ESCAPING MAYHEM by JAIMI-SAM RATED FRT

Written for a 2004 FicSwap request at The Tracy Island Writers Forum. The request was: "In the book 'Lady Penelope's Secrets,' Lady P mentions that she and Scott actually met at an Oxford ball years before the formation of IR. What happened?"

From the Private Diaries of Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward:

I didn't know until much later that a private tour of International Rescue's secret headquarters wasn't normal induction procedure for a new agent of IR.

Looking back on it now, I should probably have asked why my dear friend and mentor in the spy game, Sir Jeremy Hodge, looked so nonplussed-but-pleased when he relayed the invitation. And I saw that expression repeated on his face a few days later, when I told him that Jeff Tracy had telephoned me and let me know that he would come directly from his office in New York that following Thursday, to escort me personally.

But to be honest, it never crossed my mind to pose the question. That's the effect Jeff's natural air of command has on people - you do as he requests, and it never occurs to you to ask why. If you don't believe me, just ask his sons. They've had a lot more experience with him than I have! All I can say is that it's a very good thing he's not a politician, or he'd have us all voting for him without a second thought!

Jeff arrived at the estate in time for tea, which, most regretfully, we had to take indoors because of the brisk April drizzle that had just begun outside. Ah, well, that's England - famous for rheumatism and roses, my grandmother used to say, both of which seem to like plenty of rain. Fortunately, the Rose Drawing Room does have a lovely view of the gardens, even if the wallpaper can make one's eyes cross at times. Busy, Americans call it. I asked Parker once what he thought, and he said, diplomatically, "H'it's a bit much, milady...but h'it's better than what's in the h'Angus Bedroom."

Oh, dear, yes, the Angus Bedroom...named for our Scottish cousin-twice-removed Angus Hastings, who was the only Creighton-Ward relative actually famous for the method of his demise. Reliable sources say he spontaneously combusted in front of several hundred witnesses at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1313. I'm not making this up, cross my heart...there were tapestries woven in honor of the event, which was taken as a sign that the Scots would win the battle. Which of course they did. One of those tapestries hangs in the Angus Bedroom, although it does rather clash with the walls, which are done in an artist's rendition of the Hastings tartan.

Angus Hastings, it should be pointed out here, designed his own tartan after a falling out with his immediate allies in the clan - and he didn't do such a terribly bad job of it, I suppose, considering that he was colourblind. The Angus Bedroom was decorated by my great-great grandfather, Rowland Creighton-Ward, who apparently shared that particular trait, as well as a preference for wearing skirts...but we really don't talk so much about that, since it turned out not to have much to do with an interest in the Scottish branch of the family tree. In any case, the bedroom does make a rather fun stop on the stately home tour, even if the wallpaper regularly provokes attacks of astigmatism among the guests. We who live here have learned to not look directly at it, the way they teach you to view comets in the night sky.

Over tea I discovered something very grassroots American about our Mr. Tracy...he isn't a tea drinker. After watching him studiously avoid drinking out of his cup for a good ten minutes, despite the fact that the cold and damp of our English weather obviously didn't agree with him and he probably would have welcomed something hot, I finally asked him if he'd like coffee instead. I think at that moment he forgave me for the drawing room wallpaper, and I made a mental note not to install him in the Angus bedroom for his overnight stay.

His aversion to Earl Grey aside, Jeff Tracy really is a fascinating man. His good looks are icing on the cake - he has a natural charisma that reminds me of some of the legendary heads of state I have met in my not inconsiderable travels. In another life, riding on his popularity as an American astronaut, he could very easily have become a state senator for his home state of Kansas - and perhaps even run for President, one day. He has an extraordinary mind - Sir Jeremy calls it a three-dimensional chess mind, alluding to his capacity for thinking about many things on many levels at the same time. I suppose it comes in handy when you're the head of a multi-billion dollar conglomerate.

Not to mention the mastermind behind the world's most famous secret organization - International Rescue.

