He sat on the cheap bed in a questionable motel, picking at the Chinese food he’d bought a block over at a shop jammed into the middle of a strip mall between a dry cleaner and tattoo parlour.  Ignoring it for a moment, he flipped open the suit coat he’d worn that day and withdrew the wallet.  Stroking the impossibly soft leather with his thumb, he glanced toward the coat again.  He’d kept both from his charade as “Remington Steele” two days earlier.

Only five bills of various denominations filled the wallet, but they represented nearly half of what he had at the moment.  Reaching into his shoe, he pulled out two more.  A third came from his shirt pocket, and the last three had to be pried off his skin.  The tape he’d used to strap them to his hip stung as he peeled it off.  He’d learned long ago not to be caught without cash.

He’d used most of his blunt to finance this operation.  Cursing himself for letting a pretty face distract him, he ran his fingers through his hair.  He’d needed to score the Royal Lavulite here.  Chasing it down in the next city meant coming up with money he didn’t have at the moment.  Two days, he decided.  Two days could get him money wired from his account in Monte Carlo.  He didn’t have a great deal there anymore--just enough to get by.  But the delay might cost him his next best chance to lift the gems.  Running out of time and options, he swore under his breath.

Dropping the wallet on the bed, he took up his plastic fork and speared a chunk of chicken from the paper box. 

He used to have a nice nest egg built up in that account, but in the year since Anna had died, he’d tapped into it--hard.  He squinted as he realized that the spunky brunette detective responsible for his distraction had been the first to peak his interest since he’d read that damned newspaper and found Anna there.    He’d spent nearly a year running from both the pain of her betrayal--for, according to the paper, she had been married--and her death on the night they were to go away together.

Anna.  He’d found her conning an older man into paying for an expensive hotel room.  The man had booked it while she flirted and had given her the room number before she'd flitted away.  Curious as to her next move, he’d followed her.  Once at the hotel, she’d posed as an executive assistant and had made arrangements for a second room to be booked under the same man’s name and credit card.  A flick of her fingers had had the bellhop moving her things into that room.

Smiling at her audacity, for the man she’d conned would undoubtedly spend the night alone only to pay the bill for both rooms later, he’d caught up with her at the bar and had bought her a drink.  She’d been startled to discover he’d seen through her entire charade. 

For two months he’d been wholly hers.  He'd courted her--taking her dancing, buying silly posies and warming her bed.  When he'd admitted he was a fair thief, she’d been delighted.  They'd made plans.  On the night they were to leave together, she hadn’t come.  And then, in the hazy dawn of the next morning, he'd read the devastating news of her drowning.

He was still ashamed at the way he’d behaved in his grief.  The drinking, gambling and womanizing had dribbled away the nest egg he’d built up in the months of expensive living in Monaco.  But somewhere around spring, the grief and anger had lessened enough for him to breathe again, and the hard playing lost appeal.  Setting it all aside, he'd focused his time and energy on rebuilding his capital.  A couple of quick thefts had given him what he'd needed to track down the Royal Lavulite.

Now he’d been sidetracked.  A routine reconnaissance mission of the security setup for the gems had turned into something else entirely.

Like Anna, he’d caught Laura Holt pulling off an excellent con.  But Laura’s ambitions had nothing to do with scoring a place to sleep for the evening.  He shook his head at her audacity.  Laura’s plans were grand--and elaborate.  She’d created a fictitious boss as a front for her detective agency in order to launch it as an industry leader.  Subtle questioning here and there had revealed that it was working.  Remington Steele Investigations had solved dozens of complex cases in the past year, developing an outstanding reputation for discretely solving the problems of the upper echelon of LA society.

As with any con artist caught in the act, she’d been afraid he would tip her hand.  But there had been something more--and he’d felt it in his gut.  Her first reaction, the one that made her flash into a rage in an instant, had nothing to do with the con--and everything to do with him.   He’d seen it in those fabulous, pissed-off brown eyes.

She liked him.  Or had.  The anger came from discovering he wasn’t who he’d professed to be.  Only a handful of women had ever discovered one of his scams--three to be exact--and all had found his con artist/thief persona even more interesting than the character he’d played. 

But Miss Holt hadn’t.  She'd wanted him to be the man who sent her a magnum of champagne.  She'd wanted the witty man who had treated her with respect for her intelligence.

The snort of irony he let out emphasized the irritating quirks of fate life had handed him.  Only he knew that those things came from him, not the character.  He liked her.  Liked that she wasn’t willing to settle for second rate, liked that she had gumption, liked that she had a brain and wasn’t afraid to use it.  And whom was he kidding?  She was sexy as hell.  He’d nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of the red dress revealing dozens of pretty freckles dusted across her pale skin.  When he’d yanked her to him on the dance floor, he’d felt muscles flexing under his hands, but the grace with which she wore them belied her strength.

He smiled.  She was a complicated woman--and an utterly fascinating one.

Dropping the wallet to scrub his face with both hands, he lay back on the bed, ignoring the food cooling into a gelatinous, unappetizing mess.

