§ § § -- February 21, 1981

The dance company was warming up when Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo arrived, the latter armed with a sketchbook and charcoal pencils. "I heard the company needed a facility to work out new routines for their forthcoming world tour," Roarke explained as they made their entrance between tall plaster posts setting off the stage area, "so I contacted the general manager, Mr. Alfred Gérard, and invited them to come here."

Before his companions could react, a voice called out, "Mr. Roarke—hi!" A man with curly black hair and a compact, muscular build crossed the stage toward them and shook Roarke's hand. "I'm Mark Ellison."

"Ah, the director. This is Leslie, my ward." Leslie smiled in polite silence.

"Hi, Leslie. And this must be Tattoo, the artist. Mr. Gérard told me you're to be given the run of the house," Ellison said, shaking Tattoo's hand.

Tattoo smiled. "If you don't mind."

"Oh, not at all," Ellison said cheerfully. "Make yourselves at home."

Roarke thanked him, and Ellison turned away then and called out, "Okay, girls! Let's get ready for dress rehearsal!" He clapped his hands for emphasis, while Roarke turned to Tattoo.

"As you can see," he said, "Mr. Ellison has a great deal of work to do, so make sure you do not add to his problems."

Tattoo smiled confidently. "He won't even notice me. I don't take up much room!" He said this last to Leslie and joined in her soft laughter.

Roarke smiled, then straightened up. "We'd better hurry, Leslie."

Before they could go, however, Tattoo caught his arm. "Boss, thank you very much," he said softly, his eyes shining.

Roarke took his hand and gave it a hearty pat, then smiled, let him loose and gestured Leslie along. She lingered long enough to ask hopefully, "Show us your sketches later?"

"Of course, silly. Go on," Tattoo said indulgently. She grinned and followed Roarke out of the stage area, casting one last look back at Tattoo as the young Frenchman took a seat at a table with a good view of the stage and began to spread out his materials. She would have liked to watch the rehearsals herself, but this was Tattoo's fantasy, and she wasn't going to spoil his fun.

Within half an hour she, Roarke and Jerome Pepper were strolling slowly up a row of stalls at the island's stables, discussing Pepper's fantasy. "I'm sure that racehorses are fascinating animals, Mr. Roarke," Pepper remarked, looking a little uneasy, "but I don't see what they have to do with my fantasy."

"Oh, a great deal, Mr. Pepper," Roarke assured him. "Miss Latham has brought one of her father's horses here to train him for the racetrack."

"She has?" Pepper asked, obviously surprised. Roarke nodded, and Pepper shrugged. "Well, it's only natural that a person of her background should be, well, involved in the sport of kings, you know? She has a royal bearing—a regal beauty, poise, dignity, elegance! She's working in kitchenware only because her father wants her to learn the business from the ground up, you know?"

"Obviously, Mr. Pepper, yes," Roarke humored him, his attention suddenly distracted. "Oh, there she is now." Pepper glanced over his shoulder; his eyes widened and, to Roarke's surprise and Leslie's amusement, he ducked behind his host, as if to hide. Wondering what Thalia Latham must think of Pepper, Leslie watched the pretty brunette woman, at least ten years younger than her hapless admirer, approaching them, her attention on something in one hand. Roarke traded an amused glance with his ward before deliberately calling out, "Miss Latham?"

Thalia Latham looked up and brightened. "Mr. Roarke, how nice to see you…and hi, Leslie." Leslie smiled a greeting, and Roarke shook Thalia's hand; then the heiress noticed the cowering man behind him, peered more closely at him, and lit up with recognition. "Why, Jerome Pepper! From ladies' shoes! What a surprise!"

Given no choice, Pepper finally emerged from Roarke's shadow and met her extended hand with his own. "I'm very surprised, likewise…to see you here as well," Pepper said painfully. "Well, I'm happy and delighted…if you don't find that offensive…" The last word made Roarke turn his head enough to give Pepper a mildly strange look; Leslie could only think to herself that for once, here was someone who bumbled along in social situations worse than she did!

The sudden scream of a horse behind them distracted Thalia, and a faintly alarmed look crossed her face. "Excuse me, please," she said crisply and struck off for one of the stalls.