Sir Jeremy tells me that Jeff hand-picks all IR's agents, although he has a strong referral network to make the initial recommendations. And I'm very glad that he does, because of course that's how I came to his attention, through Jeremy's recommendation - as well as that of our friend Felix Letterman of the American CIA, who has apparently known Jeff since they were classmates at the Air Force Academy. Scoundrels, the pair of them...I hadn't the slightest idea that I was being tested - but I suppose that's par for the course, as Uncle Bertie used to say (before he had to emigrate rather abruptly to Australia to escape some ‘personal problems'). I won't go into what I had to do to sink the birdie - to stay with the golf metaphors - it was quite a tidy little caper and it deserves a story all of its own one day. Suffice it to say here that it had to do with Jeff's brilliant scientist, Brains, and a sort of laser device with very intriguing capabilities which was drawing unwanted attention from quite a few interested parties. After I managed to deal appropriately with the situation (the interested parties, not the laser, I hasten to say), Jeff congratulated me in person, and asked me to join the organization. I told him I would on one condition...that he had someone come out to the estate and repair the damage to my geranium beds, since the whole thing really was his fault. I'm very fond of my geraniums, and the incident had left them in a sorry mess indeed.

I was very intrigued to receive the invitation, of course. The whole concept of International Rescue was fascinating to me, and although I applauded Jeff for his philanthropy, I had absolutely no idea how he was going to make this dream "fly." I was definitely about to find out the answer to that question...and to many more besides!

It wasn't until much later that I discovered that only a small portion of IR's agents have actually met any of the family besides Jeff, and an even tinier percentage have been invited to set foot on Tracy Island. I was definitely getting the VIP treatment.

After tea the rain stopped, so I asked Parker to find Jeff some Wellingtons and he and I took a walk around the grounds. He was pleased - he's very much a man of action, and he had been wanting to stretch his legs after having spent several hours in the cockpit of his jet. While I showed him the rose gardens and the privet maze, he told me about how different it was where he grew up - in a white farmhouse in Kansas surrounded by an ocean of golden wheat fields as far as the eye could see. He told me that from the air, England always reminds him of one of the patchwork quilts his aunt Laura sews. His own mother, Ruth, is apparently a bang-up cook - not to mention a dead shot with a rifle! - but can't sew a straight line to save her life. I think I'm going to like her!

While we were gone, Parker took Jeff's luggage to the Hraesvelg Room - named for Hraesvelg the Unruly, a rather prominent warrior from the Norse branch of the family. Hraesvelg was himself named for a rather large mythical eagle that was supposed to send powerful winds whenever it got in a bit of a flap. He hadn't gone up in flames like Angus, or anything interesting like that, but he had claimed responsibility for quite a few spontaneous combustions of other people and their property in his time.

I had felt that the scale of the Hraesvelg Room, particularly the positively enormous four poster bed, would appeal to Jeff's pioneer sensibilities - although I remembered too late that the room was supposed to be haunted, by a ghost with a penchant for turning the taps on and off in the adjoining bathroom. Still, I'd never seen or heard anything in there myself - and if Jeff's experience was different, he didn't say anything about it at breakfast the next morning. He didn't even make any leading remarks about plumbing...so I assumed we were probably safe.

Goodness, listen to me going on and on about my family...I've given so many tours of this old place that I'm beginning to sound like the printed program we hand out to guests!

After breakfast, during which Jeff asked several questions about the origins of such fascinating items of English cuisine as kippers and fried bread, we set off across the grounds to the helipad where he had parked his jet. He had told me to pack for somewhere warm, but apart from that wasn't a bit forthcoming about our destination. It was all very intriguing. I do love an adventure!

It was a little cramped (jet cockpits always feel smaller than they look, for some reason), and the flight was quite long, but Jeff was an entertaining companion, telling wonderful stories about his boyhood in Kansas, his exploits in the Air Force and his time in the space program. He also asked both Parker and I quite a few questions, too. They seemed innocent, on the surface, but once again I got a flash of what Sir Jeremy said about Jeff's mind...I couldn't shake the distinct impression that he was synthesizing the answers and forming a three dimensional picture of each of us, as if we were inside one of those clever magnetic resonance imaging machines. Not much gets past Jeff Tracy, I remember thinking.

