Rated R, contains vivid portrayals of intimate acts
*GUEST STARRiNG*
John Callahan as "Daniel Duncan"
Kim Thompson as "Abigail Smythe"
ONE
Roarke sighed and shook his head as he read Abigail Smythe’s form. Why didn’t these modern women dream higher, want more, than a simple romance? At least Ms. Smythe wasn’t looking for True Love, or a wedding. He re-read her neat handwriting. I wish, I want, are those the magic words? I want to meet a mysterious stranger on a mysterious island. I want roses and champagne and dancing. I want it all for a week -- no consequences, no commitments.
He frowned. He sensed something unusual about this fantasy, but could not quite put his finger on it. Ah well, these things tended to resolve themselves anyway, once he set things in motion. He set the form into the clipboard and checked his appearance in the mirror, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from his red tie, checking his cuffs, and smoothing the black Armani suit carefully.
Ariel, his assistant and sometime confidant breezed into his office, wearing a sand coloured skirt with a white tank top. It set off her dark hair and island tan beautifully. “Good morning, Roarke,” she said cheerfully, picking up the clipboard.
“Ariel, my dear, you look wonderful.” His compliment was sincere. One day perhaps...but no, he’d gotten into enough trouble that way.
They left the office together, Ariel reading the forms attached to her board curiously. Outside on the wide front steps, Harry joined them. On time and immaculately dressed as always. His punctuality had improved greatly since he’d lost his roommate.
“Harry,” Roarke acknowledged, as the three proceeded across the emerald lawn to the short pier where a seaplane was slowly coasting into berth. Two broad-shouldered men in white uniforms tied it fast as three sets of footsteps echoed on the wooden pier.
“Smiles, everyone,” Roarke reminded his employees automatically. One of these days, he was going to have to find a replacement for Cal.
“And Clia,” Ariel added, having caught his thought.
“Front office is not my responsibility.” Clia had worked in the Travel Agency with Fisher, responsible for directing those most needful to Fantasy Island. Seeing this week’s lot, he decided that since she’d quit, the quality had dropped considerably.
“You’ll leave it up to Fisher?” she asked raising an eyebrow as the first guest stepped off the plane and accepted a drink from the proffered tray.
"Hardly," he murmured, inspecting the man. He was of medium height, with average looks, blue eyes, brown hair cropped close to his skull. He wore tan trousers with a garish Hawaiian style shirt and looked
supremely uncomfortable.
“This is Mr. Daniel Duncan, a Roman Catholic Priest from Missoula, Montana. He wants to explore temptation, in all it’s many facets.”
“Sir?” Harry sounded confused.
“He wants to break all his vows, and have it not ‘count’,” Roarke clarified, unable to keep the sarcasm completely out of his voice.
The second guest followed, waiting for a hand down by one of the plane attendants. A woman with a generous figure, abundant red hair, and green eyes. She was dressed in denim cut-off shorts and a forest green peasant blouse bared her shoulders.
“Abigail Smythe, of Albany,” Roarke said with distaste, not for the woman herself, but for her fantasy. “She desires a meaningless six night stand.” Unable to withhold his exasperation he added, “Where does Fisher find these people?”
“New York?” Ariel ventured cheekily.
Roarke gave her a dark look.
“Smiles,” she reminded him with a wink.
He turned away from her and forced a smile. “My friends, I am your host, Mr. Roarke. Welcome to Fantasy Island!”
TWO
A glass wall gave an unrestricted view of the ocean from the modern mansion by the sea in which Roarke now sat. Across from him, behind a large oak desk sat Daniel Duncan. “Now, Mr. Duncan, I need you to sign these papers.”
“What is this, Mr. Roarke? I signed the liability waiver at the Travel Agency...” the younger man sounded bewildered.
“Mr. Duncan, you want to break all your priestly vows. Just staying in a fine mansion isn’t enough. This is the deed.” Roarke pushed the paper towards his guest, a cruel smile sneaking out in spite of himself as Daniel Duncan signed the paper.
“And this one, this gives you ownership and access to a Swiss bank account containing several hundred million dollars. Mind you,” Roarke held up a warning finger, “Not a penny can go to charitable donations, save on the advice of your accountant.”
“My what?”
Roarke crooked the still-upraised finger, and Harry moved into the large, open-concept room. “This is Harry Milton, your accountant. Sign the paper, please, Mr. Duncan.”
Duncan did.
“This is the deed to the "Pot O' Gold", a large Las Vegas casino that fills that bank account...”
“A casino!”
“Yes, Mr. Duncan,” Roarke smiled again.
Ariel walked into the room. “This is Ariel, your personal Fantasy Facilitator. She will fulfill your every desire. Won’t you, my dear?”
Ariel leaned across the desk, allowing Mr. Duncan a generous view down her tank top. “Your every desire,” she agreed huskily.
“Uh,” Daniel Duncan stammered. He stared. He blushed.
“Sign the paper, Mr. Duncan,” Roarke reminded him.
The papers signed, the fantasy well begun, Roarke prepared to return to his office and deal with Ms. Smythe.
Ariel stopped him and whispered, “Are you sure you can handle Abigail Smythe alone? I got a funny feeling about her.”
“Your hands are full, here, my dear.”
She looked at her assignment and giggled, “Not yet...”
Roarke stared at the woman on the other side of his desk, and finally asked curiously, “Ms. Smythe, you are a beautiful woman. Why this fantasy?”
She grinned at him, a twinkle in her eyes he did not understand. “You mean, but are too polite to say, men must offer to have non-committal sex with me all the time. Yes, they do. But, Mr. Roarke,” she leaned forward slightly, catching his eyes. “They are so ordinary! I want a mystery!”
Her eyes were not merely green but the blue-green of the ocean, and seemingly as deep. Roarke looked down at the papers before him and said, “Very well, Ms. Smythe. It shall be done.” He shuffled the papers on his desk, and waited for her to leave. “Is there something else?” he inquired politely when she did not move.
“That’s it? Just ‘hi-bye’ and it’s begun?” Her tone was incredulous.
“Yes, Ms. Smythe. We don’t do melodrama unless specifically requested. Your fantasy will play out as you desire. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do. Enjoy your stay, Ms. Smythe.” His tone was clipped and as dismissive as he could make it.
With obvious reluctance, the red-head left his office.
Alone, Roarke concentrated his will upon the wild magic of the island, focusing it’s power on Abigail Smythe. From her imagination would emerge her ideal of a mysterious fantasy lover, one who would be all she desired...and so much more.
THREE
Daniel Duncan stared out the glass wall at the three bikini-clad women on the beach. A blonde, a brunette and a redhead, equally beautiful, playing with an inflatable ball. As they jumped and laughed and played, their breasts bounced enticingly and their long legs
were displayed and splayed to advantage. Although he suspected Roarke had arranged for the trio, to ‘help’ him break his vow of chastity, he found the sight strangely unappealing. Yes, the women were beautiful, and more than half-naked, and their physical assets were obvious.... Daniel turned away from the window with a sigh.
He had already broken his vow of poverty. He was rich, richer than he’d ever dreamed. And from gambling. Surely that went beyond the breaking of his priestly vows? Feeling very uneasy, he returned to the desk. His desk, he reminded himself, and looked at the bank book.
Roarke had told him he couldn’t give any money to charity, but it was his now, wasn’t it? He could do whatever he wanted. Daniel wrote out ten thousand dollar checks to each of his favorite charities, and one to his own parish. His own parish. Located in a neighborhood that had once been upscale, it was now inhabited mostly by seniors too old
to keep up their properties. Or too poor. So many of them lived in poverty, stretching each pension check as far as possible each month. With another twinge of guilt, he ripped up the check to his own parish and rewrote it, doubling the figure.
Feeling better, Daniel addressed the envelopes. Could he mail them from here? Surely he could... He dialed in Ariel’s pager number and hung up, waiting for her to call. The phone rang instantly. “Ariel? I need to send some mail...”
She told him she would take care of it for him, and he smiled with pleasure at the small joys that money could bring.
Roarke opened the envelopes with a smirk. “Already trying to sop your conscience with money, Mr. Duncan?” he murmured to himself, flashing the envelopes into non-existence.
“Do I have servants?” Daniel asked Ariel curiously. He wanted to have a party, a feast, but he had no desire to do the cooking. Or the cleaning up afterward. That was what the church ladies were for... He flushed as the unkind thought tripped so casually through his mind.
