§ § § -- March 5, 2006
He was still gazing after the disappearing jeep when someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around in surprise to find Darius standing there grinning at him. "Hey, Christian, buddy! Looks like you survived the luau."
"Seems you did too," remarked Christian, chuckling. "How about a cup of coffee? The café does a good job with it."
"I had some with my breakfast, but thanks for the offer. Yeah, I guess the damn thing wasn't as bad as I thought. Maybe if I can get a permanent position with the hotel, I can start looking into moving here." Darius jammed his hands into his pockets and strolled alongside Christian as they wandered aimlessly toward the grassy middle of the square. "Do you mind telling me again what the chances are of my immigrating here?"
"I'm told it's quite difficult," Christian said. "Mr. Roarke's extremely strict when it comes to allowing people to move here permanently. I hear it helps if you have a job here, but other than marrying an islander, you'd have to be in a unique position to ask for citizenship or even asylum. Mr. Roarke keeps this place as a sort of haven for endangered species, and that includes human beings."
Darius frowned, confused. "Humans aren't an endangered species. Hell, we're the ones doing the endangering."
"Truer words were never spoken," Christian agreed, and they smiled ruefully at each other. "But what I mean by that is that…well, let me try to provide an example. You'd have to be, say, a member of a vanishing tribe of people, or you'd have to be fluent in a dead or dying language, or you'd need to be…oh, I don't know, superhuman, for lack of a better word. You can see the difficulty."
"Superhuman?" Darius repeated.
Christian had been afraid he'd fixate on that. "Presumably, to have powers in the vein of Mr. Roarke's," he said. "Not that most of the world believes in that sort of thing anymore, but if Mr. Roarke has them, why should he be the only one?"
"Huh, I guess," Darius murmured, looking doubtful, but letting it drop. "So I guess it means I'd need to speak something nobody's ever heard of, or maybe some old language that nobody's spoken in about a thousand years?"
"That's pretty much the size of it, yes. Do you?"
"Don't know a thing about languages. That was never my strong suit. And I'm not exactly the last of the Mohicans or anything like that. I guess that kills my chances of getting Mr. Roarke's approval."
"Maybe you have some unique talent that would interest him. Maybe you play an instrument that no one's even built in hundreds of years, or you've been developing a viable cure for the common cold and you're afraid someone's going to steal it from you unless you have protection here."
"Does it count if my kid is a child prodigy, or he's being abused by my ex-wife? I mean, what if it wasn't me, but somebody in my family?"
"Do you have a child prodigy and an ex-wife? I've heard of cases where people were allowed in with their families who wouldn't have had a chance on their own, just because one member has some qualifying characteristic. But listen, if you're just a normal, ordinary human being, then either you'd better find a likely-looking native girl and propose to her in a hurry, or resign yourself to being buried in the blizzards of Buffalo."
"Aw, hell, man…" Darius sighed. "Well, no, I haven't got either a child prodigy or an ex-wife, it was just an example off the top of my head. Say…suppose I learned how to play the dulcimer? Nobody's ever heard of that, right?"
"That might do the trick," Christian conceded, laughing. "I've heard of the dulcimer, but I've never heard one played or ever seen one, even pictures of them. How did you know about it?"
"My sister read about it in some historical romance novel once when she was a teenager, and talked about it for months after that. Guess it kind of stuck in my head. Well, okay, if that won't do it, how about if I bring back the last example of some rare plant?"
They continued brainstorming for quite a while, eventually going to the café after all and doing it over lunch. Finally, as they were finishing dessert, they were forced to concede defeat. Darius let out a heavy sigh and rested his chin in his hand. "I guess it's just not my destiny to live here," he remarked wistfully.
Christian, whose idea had been germinating all morning, could no longer hold it back. "Look," he said slowly, "I may have an idea. You'll…you'll have to give me time to see if it will work, but…if you'll meet me tomorrow in front of Fantasy Candies, I'll know by then if I can do it. What do you say?"
Darius peered at him with renewed hope. "What's the idea?"