They watched her go for a moment, Pepper with a palpable longing about him; then Roarke turned to him and pointed out, "Now, she noticed you, Mr. Pepper, and recognized you at first glance!"

"Well," Pepper allowed, "she acknowledged my presence, but you do that much to a fly you find in your soup. 'Hello, fly.' 'Hello, Jerome.' " Leslie giggled at Pepper's playacting.

"Oh, come now, I'm sure no slight was meant," Roarke said reassuringly. "No, it's just that she's having serious problems with her horse, Pomona Prince."

Pepper could do no more than repeat the name before the stable door they were staring at splintered and crashed outward under the ferocious kicking of an enraged horse. Leslie took her turn hiding behind Roarke; she wasn't at all familiar with horses.

"Very serious problems," Roarke went on gravely, just as a stable hand came flying out the ruined door, landing flat on his back. They winced at the impact, looking on while the stable hand scrambled to his feet and out of the way of a pure white horse that charged out of the stall, squealing and bucking every attempt to get him back under control.

From behind them came a derisive feminine laugh; it turned out to belong to an older redheaded woman decked out in a riding outfit. "Oh, Mr. Roarke," she scoffed, "that poor girl might just as well pack up and go home right now. Why, she knows as much about horseflesh as her father knows about running a department store!" Chuckling in self-satisfaction, she patted Roarke's shoulder, then turned away to tend to a horse in a nearby stall.

Roarke's expression of forced politeness melted away and he lowered his voice to apprise Pepper and Leslie of the situation. "Mrs. Amelia Selby, owner of the Kentucky Derby winner Satin Duke—and Selby's department store of Philadelphia."

"Selby's!" Pepper muttered in aghast recognition. "It's Latham's only rival. We're more competitive than Macy's and Gimbel's."

Roarke nodded. "Mrs. Selby has challenged Mr. Latham's horse to match-race, and one hundred thousand dollars is at stake."

Amelia Selby glanced sidelong at them. "It's like stealing money from a blind man," she remarked smugly, and with that parting shot, walked away. Behind them Pomona Prince squealed again; Thalia Latham was still struggling to calm the horse, to no avail.

Pepper shook his head and burst out, "This is crazy! I mean, Miss Latham could be hurt very badly!" He started in her direction, but Roarke restrained him.

"I'm afraid she has only herself to blame," he said. "You see, her father didn't want to accept the bet, and he was going to sell the animal; but his daughter begged for a chance to prove that she could get him to race—and win. Unfortunately, Pomona Prince has put four stable hands in the hospital…so far."

Pepper looked around in frustration. "I feel so useless. I wish I could do something somehow."

Roarke beamed. "Oh, but I assure you, you can…and you will. Mr. Pepper, you are going to tame Pomona Prince; you are going to make him as gentle and obedient as a lamb. That certainly should make Miss Latham notice you, don't you think?" His words reminded Leslie then of a phone call she'd overheard him making earlier in the week, and she grinned with anticipation.

Pepper stared at him in disbelief. "But you gotta be joking! I'm a shoe salesman, not a bronco buster!"

"Of that I am well aware," said Roarke patiently. "Therefore, I have arranged for you to have the assistance of the ultimate expert."

"Professor Oats," Leslie put in, grinning.

Pepper peered blankly at her. "Professor Oats?"

Roarke nodded, turning to follow Leslie, who had already started away toward a horse trailer from which a large brown steed with a broad white stripe down his nose was just emerging, led by a young blonde. The horse was already bobbing his head as if in greeting to Leslie, who reached up and stroked his nose. Roarke stopped just behind her. "Mr. Jerome Pepper, may I present Professor Oats."

Pepper stared, then finally found his voice. "But…he's a horse!" Professor Oats raised his head and neighed loudly at them, making Leslie step back despite herself.

Roarke smiled again. "The Professor is a remarkable animal, Mr. Pepper—sensitive, highly intelligent, and extremely adept at controlling other animals. He can literally alter their personalities."

Pepper eyed him dubiously. "Oh, now, hold it, Mr. Roarke. Are you trying to tell me the Professor is some kind of…horse psychiatrist?"