“You have a housekeeper and a cook,” she told him. “If you want a party, I suggest you hiring a catering company. This one is the island’s best.” The pretty brunette handed him a business card that read,
“Thank you.”
Daniel planned his feast carefully, coordinating with his cook and the owner of Scotty’s Catering, finding it little different than arranging a church dinner.
 |
Daniel Duncan |
“How many people will we be feeding, Mr. Duncan?” Scotty asked deferentially.
That made him pause. Then he smiled, “Everyone on the island!”
Ariel smiled warmly, “Oh, that’s very generous! Most of us are employees, we can seldom afford such luxuries.”
Her comment fixed a seed of doubt in his mind. “Can I invite anyone? Anyone in the whole world?”
“It’s your fantasy,” she reminded him gently.
“The Pope,” he said reverently, “I want the Pope.”
“So do I,” said Ariel fervently.
Abigail Smythe checked into her tiny cottage, pleased that she wasn’t in the main hotel. She wasn’t even within sight of the hotel, and that made it more...mysterious.
She had not been completely honest with Mr. Roarke. Her fantasy was somewhat darker than she’d let on. All her life she’d had these urges she didn’t understand, to make mad, passionate love indiscriminately, at random, at the drop of a hat. A stranger would suddenly become a focus for sexual fantasies that she itched to make real.
Her therapist had called her a nymphomaniac. After researching the term, she had concluded that her therapist was full of shit. She had a very high self-esteem. She also had a very high-power sex drive. Several boyfriends had been frightened off by her insatiable appetite and desire for novelty. This week, she wanted to be able to indulge her psyche fully, with a partner equal to her. Without fear, without expectations, without consequences.
In point of fact, she’d already met the most mysterious man ever - her host, Mr. Roarke. He was handsome in an austere way - tall, lean, with an aura of danger. His white hair and piercing blue eyes only added to the attraction.
A mysterious man on a mysterious island.
She had the distinct feeling that Mr. Roarke was not inclined to be her mystery man. Her mouth curved in a predatory smile. She would get her fantasy, one way or another. “Or my money back,” she murmured. For the first time, she felt in control, almost as if she knew who she really was.
FOUR
“Mr. Duncan? What have you done?” Harry asked, appalled.
“What do you mean?”
“Roarke told you not to make any charitable donations, without my say so. Now just look!” He held up the bank book.
“Yes? So?” Daniel Duncan seemed unimpressed. “Consider that a broken vow of obedience,” he smirked.
Harry sighed and shook his head sadly. “Did it ever occur to you to wonder why your money is in a Swiss account, instead of a local one?”
“Well...no.”
“You own a casino, Mr. Duncan, and you don’t declare a percentage of your profits...”
“What?” Daniel looked appalled. “I run an illegal business?”
“It’s Las Vegas, Mr. Duncan. Everyone does it.”
“That doesn’t make it right!”
Harry shrugged, “Nevertheless, this might twig the IRS.”
Ariel breezed into the room.
“The IRS? Oh, Ariel, I’m glad you’re here, I want to change the guest list for my gala. From the island, just yourself, Mr. Milton,” he nodded to Harry, “And Mr. Roarke. I don’t think some of my other guests would care to mingle with the rest...”
Ariel looked at Harry and raised an eyebrow. “The Islanders will be so disappointed. Consider it done. I have bad news, though. The Pope has declined your invitation. He’s offered to send some Cardinal or other to be his representative.”
“What?! I wanted the Pope! This is my fantasy, isn’t it?”
Ariel rolled her shoulders in a sensuous shrug, “He is still in control of his free will, Mr. Duncan. Money can’t buy that.”
With a set line to his mouth, Daniel Duncan said, “We’ll see about that....”
Abigail found herself at an elegant soirée, dressed in green clinging silk and high silver heels. Big band music filled the delicately designed pavilion and tuxedoed men waltzed beautifully arrayed women across the smooth wooden floor. The night was filled with the scent of magnolia and jasmine and bamboo oil torches provided a warm and flattering illumination.
It was wonderful, very film noire. She moved sinuously amongst the dancers looking for Roarke, or at least whatever avatar he might have sent for her fantasy fulfillment. She turned down several offers to dance in her quest, and after once around the enclosed space, she finally accepted an offer to waltz, more for sheer love of the music than any interest in the man - a very ordinary man....
Throughout the night, Abigail kept her dancing to a minimum, not wanting to be on the floor when her mystery lover showed up.
The last dance was announced. Despairing she looked around for the millionth time. And smiled happily as she spotted Mr. Roarke. He met her gaze and nodded, as he walked in stately elegance toward her. He looked positively diabolical in a tux.
“Ms. Smythe,” he said gravely.
“Abby,” she invited warmly.
He frowned. “You are alone?”
She blinked in surprise, as he gave the crowd a thorough scan. Before she could answer him, he excused himself, and left her. Bewildered and alone.
She sat at a cocktail table, watching the band tear down. Servitors began to pick up the tattered remains of the night.
Her anticipation had gone unfulfilled. She felt deflated, disappointed, and desperately desirous. She gave a bosom-heaving sigh and finally walked alone into the night.
FiVE
Roarke sat in his office with his morning tea and reviewed the ongoing fantasies. Mr. Duncan’s feast had been a veritable orgy of rich food and choice beverages, a spread that would have done Dionysus himself proud. None of the guests had taken advantage of it in a proper Dionysian way, but that was to be expected. People had forgotten how.
The best part, in Roarke’s opinion, had been the huge amount of leftovers, all tossed in the garbage before Mr. Duncan’s horrified face. Perfectly good food - the best food - tossed away. No moderation.
Roarke smiled. Gluttony, pride, greed. Mr. Duncan’s fantasy was going well.
Ms. Smythe’s, on the other hand.... He frowned. Why had she been alone at the gala last night? It was the perfect setting, she had been dressed precisely as he’d imagined she would be, she ought to have been cuddling up to her mysterious stranger, instead of looking lost. He let his mind trace the workings of the island’s magic around her. It had entirely dissipated. This was highly unusual. When had it dissipated? Why? Mortals were completely defenseless against this kind of magic... Maybe she’s not mortal, a voice whispered in his head. He dismissed the thought. She had come through the Travel
Agency, she was a insurance agent, for gods’ sake. No divine or semi-divine creature would live in Midworld willingly. At least not more than once.
Slowly he reconsidered the idea. Ariel had lived a mortal life, perhaps she would know. She had said that she’d felt something odd about Ms. Smythe. Perhaps Ms. Smythe wasn’t mortal, merely living out a mortal life. She wouldn’t know about it, of course. They always made one drink from the river Lethé before allowing one to be born in a
mortal body. It would make her fantasy much more difficult, though.
He picked up his teacup and saucer and headed for the verandah, hoping to catch Ariel before she went to Daniel Duncan’s beach house.
Ariel packed up several large, fluffy white towels and three bottles of her favorite oils into a doctor’s bag, ready to assist Mr. Duncan with his fantasy, and walked unhurriedly from her rooms, feeling very cheerful.
She enjoyed being on Fantasy Island, she loved her job, and she was more than a little in love with her boss. Pity he’d sworn off females, though. Still, she was content to let him work it out on his own for now. She saw him on the verandah and would have given him no more than a wave and a smile but he motioned her over.
“Morning, Roarke.” She was, she thought, the only person on the island who knew that was his first name, his only name. Like all beings of his kind, he had no surname, that was a mortal invention.
“Ariel. Good job on the Duncan fantasy.”
She beamed happily.
“I have a question about Ms. Smythe. You know how fantasies work -- we mold the magic to our wills and our guest’s desires, yes?”
Ariel nodded. She was very much aware of the process.
“But the magic doesn’t adhere to Ms. Smythe. I was wondering, do you think she’s a goddess or nymph living out a mortal life? If so, why is she here? She’s already living a fantasy.”
Now this was a poser. Ariel thought about it carefully. “She came through the normal channels?”
Roarke nodded once, an elegant, economical motion.
“It may be necessary to have her drink from the Pool of Mnemosyne. If she’s here, it must be for a reason, and it’s probably best to restore her memory.”
“That makes sense,” Roarke agreed thoughtfully.
It was one of the things she loved about him. He came across as a control freak but he was willing to ask for help and actually listened to her when she gave him advice.
“Thank you, Ariel,” he added absently.
She knew he had already forgotten her, working out his next step. She rolled her eyes and continued on her way.