"I might know of a job for you. But as I said, you'll have to give me time." It was a test; Christian had been telling himself for some little time now that if in fact Darius Langford was more than just an incidental role in his fantasy, then by tomorrow when they met, the candy shop would be Enstad Computer Services again and he could offer his friend a job. He had a receptionist in every branch but this one, and he'd begun to think lately that it was time he went ahead and hired one here. He liked Darius, who seemed to be a friendly sort and good with people; he thought Darius would do well in the job.
"Okay, I can do that. I'll find some kind of temporary work around here for today and then I'll meet you tomorrow. What time?"
Christian almost looked at his watch before remembering that he'd been advised to leave his Rolex at home for the weekend. He considered it for a moment or two, then said, "How about ten o'clock?"
"Sold," said Darius and reached across the table to shake hands. "You're cool, man."
"Don't thank me yet," Christian warned him. "It may not work out. I promise to do my best, but I need to…call in a few favors." You'd better be listening, Mr. Roarke.
"Hell, I don't care, I'll take what I can get. Hey, you take it easy, man, huh? I gotta get going and see what's out there." Darius left some money on the table and arose. "See ya tomorrow."
"Take care," said Christian and watched him hurry out before getting to his own feet. He scooped up Darius' cash and dug into his pocket for his wallet, stepping out of the booth as he did so and accidentally bumping into someone. He looked up and exclaimed, "I'm very sorry. Please forgive me."
"Why don'tcha watch where you're goin'?" demanded the beefy, florid-faced man in a loud Hawaiian shirt and cutoffs with bleached threads dangling from the hems. "Geez, a guy can't move around here without some two-bit idiot colliding with him."
"I said I was sorry," Christian said, scowling at him. "I suppose an apology just isn't good enough anymore."
The man shoved a finger into his face, making him shy away. "Don't gimme that. I know what happens in these places—crooks trying to distract you while they're picking your pocket. Stay away from me, or I'll sic the cops on you." He made his way out of the café, taking several opportunities to glare at Christian on the way.
"Speaking of idiots…" Christian muttered to himself in jordiska and wormed his way to the cash register to pay for his and Darius' meals. He couldn't help thinking that wouldn't have happened if that fool had recognized him, and suddenly began to understand a little bit what Roarke had meant when he'd said the life of the common man was fraught with its own perils. Darius' job problems, his brush with the suspicious tourist…he began to have a feeling he'd been just a little too lucky this weekend, and wondered what the rest of the day would bring.
‡ ‡ ‡
By mid-afternoon he was so bored that he was on his way to the swimming pool, hoping to burn off some of his restlessness in the water. Having received so much attention at the luau the previous evening made him slightly nervous about going there in only swim trunks, but no one paid him any attention at all, except for the occasional female wolf whistle. The noises made him smile but he didn't respond otherwise; he still had trouble trying not to think of Leslie, or the concerted effort he'd made to distance himself from her for the day. He'd started to regret it, but he didn't expect to see her till such time as Roarke deemed it convenient to call a halt to his fantasy.
At the pool he was surprised to find there weren't that many people there. It gave him the opportunity to slip into the sun-warmed water and get used to it before sucking in a breath and ducking under long enough to soak his hair. He had few opportunities to swim, but it had been a requirement of his physical-education classes during his last four years in school in Lilla Jordsö and he still had the skill. He pushed off from the wall and struck out across the pool, steadily eating away the distance, doing a clumsy somersault under the surface to get himself going the other way. He would never qualify for the Olympics, but that didn't bother him. He swam till his arms had begun to ache, which to his chagrin happened after only four and a half laps, and stopped in the middle of the pool to tread water and let his muscles rest.
"Wow, hi there, handsome," said a lilting female voice nearby, and he turned to stare at a woman who looked like something off a Paris catwalk. Or maybe she's the living incarnation of someone's Barbie-doll fantasy, he thought rather uncharitably, though for some reason he couldn't keep from staring at her face. She was not Leslie, not by far. Leslie had a gentle attractiveness that most would call pretty only when she had been professionally coifed and made up, the very sort of artless but sweet face that had always intrigued him from his teen years and had utterly captivated him when he'd first met her. This woman was well beyond that, so beautiful and physically flawless that he was instantly put off.