Of course, that was an understatement, as I've since come to know.

Not counting a brief stop in Rome - where Jeff was met near the executive jet hangars by two dark suited men who handed him a briefcase (most intriguing, but he never did volunteer an explanation of any kind!) - we were in the air almost six hours. Then, seemingly out of the blue, he suddenly said, "We're nearly there now." While I was peering around at the ocean below and trying to work out where "there" was, he was keying his radio microphone. "Tracy Island from Tracy One. Requesting clearance to land, over."

"F.A.B., Tracy One. No traffic in the area. You are clear to land." The somewhat formal tone of voice softened for the last sentence. "Welcome home, Dad."

How nice, I thought...he has his son working with him. I didn't realize that I was falling just a little bit short of the mark on that assumption!

Jeff saw me looking around and pointed. Tracy Island is a lovely sight from the air, a lush green South Seas island with the remains of a volcanic lava tube dominating the northern end, surrounded by that vivid tropical blue ocean. As we came closer I could see at least two buildings above ground, and a long runway below them near the water's edge. So this was the headquarters of International Rescue...a secluded island in the middle of nowhere, and yet close enough to both Australia and New Zealand to provide the support they would need for survival.

Brilliant, I thought. No one will ever find them here. And of course, now I know that it's a sight more complicated than location alone. I don't pretend to even begin to understand the science involved, but the vehicles are equipped with very advanced radar cloaking devices, and Thunderbird Five does something very ingenious every time they launch - she jams the imaging capabilities of any spy satellite in the area and seamlessly replaces the footage with images of a serene, uneventful day on Tracy Island. So International Rescue is never seen leaving or returning home.

We touched down - a beautiful landing, my compliments to the pilot! - and taxied toward the cliff face. I was wondering what Jeff had in mind, since the rugged, fissured cliff seemed completely sheer all the way to the top...but then there was a rumbling sound and a hairline crack appeared. Then I could see the sun glint off metal, and a door began to slide open in the rock.

We were met inside the cavernous hangar by two very handsome young men, who helped me climb down from the cockpit. Jeff introduced them as two of his sons, Virgil and Gordon. Two of his sons... I remember asking if this meant there were more here, and Gordon laughed and said, "Yes, ma'am."

Goodness, the Tracys are a handsome family! It's a good thing nobody knows what the boys really look like, or between answering fan mail and turning down marriage proposals, they'd never get time to go on a single rescue!

Lining the walls of the hangar were various large vehicles, none of which I recognized at the time, of course...although they would soon be made famous by the newspaper and vidscreen accounts of their exploits. But even as I took them in, my attention was caught by something that literally took my breath away. About fifty yards behind us was what the world now knows as International Rescue's giant transport plane, Thunderbird Two, towering above us massively on her struts. "Oh, she's magnificent!" I found myself breathing, out loud.

Virgil looked very pleased indeed. "Thanks," he said. "I think so, too." We looked at each other and smiled, and I really think I made a friend in that moment.

He was the pilot of Thunderbird Two...the pride in his voice made it obvious. I didn't know it then, but apparently he's an awfully good pilot, too. He doesn't often get to do the showy stuff, unlike his elder brother in Thunderbird One. But he's incredibly precise...Jeff told me several months after my first visit that Virgil once maneuvered Thunderbird Two safely through a two mile rock canyon with less than a foot's clearance either side of her wings. And didn't leave the tiniest bit of paint behind. Now that's what I call precision flying!

But this was before all that, of course. The boys hadn't even been on their first mission yet at this point. Jeff managed to tear me away from my rather unladylike gawking at Thunderbird Two, promising to give me a tour of all the Thunderbirds and the rescue vehicles later on. We all crossed the hangar to an elevator that took us to a monorail - a monorail, right here in the depths of the island! That was a surprise.

But not nearly as big as the one that was waiting for me when we disembarked from the monorail car and took another elevator up into Tracy Villa.

When the elevator doors opened again we were in a cool, quiet corridor with wood floors, a long, very expensive oriental carpet runner in its centre, and art on the walls that must have cost a small fortune. As someone who also has art on the walls of her home that costs a small fortune, I could see immediately that this wasn't the work of a casual collector. Whoever bought these paintings knew what they were doing, and had several million dollars to spend on their indulgence.

