Cannes Steele Be Convinced?
On the way home from the Friedlich Spa . . .
Laura studied the way her fingers entwined with Mr. Steele’s as he drove. She kept her hand on the seat so that he could release it long enough to shift gears and take it again.
“Now who’s not talking?” Remington teased. “We’ve determined we want some sort of progress in our relationship; I rather think this isn’t a good time to run out of conversation.”
Her response was an eye-roll and head-shake that made him chuckle. She admitted, “I think I’m afraid of the discussion turning serious again. My psyche can’t handle all these revelations at one time.”
“Are we talking about my letter?”
“Some. But that’s not all of it.”
“What else is rolling around in that brain of yours?”
Laura mulled over the phrasing for a moment before saying, “At one time, we seemed to stumble on your past and my present. Now it seems the reverse is true.”
“Aptly put, Miss Holt.”
“You didn’t have to agree quite so fast,” she chided.
“I’m only acknowledging your brilliant analysis.” He lifted her hand and brushed a kiss across the backs of her fingers.
The intimacy of the movement made her uncomfortable—not because she didn’t like it. Maybe she liked it too much, and it was a sure sign of the turn their relationship was taking. Remington let her mull for a while, then changed the subject. Grateful, she indulged his whimsy as they debated which movie they would see later.
One week later:
From his seat on the couch, Remington poured the California Cabernet into a pair of goblets. Laura stood at the window, apparently fascinated by something occurring on the street below. The pretense would have been more convincing if her eyes had been focused downward rather than off into the distance.
He nibbled on his thumb while he considered the dichotomy she presented this evening: lovely, simple elegance complete with the usual bundle of nerves she tried to hide under a casual demeanor. She’d make a special effort with her appearance tonight, yet he hadn’t been able to divine a particular purpose for it—if there was one.
Over their usual Friday night dinner preparations, he’d admired the line of the pale pink sheath and the way it skimmed her slim form. But his imagination had stopped there. It wouldn’t help his perennially frustrated person to think about dragging that long zipper downward or nudging the thin fabric off her shoulder.
Firmly reining in his thoughts, he set the bottle on the table. He debated calling her on her mood and then decided against it. She would come around soon enough.
They’d both had a challenging week—and not due to any particular case. She was allowing him certain intimacies that would lead to the bedroom soon enough. He was answering her questions with serious consideration rather than deflecting them as was his habit. Oh, she hadn’t been quizzing him on his past. She seemed content enough to leave that alone. But she had been asking for his opinion more than usual and expected honest answers. He found it all discomforting at best.
“Care for a glass of wine, Miss Holt?”
She squared her shoulders, as if she’d come to some sort of decision, and turned to take the glass from him. “Mmm, this is good,” she complimented after the first sip.
“Yes. The wine steward at the restaurant last week had much praise for it. So—” Remington settled back into the sofa, laying an arm across the back in a blatant invitation for her to join him. “What shall we do this evening? A movie? Dancing?” Laura sipped again, then placed her drink on the table.
Instead of joining him, she paced three or four steps, clasping her hands together as she walked. “I need to talk to you.”
He wasn’t in the mood for another relationship discussion. Suppressing a sigh, he set his own glass down. He rose and reseated himself on the arm of the sofa, nearer to her. “What have I done now?”
A reluctant smile brightened her face. “Nothing, this time anyway.”
“No sly remarks about my allergy to legwork?”
She shook her head.
“Is this about our relationship?”
She nodded.
“Then I suspect the conversation will be better conducted from here.” He caught her hand and tugged until he could touch his mouth to hers. He had only a moment to taste her sweetness before she pulled back. He kept her close with gentle hands. In the past week, he’d discovered these conversations went much better from a minuscule distance. “Laura?”
She brushed back the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. “I thought about seducing you tonight.”
“What stopped you?” For once he was grateful his mouth had a witty retort at the ready while his brain still stumbled on her admission.
“You.”
Now his mouth fell open, caught in the same quagmire as his brain. “I think I’m going to need an explanation on this one, Miss Holt, or at least a few more clues.”
She pulled away from his grasp, leaving him bereft as she wrung her hands and stalked about the flat. “It’s about Cannes.”
In the past, Remington had wished the whole Cannes trip to perdition with frequent, fervent repetition. It looked as if he would have to renew his condemnations. “What does France have to do with stopping you from seducing me?”
“It’s not France. It’s about what you said to me,” Laura waved in his direction, “while we were there.” She planted her hands on her hips, elbows akimbo.
“Refresh my memory. Quite a bit was said on that trip. Most of it, I’d prefer to forget. You weren’t please with my actions for the majority of that particular jaunt.”
Laura raked her hand through her hair, mussing the careful waves in a way that made Remington want to sink his hands into the dark stands. She threw up her hands in a classic gesture of frustration. “You said … you said that I’d ‘decided—without discussion—that we were going to consummate our relationship.’ And—and you wanted to have a say in the matter.”
The words clicked. He recalled the argument they’d had on the streets of Cannes. He should have known it would stick in Laura’s head. Probably stuck in her craw is more like it—hence her current irritation. Sudden understanding made him grin.
“So I did. I think there was something in that conversation about wanting to be a partner, not an errant schoolboy.”
“You are my partner,” she insisted.
“I know.”
Laura studied him, her dark eyes intent. Then she laid her hand against the bare skin above the open ‘V’ of his dress shirt, causing his heart to beat in double time. “I’m saying ‘yes.’ And I’m giving you the chance to say ‘no.’”
“Never.” The instant response made her smile. The kiss he gave her made her moan.
“You’re certain, Mr. Steele?” she mumbled around his mouth.
“Yes, Miss Holt.”
29 October 2010
On the way home from the Friedlich Spa . . .