But Christian tended to forget his own classically handsome features, which even if he hadn't been royalty would have drawn women in droves. Sometimes he hated what he saw in the mirror, and now he found reason to dislike it that much more when the woman lazily stroked through the water toward him. She wore a bikini that barely met the definition of clothing, exposing so much of her body to public view that he thought she should be arrested for intent to indecently expose herself. Only the parts that absolutely had to be covered were covered; there was nothing left to the imagination. He swallowed his distaste and tried to be polite. "Hello," he said guardedly.
She flashed a brilliant, perfect smile at him (who capped her teeth? he wondered) and came to a halt so close to him that he maneuvered himself back a couple of inches, instinctively repulsed by her proximity. "My name's Felicia, what's yours?"
"Christian," he said reluctantly.
"Hi there, Christian," Felicia purred. Felicia, feline, he thought without warning, and nodded once, very wary. "Where're you from?"
"Lilla Jordsö," he said. He'd begun to tire of answering the question, and was stunned to realize he wished everyone knew him just so he wouldn't have to keep telling them this.
"My my, they sure grow them delicious-looking in Lilla Jordsö," Felicia commented, mangling the pronunciation but at least refraining from using the normal English translation of his country's name. "Maybe I should try visiting there sometime, if you're a typical citizen. Hey, what do you say we get together, huh? I'm staying at the B&B—I've got a nice private room in the wing. I bet we'd really click."
Never in all his life had Christian been openly propositioned for a purely sexual encounter, and he was astonished. "What?" was all he could think to say.
Felicia laughed low. "Are you telling me nobody else's laid claim on you yet, gorgeous? Geez, they don't have a clue what they're missing. Where've you been hiding all this time, anyway?" She had been edging closer to him as she spoke, and before he realized her intentions, she'd twined her arms around his neck and was suddenly kissing him.
Frozen by complete amazement, Christian let it happen for about five seconds before his senses flooded back and he twisted aside, forgetting to take a breath before he dove under and coming up spluttering a few yards away. Felicia was squawking, he realized. "You got my hair wet!" she shrieked, outraged.
"If you didn't want to get your hair wet, then what the hell are you doing in the pool?" he couldn't resist yelling back in annoyance, and to his surprise there was some laughter and applause from the onlookers sitting around the pool. He groaned to himself and dove back underwater once more, only to bump into someone else and lose his breath in one startled yelp. The air bubble boiled up between his face and that of another inhumanly beautiful young woman; he recoiled and surfaced.
The second woman followed him up. "Don't be so scared," she laughed. "Hi, I'm Cassandra, what's your name?"
He told her, and she grinned. "Nice name for a nice-looking guy. Well, if you're not interested in sweet Felicia over there, you and I could always get together."
Flustered, he tried to backpedal away. "Look…I'm really only here to work off some energy. I'm not looking for…"
"That's when you find someone—when you're not looking for them," Cassandra said cheerfully. "Don't pay any attention to Felicia. She's been here all weekend trolling for guys. The word subtle is a foreign term to her." His words seemed to sink in then. "Just to work off some energy? You're kidding. Some folks told me most lovers on this island first meet right here at the pool. It's no wonder, you know. It's probably the only place where they come to show off their bodies instead of swim, like at the beaches."
"Oh?" he murmured, wondering if Roarke and Leslie knew about this.
Cassandra shrugged. "It's where the rich and beautiful meet," she said and smiled. "What else would you be doing here but looking for another rich and beautiful person?"
"Swimming, perhaps?" Christian offered a trace sarcastically.
Cassandra peered oddly at him and shook her head a little. "Get up on the wrong side of the bed, did you?" she asked. Then a slow smile began to spread over her face. "Maybe if you'd shared it with someone, you'd be in a better mood. Looking for volunteers?"
"No," Christian barked, alarmed, and lunged for the nearest ladder to get out of the pool. Cassandra followed him out at some leisure, without his knowledge, till she caught up with him and startled him by slipping her hand firmly into his. Christian dropped his towel, flustered anew, and when he bent over to pick it up, he felt her hand slide along his backside. "Herregud," he blurted without thinking.
"Look, guys do it to us all the time, so why shouldn't we do it back?" Cassandra said, posing the question as a reasonable one, and Christian supposed it was, if taken in a much different context. "Anyway, I sure wouldn't object if you happened to do it to me. Where do you come from, anyway? You have this accent—just a little one, but I can hear it, and you have to know it really turns me on. Wherever you come from, if all the guys are as hot-looking as you, then I'm gonna book my next trip there."