Ariel was pleased to find Daniel Duncan already in the pool area. It would be much easier to talk him out of his swim trunks than an entire set of clothes. “Good morning, Mr. Duncan,” she called cheerfully.
“What’s so good about it,” he grumped, disappointed with the previous evening. He was in the process of discovering that money did in fact not buy happiness. He hadn’t fully figured it out yet, but Ariel knew he’d work it out eventually.
“I thought you might feel that way.” She opened the storage room door and pulled out a massage table from behind assorted pool accessories.
“What’s that?”
“Just what it looks like,” she replied, stripping off her blouse to stand in a wrap around skirt and bikini top. “A massage table. I’m a certified masseuse, you know. I thought you could use some extra relaxation today.”
“Uh...”
She spread the table with a white sheet. “Just hop on here, Mr. Duncan.”
He climbed gingerly onto the table and lay down on his stomach. “I’ve never had a massage before,” he said hesitantly.
“You’ll love it,” Ariel promised with a smile he could not see. She opened the bag and pulled out a large towel and her oils. She draped the towel over his swim trunks.
After placing him in the proper position, she began at his shoulders and neck, not bothering with gentle as he really was tense. She knew that she was causing part of his tension and that pleased her. It pleased her also that he desired her more than the mortal women Roarke had sent to cavort on the beach outside. And in her natural form, too.
As she worked her way down his back, she halted, “Uh, Mr. Duncan? These oils, they can really do horrible things to clothing...”
The back of his neck grew rosy with his embarrassment.
“It is usual to remove all one’s clothing for a massage, that’s why we use the towels,” she explained, tugging gently on the towel. “I’ll turn around if you like.”
“Uh,” he stammered, “You’re sure this is the usual thing?”
“Quite,” she said, fighting to keep the humour from her voice as she turned to face the wall. After a long moment she heard the sound of cloth against skin and she grinned. This was so-ooo easy. She wondered how long he’d been celibate. If he’d ever known a woman at all. A virgin sacrifice, she thought, fighting to keep from chuckling aloud. If that was the case maybe she wouldn’t conclude the breaking of this vow so quickly...
SiX
“Ah, Ms. Smythe. So pleased you could join me for lunch.” Roarke pulled out the chair for her and slid it in as she sat down.
“You are,” she sounded disbelieving.
Two tall glasses of water were delivered to the table, along with two menus. Abigail Smythe opened her menu and glanced at it before shooting a sea-green look at him. “I’m pleased enough you asked me,” she began, “but what the hell happened last night?”
Roarke blinked in surprise. Her opulent figure and luxurious hair suggested a beach bunny. Directness and sharp intellect within such a package seemed very incongruous. “Ms. Smythe, sometimes even on Fantasy Island there are snags,” he said smoothly.
“Hmmm,” she replied, turning her attention to the menu. “What do you recommend? I...don’t feel much like making that sort of decision.”
Again, her comment took her by surprise. It seemed contrary to her first statement. Eyes narrowed as he considered other implications. Perhaps she was illiterate? “Would you prefer a salad or a sandwich? Both, perhaps?”
“I’m not much interested in food save for sustenance,” she grinned. “I have other things on my mind.”
“Indeed.”
“Last night?” she prompted.
The waiter came to take their orders. “Ms. Smythe?”
“I’ll have whatever Mr. Roarke is having,” she said impatiently.
“Two grilled chicken Caesar salads,” he instructed the waiter. “Something to drink?” “No, no,” she waved the suggestion off. “Water is fine.”
Roarke nodded dismissal of the waiter. “Now. You were saying?”
She gave him a pointed look that said clearly, ‘Don’t screw around’
“Ah yes. Last night. As I said, there was a snag.” He wondered how long he could stall her, until she drank the damn water.
“I heard you the first time,” she said coolly, taking a sip of water.
“I can’t really explain exactly how things are done here, Ms. Smythe....”
“Abby,” she interrupted with a dazzling smile, “Please call me Abby.”
After a moment her recalled his train of thought. “But sometimes things just go awry. I though that perhaps if you told me a little more about yourself, we could work out a way to correct things in your case,” Roarke told her smoothly, pleased with story.
Abigail frowned, and sipped some more water. “There’s not much to tell. I pitch insurance. It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it,” she smirked, “And I find that looking like a bimbo helps makes sales. My momma always said I’d end up making a living with my body,” she added in self-mockery. She took several large swallows of water.
“But there’s nothing...unusual about you?” he prompted, and had to wait as their salads arrived.
“No,” she said hesitantly, once they were alone, and Roarke was surprised to catch a whiff of Un-Truth in that one syllable. Then she blinked in total surprise and said, her tone astonished, “I ran away when I was twelve! You know, I had forgotten?”
Her face took on a look of reverie. “My mother had told me that forest animals were neater than I was -- we had fought about the state of my bedroom -- so I decided to go live in the forest. I was always the wild child, my parents quite despaired of me...”
Roarke stifled a groan as he ate his salad. This maudlin stuff was what water from the Pool of Memory had brought up?
“How could I possibly have forgotten that,” she mused. “It was quite traumatic. In the forest I met-” she stopped suddenly. The colour drained from her face. “They were real,” she whispered, “Impossible!”
“What were real, Ms. Smythe,” Roarke inquired, mildly curious. If she wasn’t a goddess or nymph living out a mortal life, then why wouldn’t the island’s wild magic stick to her?
Her answer was a hushed, “Satyrs.”
Roarke’s fork, halfway to his mouth, dropped to the floor, scattering romaine. “What?!” It was impossible! The new rules - the fact of their being almost two thousand years in effect had not stopped his kind from calling them the ‘new rules’ - made it impossible that any of the Wild Ones could be seen by mortals! At least they’d had the good sense to wipe her memory... he had to get that water away from her before she drank any more.
What manner of creature was Ms. Abigail Smythe?
Abigail Smythe ate her salad without tasting it, stealing glances at her dining companion. Satyrs. Why would she have ‘remembered’ such a thing? There was no such thing as Satyrs. Still, it had shaken Roarke’s composure. He’d dropped his fork and in trying to recover it, knocked over her water glass. Hell, it had shaken her, until she realized it was some kind of false memory.
She looked at him again. She felt bad for telling him there was nothing unusual about her. But how could she just confess without blushing like a fool and risking her chances with him? What would it take to get through to him?
Finally he said to her, “Ms. Smythe, there’s a severe weather warning for the island tonight. Do stay close to your cottage. It is in a rather deserted part of the island...”
His words were weighted heavily, and she shivered. Perhaps tonight.
SEVEN
Daniel Duncan was at a beach party. Disappointed with his experience of the previous night, and finding the huge house lonely, he had followed a faint sound of music in the night air to here.
He was greeted warmly, and everyone seemed to know he was the ‘rich guy’ who owned the mansion up the beach. The companionship cheered him, and he realized that last night he had almost decided that only people as rich as himself were worth associating with. He smiled, glad to have escaped that trap. He accepted a large glass containing a frothy pink substance and an umbrella - “First drink is complimentary.”
Deep in the shadows, away from the frivolity, Roarke stood with Ariel, watching Mr. Duncan. “See? He’s bought a round for the stoolies. How many new ‘friends’ do you think Mr. Duncan is going to meet tonight?”
“Just so he doesn’t make any female friends,” Ariel said lightly.
“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow and looked at her.
She grinned, “He’s never had sex before. Do you know how rare that is in a man his age? That’s why I didn’t carry through this morning. In case you were wondering.”
“Ah.” He rocked back slightly on his heels, linking his hands behind his back. “And you intend to make this massage a daily event until-?”
“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “Ooops, it’s my turn under the limbo stick. See you later, Roarke.”
“Not tonight,” he murmured to himself.
On the other side of the island, thunder boomed and lightning rent the sky in jagged forks. A torrential rain began to batter a small cottage and the electricity went out with a loud *pop*.
Abigail had already had several candles lit, just for ambiance, and now she lit several more. It was one hell of a storm, the kind that was it’s own excitement. It was the perfect atmosphere for a wild romantic encounter. A bottle of champagne, found in the bar fridge, was in an ice bucket and close by were two glasses and an hors d’oeuvres tray, still covered with plastic.
Blasts of wind outside the cottage actually penetrated just enough to make the candle flames waver. With the raging storm outside, and the soft yellow glow inside...she just needed the perfect dress.
She wished she could wear one similar to a red number she’d seen once on Marilyn Monroe. Red was such a sexy colour. But with her red hair, it was one colour she couldn’t wear. Her choices were a deep green velvet or black satin. If he was coming through that storm, he’d be cold and wet, and would want something warm...velvet it was.
