§ § § -- November 8, 2003

Kane Mattson winced, watching Leslie go totally limp in Joey's arms and begin to sag to the ground. "Don't let her fall, guys," he pleaded. "She said she's been sick all day."

"Well, then, now that she's out for the count, she won't have to worry about that," said Bert with enormous satisfaction. "You got the note? For cryin' out loud, don't botch that up. That's the key to this whole operation."

"Right, the note," Kane muttered, slapping various pockets. "Wait a minute, you didn't give me any note. One of you must have it."

"Joey…" Bert growled.

"Well, I can't get the damn thing with Roarke's daughter hangin' outta my arms," Joey snapped. "C'mon, help me get her in the car. You too, buddy-boy, don't just stand there like a boob. She's a deadweight." Kane scrambled across the lane to the black sedan Bert and Joey had procured from somewhere (probably stolen, he suspected) and helped the two hoist the unconscious Leslie into the back seat, stretching her out. Kane tried to make her a little more comfortable while Joey went through his pockets and came up with a crumpled slip of paper. "Hey," he barked, poking Kane's shoulder, "do your job."

Kane grunted, straightened up and cast a nervous glance back at Leslie. "Are you guys sure that stuff won't hurt her?" he persisted.

"She'll be fine," Bert said. "C'mon, leave the note and let's get outta here before Roarke gets back, willya? Otherwise we're dead in the water."

Kane plucked the note out from between Joey's fingers and took the steps to the veranda two at a time, hastening across the porch and into the study, where he left the note lying atop Roarke's closed date book, in plain sight. The phone rang just as he was smoothing out the paper and he jumped violently and cursed, then fled back outside. It's just a fantasy, it's just a fantasy, he kept chanting to himself as he ran.

"You get in the back and make sure that girl doesn't bump her head on something," Bert instructed him gruffly when he rejoined them. "We're outta here."

Kane crawled into the back seat, lifting Leslie enough to make room for himself and then easing her back down across his lap with her head pillowed on his forearm. Looking at her gave him such a supreme case of the guilts that he closed his eyes for a moment, then spent the whole ride down the Ring Road staring out the window.

About twenty minutes later a car pulled into the lane and around the bend, parking in front of the quiet house. Christian got out of the driver's seat and crossed the porch, shaking his head to himself. He hadn't meant to work quite this late, but there had been so much to catch up on that he'd been forced to put in some overtime. As soon as he stepped into the inner foyer, he began, "I'm sorry, my Rose, things have really been—" He cut himself off when he realized the study was empty, and looked around in surprise. "Leslie?"

There was no reply; all he could hear was the chorus of crickets and the distant call of a night crier. Perplexed, Christian moved deeper into the room and went to the foot of the stairs, calling, "Leslie, are you up there?" Still no response. A fluttery feeling bloomed in his gut and he drifted over to the desk, where he noticed the answering machine was flashing. How long had the room been empty? Christian slipped behind the desk and then saw the paper lying atop the date book; it was a folded, creased sheet addressed to "Mr. Roarke and Prince Christian". With a frown he picked it up, opened it and read the message inside, his hazel eyes popping with shock. "Heilige hjusande ödet," he whispered, dropping into Roarke's chair in a stunned daze.

Not quite ten more minutes passed before Roarke came back. "Good evening, Christian," he greeted his son-in-law, stepping into the study, and then stopped and looked more closely at him. "Are you all right? Where is Leslie?"

"Perhaps this will answer your question," said Christian, holding out the paper.

Roarke took it. "What's this?" he asked, turning the page around and swiftly reading it. His dark eyes narrowed and his features iced over. "A ransom note!"

"Exactly so," said Christian, rising from the chair and leaning over the desk. "Herregud, Mr. Roarke, who on earth would want to kidnap Leslie?"

"I'm very much afraid I don't know," Roarke murmured, rereading the note, shaking his head once or twice. He looked up then and focused on Christian. "What exactly did you find when you arrived here?"