Good Lord, he'd tired of this life.  What would it be like, he wondered, to be able to pursue a woman like Laura Holt?  She wasn’t a fragile violet ready to wilt at the first blush of indecency.  She wouldn’t flinch from adversity.  Someone with her abilities wouldn’t be interested in the weak or the stupid.  Nor would she appreciate being coddled.  But her long hair and red dress had revealed a streak of romance and femininity that was surely a part of her as much as her quick brain.  Miss Holt needed a partner, someone to appreciate all those intricate pieces of her.

What a damned shame he couldn’t even try--she’d be a hell of a challenge.  But perhaps it was for the best.  After Anna, he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to commit to another woman and have his heart shattered.  Perhaps he should stick with the simple, uncomplicated kinds of ladies who asked for little more than dinner and a tumble. 

At this moment, all he really wanted was a comfortable bed, a kitchen where he could cook a decent meal, a nice glass of wine, and a bloody credit card so he didn’t have to carry cash.

For a good twenty minutes, he lay on the bed feeling sorry for himself.  When that annoyed him, he sat up and took the wallet again, caressing the leather cover.  Swiftly, he changed into a casual shirt and slacks suitable for walking.  The wallet went into the jacket.  A toothpick from the pocket gave him something to nibble since dinner had proved unappetizing.

The agency was farther than he remembered, and it took him nearly an hour and a half to get there by foot.  Without glancing around, he strolled to the elevator and punched the number eleven button.  The brightly lit hallway contrasted with the dark office.  In seconds, he picked the lock--damned shame for a detective agency to have these pitiful things but easier for him at any rate.

Ignoring the secretary’s desk in the reception area, he opened the door to the first office on the left.  It was a man’s office, judging by the lack of style and haphazard stack of papers on the industrial desk.  The diploma on the wall and scattered pictures gave a few indications of a personal life--no booze, no drugs, nothing other than files filled the desk.  It appeared Miss Holt’s associate lived a clean life.

Crossing through the connecting door, he found Miss Holt’s domain.  A pretty lamp graced the edge of her ruthlessly organized desk.  He sat in her chair, skimming fingers across each picture, paper clip, and file.  The case file for the Royal Lavulite lay square in the center as if it was the last thing she’d touched before going home for the day.  Involuntarily, the thought made him smile.

Rising, he walked through the other door in her office.  Here he found “Mr. Steele’s” office: stark, elegant, stocked with a wet bar and an executive bath.  But empty desk drawers and new suits hanging in the wash room confirmed again the massive con Miss Holt had set into motion.

Impressed, he wandered about the room, stopping to take in the view of downtown LA at night.  Suddenly jealous, he cursed vividly.  And then a grin flashed across his face.  He’d been Remington Steele for a few short hours--and liked it.  In fact, he thought he'd pulled it off rather well indeed.  Certainly, Miss Holt couldn’t fault him for his conduct.  So why not make Mr. Steele a living, breathing part of the agency?

Amused at the possibilities, he wandered across to the bar to pour a neat Scotch.  Reading the Glenlivit label, he quirked his eyebrows.  The woman had good taste. 

Would she allow him to step into the phantom Steele’s shoes?  Knocking back the drink, he muttered, “There's only one way to find out.”

A few hours of sleep on the office sofa proved more comfortable than the bed in his questionable hotel room.  When dawn streaked the skies, he slipped into the shower--taking advantage of someone’s soap and shampoo.  The razor seemed a touch dull but did the job adequately enough.  Given his preference for cleanliness and neatness, he rather liked the idea of an executive washroom.  He thumbed through the clothes on the narrow rack and selected a suit.  Fine cotton and French cuffs made him smile.  The fit of the coat was a touch snug in the shoulders and loose in the hips but overall looked good enough. The shoes made him grin, for they fit quite well.  He had to make do with his own briefs, but that presented little problem.  A comb from a drawer and the aftershave he recognized from the hotel completed his toilette.

Arranging himself comfortably in the chair behind the desk, he watched the sky lighten and traffic flow as the morning advanced.  It would be only a matter of time now before Miss Holt arrived, and her expression would tell him all he needed to know.  If she was dismayed to see him, it would be a simple matter to thank her for … whatever … and leave.

An hour later, he sat up straight when two men’s voices could be heard in the outer office along with the shutting of a door he assumed belonged to Murphy.  Moments later, the lilt of Laura’s voice could be heard along with that of the secretary--Miss Foxe?  No, she wasn’t quarry--she was a killer in high heels.  Miss Wolfe suited her much better, he decided.

The door opened and a man entered.  "Mr. Steele.  I thought you were in San Francisco."  Turning in the chair, he barely glanced at the man--focusing instead on Laura’s face as she eased into the room.  That one look of surprised joy shot through him like a thousand volts of electricity, making up his mind in an instant.

"I was, but suddenly there was nothing for me to do up there."  Remington Steele crossed the office to close the door behind Miss Holt.  He turned back to stand beside her.  "Now, how can I help you?" he asked the client.  Laura's astonished smile lit a glow within him.  For the first time in his memory, he was exactly where he wanted to be.