Although it was full length, there was a slit on the side up to her thigh and it clung nicely. Sometimes there were distinct benefits to having abundant curves. She settled in to wait. And wait. And wait.
After Daniel had bought a second round for everyone at the party, he realized he might be a little bit drunk. He returned to his seat. Saw two of them and decided to go for the second one. Which is why he bumped into the first one. He sat down heavily, and grinned at the other occupants of the table, who cheered him and raised their glasses in a toast.
He was vaguely aware that he had stumbled home with several of his new friends to retrieve his cheque book. He smirked vaguely as he considered Harry’s reaction to that. His head bobbed and the party seemed to lurch in a most nauseating way. He suddenly had an urge to vomit, and staggered to his feet, looking desperately for facilities. He ended up down the beach, against a rock, heaving violently into the sand.
He was definitely drunk. People did this on purpose?
Midnight. The storm was beginning to abate, the lightning gone, the thunder distant. The wind still drove the rain against the cottage and the electricity had yet to be restored, but Abigail didn’t care. For the second night in a row, her expectations, her anticipation had been built up and for what? Nothing. She had never felt quite like this before. As if now she had a need for sex, as if she’d go mad without it.
She paced the short span of the room, too frustrated and disappointed to be angry. Suddenly the door blew open, and she had a quick glimpse of Roarke’s face before the wind extinguished every one of her candles.
 |
Abigail Smythe |
“Mr. Roarke.” She was pleased, too pleased to care that he’d kept her waiting so long.
He had closed the door and Abigail walked to where she thought he might be. One candle flared to life, and she realized that one more step would have brought them into collision. Her breath caught at his proximity. She could smell thunder and lightning and deep shadowed places in the woods. She felt almost dizzy.
“You are alone?” he asked astonished, breaking the spell somewhat.
“Not anymore,” she replied throatily, swaying towards him.
“Damn!” he swore, turning on his heel and leaving, as swiftly as he’d come.
When the door closed, the electric lights came back on. “Damn!” she echoed, flicking them off, and stomping towards the bed. Alone. Again. Some fantasy.
EiGHT
“Good morning, Mr. Duncan,” Ariel said cheerily, “How are you this morning?”
The man in question clutched his head and begged, “Please don’t talk so loudly.”
She chuckled. “Poor thing. Over-indulged last night, did you? Would you like a massage this morning? I’m told it helps hangovers.”
“In that case, I’d like one, too.” This was uttered by a disheveled man who desperately needed a shower and shave. In that order.
“Who the hell are you?” Ariel demanded, as she was expected to do. Privately she was thinking - hangover. That’s no good. I want me to be his only ‘problem’.
“Nate Winston. Friend of Danny’s.”
“It’s okay, Ariel,” Daniel told her, “He just needs a place to stay for awhile. His wife kicked him out.”
She looked the disreputable Mr. Winston over. “No wonder. Just remember, Mr. Duncan. I am at your service. Only. Understood?”
He looked shocked. “Ariel, I’d never ask you to do anything you didn’t want to...”
She gave him a feline smile, “Just don’t make assumptions about what I might or might not want to do...” She winked, “Massage?”
“Uh, it helps a hangover?”
“So I’m told. I’ve never had one myself.”
“A massage? Or a hangover?” Nate asked, attempting wit.
Ariel ignored him. He was a figment of the island’s imagination.
Harry stormed into the beach mansion, enjoying this role immensely. He scowled at Daniel Duncan. “Just what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? Do you have any idea how much money you’ve spent in the last few days? Do you have any idea how long it took the ‘Pot O’ Gold’ to make that?”
“Two days?” Daniel asked laconically, not unaware of an average casino’s daily take.
“Not according to your tax returns. You’ve already spent more than can be accounted for, Mr. Duncan.”
“You worry too much, Harry.”
“You don’t worry enough, Mr. Duncan. Nobody messes with the American Internal Revenue Service. Oh sure, if you’re good, and careful, and wise, but really! This type of behaviour draws their attention, Mr. Duncan. Not even the devil himself wants their attention.”
Just outside Roarke’s office, he told Ariel: “You have to do it tomorrow, my dear. You do understand why?”
 |
She thought about it a moment. “Nate. He’s not ‘staff’.”
Roarke nodded, appreciating her quick mind. "In fact, he's from Mr. Duncan's hometown...."
She grinned, “Roarke, you are so deviant. It’s perfect!”
“By the way, my dear. Ms. Smythe was unaffected by the water of Mnemosyne.” Roarke frowned. This case was really annoying him. It ought to be simple, instead he had a guest on the verge of demanding her money back. “Would you be a love and talk to her for me?”
“For you?” Ariel asked, raising a perfectly arched brow high.
He did not reply. Being in Ms. Smythe’s presence made him uncomfortable. Because of his failure, he was certain. It had nothing to do with her sea-green eyes or beguiling smile.
Ariel was quite happy to leave Daniel Duncan alone with his ‘friend’. She found Abigail Smythe sitting in the gardens and again felt something odd about her. A nagging sense of familiarity crept over her, and it had nothing to do with recognizing the state of Ms. Smythe’s libido. It would come to her eventually, she was sure. She just hoped it was soon enough.
“Ms. Smythe?”
The red head looked up and smiled, “Abby, please.”
“Hello, Abby. I’m Ariel. I understand there’s a problem with your fantasy?” She sat down on the grass across from her.
Abigail sighed and sent a dark look towards the hotel. “So it appears. I thought you people could grant any fantasy at all. I mean, I didn’t ask for much....surely you’ve done more difficult fantasies than mine?”
“Let me make sure I have it straight. Twice you’ve been in the perfect setting waiting for your mysterious lover. And twice he’s failed to appear?”
Abigail looked completely exasperated. “He’s appeared. That’s not the problem...he just never stays.”
Ariel blinked in surprise. This is not what Roarke had told her. “He appears? Roarke said...” She stopped. What had Roarke said? That he found her alone, the magic dissipated. She had to double check the workings of the island’s wild magic with him, but she was pretty certain she’d figured it out: “Roarke is your fantasy lover...” she said flatly, uncertain how she felt about that.
In order for Abigail to get her fantasy, Roarke would need to feel something again. Ariel had hoped to have a hand in that, herself. The job is more important than personal considerations, she told herself sternly.
But Abby was speaking: “I’ve never met a more mysterious man. And it is a mysterious island...”
Ariel sighed inwardly and resigned herself to being second. At least Abigail Smythe had no designs on Roarke’s heart. That is what Ariel would try to make feel again. “Let me tell you a few things about Roarke-”
“I don’t want to know!” Abigail protested violently. “I just want to rip his clothes off, to feel his hands on my body. That’s it! What’s so difficult about that?”
The vehemence of her reaction again struck Ariel as familiar. She just couldn’t pin the context down. “Okay, okay! In that case, the best advice I can give you is to tell Roarke what you told me. The ‘he appears, he just never stays’ line. It’s good.”
“Thanks,” Abby said dryly, “If I can get him to stay long enough to hear me say anything...”
“I’m sure you can think of something,” Ariel winked. She would have said more but her pager began beeping. “Excuse me, Abby. Duty calls.” If Abby refused her advice, then perhaps Abby would fail. But Ariel had a suspicion that she would not. Why? She would ponder it.
NiNE
Abigail decided she needed to take a more active role in fulfilling her fantasy. She packed the unopened champagne, the two glasses, a corkscrew and a loaf of French bread into a picnic basket. She packed herself some supper, tossed in a couple of votives with glass cups that might possibly protect the flames from the sea breezes and changed into a bathing suit cover-up. Minus the bathing suit. Then she walked along the beach until she was in clear view of the hotel. Just above high tide mark stood a huge rock, easily five feet high and almost as broad. In front of it, facing the sea, she spread her picnic blanket.
Alone, she ate her supper of cold chicken, potato salad, and crusty roll. She drank water from a small plastic bottle and when she finished, she packed that stuff away in the basket and took out the champagne, and the glasses. Then she lay down for a nap.
It was dark when she awoke, and she shivered a little. Once the sun went down, the ocean air felt distinctly chill. She lit the candles and was pleased to see the wind did not blow them out. She put the candles and basket where one...where Roarke, could not fail to see. Then she stood behind the rock, out of sight, waiting.
She heard his footsteps in the sand, and uncorked the champagne. “You’re late,” she remarked mildly.