We turned left from the elevator and a few steps later came out into a large, airy lounge, lined with windows that showcased a breathtaking view of the ocean. The décor was expensive and Asian-influenced, reminding me of an open, tropical version of the American Craftsman style with its deceptive simplicity, straight lines, extensive use of wood, and lush green plants. It was at the same time elegant and comfortably inviting, and I found myself giving mental compliments to the designer.

And then I wasn't thinking about the décor anymore, because a tall young man had come in from the balcony to greet us. He saw me and halted abruptly, staring, his cobalt blue eyes wide with surprise. I saw the resemblance to Jeff instantly in his extremely handsome face, but that wasn't the reason that I stopped dead and returned his stare with equal astonishment.

"You!" we both burst out, simultaneously.

It was April 30th, 2018. I was eighteen years old and had been invited by my elder brother Stuart, his girlfriend and his Oxford friends to the Mayhem Ball at Corpus Christi College. There's nothing quite like May in Oxford - the whole town goes mad over these May Balls, as they call them, and on the last day of April, several of the colleges host huge, lavish, all-night bashes that last until dawn. Then everyone rushes off to Magdalen Bridge, mostly in various stages of complete inebriation, to stand and freeze to death while listening to the Magdalen Boy's Choir welcome in the spring from the top of Magdalen College Tower. In retrospect, considering how cold it is, making sure you're three sheets to the wind is probably a very good idea. Let me tell you, there is a reason those children's voices on that tower are so high! Even the local volunteers dressed as trees (another May Day tradition) handing out hot chocolate by the gallon can't stave off the bone-penetrating chill of a pre-dawn spring morning in England.

And that's even if you aren't one of the foolhardy few who risk life and limb flinging themselves dramatically off the bridge into the Cherwell River...which sounds very brave and exciting until you realize that the river's rather muddy and actually only four feet deep. Still, there's always the chance that a reporter from the Daily Mirror will snap a picture and you'll be facing another kind of excitement...the argument with your parents over the future of your trust fund.

Me? Of course I haven't done it myself. The very idea!

Where was I? Ah, yes. First stop that evening was the King's Arms, where Stuart's girlfriend, the lovely and long suffering Claudine and I attempted to survive a lively dinner with my brother and his three closest friends. She and I bonded as we ducked swinging beer mugs and tried to pretend that we cared there was a difference between a drive train and a crankshaft. The only thing Stuart and his friends ever talked about was cars...specifically his grand passion, rally cross. He absolutely loved dislocating his liver bumping up and down hills in a car with a suspension that made you feel like a rock on a washboard. Like most of our family, however, he didn't do anything halfway - if you have any familiarity with the sport, you'll remember that Stuart Creighton-Ward was a major force in its revival in the mid 'teens. He was very good at it, too...the shelves in his room at the mansion still sport many of his trophies, and grinning pictures of him and his friends, covered with mud, leaning on equally mud-covered cars, adorn the walls. His most cherished ambition was to win the North African Safari Rally before his twenty-fifth birthday, and it was rather obvious to everyone that he had a very good shot at doing just that.

The volume in the ancient pub was deafening, and after the first few rowdy toasts, both Claudine and I swore we'd remind each other about ear plugs next year. Being partially deaf wouldn't have made much difference to the conversation, anyway, since we honestly didn't care how often tires should be rotated or what it meant when you heard a vague whistling sound from the direction of your carburetor. My brother might have had the looks to be what Parker calls a "bird magnet," but a woman can only take so much shop talk before her eyes glaze over.

After dinner we all piled into Stuart's car and zoomed off to Corpus Christi College. When we got there the Mayhem Ball, as their event is called, was already in full swing. The theme this year was "Dante's Inferno," and the Main Quad had been converted into a wonderfully artful representation of a Caribbean island. Of course the effect was better when it got too dark to see the very traditional English buildings looming up out of the imported jungle ferns! Most fun of all was the centrepiece, a positively enormous volcano that had been donated by a local film crew after filming at the college. It was rather spectacular, going off at random intervals like that geyser in North America, frightening the living daylights out of whoever was standing close enough to be caught in its sudden roar and rain of special-effects fiery ash.