"Nothing," said Christian with a helpless shrug. "It was deadly quiet when I came in here. I called up the stairs, but there was no response—I thought perhaps she'd gotten sick again and I had just caught her in the bathroom. But she would have at least tried to answer me when I called her, and there was nothing at all."

Roarke stared once more at the note. "We have taken Leslie. If you want to see her alive and well, have three million dollars ready to pay by five o'clock Sunday afternoon, or we'll leave the island and take her with us, and you'll never see her again." He frowned and murmured, "Clearly this is the work of at least two people, judging from the 'we' and 'us' in the note. Perhaps…" He stilled suddenly and his gaze fell out of focus.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Roarke?" Christian asked anxiously.

"This may be partially my own fault," Roarke said, shaking his head again. "We have a guest here this weekend whose fantasy it was to commit the perfect crime. I had arranged for him to attempt holdups at the bank and the jeweler's, but in both cases he failed. It seems he graduated to more serious endeavors."

"The bank robbery this morning, and then the jewelry heist just after lunch?" Christian exclaimed. "You mean that was a fantasy?"

Roarke nodded. "As I said, he failed in both attempts. Apparently he found someone to help him in this scheme of his." His dark eyes glinted with fury. "And there is more danger than any of them may realize, what with Leslie ill…"

"I almost hope she gets sick on them," Christian muttered wryly, his own cold rage slowly beginning to heat up. "They'd deserve it. Mr. Roarke, I suggest we begin searching this moment, and I'll be right out there in the thick of it."

"There's little we can do at the moment," Roarke said. "They are determined to use Leslie as a bargaining chip, as the note indicates: after all, they want their money, and unless I miss my guess, they will keep her safe at least until the appointed hour tomorrow, to ensure that they receive the payment they expect. The sky has clouded over and there's no moonlight by which to work. The best thing you can do is to go home and get some sleep, Christian, so that you can be refreshed in the morning. I'm assuming, of course, that you're going to forgo work."

"Absolutely," Christian declared angrily. "Leslie is far more important to me than anything else, and I intend to be right there with the search party. Her kidnappers had better hope they don't come within arm's reach of me, or they'll regret it."

"Calm yourself, Christian," Roarke said kindly. "As I said, the only thing we can do for now is get some sleep. Try not to spend your night fretting. Leslie will be safe, and she will remain on the island. Why don't you return home, and come in the morning for breakfast. Just try to restrain yourself until at least seven o'clock."

Christian rolled his eyes, but managed a tight little smile. "I'll do my best, Mr. Roarke, but I don't anticipate getting very much sleep this night. That fantasizer…has anyone else ever taken such advantage of you?"

"Only once that I recall," Roarke said, "but I have a distinct feeling that this time the guest in question will find it very difficult, if not impossible, to see this scheme through to the end. Try to be patient; whatever else you do, keep a clear head. Losing your temper or pacing the floor all night will do nothing to help Leslie, and it can only harm you as well."

"I understand, Mr. Roarke, but as I said, I can't guarantee anything," Christian said through a deep sigh. "All right, then, I'll see you tomorrow morning."

When he left, Roarke considered the situation for a moment or two, then went down to the kitchen. To his surprise he found when he reached it that the door was closed. He knocked, and a moment later Mariki opened it. "Oh, Mr. Roarke! Can I get you anything?"

"No, no," Roarke said, "I need only to ask a question or two. Did you happen to hear anything unusual at all within the last half hour or so?"

Mariki thought for a few seconds, then shook her head. "No, I really didn't. All the girls are out with that stomach bug that Miss Leslie seems to have. I've been handling things alone in here all day. I was running the dishwasher about half an hour ago, and you know how loud that is, sir."

Roarke nodded; the appliances in this room were the most modern he could get, but they were industrial-caliber and designed to withstand frequent use. The dishwasher's noise filled the kitchen, and whenever she ran it Mariki closed the door to keep it from infiltrating the entire first floor of the house. "So you would have heard nothing, then," he said heavily.