“Ms. Smythe? You are alone?”
“I was,” she said, slightly emphasizing the past tense. She poured. “Champagne?”
“I really shouldn’t. I ought to find out why your mystery lover has failed to show up, for the third night in a row.” The candlelight cast eerie shadows across his face, making him appear almost frightening.
“Oh, but he has,” she told him, following Ariel’s advice. “That is not the problem.” She began to circle him slowly, contemplatively, the glass of champagne still in her hand.
“Even tonight?” He frowned, looking confused. “But you are alone.”
“I was alone,” she repeated from behind him and continued her circle. “The problem, my dear Mr. Roarke,” she stopped in front of him, staring into his sharp blue eyes. “The problem is, you didn’t stay.”
And when he opened his mouth - out of startlement or to speak, she covered it with her own, pushing against him forcefully, drawing his lower lip teasingly between her teeth, inviting his tongue to follow.
Roarke was off-guard, and off-balance. This, he had not expected! He moved one foot back to steady himself and put his hands on her waist to push her away. The thin gauze of the cover-up did not stop him from feeling the heat of her skin, and he could not seem to push her away.
Desire, such as he had not felt in centuries flooded him, clouding his mind. What manner of creature was she, that she could do this to him? Only a satyra should have this power over him... He broke free of her kiss to ask a question, but what he said was not what he’d intended to ask. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Her smile was slow, feline. “I have done this before, you know.”
Satyra. It would explain why she saw satyrs in the woods when she was young, but...she did not look satyrical. “Abby...”
“From the moment I stepped off the plane, it was you, only you,” she whispered fervently, and the sound of her desire-filled voice struck something deep inside him.
Automatically he stroked her spine, and yes, she responded as a satyra would - arching her back and grinding her hips against him with a groan. Demanding a response from him. He returned her kiss, his tongue running across the top of her teeth, teasing in his turn. He was not surprised to find that the thin cover-up was all she wore.
The paths stroked by Roarke’s hands left trails of fire behind and Abby could feel herself tremble as he cupped one breast, circling the nipple with his thumb. Her head fell back, baring her throat in surrender.
A deep growl rose in her throat and she did not try to suppress it this time, as her robe was torn from her. She did not bother with finesse as she tugged at his clothing, either.
Layers of civilization fell away with the clothing, leaving primitive sensation, and it’s own higher power, deeper demands.
Flesh touching flesh, body to body. Urgency pushed her, making her cry out for completion as Roarke explored her body maddeningly slow. “Please,” she begged, pulling at his shoulders, drawing him upwards.
She arched against him needing to feel him inside her, and when he complied, she screamed ferally, digging her fingernails into his back. No holding back this time, she was free...
Her legs wrapped around him, she met him stroke for stroke; fast, hard, almost violent.
And she felt it, that vague something that always accompanied sex, only this time...this time it was fulfilled. Orgasm swept her off the beach into the starry night, her pleasure increased as Roarke found his release within her.
Slowly the stars receded to their normal place within the sky. They lay silent, still joined. Abby moved first, pushing until she was straddling him, looking into his face, impassive in the moonlight.
“Now,” she said softly, “Now we can do slow and liesurely...”
“Abby, there are certain limitations imposed by male physiology...” Roarke protested weakly.
She kissed his neck, his throat, his collarbone. “Surely we can find other...amusements for twenty minutes or so...?”
During the next twenty minutes, they got to know each other quite well indeed - physically. Abby had no desire to learn more of Roarke beyond the marvels of the flesh, his scent, his taste, and all the hidden places that made him gasp with pleasure. And in this respect she hid nothing of herself from him, pressing into his touch, writhing ecstactically beneath his mouth. This was her fantasy.
Pale dawn broke rosy over the beach when they had finally exhausted each other. Abby drifted into sleep.
Roarke looked at her, and shook his head. Definitely a satyra of some sort. A half-breed perhaps? If so, she took after her satyr parent more than her human one. Looking at her, he felt strange, as if the man who had tumbled on the beach with her had not been himself, but someone else. Someone you used to be, a tiny voice whispered in his mind. Perhaps.
That was countless years ago. Youth is wasted on the young, he thought. We never appreciate what we have until it’s gone.
Mindful of her fantasy, he snapped his fingers. Instantly she was asleep in a four poster bed, gauze curtains blowing in the morning breeze off the ocean. He put a white rose on the pillow beside her, and within the confines of the four posts, a rain of rose petals fell lightly on the bed. He deemed that sufficiently ‘mysterious’ and ‘romantic’.
Then he pulled on his clothes and returned to the hotel to clean up and get ready for the day.
TEN
“Good morning, Mr. Duncan. Ready for you massage this morning?” Ariel had dressed carefully this morning, wearing a bronze-coloured biking top, a similarly coloured wrap-around skirt and nothing else.
“Uh, you know, I don’t think I’ll ever quite get used to this...” his voice was hesitant as he appeared from the main room, a white towel wrapped tightly around his waist. He climbed onto the table, loosening the towel so that it just draped over him.
She smiled, and took out her special oil. Slowly, more sensuously, she rubbed Daniel’s shoulders, arms, down his back, leaning over him frequently and letting her unbound hair tickled his sensitized skin.
Every now and then she leaned across him to reach for the oil bottle, allowing her breasts to ‘accidently’ brush him. “You’re not relaxing this morning, Mr. Duncan,” she remarked idly.
“Are you doing something different?” he asked in a strangled tone of voice.
“I don’t think so,” she lied easily, keeping her words casual. “In cases like this...” she slipped off the towel and began gently massaging his buttocks.
Daniel gasped, “Uh, Ariel? What are you doing?” He shifted uncomfortably on the table and Ariel smiled, knowing why.
“Sometimes a full,” emphasis on full, “body massage is what’s needed. When you’re feeling particularly tense.” She worked down his legs, leaving the towel off, felt him relax ever so slightly.
As she rubbed his feet, she knelt and began to suck on his toes.
“Ariel!” He half turned on the table, trying to move away from her, exposing himself in the process.
“Ready for the front?” she asked innocently, leaping to push him down onto his back, keeping her eyes on his. As if she hadn’t seen just how aroused he was.
“Ariel, I think that’s enough...” he tried to protest, but not too strongly, she noted with pleasure.
“But, Mr. Duncan, you’re more tense now than when we started....”
“It has nothing to do with stress,” Daniel insisted with refreshing honesty.
Ariel smiled sweetly, “You are such a gentleman... Fortunately, I know how to fix that sort of tension, too. In fact, to do that, we only need to work on one muscle...” She unfastened her bikini top and let it fall carelessly to the floor. “Wouldn’t want to get any oil on it,” she explained.
Daniel was staring at her bared breasts, obviously wanting her, obviously afraid. Finally he said, his voice hoarse, “What about your skirt?”
“You are so thoughtful!” she exclaimed, and took it off. He looked almost resigned, as he realized that he was about to break his vow of chastitiy. Resigned was not what Ariel was aiming for.
“There is an art to this,” she said softly, leaning over him, until he was forced to look away from her body and into her eyes.
Resignation had been replaced with a burning desire. “Show me,” he whispered.
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, she did. And because the massage table was rather narrow, she showed him some interesting pool exercises, as well.
Daniel Duncan, well and truly initiated into the mysteries of sex, was demonstrating to Ariel how well he’d learned what she’d taught, when Nate Winston walked into the room.
I knew he had to catch us in the act, she thought, but that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant...
“Whoa, Danny! Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to interupt you and your, er, friend,” Nate snickered. “Room in that pool for a third?” He motioned taking off his own clothes.
“No!” Daniel exclaimed, his face flaming red. “Nate, would you mind giving us a few minutes-?”
Nate held up his hands in a ‘say no more’ gesture. “Your house, Danny. But if you’re inclined to share later, let me know.” He winked broadly and left the pool room.
“I’m sorry,” Daniel said to Ariel, unable to meet her gaze.
“It happens,” she said off-handedly. “Perhaps we could, um, play later?” she ran her finger suggestively down his chest, down under the water, all the way down.
“Yes,” he replied breathlessly.
Ariel climbed out of the pool completely unselfconscious, and used a towel from her bag to dry off. Calmly she dressed herself, tossing a towel to Daniel Duncan.
For her, this was the hardest part - pretending sex meant nothing to her. Sex was always meaningful to her. But this role required she behave as if nothing at all had happened.