Surrounding the volcano were all kinds of fun, fairground type things to do, including a huge bouncy-ball castle, shooting galleries, and those stalls where you can throw a ball and consign a poor hapless individual to the depths of a water tank. Obviously volunteers, Claudine and I decided, toughening themselves up for the death defying plunge into the Cherwell at dawn.

My brother and his friends, of course, zeroed in on the nearest bar and stuck themselves there like flies on sticky paper, immediately beginning a contest to see how much beer each of them could chug at one go. Claudine and I rolled our eyes and wandered off to see what else the party had to offer.

There were bars around every corner, and acres of food everywhere. I saw one sign boldly advertising ‘HOG ROAST,' and I was very tempted by the fresh chocolate doughnuts, which I had heard were excellent and well worth the threat to one's waistline. There was lots to see and do...you could pretend to be a gladiator, indulge in a game of laser tag, or watch the jugglers and the very clever fire dancers...it went on and on. And of course the place was packed to overflowing with silly, drunken partygoers, weaving about in odd costumes, ball gowns and black tie. England's youth at its finest! There was more than enough loud music, too...I remember leaning over to ask the name of one particularly obnoxious band whose vocal gymnastics probably stemmed from the pain of what looked like strategically placed rivets protruding from the lead singer's forehead. I couldn't quite catch the answer but it sounded something like "The Open Wounds."

Two ‘Lava Lamps' (a delicious fruity drink with a splash of grenadine and enough rum to knock the parrot off a pirate's shoulder) later, Claudine and I were starting to have quite a lot of fun indeed. I was just trying to decide why a person in a cow costume was leading two goats past the volcano when a wrenchingly familiar voice froze me in my tracks.

"Penny! Oh, Penny! Penny, how delightful to see you!"

I briefly considered running for it and pleading temporary insanity later. Or at least pretending that I'd had too many Lava Lamps to remember my name. But breeding won out and I turned, clenching my teeth. Of all the Caribbean-themed parties in all the Oxford colleges in all the world, he had to buy a ticket to mine.

"Hello, Hamish," I managed. "How lovely to see you."

My vocalization sounded enough like one of Dr. Who's Daleks that Claudine paused in mid-swallow of her third Lava Lamp. I knew the exact moment when she made visual contact with the Scourge of Scotland, Hamish McNinch - because I was banging her on the back sympathetically right afterward. She did manage not to get any of the fruit juice on her lovely cashmere sweater, however. Talented girl.

Poor Hamish. He defied description, really he did. Underneath it all he was probably a decent fellow, but even having a well respected title and large amounts of land in Bonnie Scotland couldn't overcome his horrendous shortfall in the genetics department. He was short and pudgy, with a receding, double chin, small piggy eyes, and skin the color of that horrible dessert they used to serve in boarding school...the one they called "spotted dog," when they're being polite...like uncooked dough with raisins stuck in it at random intervals. What hair he had was vaguely gingerish in color and combed carefully across a premature bald spot - and he was cursed with not only acne but also a rampant case of eczema, which combined to produce a rather unintentionally comic habit of random scratching, like a mangy, overweight dachshund with a bad case of fleas.

As if all that wasn't bad enough, he was bowlegged. A fact that became embarrassingly obvious whenever there was a party, since he only ever wore one costume - his highland tartan. Trust me when I tell you that nobody ever wanted to make jokes about what was worn under the kilt when Hamish McNinch was around.

"Penny, my dear," Hamish was saying, barely audible over the din of that poor man with the rivets in his head. "May I have the pleasure of a dance?"