"I'm sorry, sir," she replied. "Although I did happen to glance out the window while I was mopping, and saw a strange car pull out. It was almost totally dark by then, but I could see it was a black sedan. Or it looked black anyway."

Roarke asked, "Did you see anyone?"

"Couldn't make out anyone inside, no sir," Mariki told him. "Why?"

"We're looking for someone," said Roarke, without divulging the news of Leslie's abduction. "It's all right, Mariki, you've helped a bit. Thank you. Why don't you stop here for the night and go on home; you need not do any more here."

"All right, thank you, sir," she replied and smiled. Roarke smiled back and returned to the study, where he took his chair behind the desk and shook his head slowly. He'd never had a fantasizer turn on him quite this way; there had been the one, Frank Barton, who had actively tried to kill him, but he had known from the beginning that the man was mentally unstable and had a good idea what he could expect from him. This was something else entirely: an otherwise law-abiding and sensible man who suddenly seemed to go bad. He frowned with new anger. Leslie's safety was paramount, especially now. A sense of urgency took root within him and he picked up the phone to begin making calls.

§ § § -- November 9, 2003

Christian woke at first light and stared out the window beside the French doors to the upstairs deck, hearing rain falling and wondering if it would clear up before he left for the main house. His stomach had felt as if there were a lead boulder sitting in it ever since he'd departed for home the previous evening; he had been restless, pacing the floor despite Roarke's words, fear for Leslie and rage at her kidnappers boiling in him by turns. Christian didn't care about the ransom money; if necessary, he'd put up the entire three million himself just to be sure Leslie was back safe and sound. Nothing mattered to him as much as she did, and he was furious at being rendered powerless to help her. It tortured him that he had no idea where she was or who had her. He was surprised he'd even managed to get any sleep; but now that he was awake he knew that was it for the day for him.

He glanced at the clock; it was almost six. Swinging out of bed, he straightened the covers as best he could and smiled wryly to himself. Leslie still sometimes asked him to teach her jordiska; maybe he'd have to ask her to teach him to make a bed, a skill he had never learned even when living on his own, between his first two marriages. When his business had started really taking off around 1990, he'd finally had the wherewithal to hire a maid to come in for a couple of hours each day and do mundane housekeeping tasks, plus a full day on Mondays to effect a thorough housecleaning. Leslie, on the other hand, took care of most of the household chores herself when she was home. Christian winced, padding across the room to gather fresh clothes; he desperately wanted her back safe, and fought back a new rush of fear for her.

At a quarter to seven, showered, shaved, dressed and fortified with some coffee, he was on his way to the main house. For some reason he was heartened and relieved to see Roarke already at the breakfast table when he pulled up, and hope leaped in him as he came up onto the porch and went to join his father-in-law. "Any news?"

"I'm sorry, Christian, there's been nothing," Roarke replied. "But it's very early just yet. Have something to eat, and then we'll begin the search in earnest. I notified the police after you left last evening, and in just about half an hour we will start."

Christian sat down and sighed quietly. "I'm amazed I slept at all," he admitted. "I have no idea what Leslie might be going through right now."

Roarke smiled. "I doubt she's suffering very much, beyond her queasiness," he said reassuringly. "Don't forget, her kidnappers will want to keep her safe so that they have a better chance of collecting their ransom."

"Speaking of which…" Christian began.

"No, they'll get nothing," said Roarke. "They will think they are. I contacted the newspaper and asked them to run off a large batch of counterfeit bills overnight on their printing press—the sort we print for the bank to foil burglars there."

Christian raised an eyebrow and grinned a little. "I see," he said. "I must admit, however, I have to wonder how they managed to subdue Leslie. They would have had to knock her out, I'm thinking."

"Yes, I believe so," Roarke agreed. "But if my hunch plays out, we'll know all we need to know before the morning is out."