“I’m going back to the hotel to change into something more practical,” she told him. “I’ll have my pager if you need...anything.” she finished with a suggestive smile.
“Uh...thank you,” he said uncertainly.
So far, so good.
Daniel, Harry and Nate sat in confrontational attitude in the great room where Daniel’s desk was. Harry was pacing and gesturing widely as he lectured Daniel again on his expenditures, and told him basically that Nate was using him.
Nate jumped up wildly to protest.
“Prove it,” Harry said, standing still and looking as immovable as a rock. “Mr. Duncan, the IRS has frozen your accounts. For all intents and purposes, you have no money. Doesn’t that move you, Mr. Winston?”
Nate looked absolutely shocked. “Gee, Danny. You promised to help me out since my missus took everything.”
Daniel looked equally shocked. “Harry, are you sure?”
“I’m quite certain, sir.”
“Listen, Danny. You don’t need me hanging around here. Just give me plane fare home...”
“Home? Where exactly is home, Nate?” Daniel asked distractedly.
“Missoula. You probably never heard of it. It’s in Montana.”
Daniel sank down in his chair, receiving the second shock of the night. “Missoula. You’re from Missoula.”
Roarke, watching it all in the mirror of his office, steepled his fingers and smiled in satisfaction.
ELEVEN
“Ariel, I’m having lunch with Ms. Smythe, to discuss her fantasy.” Roarke told his shape-shifting assistant mid-morning.
“She did it, didn’t she? I’ve almost got it, Roarke...” Ariel frowned, trying as hard as she could to pin down why Abby had succeeded in getting Roarke between her legs.
“Don’t worry, Ariel. I have all the answers I need,” he said dispassionately.
Long after she was alone, it finally came to her... “Damn!”
“Abby,” he gasped roughly, “Enough...”
She slithered across him, meeting his mouth with hers, and easing her body so that he was just barely inside her.
“Now,” he said hoarsely, pushing towards her.
Abigail raised her hips slightly then lowered them a little lower than before. “You owe me two extra days.”
“I can’t.” His voice was a rough exhalation.
She moved again, letting her hair and hardened nipples rub gently across his chest.
“Please,” he demanded roughly.
“Two extra days,” she insisted, rocking slowly back and forth, teasing, taunting.
“Whatever you want!”
Abby slammed her body down against his, her groan mingling with his. Satisfied in one matter, she sought and found satisfaction in the other.
“You conniving little bitch! You’re satyra!”
Abigail stared in shock at this outburst from Ariel. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t pull that innocent act with me, ‘Abby’. Or whatever your real name is.” Ariel was fuming, Abby could almost see smoke coming out of her ears.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” She jumped out of her chair and stared at the other woman, her hands going automatically to her hips in what she half-mockingly called her ‘angry woman pose’.
“You’re telling me you don’t know what you are or how you came by that body.” Ariel clearly was disbelieving.
Abby stared. “I’m an insurance agent. I was born with this body. Are you completely insane?”
“She’s right, Ariel.” Roarke’s voice came from behind them, and they both whirled to face him.
“She’s satyra!” Ariel accused again.
What the hell did that mean?
“Half satyra,” Roarke corrected. “Her mother was human. She was seduced and had her memories wiped out. She never knew.”
Abby could not believe what she was hearing. “Whoa, hold on there, Roarke. What do you mean, I’m half human? My father-”
“Was a satyr,” he finished coolly.
“Satyr.” She looked from Roarke to Ariel and back and started to laugh. “You two are having me on, aren’t you?” Her laughter died away as Roarke did not even crack a smile and Ariel still looked angry. Confused now, but still angry.
Abby understood the confused part. “How can such a thing be? There’s no such thing as Satyrs.”
“Abby,” Roarke said mildly, “Do you recall our luncheon?”
She blushed.
“The other day,” he qualified, his lips curving into a smirk.
“When I remembered seeing Satyrs in the woods the time I ran away from home.”
“You had forgotten that, because the Satyrs took away your memory of the event. But the water you drank with your salad was from the Pool of Mnemosyne,” Roarke explained.
“Memory,” Ariel threw in as explanation, still looking troubled.
Abigail blinked. “Back up. One minute I’m having a Long Island iced tea, the next Ariel is yelling accusations at me that I don’t understand. Some kind of transistion from the world I know and this strange place. Suddenly you’re talking about satyrs and Mnemosyne as if these things were real.”
“They are real,” Ariel said, her tone suggesting that this was obvious to any idiot.
“You’re crazy! Both of you!” Abby was near hysterics. This wasn’t what she wanted for a fantasy! Hell, this wasn’t what she wanted for a holiday! “I’m vacationing in la-la land...” She began to pace frantically, trying to work it out. “Satyrs? Mythology come to life?” Faster around. “Myths based upon some sort of truth...? It doesn’t make sense!” she shrieked.
Roarke grabbed her arms and pulled her against him, stopping the frantic movements and soothing her gently. “It’s true, Abby. Just relax. Everything will be fine.”
Ariel stared jealously.
Abby was only aware of strong arms around her. Although having someone else ‘take care’ of her was usually anathema to her, at this moment nothing felt or sounded better than those arms and that completely assured voice.
TWELVE
Daniel Duncan sat in the dark. Alone. Through his glass wall he watched the night, his eyes accustomed to the dark, the moon provided enough illumination to see enough. He sighed. His accounts were frozen. His ‘friend’ Nate had deserted him. Worse, he’d returned to Missoula. To whom would he happen to mention what he’d caught ‘Danny’ Duncan up to in the pool on a resort island in the Atlantic? He wanted to call Ariel but was afraid -- both of her and himself. For the first time since his fantasy had begun, he wanted to pray. And for the first time that he could remember, he didn’t know what do say.
Ariel, still feeling irritated over the Smythe affair, eavesdropped on Daniel Duncan’s prayer. With a cruel smile, she decided to add a little twist of her own to this fantasy.
Within his glassed-wall room, Ariel slowly manifested as a glowing being of light. She watched Daniel’s eyes widen in shocked awe. “My Lord?”
“I am angel, sent by God,” she said, repeating words she’d heard on a television show, as she let her body take shape, but still glowing radiantly.
“B-b-b-but....Ariel?! B-b-but we-! I mean-!” Daniel Duncan fainted. Ariel, satisfied, let the radiance around her fade.
Using her own personal magic, she put Mr. Duncan in his bed, removed his clothes and and her own. She curled contentedly against him under the satin sheets. What he lacked in experience, he made up for with enthusiasm.
With a delicate, practiced touch, she roused his body, knowing his mind would follow soon enough. With a sigh of pleasure she impaled herself on him, as his eyes flew open, meeting hers. “Daniel,” she whispered, not letting him stop her, pulling him into the ancient rhythm.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Daniel demanded of Roarke, catching up with him on the hotel lawn.
“Tell you what, Mr. Duncan,” Roarke said absently, wondering which on his mental checklist would come out of Mr. Duncan’s mouth.
“That Ariel is angel!”
Completely off-guard, Roarke choked, “I beg your pardon?”
“Ariel....I should have guessed...the -el ending means ‘of God’!” Daniel announced in triumph, more to himself than Roarke.
“Pardon me, Mr. Duncan, but what are you talking about?”
“It’s okay, Mr. Roarke. She revealed herself to me.”
“So she told me,” Roarke said dryly, referring to her ‘massage’ of the previous morning.
Daniel caught the reference and blushed, his words dissolved to stammering as he was reminded just why Ariel could not be an angel. He frowned and tried to speak again: “B-but...” he shook his head, “I’m very confused.”
“Not unusal for a man in your position,” remarked Roarke cryptically, adjusting his cuffs. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Duncan....”
“Ariel, my dear,” Roarke stopped his assitant in mid-motion. Ah, the power of names... “What are you doing with the Duncan fantasy?”
She turned around slowly, but met his gaze with a calm, even look. “It isn’t fair, Roarke. He sees life one way. He wanted to see it another way.”
“Yes, my dear, but he wants to see it in a bad light, to reassure himself that he made the right choice when he chose the priesthood.”
“It isn’t right,” she said stubbornly. “There are other ways. Our ways.”
“Our ways,” Roarke repeated with a bitter twist to his lips.
Ariel took advantage of his distraction to ask: “Is she staying on the island? Technically she can’t go back Out there...”
Roarke knew immediately of whom she was speaking. “Abby -- Ms. Smythe -- will return to her life. That is why we always have a cask of the waters of Lethé about.”