"Uh, no, no…not exactly. But I promise you, Pomona Prince will be putty in his—hooves." Leslie rolled her eyes playfully at her guardian, and he responded with an equally playful fake smile at her. Just then they all heard a twinkling melody in the air and focused on a large white ice-cream truck just pulling onto the stable grounds. The driver got out with an enormous cone in one hand and hopped the fence, coming to them and holding it out in front of him like a trophy.

"The Professor's order, Mr. Roarke," he said cheerfully.

"Thank you." Roarke took the cone and handed it to Leslie. "Suppose you do the honors."

"Oh…okay." Leslie accepted the huge treat, balanced it in her hand, and presented it to the horse.

"He is partial to tutti-frutti," Roarke told Pepper, watching the Professor, who was eyeing the cone with what looked like suspicion. "Right, Professor?" The horse responded with a whinny and a toss of his head, making Roarke frown at him. "What do you mean, not enough topping? He's getting a little spoiled, Mr. Pepper," he said apologetically, while Leslie snickered. "Would you like me to put him through some of his paces?"

Pepper, intrigued despite himself, shrugged amiably. "Why not?"

Roarke nodded. "Stand over there, please, with Leslie." Pepper and Leslie both backed off; Roarke turned to the horse. "Now, Professor, would you mind telling Mr. Pepper—how old are you?" The horse stamped his hoof as Roarke counted: "One, two, three, four, five!" He turned to his two spectators. "See? Now, will you do a camel stretch for Mr. Pepper?" The Professor lowered his head almost to the ground and stretched out his front legs, his tail flipping vertically as he did so. "Kneel and say your prayers, Professor." At which the horse folded his lower front legs beneath him, and Leslie laughed aloud, making Pepper smile too. "Well," Roarke concluded, "I think you deserve a little nap now, Professor." With that, Professor Oats rolled over onto one side.

Pepper stared in astonishment as the horse scrambled back to his feet. "That's fantastic…it's unreal! There's no doubt that this animal is a very brilliant horse, but do you really think he can control Pomona Prince with a bunch of tricks?"

"Just leave everything to the Professor," Roarke assured him. "Right, Professor?" The horse nodded, and Roarke gestured at Leslie to give him his treat. In spite of his apparent complaint about the lack of topping, Professor Oats seemed more than happy to nip the cone from Leslie's hand in about four rather large bites. She giggled as he nuzzled her palm in thanks, and Roarke smiled at her and then nodded at a still-doubtful Jerome Pepper.

‡ ‡ ‡

Late in the afternoon Roarke brought Leslie around to the venue where the dancers were rehearsing, to see how Tattoo was doing; it was clear within moments of their arrival that Tattoo had never been more in his element, sketching away to his heart's content while the dancers rehearsed to the rollicking "Can-Can". They were about halfway through already; Leslie found herself watching the dancers as much as she did Tattoo, but she paid him enough attention to see that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Finally the rehearsal came to an end and Ellison got up from another table. "Okay, girls, that's it for today," he said. The dancers began to move off the stage, and he added, "Oh, and girls…very nice, by the way." They loosed whooping cheers in response and jogged off the stage; Tattoo smiled and began to glance through his sketches. Once the stage had cleared and things had quieted, he closed the sketchbook and arose to depart; about halfway to the exit, the same movement that both Roarke and Leslie saw arrested him and he stopped to see what it was. After another couple of seconds, a pretty, very young-looking blonde with a sweet, girlish face and a wistful look about her appeared at the top of the steps that comprised part of the stage set. Unaware she was being watched, she gazed dreamily around the stage, then swung down a couple of steps as if moving to music only she could hear.

Roarke might have turned away at that point, but at the same time he and Leslie both spied a reel-to-reel tape recorder in a corner of the seating area. They could also see Tattoo's interest in the young woman. Roarke smiled just slightly, then narrowed his eyes in concentration, and a second later the recorder clicked into motion. A melancholy-sounding instrumental began to play.

The girl on the steps glanced around in surprise, called out in French, and when she got no response, tried again in English: "Who's there?" Still no reply, although Tattoo stayed where he stood, watching her thoughtfully. He was hidden enough from view that she must have thought she was alone, for she finally succumbed to the impulse and slipped down onto the stage, dancing gracefully to the somewhat pensive music.