"You don't understand. I'm not looking for any attachments," Christian protested at last, his brain having slowly regained some function as he stood there listening to her carrying on. "All I'm doing here is—" He never got to finish, for just like Felicia, Cassandra slid an arm around his neck, pulled him down to meet her, and kissed him.
Christian tried to pull back, but Cassandra was too quick for him and tightened her hold on him. He started to struggle, but she held control until there was a sudden exclamation in a familiar voice not far away. "Hey, for Pete's sake, get a room!"
Only then did Cassandra let go, and Christian stumbled backwards, trying to put some respectable distance between them. "Mind your own business," Cassandra retorted.
"I would if you weren't broadcasting your intentions all over the pool," said Myeko Okada, whose face wore its usual cheerful, open expression, as if she were teasing Cassandra. "If you two want to get it on, do it somewhere in private, or else I'll really have something juicy to write up in my newspaper column."
"Ach, fate help me, please don't," Christian pleaded miserably.
Myeko looked at him in surprise. "Huh? Oh, come on, I was just kidding. Hey, you look like you're getting sunburned, you'd better go put on some lotion." Christian groaned quietly, imagining his whole body must be red again. "And while you're at it, you might want to think about setting some limits on your girlfriend there."
"She's not my girlfriend," Christian shot back instantly, wanting to make this as clear as possible. "I know her name and that's all. She attacked me."
"I didn't attack you!" Cassandra protested angrily. "You were perfectly willing—"
"No, I was not," Christian broke in, his voice stony. "Forgive me, but I have no interest in…what's the phrase?...in 'shacking up' with a girl whose last name I don't even know. That's not my style and I don't intend to make it so. No wonder I never enjoyed running with the fast crowd. Living for the moment is for young fools who think they'll be indestructible forever. How I wish I'd never insisted on this stupid fantasy…" He glanced around the pool, noticed he'd garnered interest from almost everyone there, and shook his head. "I'm leaving. Excuse me." Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed his towel and departed as fast as he could walk.
This damned fantasy! he thought, steaming. If I hadn't given up my identity for the weekend, neither of those forward women would have dared lay a hand on me. Damn it, I'm a prince! Who do they think they are to plaster themselves all over me and force themselves on me? And suppose Leslie had come in? And then he remembered: he wasn't a prince just now, he was only an ordinary man; it wouldn't have mattered. Myeko hadn't recognized him, or she'd have gone ballistic at seeing Cassandra kissing him. Leslie might have looked at him askance, but there wouldn't have been a word of protest from her. He sighed, depressed again, and felt more lost than ever as he trudged dispiritedly along a path back to his bungalow. Maybe he should have taken the impulse he'd had this morning to hole up there all day after all.
Halfway there he changed his mind and decided to strike out for the beach where he tended to run off his frustrations. Ideally it would be deserted, but he knew better than to expect that in the daytime on a weekend. Still, he detoured to his bungalow long enough to put on shorts, a shirt and sandals before heading to the beach. It was still secluded enough to be sparsely populated, which was to his great relief. He shucked the shirt and sandals and began to run, paying no attention to anything but the sound of his feet slapping along the wet sand at the waterline, sometimes seeing his own faint and fading footprints being washed away on the return trips.
It was better than swimming; it cleared his mind, filling it with the fatigue he always went for on these runs. Back and forth he went, lap after lap, his breathing becoming increasingly rapid and labored, his body covered with a sheen of sweat, his pace gradually slowing. Time ceased to have any meaning. He started to droop a little, but he kept pushing himself, his frustration having ballooned to previously unknown heights. More, more, his mind insisted cruelly, even when his body screamed for relief. He slowed to a walk but still refused to stop moving, forcing tortured muscles to keep working. Back and forth…
"Christian…Christian, stop!" There was such a roaring in his ears he wasn't sure he hadn't hallucinated the voice. But he obeyed it anyway, and the moment he did, he collapsed to his knees, letting the incoming tide slosh across him, not caring about anything anymore. He'd had enough; he just wanted to escape into some manner of oblivion till he woke up in his own life again.