“She’s satyra, she’s not allowed to be there, whether she remembers she’s satyra or not,” Ariel stated flatly.
“She’s a half-breed,” Roarke began.
Ariel over-rode him: “She takes after her father. Those satyrs she met in the woods, they ought to have kept her. She’s more satyra than human.”
Roarke said nothing. Ariel was right. But the decision was not his to make. After a long pause, during which he never faltered in meeting her eyes, he said, “When the plane leaves I expect Abby to be on it.”
“And if she should stay?” Ariel asked softly.
“Ariel,” he replied gently, “She will be sent home, to one home or another. There is no place for her here.”
“Cal needs to be replaced.”
He raised an eyebrow at her and chuckled.
Ariel felt her lips twitch in repsonse until she, too, was laughing.
Abby walked along the deserted beach, glad that her fantasy had given her such a remote and quiet part of the island. She had read a book Harry had given her about satyrs -- their social structure, their customs, their special abilities... it had been so matter-of-fact.
And the eerie thing was, some of it made her think, ‘Ah-ha!’ and ‘Yes! That’s it!’. She recognized it as some part of herself that she’d always felt she had to hide. How could she go back to selling insurance now?
She wished she could discuss the books contents with Roarke. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, then he was there. She smiled warmly and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him greedily. “You read my mind.”
“It wasn’t difficult,” he said dryly.
Abby chuckled, then grew serious, catching his hand in hers as they walked side by side on the beach. “You know the book Harry gave me?”
“Yes.” He had told Harry to give it to her.
“How can I...explore this part of my heritage?”
“I thought I was helping you with that,” Roarke remarked mildly.
As was not unusual for her, she felt a sudden surge of desire. Not the appropriate time, although the place was good. “Roarke,” she said, stopping at the rough sound of her own voice.
“You are truly satyra,” he chuckled warmly, then kissed her with a smouldering passion.
THiRTEEN
Daniel Duncan sat in his mansion, eating his breakfast alone at a round table directly in front of the glass wall. That damn glass wall was almost symbolic of something. He had wanted to break his vows and have it not count. He had done so. But...somehow he had thought there would be more. It was as if there was a glass wall on his experiences.
Harry and Ariel walked in companionably together. Daniel wondered briefly if she’d slept with him. That was another thing he didn’t like -- having these unkind thoughts. It wasn’t like him.
“Ariel,” he said quietly, his voice carrying well. Delivering sermons was it’s own kind of voice training. “We need to talk. About who you really are, and what happened.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but Harry interupted: “I’m afraid it will have to wait, Mr. Duncan. The IRS is here to see you.”
Roarke found the mineral spring deep within a hidden cavern on the island and submerged himself gently. Abby was truly exploring her satyra nature, and he had the scratches to prove it. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it at the time. But it wasn’t something he was used to, and the warm mineral water soothed him, from skin-surface to bone-deep.
Satyra’s were safe. Sex wasn’t the problem. Ariel was dangerous. Love was the problem. He knew Ariel felt twinges of jealousy about Abby. But Ariel was not safe. He highly doubted he could entertain a physical relationship with her and keep his heart intact. She was too intelligent, too funny, too attractive beyond the physical.
Abby on the other hand...he smiled, sinking back to float on the warm water. Although he knew her body like he’d known few, about her personally he knew no more now than he had when she’d first arrived. Nor had he shared anything of himself, and it seemed ... right to not do so. She didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know. Maybe it would be nice to have a satyra on the island... Roarke chuckled to himself again at the idea.
The plane would leave tomorrow. Abby was prepared to pay for an extra week, if that’s what it took to get her two extra days. But if for some reason Roarke should renege on his word... say, if he didn’t recall giving it...she snickered.
Besides, there was no way in hell she was going back to the insurance brokerage. Albany seemed a little ... white bread to her, now. Roarke had suggested she return to the woods she’d run away to as a child, looking for the satyrs there. Abby was more interested in exploring the hidden realm of the satyrs, and their seeming ability to travel the length and breadth of history.
And if she was going to do that, surely she shouldn’t be on a plane that would take her back to Long Island?
It was long into the night before the IRS people left. Without putting Daniel in jail, thanks to some very quick talking on Harry’s part. That man had a facile tongue for half-truths, and a smooth delivery that made you believe it whole-heartedly. Daniel had half-believed it himself and he knew better.
He collapsed with a sigh on the soft sofa, before deciding that swim might be just what he needed to relax. Not in his pool, cut off from the outside world; but outside, in the ocean, under the moon.
The night was cool, almost chilly, but the water felt warm, and the briny smell was soothing. He swam with long, powerful strokes, feeling much as he had when he was eighteen. Daniel felt a hollowness inside him then, as he always did when he remembered his life before the seminary. This fantasy was supposed to be about what he might have missed, but it didn’t feel that way. It was awful.
“Isn’t that what you wanted, Mr. Duncan?” Roarke’s voice in the night startled him.
Daniel realized he had followed the shore to the dock, and Roarke was sitting on it, his feet bare and dangling, his jacket and tie off, his shirt sleeves rolled up.
“No.” He started treading water, sensing that Roarke did not really want company on the dock.
“To have your vows justified, to prove that the alternative was nothing worth bemoaning?” pushed Roarke.
“No. I wanted to truly know,” he protested.
“Then why do you try to push Ariel away,” Roarke asked softly.
“Ariel.” He still couldn’t figure out that angel thing. He wished he’d found her tonight, instead of Roarke. “I guess...well, it’s just sex. You know, without love, sex has no meaning.”
Roarke laughed, the sound of a man who knows more than he tells. “Really. Ariel sees it differently.”
“I wish I could talk to her,” he said, the longing in his voice obvious even to himself.
“Granted,” Roarke said, standing up. “You’ll excuse me, Mr. Duncan. I think I’ll go find some meaning in the meaningless...” he chuckled again and disappeared from view.
Without understanding what Roarke meant, Daniel turned and began swimming back to where he started.
He was surprised to find another swimmer there. “Who’s there?” he called nervously.
The other swimmer froze at the sound of his voice, then replied, “It’s me. Ariel.”
Daniel swam over to her, until the bright moonlight revealed the sculptured contours of her face, the smoothness of her shoulders. “Can we talk?” He was abruptly aware of the fact that she was nude.
“Make love to me,” she said softly, “Then we’ll talk.”
“Ariel,” he said helplessly.
“Let me show you what it can be, Daniel. If you truly want to know...”
He wasn’t sure what he wanted to know anymore. But he wanted to feel her in his arms, one last time. In water more shallow, she showed him the gentleness and honesty and pleasure that could be had between two consenting adults; the ecstasy that was almost spiritual in nature.
“Yes,” she whispered, “I am the altar, I am the doorway. We are one key to the Divine.”
Daniel didn’t understand it, but at that moment, he believed it whole-heartedly.
FOURTEEN
Abigail watched Roarke walk towards her, his pant legs rolled up, his shirtsleeves likewise rolled up. No socks, no shoes, no jacket, no tie. Delicious. “I’m hardly dressed-”
“That just makes it easier,” she interupted with a purr, holding out her arms in a dance frame.
“What makes you think I can dance,” he asked dryly, as he came within her reach.
“Because you are my fantasy, and my fantasy included dancing.”
Roarke could find no fault with her logic. He completed the dance frame, placing one hand lightly on her waist. This night saw her in a strapless black satin dress, with a deep ruffle from thigh to knee, and the fabric was smooth beneath his hand, and warm from the heat of her body.
She danced the tango as he’d remembered learning it, close, with frequent body contact. Every time she brushed against him, no matter it was her leg or her breast, he felt his desire for her mounting. Small wonder she had not been inclined to dance inside. “You dance this way frequently?” he muttered.
“Only in my dreams,” she said softly.
With a flick of his wrist he pulled her, whirling, back against him, and found his hand beneath her thigh. Slowly, her eyes locked on his, she unbent her knee, letting her leg slide sensuously down his, while his hand crept ever higher. Entranced, he continued to dance her around. One two three, turn. One two three, dip.
Face to face and toe to toe, legs slightly apart. He took her hands in his, and she fell back from the waist, swung side to side, grinding her hips against his. He pulled her up, slipping one hand beneath the luxurious red tresses and kissing her roughly.
His other hand slipped lower and Abby moaned, caught between his hands and mouth.
Not wanting to take her on the hotel lawn, he snapped the fingers of one hand, his intent on the deep bed in her cottage.