I almost groaned out loud. I suppose I could have, since nobody would have heard me over the music anyway. I'll warn you now...everyone who grew up for miles around him found out early that if they heard the name Hamish McNinch and the word "dance" in the same sentence - in the same paragraph - it was time to turn and run now, while they still could. Hamish was obsessed with the Scottish Sword Dance, a rather athletic, high stepping endeavor that involved maneuvering back and forth over the crossed blades of two very sharp ceremonial swords laid on the ground. The trouble was, Hamish couldn't manage the high stepping, let alone the athletic. The last time I'd seen him try it he'd trodden on the tip of one of the swords and flipped the hilt up hard enough to seriously jeopardize his chances of continuing his family legacy.

Maybe that wouldn't have been such a bad thing, considering...

I should explain here that Hamish was somewhat of a nemesis for me...he had asked me to marry him every time he saw me for the previous two years. And he saw me a lot...our families have been close to one another since the time of good old self-combusting Angus. To be honest, I would rather have married one of those goats I saw back by the volcano. "Hamish," I said, trying to pretend I couldn't hear what he'd said, "This is Claudine. Stuart's girlfriend. Claudine, this is Hamish McNinch."

It took Claudine a second, but then I saw her eyes go wide as a whole piggy-bank full of pennies dropped. I wasn't surprised - I knew my brother had told her about me and Hamish. He found it so amusing, he told everybody. She leaned really close to me and said in my ear under cover of the music, "Make a run for it. Save yourself. I'll give him two minutes and then I'll page Stuart to rescue me."

"If my brother doesn't marry you, I will!" I promised, hope returning in a rush. She smiled, winked and turned toward Hamish, who was standing there looking at us with eyes that wobbled like the little glass ones they stick on those fuzzy toys.

"Oh, look, Hamish," she said, pointing. "A Scottish Sword Dance!"

Brilliant. The girl was brilliant. Hamish couldn't resist this and she knew it...she had listened well to my brother's idiot ramblings. Hamish swung in the direction she indicated, almost decapitating a woman in a hula costume. I was gone before he could disentangle himself from her grass skirt and her distinctly displeased boyfriend.

Blessing Claudine from the bottom of my heart, I ducked down the passageway that ran down the side of the library building. At the other end I emerged into the Garden Quad, a small area of greenery that had once again been overrun by revelers. In the middle of the small grassy lawn was a limbo dance contest in progress, and something about the combination of the contestants chanting as they encouraged each other and the eerie glow of the outdoor heaters scattered about the Quad gave the whole thing the feeling of a very cheerful voodoo ceremony.

Dodging and jumping over several partygoers who had evidently lost the use of their legs and were now drinking lying down, I ran towards the arbor gate that led through into the Main Garden, a place I where I was sure to be able to hide. I never made it. At the last moment, as I was approaching the gate, I heard a sound so familiar it made my blood run cold. The high pitched snorting laughter of Hamish's sister, Geraldine.

She was right in front of me, in the Main Garden. I had to make a split second decision. I dived to the right, into the dense thicket of trees and bushes just inside the garden wall.

I collided with something big, warm and hard, bounced off again and went sprawling on the ground with a decidedly unladylike "oof!" It was very dark there in the undergrowth, but I heard a concerned voice whisper, "Hey, are you okay?"

Male, and even though he was whispering I could hear the American accent. I couldn't answer him, the breath knocked out of me by the fall. Strong hands took hold of my upper arms and lifted me gently to my feet. "Just breathe," the voice said again, louder than a whisper now but still in very low tones. "You'll be all right in a minute."

It's a very nasty experience, not being able to breathe. Conjures up all kinds of things, like the idea you might be dying, which tends to lead immediately to thoughts of screaming panic. If you could scream when your lungs feel like they've caved in, that is. I was grateful for this stranger's concern, and also for the warm, confident tone in which he reassured me. He'd coached people through this before, that was obvious.

At last my diaphragm stopped spasming and I was able to draw air back into my very shaky lungs. "Thank you," I croaked.

"No problem," he said. "Better?"

I nodded...and then immediately felt stupid when I remembered he couldn't see me in the dark. "Yes, thank you."

Neither of us was making any move to leave our hiding place...and I could tell that he was wondering why I didn't. I know I was wondering the same about him. "So," he whispered after a moment, conversationally, "you come here often?"

I managed to choke back my giggle. "No, it's too hard on my dry cleaning budget. Why are we whispering?"