Laura studied the way her fingers entwined with Mr. Steele’s as he drove. She kept her hand on the seat so that he could release it long enough to shift gears and take it again.
“Now who’s not talking?” Remington teased. “We’ve determined we want some sort of progress in our relationship; I rather think this isn’t a good time to run out of conversation.”
Her response was an eye-roll and head-shake that made him chuckle. She admitted, “I think I’m afraid of the discussion turning serious again. My psyche can’t handle all these revelations at one time.”
“Are we talking about my letter?”
“Some. But that’s not all of it.”
“What else is rolling around in that brain of yours?”
Laura mulled over the phrasing for a moment before saying, “At one time, we seemed to stumble on your past and my present. Now it seems the reverse is true.”
“Aptly put, Miss Holt.”
“You didn’t have to agree quite so fast,” she chided.
“I’m only acknowledging your brilliant analysis.” He lifted her hand and brushed a kiss across the backs of her fingers.
The intimacy of the movement made her uncomfortable—not because she didn’t like it. Maybe she liked it too much, and it was a sure sign of the turn their relationship was taking. Remington let her mull for a while, then changed the subject. Grateful, she indulged his whimsy as they debated which movie they would see later.
One week later:
From his seat on the couch, Remington poured the California Cabernet into a pair of goblets. Laura stood at the window, apparently fascinated by something occurring on the street below. The pretense would have been more convincing if her eyes had been focused downward rather than off into the distance.
He nibbled on his thumb while he considered the dichotomy she presented this evening: lovely, simple elegance complete with the usual bundle of nerves she tried to hide under a casual demeanor. She’d make a special effort with her appearance tonight, yet he hadn’t been able to divine a particular purpose for it—if there was one.
Over their usual Friday night dinner preparations, he’d admired the line of the pale pink sheath and the way it skimmed her slim form. But his imagination had stopped there. It wouldn’t help his perennially frustrated person to think about dragging that long zipper downward or nudging the thin fabric off her shoulder.
Firmly reining in his thoughts, he set the bottle on the table. He debated calling her on her mood and then decided against it. She would come around soon enough.
They’d both had a challenging week—and not due to any particular case. She was allowing him certain intimacies that would lead to the bedroom soon enough. He was answering her questions with serious consideration rather than deflecting them as was his habit. Oh, she hadn’t been quizzing him on his past. She seemed content enough to leave that alone. But she had been asking for his opinion more than usual and expected honest answers. He found it all discomforting at best.
“Care for a glass of wine, Miss Holt?”
She squared her shoulders, as if she’d come to some sort of decision, and turned to take the glass from him. “Mmm, this is good,” she complimented after the first sip.
“Yes. The wine steward at the restaurant last week had much praise for it. So—” Remington settled back into the sofa, laying an arm across the back in a blatant invitation for her to join him. “What shall we do this evening? A movie? Dancing?” Laura sipped again, then placed her drink on the table.
Instead of joining him, she paced three or four steps, clasping her hands together as she walked. “I need to talk to you.”
He wasn’t in the mood for another relationship discussion. Suppressing a sigh, he set his own glass down. He rose and reseated himself on the arm of the sofa, nearer to her. “What have I done now?”
A reluctant smile brightened her face. “Nothing, this time anyway.”
“No sly remarks about my allergy to legwork?”
She shook her head.
“Is this about our relationship?”
She nodded.
“Then I suspect the conversation will be better conducted from here.” He caught her hand and tugged until he could touch his mouth to hers. He had only a moment to taste her sweetness before she pulled back. He kept her close with gentle hands. In the past week, he’d discovered these conversations went much better from a minuscule distance. “Laura?”
She brushed back the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. “I thought about seducing you tonight.”
“What stopped you?” For once he was grateful his mouth had a witty retort at the ready while his brain still stumbled on her admission.
“You.”
Now his mouth fell open, caught in the same quagmire as his brain. “I think I’m going to need an explanation on this one, Miss Holt, or at least a few more clues.”
She pulled away from his grasp, leaving him bereft as she wrung her hands and stalked about the flat. “It’s about Cannes.”
In the past, Remington had wished the whole Cannes trip to perdition with frequent, fervent repetition. It looked as if he would have to renew his condemnations. “What does France have to do with stopping you from seducing me?”
“It’s not France. It’s about what you said to me,” Laura waved in his direction, “while we were there.” She planted her hands on her hips, elbows akimbo.
“Refresh my memory. Quite a bit was said on that trip. Most of it, I’d prefer to forget. You weren’t please with my actions for the majority of that particular jaunt.”
Laura raked her hand through her hair, mussing the careful waves in a way that made Remington want to sink his hands into the dark stands. She threw up her hands in a classic gesture of frustration. “You said … you said that I’d ‘decided—without discussion—that we were going to consummate our relationship.’ And—and you wanted to have a say in the matter.”
The words clicked. He recalled the argument they’d had on the streets of Cannes. He should have known it would stick in Laura’s head. Probably stuck in her craw is more like it—hence her current irritation. Sudden understanding made him grin.
“So I did. I think there was something in that conversation about wanting to be a partner, not an errant schoolboy.”
“You are my partner,” she insisted.
“I know.”
Laura studied him, her dark eyes intent. Then she laid her hand against the bare skin above the open ‘V’ of his dress shirt, causing his heart to beat in double time. “I’m saying ‘yes.’ And I’m giving you the chance to say ‘no.’”
“Never.” The instant response made her smile. The kiss he gave her made her moan.
“You’re certain, Mr. Steele?” she mumbled around his mouth.
“Yes, Miss Holt.”
29 October 2010
Steele
Holting On
Steele
Holting On
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
 |
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
 |