Disclaimers in Part 1 Jean Pierre Mailhiot III, son of Jean Pierre Mailhiot II, knew himself to be a lucky man. He had a wonderful wife, two beautiful daughters, seven adorable grandchildren, and, like his father before him, thoroughly enjoyed his job as manager of the elite Hotel Bora Bora. The oldest First Class resort on the exclusive resort island, the Hotel Bora Bora was also the first to offer over-the-water bungalows. That had been his father's idea, and now everyone was doing it. Jean was proud to be his father's son. Everyone admired and respected the elder Mailhiot, including Jean. His aging father remained spry and sharp, except in the one area where Jean was forced to admit his father's mind was clouded. The elder Mailhiot, former head manager of the Hotel Bora Bora, insisted to his son that the current owner of the resort was the same man who had owned it sixty years ago. Ah, Papa. Jean shook his head, looking across the lobby at the resort's owner, M. Thomas Mansfield. The young Englishman was, like all the resort's previous owners, an absentee owner, but he did come to the resort to vacation, from time to time. He never chose one of the over-the-water bungalows, and Jean thought that showed admirable good sense. Some men might insist on the best accommodations available in their own hotel, as Jean knew the owner of Le Grand Hotel, the next resort up the beach from them, did, but the best accommodations also brought in the best revenue, and it was a fiscal pity to not utilize them for income during the high season. M. Mansfield was prudent and somewhat reclusive, Jean believed, and modest enough that he always posed as an ordinary vacationer, when he visited, but he was not a day older than thirty-five. Ah, Papa. M. Mansfield approached the desk. "M. Mailhiot," he said politely, smiling. Jean smiled back and nodded. Another thing he liked about the owner was that he was respectful to his elders, even when they were his employees. "Use the computer?" Mansfield continued, glancing at the empty lobby. "Of course." Jean opened the desk gate, to allow the younger man in. The somewhat isolated bungalow which M. Mansfield preferred was scheduled to be the last to be hard wired for data cables, so Mansfield checked his e-mail on the office computer, from time to time. He preferred to be alone, when he did it, or else he might have to explain why a guest had access to the hotel office. Jean continued his review of the resort's booking rate while he considered this rather rare visit from their boss. Mansfield had had few opportunities to use the office computer, since he had seldom been alone. Ann Guadagnoli, the lovely American who raised funds for an animal preserve, had all but moved into M. Mansfield's bungalow, and they had appeared to be enjoying a holiday romance. The phone rang. Jean accepted it from the desk clerk and spoke for a while with his cousin. He rang off hastily when he saw M. Mansfield emerge from the office. "Monsieur!" he called. Mansfield paused, just beyond the desk, and turned. "Yes?" he replied, in English, which surprised Jean. The man acted a bit distracted. Jean switched, from long habit of accommodating guests of many nationalities, to English as well. He crossed the distance to stand opposite his employer. "Monsieur, I have just had a call from my cousin, Andre." "Yes?" Mansfield half turned away, scanning the group of people who had just entered the lobby area. "My cousin who works at airport customs." Mansfield turned back, looking concerned. Jean donned a bland expression and nodded. "Did your cousin get a name?" To Jean's consternation, Mlle. Guadagnoli chose this moment to approach. "Tom," she called, "the snorkeling boat is leaving in ten minutes." "Go ahead without me, Ann," Mansfield replied, barely glancing at her. Concerned that he would lose the man's attention, Jean broke in, contrary to all manners. "MacLeod." "Mac ..." Mansfield choked. He looked at Jean in real alarm. Curiosity was not in Jean's job description, but he was only human, and now he really wished he knew why the reclusive owner of the Hotel Bora Bora used his connections to be informed when anyone arrived at the single airport checking a sword. "What do you mean?" protested Mlle. Guadagnoli, "I don't want to go without you. I thought you were coming." "Ann, I don't really care for boats." Mansfield steered the woman by the elbow, around the corner of the desk to the more secluded corner. Snorkelers were beginning to gather for the tour, filling the lobby with talk. The desk clerk was too close to where the couple were speaking. Jean frowned at her and gestured her away. She went, and Jean also moved to a more discreet distance, but one where he could overhear, nonetheless. "Ann, I have to go. Urgent business." "You have to go today?" "Right now, actually." "I was counting on you to help with the auction. Where do you have to go?" "I don't know yet. Listen, Ann, I'm sorry, but your preserve is just not a cause I can support." "What?! You're joking." "No, I'm not. There are a lot of things I'd support before I'd support a preserve for predators." "Predators! They're tigers! We're talking about beautiful, magnificent animals! Animals we have robbed of their territory, their environment ... We're not the only species on this planet; we just act like it. There are only a few hundred tigers left in the world! They've dwindled from a few thousand in just a decade! At this rate, your children and grandchildren will only have pictures of these beautiful, powerful creatures." "I just can't see that as a bad thing." "What?! I don't believe what I'm hearing!" "Well, you're thinking about your descendants. I'm thinking about your ancestors. What if your children played every day on a playground near a wood filled with tigers? Or bears? Wouldn't you worry?" "What are you talking about? There are no playgrounds near what few wild lands we have left." "Right. But for centuries people worried when their daughters went to visit Granny because there were very real wolves along the way who might attack them." "That's a fairy tale!" "No, it was reality for most of human history. If that playground lost a child, at random, once or twice a year to tigers, who left the mauled corpses in the wood for their parents to find, don't you think those parents would stop at nothing to rid the woods of tigers? Well, we've come pretty close to finishing the job, and I can't see it as a bad thing." "Tom, you are talking nonsense. No one lives like that anymore." "Exactly. Sorry, Ann. I know it's important to you, but it's not important enough to me." "You obviously aren't who I thought you were." "No, probably not." Fury written on every angle of her model-thin body, Ann Guadagnoli stormed away. Mansfield returned to Jean, seeming unconcerned by his paramour's departure. He handed Jean the key card to his bungalow. "I'll send for my things." "Yes, Monsieur. And your cat?" The one privilege Mansfield had claimed was the right to keep a pet at his bungalow. "Oh." Mansfield considered. "When did MacLeod arrive?" "Only just now. On the 10:30 flight." "I'll take my cat," he concluded, reaching again for his key card. Something French and romantic in Jean Pierre Mailhiot's soul was offended to see the man more concerned for his cat than for his lover. "I think Mlle. Guadagnoli will not bother you again, Monsieur," he remonstrated. Mansfield looked surprised, then slightly abashed. "She wasn't bothering me, M. Mailhiot. But it was quicker this way. Charge her room to me, will you?" "Yes, Monsieur. Thank you." Mansfield gave the hotel manager a puzzled look, and then hurried away, toward his bungalow. Jean watched him go, thinking that, as much as he would enjoy being rich, he never wanted to become eccentric. He saw the desk clerk looking amazed. "Back to your work," he ordered her.