

"I don't grant these fantasies lightly, Leslie," he said, gently admonishing. "You see the mail I get; you know as well as I do how many letters arrive here asking for the chance to return to some cherished period in a person's life. But I don't extend the privilege to many, and you know that as well. It's not merely the desire to go back—it's the reasons, and they must be good, compelling reasons."

"And mine weren't good enough," she filled in, sulking.

Roarke reached out and bracketed her face with his hands. "Leslie, I know you think I'm being unduly harsh on you, but try to consider my side. When I received Amy Olsen's letter, something in the phrasing she chose alerted me to the fact that she was trying to find out whether she was relying too heavily on nostalgia for the period she had in mind. I pursued the matter with her in correspondence, and she explained that she wanted to be honest with herself, to find out whether her regrets about falling out of touch with her high-school friends stemmed from selective nostalgia and latent dissatisfaction with her current life, or if she had made the correct decision to make her move to Santa Fe. She mentioned that she has been considering returning to Susanville to live, and wants to know if her homesickness is justified or if she's merely gazing through the proverbial rose-colored glasses. Do you see what I'm trying to tell you? She wishes to make an informed decision about her future."

"Whereas my reasons were…what?" Leslie challenged him. He knew so much about her already without her telling him, why not this too?

"Pure grief," said Roarke, "and a desire to see your mother, that and no more. Perhaps I sound as if I'm being unnecessarily hard on you, but think about it. If I allowed you to return once, you'd want to do it again each year, when the anniversary came back. Leaving aside the fact that my time-travel methods are not toys for you to utilize at your whim, you must learn to accept that you will never be able to see nor speak to your mother again, and that you have to continue on with your life."

She gaped at him, feeling betrayed. "Mr. Roarke…" she began, deeply hurt.

"Leslie, you know it's the truth, however unsavory. Think of it." His dark eyes took on a sheen of entreaty. "I understand the temptation, believe me. I understand it all too well. Do you think I'm not tempted myself, to go back to relive my days with Helena?"

She gasped softly, the complete comprehension of his position dawning on her with the force of a lightning bolt. "And you have to learn to get along without her too," she said dully, the old familiar pain filling her again.

"Yes, my child, exactly," Roarke said, very gently. "Sooner or later, everyone suffers a loss such as yours and mine. It's not pretty, but it's an unfortunate fact of life, a reality that we all must eventually deal with. Most in this world will never have even the chance to go back to some special moment in their lives. What would entitle me to take constant and reckless advantage of such an opportunity, just because I have the power to do so? You can't know how difficult it is for me sometimes. The more power one has, the more care one must take in exercising that power. It's true of governments, it's true of keepers of the law, it's true of monarchs—and most of all, it's especially true of me. It takes great discipline to use any power wisely, and there are too many who don't have that discipline nor the desire to gain it. In my position, with my abilities, it's absolutely paramount that I have that discipline, perhaps more than anyone else in the world, since I can do what no human can."

"And I have to develop it too, because I have constant access to it, even if I don't have the same powers you do," Leslie said, looking remorsefully up at him. "I see what you mean now, Mr. Roarke. I'm really sorry…I…I just didn't think, I only wanted to see Mom."

"I know, child, I know," he assured her.

"I guess I'll have to be punished somehow," she said, sighing again. "I've done some dumb things before, but I guess this one was a whopper. So I suppose the punishment's gonna have to be a whopper too."

Roarke laughed. "Oh, perhaps not," he said. "Considering the circumstances, it may be enough that you understand why I must deny you the privilege. Now, if there is ever a truly compelling and urgent reason for you to see your mother again, perhaps something can be arranged. But until then, you must have the strength and self-discipline to carry on with the life you were meant to live. All right?"

"Okay," she said reluctantly. "I hate it, but okay."

He chuckled, releasing her and patting her shoulder. "I believe it's enough that we've reached an understanding. And incidentally, if it seemed earlier that I felt you weren't yet old enough to fully grasp the problems behind arranging time-travel fantasies, I apologize. I'll try not to make that mistake again."

She laughed at his humorous delivery. "That's okay, Mr. Roarke. I guess sometimes I let being fifteen go to my head and I think I know more than I really do. Thanks for taking the time to explain it to me." Roarke smiled at her, arose and departed, wishing her a good night on the way out, and she changed for bed, lying awake in the dark for a long time and mulling over Roarke's words.

§ § § -- November 14, 2005

By the time Leslie finished narrating this tale, Christian looked pensive, all his humor having drained away. "What's wrong, my love?" she asked.

A touch sheepishly, Christian glanced at her and then focused on Roarke. "Perhaps it's a good thing Leslie chose to tell me that story," he remarked, sounding a little wistful. "I had been half-seriously considering asking you, at some point in the future, to allow me to see my mother again. Of course I would have asked that Leslie come with me, so that she could meet her…but having heard that tale, I think I'd better give up that little dream. As you told Leslie, my reasons probably aren't good enough."

Roarke smiled. "I'm sure you're aware that there did in fact come a time when it was necessary for Leslie to see her mother once again. I can hope that such a situation never arises for you, Christian, but be assured that if it ever becomes truly necessary, you will have the same opportunity to see your mother again that Leslie did hers."

Christian studied him a moment, as if trying to gauge his sincerity, then smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke." Roarke nodded once, and for a moment there was silence; then the prince composed himself with a visible effort. "Well, then, I'm sure you didn't stop committing breaches after that one, my darling."

"Of course not," said Leslie with a touch of amused sarcasm. "There was the first time I ever met Mephistopheles."

"What?" Christian blurted, sitting up straight in horror.

Leslie laughed. "Did you think the time Father and I went with you to fight off him and Count LiSciola was the first time I'd ever confronted him? As a matter of fact, it was my third. The second time was when I had to deal with Michael Hamilton's ghost—the time Father just mentioned when I got to see Mom again, for the one and only time ever. The first time, I was sixteen and just about as green and stupid as I ever was."

"I don't know if I want to hear about that one," Christian said, frowning.

"For better or for worse, my love," Leslie said, grinning. "Father'll help me—this is a long one, so here goes."