Abby stumbled slightly as he used his magic once again to remove the barriers of clothing. It seemed she could feel the magic, and it was almost, almost distracting. But nothing could draw her away from Roarke’s ferocity.
He demanded surrender. She refused, with a growl. His lips and tongue moved gently over her shoulder, but his teeth nipped painfully at her neck, her ribs, her thighs. All while his hands caressed, teased, tantalized. Responding in like, their lovemaking was almost a battle.
With a deep groan, Abby threw back her head. She surrendered. She could feel his triumph. She could feel her own, as he took her, possessed her, filled her. Something grew taut inside, like a bow string, and as it released, she cried out, arching against him.
Seconds later, he joined her in trembling ecstasy.
Still panting, Abby gave him a glittering look. “Change of perspective. Lie still...”
“I don’t think so,” he muttered.
“Fortunately thinking is not required.”
Because Roarke had had his victory, because it was her fantasay, because it was her last night...he surrendered.
It was astonishing how pleasant passivity could be, and how much pleasure he felt simply from her obvious enjoyment. There was something intoxicatingly heady in the way she submerged her consciousness into her senses, losing herself in the scent, taste, and textures of his body.
She consumed him, re-igniting passions he was certain had been doused only minutes before, and when she finished, it was if everything but sensation itself had been burned away.
He awoke as the sun hovered beneath the horizon, found her back towards him. She was leaving today. He could go back to the hotel and shower and dress in liesurely time, or ... he could be late.
Gently he drew a finger down the sensitive spine, was rewarded by a hungry mewl as she began to awake. With a smile, Roarke slipped his hands around to cup her breasts, nuzzling the back of her neck. He moved one hand down between her legs, finding the hard nub of flesh, heard her gasp as she writhed in his arms.
Focusing completely on her - the taste of her skin, the scent of her hair, the textures beneath his hands, he understood how this could be a merging without the entanglements of the heart. On a purely sensual level, they were one being.
And as she convulsed against him, he felt an immeasurable satisfaction. His fingers stilled a moment as slowly, slowly he eased himself into her. Her body quivered and an inarticulate sound was drawn from her body.
With his hands full, he began to murmur in her ear, every vulgarity he’d heard over the centuries, until she howled, and begged him for release.
From within the hotel behind them came the strains of music. A tango. “Dance with me?” she invited.
FiFTEEN
Dawn was breaking as Ariel made breakfast in Daniel Duncan’s kitchen. He walked sleepy-eyed into the room and stared at her, as she performed this mundane, domestic task. He had awoken with a naked woman in his arms, for the first time in his life. Now he thought might be seeing what a normal life would have been like. He felt a pang of regret. Not for the Daniel Duncan who owned a casino called the ‘Pot O’ Gold’ but for the one who might have had a wife. Like Ariel. Well, not like Ariel. He didn’t think there was anyone in the world like Ariel.
She poured a cup of coffee as if she knew he’d come in, and turned around with a smile. “Good morning, Daniel.”
It was the first time she’d greeted him by his given name. “Ariel. Can you tell me about this angel thing?”
She sat down across from him, wrapped in one of his terry robes. “You talked to Roarke last night?” She sounded doubtful.
“Yes.” He looked down, ashamed. “He said I wanted confirmation that taking vows was the right thing to do.”
“I wanted to show you that it isn’t all like what you’ve been told. But whether or not taking vows was the right thing to do...you’re looking in the wrong direction. Why did you want to become a priest in the first place?”
He frowned. “Because I felt a Calling. I thought I heard God call me to His service. I guess I thought I could make a difference.”
“You don’t have to be a priest to make a difference,” she said gently.
“I suppose.”
“You ought to have been listening for God’s voice. He speaks through the strangest critters and sometimes you hear it without being called to serve. I don’t think he’d be disappointed if you changed your mind.” Ariel got up to attend the eggs, butter the toast.
Daniel thought about what she’d said. “But doesn’t that make me a failure, not good enough to serve God?”
Ariel sighed. “I don’t know. This is where I fail the whole monotheism thing. The way I understand it, God made you, is this correct?”
“Yes...” he agreed slowly.
“So if you are not perfect, not quite up to serving him, it’s because of the way God made you, right?”
“Yesssss...” he agreed even more slowly.
“And you’re supposed to feel guiltiy for being what God made you? Repent it, perhaps?”
“You’ve got the perspective all wrong,” he protested.
She set the silverware on the table, and two glasses of orange juice. Then she set the two full plates on it, and sat down. “I confess, Daniel. I’m not an angel. Not even a fallen one,” she smirked.
He blushed. “How did you know I was thinking that?”
“But I wanted you to know, in other cultures, before your God came around, people believed differently.”
Looking shyly at his plate, he mumbled, “Roarke said that sex wasn’t meaningless to you. Ever.”
“It isn’t,” she said softly. “I don’t believe in ‘casual sex’. Every time for me is special, memorable, uniquely wonderful. It is an act of joyful union that is almost spiritual, if done right...”
Still blushing furiously, he nodded agreement. Last night...last night had really been something unforgettable.
“No,” she said, “Don’t start thinking like that, either. It isn’t just me. It can be like that with other women, ordinary women. By thinking it’s something unique to me, you do us both a diservice.”
He did not know how. But women were one mystery he hadn’t planned on figuring out. Some of his parishioners had spent their lives on that quest, judging by the confessions he heard. Daniel sighed deeply.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Eat up, Daniel. The plane leaves at eleven.”
SiXTEEN
“Where’s Abigail Smythe?” Ariel hissed at Harry as they escorted Daniel Duncan to the plane, where Roarke awaited to say goodbye.
“I don’t know,” Harry answered quietly. “She’s not in her cottage. Her clothes and things were not packed, and she was nowhere to be found.”
“Well, Mr. Duncan,” Roarke said affably, “I hope you enjoyed your fantasy.”
“I...” he frowned. “Not really. I wanted...I don’t know. I guess I thought this would help me decide if this is how I want to spend my life. But I still don’t know.”
“There are other ways to decide, Mr. Duncan. There are other denominations if you decide to have both.”
Mr. Duncan looked shocked. “You can’t just stop being Catholic, Mr. Roarke!”
Roarkes shrugged eloquently. “My apologies, Mr. Duncan.”
As the man got on the plane, Roarke looked around. “Where’s Abby?” he asked Ariel and Harry quietly.
They exchanged a look and both shrugged.
Amelia, the plane’s pilot, looked out and said, “Roarke? If I don’t take off now, I won’t be able to come back until tomorrow.”
He waved her to go. As the plane taxied over the calm harbour water, he said in a hard voice, “Find her.”
Recognizing the cold fury in his voice, neither Ariel nor Harry stopped to ask questions. Roarke stomped to the cottage that had been Abigail’s for her stay.
To his surprise, she was there, and she looked as angry as he felt. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “The plane just left.”
She spun around and glared at him. “Ex-cuuuse me! In the first place, you swore you’d give me two more days. In the second place....the damn Powers That Be, whoever the hell they are, told me I can’t go back. Not that I wanted to, anyway. That’s where I was, not deliberately hiding out. Is that a reasonable explanation, Mr. Roarke?” Sarcasm dripped from every word.
“You can’t stay here,” he said flatly.
“What makes you think I’d want to,” she hissed angrily, tossing her clothes into her suitcase.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“Bugger-off, Roarke. You just told me I can’t stay here. So I’m going. Get out of my way.”
She was beautiful in a temper. As she brushed by him, he asked, “Don’t you want your two days?”
With a growl that might have been angry, she flung the suitcase at the wall and launched herself into his arms. “You’re going to pay for this, Roarke...”
Ariel was petitioning the Powers That Be. “You can’t allow her to stay here, surely...”
*can’t? why not?*
She cast around for a good reason. “Because Roarke will never get any work done. He’ll be chasing after that damned satyra.”
*we did not intend her to stay on Fantasy Island*
“Thanks be to all the Gods...” she said fervently.
*however...*
“However? What do you mean, ‘however’??”
*Roarke made a promise.*
“Oh, gods,” Ariel groaned, knowing the wild things men promise when engaged in physical intimacy.
*know this, Ariel Demithea. she goes by our will, not yours.*
She bowed her head, knowing they had the power to make her life a living hell. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Two days later, Abigail Smythe, now the satyra known as Abby, disappeared into the wild, wild woods. Roarke sent an authentic looking cable informing her employers that her plane had gone down.
Amelia had snorted disbelieving laughter. “It wasn’t my plane...”
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