"So no one will hear us?" I could hear his smile although I couldn't see it.

"Oh, very funny."

"Shhh," he admonished me. "I don't want anyone to hear us!"

I couldn't help an exasperated sigh. "Why are you hiding in here?"

"Why are you?" he countered.

I snorted. "I'm being pursued by the worst-looking person in the British Isles, who's decided he's in love with me."

"Oh, God," he said. "Me too."

"Hamish McNinch, Scourge of Scotland, is chasing you as well?"

"Hamish...?" he was momentarily puzzled. "Oh! No, the person chasing me is female."

"Oh," I said. "That's a relief. For a moment there I thought he was cheating on me."

I could hear him heroically holding back the laughter. "No," he managed. "Scourge of Scotland...he sounds like he belongs in a comic."

"Oh, he does, believe me."

"I...wait a minute. Hamish McNinch? Is he any relation to Geraldine McNinch? Five foot ten, double chin, shoulders like a barn door?"

"And skin like its roof? Oh, God," I said as it dawned on me. "You're being chased round Corpus Christi by Hamish's sister?"

"I guess so," he said, sighing. "It sure is a small world, isn't it?"

"It's a small college, that's for sure," I said. "Not many places to hide."

"Well, I guess that would explain why we both wound up in here then, wouldn't it?"

I grinned and offered my hand. "Penelope. My friends call me Penny."

It took him a moment to realize what I was doing in the dark. Then he found my hand and shook it. "Scott. You can probably guess what my friends call me."

I laughed. "Hello, Scott."

"So why's Hamish pursuing you?" Scott teased. "No, wait, don't tell me. You're drop dead gorgeous and he doesn't want his children to look like garden gnomes."

"Sadly, no," I said, putting what I hoped was the right amount of wistfulness into my voice. "It's my money. I'm very rich, you know. Or at least, my family is. We have lots of...sheep. Big sheep. Well fed. Tons and tons of wool."

"Ah," he said, trying to sound as if he knew exactly what I meant about the sheep. "Then that's probably why his sister's after me. Certainly isn't for my looks."

The smile was still there in his voice. "So you're rich too, then?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Or, at least, my family is."

I chuckled softly. Touché. "You're an American...it must be oil, right? Or cattle?"

"Aerospace, actually...at least, originally," Scott said. "Dad's into all kinds of things now."

"Ah," I said. I didn't know anything about aerospace then, although I remember thinking that it must have something to do with astronauts.

"Shhhh!" Scott whispered suddenly.

We both stood very still as Hamish's voice rang out over the raucous laughter of the limbo contestants. "Penny! Penny! Oh, Pennnnnnnny!"

"Oh, God," I whispered, swinging toward the horrible sound.

"Don't worry," Scott whispered back, putting a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "I'll protect you!"

"Nobody can protect me from him," I moaned. "He's like that pink bunny with the batteries. With spots and a very bad case of mange."

"Shhhh!"

"Hamish! Where have you been? Mamma has been asking everywhere about you."

I felt Scott stiffen behind me. "Don't worry," I whispered, "I'll protect you!"

I swear I heard him whimper.

"Oh, don't fuss, Geri, I'll be along soon. I seem to have lost Penny. Have you seen her?"

"No, and I wouldn't care if I did."

I heard Hamish sigh. "There's no need to be so rotten, Geri. She's a perfectly nice girl."

Geraldine snorted. "Really, Hamish, you're such an imbecile. Sometimes I can't believe you're my brother."

"I can," I whispered. I felt Scott begin to shake with repressed laughter. His mirth triggered mine and I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop the sounds from escaping.

"Come on, dearest," Hamish was saying, "Come back with me into the garden. Maybe Penny went in there."

Their voices finally began to recede into the distance - and none too quickly, either. Scott couldn't hold it any more - he exploded into laughter behind me, and I was soon doubled over with him. We laughed until we cried.

"Oh, God," he managed to gasp. "How can their parents stand them?"

"Have you met their parents?" I gasped back. "It's not just the eczema that's hereditary!"

This sent him into fresh paroxysms, and it was several more minutes before we got our breath back enough to speak again.