Tattoo, plainly impressed, reached through the spiral-carved support posts of the railing that ran alongside the tall plaster columns and set his sketchbook down onto the nearest table, then slipped through himself, all the while watching the lone dancer with a smile. He quickly flipped open his sketchbook and began swiftly drawing; Roarke and Leslie lingered, impressed by the performance.

When the music came to an end, the recorder switched off; Leslie cast Roarke a look, but apparently he'd had nothing to do with that, for he was watching Tattoo and the dancer. He seemed to feel her gaze on him, for he turned and gave her a curious look that made her redden and look away.

Meantime, Tattoo began applauding enthusiastically. "Bravo! Bravo!" he exclaimed over and over. For the first time the young woman saw him sitting there with the open sketchbook in front of him, his face wreathed in smiles. "Bravo! Oh, don't stop, please. You're wonderful!"

"Who are you?" she asked curiously.

"My name is Tattoo," he told her. "What's your name?"

"Solange," she said. "Solange Latignon. You startled me—I thought I was alone."

"You dance beautifully," Tattoo complimented her. "Are you with the troupe?"

"No," Solange admitted with a slightly sheepish smile, strolling over and sitting at his table. "I'm not really a dancer—not yet, but someday. I look after the costumes."

Tattoo smiled hopefully and ventured, "After so much dancing, you must be hungry."

"Starved," Solange confessed, grinning.

"Well, it's time for dinner," Tattoo said. "Will you do me the honor, please?"

As Solange accepted, Leslie looked up at Roarke and whispered, "I guess it's gonna be just us at the supper table tonight, Mr. Roarke."

He smiled and nodded agreement, watching Tattoo kiss the back of Solange's hand. "I suspect you're right. Let's leave them in peace." She allowed him to guide her back along the walkway and out of sight of Tattoo and Solange.

About an hour after Roarke and Leslie had eaten their own meal, Tattoo came in, looking annoyed. Roarke focused on him as he crossed the room and sank absentmindedly into a club chair. "Is something wrong, my friend? Didn't you enjoy your dinner with the young lady?"

Tattoo blinked and looked around, as if surprised he had ended up where he had; then he smiled a little and said, "Oh, of course, boss, I enjoyed it very much. Solange is a very sweet and pretty woman, and she's very good company. And she's so friendly and easy to talk to. She knows about art too—she commented on my sketches."

"Then how come you look like you want to throttle somebody?" Leslie asked.

"The director, Ellison," Tattoo said, his frown returning. "I don't know what made him do it…I thought he didn't mind my being around. But he showed up before Solange and I were finished eating, right after I asked her if she would sit for a formal portrait in oil, and warned me off her."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "How'd he do that?" Leslie wanted to know.

Tattoo shrugged helplessly. "I think Solange should be dancing with the troupe, not stuck sewing costumes. She dances so beautifully, I can't understand why she's only the seamstress. I saw her earlier after the others left the stage, dancing all by herself, and she's just wonderful. But Ellison seems to think she's a little girl or something. He said he was waiting for her to grow up, and I wondered if that was why he wouldn't let her dance. That's when he got all closed up and told me to stay away from her."

Roarke raised his eyebrows; Leslie made a face. "Well, that's mean," she said. "I mean, has that guy got something against you and Solange being friends now?"

Tattoo peered at her, then at Roarke with a look that suggested he was searching for answers. "Maybe. I don't know…it's just that something tells me he's afraid of any outside influences on her."

Leslie stared at him, alarmed. "But that's controlling," she protested. "Michael didn't want my sisters and me making any friends. That's what it sounds like Ellison's doing to Solange. Mr. Roarke, isn't there anything we can do?"

"It's not our place to interfere," Roarke said gently, noticing Tattoo's unhappiness and Leslie's disappointment. "The only person who can ultimately decide what is to happen to her is Miss Latignon herself. But don't worry, Tattoo, the weekend isn't over yet. I have a sense that the young lady has a mind of her own…very much like another young lady we both know." He turned a teasing look on Leslie, and Tattoo laughed, which relieved her enough that she didn't mind being the butt of Roarke's gentle jest.