"It's been fun hiding with you," I said, struggling for command of my voice, "but I think we should escape now, while the going's good."

"Sounds like a plan," he agreed. "Tell you what, you go first. I'll hold the fort while you run for cover."

I laughed. "It was nice meeting you, Scott. I hope the next girl you meet in England is a little more...appealing than Geraldine McNinch!"

"Me too," he said fervently. "And the same to you."

"Oh, Geraldine wouldn't have a chance," I grinned. "She's not nearly man enough for me."

I heard his half-exasperated, half-amused sigh again. "You know what I mean."

I laughed softly, and held out my hand. "Goodbye, Scott."

He once again found my hand in the dark and shook it firmly. "Take care, Penny."

I slipped out into the garden again. The limbo dancers had pretty much all ended up in a drunken, giggling heap, and I had to make a wide circle to avoid them as I crossed the lawn. At the entrance to the passageway that would take me back into the Main Quad, I paused on impulse and turned to look back. Scott had stepped out from the bushes and was clearly illuminated under one of the heavy strings of party lights.

He was absolutely gorgeous...very tall, with dark, slightly curly hair, and eyes blue enough to drown in. He'd lied to me.

Then again, I'd lied to him, too.

He saw me looking and paused for a moment, his expression mirroring my own surprise. Then he grinned and lifted the fingers of one hand to his forehead in a mock salute...and was gone into the darkness.

I shook my head, smiling, and turned back toward the Main Quad.

I thought about the handsome young American all the way back, wondering who he really was, and how he'd come to be here at Corpus Christi College tonight. But when I reached my brother and his friends, I'm afraid I pretty much immediately forgot all about him, because it turned out that his well wishes for me in the romantic department were going to come true sooner than he probably anticipated. Standing with Stuart was a tall, tanned, good looking young man in his mid twenties with a shock of wavy dark blond hair. "Penny!" Stuart called out to me. "Come and meet Yves! He's going to drive the Safari with me!"

I came forward and shook hands with Yves Rossini, the half French, half Italian and all world class rally driver my brother had idolized since he was my age. Yves smiled at me and lifted the back of my hand to his lips...and just like that, I was in love.

We were inseparable from that moment on. Almost as inseparable as he and my brother, who spoke a language I sometimes think is even more binding than the language of love...the language of cars! When Yves asked me to marry him six months later, my brother was almost as thrilled as the day they won their first race together.

The wedding never happened, of course - which if you follow rally driving as a sport, you already know. Because eleven months after that, Yves and Stuart were killed together, in the worst accident the Monte Carlo Rally had ever seen.

But that, like so many things in my life, is another story.

"Penny!" Scott said, staring at me in the cool elegance of the Tracy Villa living room.

"Scott!" I had to fight down the urge to giggle, it was all so unexpectedly absurd.

"Wait a minute," Jeff began from my left, "you two know each other?" Gordon and Virgil were looking at each other in bewilderment.

"Not exactly," Scott said, mouth twitching. "But we have met."

"Ran into each other, actually," I supplied.

"Well, you ran into me," he corrected.

"It was dark in those bushes! How was I supposed to see you?"

"Whoa, whoa," Jeff interrupted again. "What is going on here?"

"Nothing, Dad," Scott grinned. "It's a long story. We'll tell you the whole thing over dinner. Right, Penny?"

"Right," I smiled.

He took my arm and led me toward the long, elegantly set dining table. "So," he said, "you didn't marry Hamish, then?"

I shuddered. "Good God no. You managed to get away too?"

He nodded. "I was looking over my shoulder for months, though."

I laughed.

"Hamish?" Jeff asked.

"Hamish McNinch, Scourge of Scotland," Scott and I chorused together.

Jeff frowned. "I knew a McNinch once, on the board of a company I did business with in England. Short, bowlegged fella with bad skin. Kept trying to pawn his daughter off on me."

Scott and I looked at each other, and burst out laughing. I felt something deep inside me ease a little for the first time in years, as I suddenly realized that I might have lost my only brother, but I'd gained a new sibling today. Maybe more than one.

This was going to be fun.