<--$endeclude$-->Rethinking Steele










Rethinking Steele



The thudding pain in her head woke her.  As brief images of the car accident flickered through her sore brain, she peeled her eyes open, focused, and found exactly what she wanted: blue eyes, shadowed with black, widening in relief. 

His long fingers clutched hers as he brought the back of her hand to his lips for a kiss.  Looking past him, she saw white walls and medical equipment.  She wondered how he’d found her here.  The mystery perplexed her for a moment, then vanished as she discovered she didn’t care how he’d come to be holding her hand--only that she was glad of his presence.  The extraordinarily handsome man at her bedside, even with a trace of stubble on his face and a wrinkled dress shirt, looked as if he’d shed his wings only for a moment.  She had to clear her throat to get the words out. 

“Not everyone has a personal angel holding her hand.” 

He flushed at the frank compliment, the red darkening a scattering of freckles dotting his hairline, a legacy of his Irish heritage.  A noise from the doorway had him glancing away to say something Laura couldn’t hear. 

Her head hurt unimaginably.  She frowned through the throbbing.  She meant to say, “Who is at the door?”  What came out was--


*****


“Who are you?”  Even as she spoke, Laura’s eyes glazed over and closed.  Seconds later, even breathing indicated she’d gone back to sleep. 

Remington brought her hand up to hold its softness against his cheek and blew out his breath, grateful she had awakened.  The last three hours had been dicey following the car accident.  Laura’s concussion was considered moderate, although the longer she’d stayed asleep, the more concerned the doctor had become.  He was on his way now, paged by the nurse Remington had notified as Laura had stirred. 

Who are you? 

Those words taunted him and had since he’d been a small child.  He had yet to find a good answer.  Shaking his head, he rearranged himself in the uncomfortable chair without letting go of Laura’s hand. 

Frances and Mildred kept company in the emergency waiting room.  Laura’s sister had arrived an hour ago after Mildred called her to give her the scanty details of the car accident.  They took turns checking in on Remington and Laura. 

He refused to leave her side.  Frances’ pursed lips didn’t really hide the smile when she’d realized why he wouldn’t let anyone else usurp his position.  She’d cupped his cheek, pressing a warm hand there for a moment before nodding and leaving him alone with her sister. 

Who are you? 

Bloody hell, Miss Holt, I wish I knew. 

The doctor came in followed by a perky nurse who gave Remington more than one admiring glance.  Dr. Bradley was slim, sporting a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and a shock of straight black hair.  With a practiced blank expression, he studied her charts. 

“She woke?”

“Briefly.  Told me I was her personal angel, then asked me who I was.”

The doctor nodded.  “She might be disoriented for a few days until the swelling subsides.  It’s not unusual, although not as common as you might think.”

“What sort of disorientation?”

Dr. Bradley shrugged.  “Sometimes the patient won’t have any memories surrounding the event causing the trauma--in this case, the accident itself.  She also might forget faces for a while.  If it occurs, it should resolve itself in a few days.  Don’t let it alarm you.  It could also be the medication we have her on to keep the swelling down.”  He waggled a finger at Remington.  “It could also be just the half-awake mutterings of a patient.  Don’t read too much into it yet.”  

The nurse blew out her breath comically and reflected, “I can think of a boyfriend or two I’d prefer to forget.  Wonder how hard I'd have to hit my head for that?”

Her jest drew a half-smile out of Remington, and she beamed back at him with a conspiratorial smile and roll of her eyes.  Her easy demeanor did a great deal to settle his worries over Laura.  

The nurse nodded toward their clasped hands.  “Your girlfriend?”

“Ah.”  Damn, he hated this question.  It ranked second or third on a list of ones he despised.  He never had a good answer.  “Partner.  We, ah, work together.”  

She snickered and shook her head with a knowing look while the doctor made notes on Laura’s chart.

“She should wake soon,” Dr. Bradley reassured Remington.  “When she does, we’ll take another look.  I don’t see any evidence of brain trauma, so I expect she’ll go home shortly.  Will someone be able to stay with her for a couple of days?”  

“I’ll be doing that.”  


*****


Laura woke, for real this time.  Opening her eyes took too much effort yet, so she kept them closed and listened to the doctor’s speech about memory.  She took a quick mental inventory.  Yes, she recalled the accident just fine, especially the stricken face of the teenaged driver who sped through the red light and collided with the Rabbit.  The sobbing girl had stayed with her until the paramedics arrived.  Laura was rather proud of herself for staying coherent until the ambulance doors closed.  After that, the next thing she remembered was Mr. Steele’s blue eyes.  

She supposed there was probably a gap there after all, but nothing significant.  Certainly nothing that warranted the kind of conversation the two men were having.  

Remington’s firm declaration that he would be the one staying with her almost made her laugh, but laughing would hurt too much.  She couldn’t quite envision him as an “angel of mercy.”  In truth, while she patched him up all too often for her comfort, he usually pretended her bumps and bruises didn’t exist.  Of course, it was her fault for insisting that she could handle herself all the time.  If he coddled her, she protested.  

She would have protested now except that she knew the doctor was right.  Given the choice of either staying with her sister or Mr. Steele, she’d take him.  Being nursed by Frances would have her running for the sanitarium by the end of the day.

Her head still pounded.  She grimaced, drawing Remington’s attention.  

“Laura?”

She lifted heavy lids again--then tried to bring her hand up to block the light, but her arm was entangled in a blood pressure monitor.  

“Light too bright?”

“Head hurts,” she complained.  

The doctor sat on the edge of the bed.  “Let me take a look at your eyes, Miss Holt.  Then I’ll see about getting you something for the pain.”  

“All right.”  The penlight shining on her retinas certainly didn’t help matters, but the man was quick, and the promised medicine arrived moments later.  

The doctor left, but Laura had already forgotten him.  Remington held her free hand between his own--caressing it, massaging it, weaving his fingers with hers.  She closed her eyes and focused on the sensuous touch that comforted as much as it confounded.  

When the throbbing reduced to a dull ache, Laura chose her words carefully.  “Why am I here?”

Remington frowned.  “You were in a car accident, a rather nasty one.  You have a lovely bump on your head and a fair concussion.  Rather hesitantly, he added, “Laura, do you know who I am?”

Laura couldn’t say why later, but at that moment, the perverse imp that lived in a tiny hut inside her head came out to play.  

“An angel.”  

He frowned again, obviously not liking her answer.  “Do you know your name?” he probed.

“Mmmm.  Laura.  Laura Holt.”  That was easy enough.  The doctor had called her “Miss Holt,” and Remington had said her first name more than once.  

“Do you know where you live?”

Laura firmly squelched a giggle.  “With you?”  

His eyebrows flew upward.  “Ah, not at the moment.”  

“Hmm.  How disappointing.  I think I’d like living with an angel.”  She turned onto her side, wanting to go back to sleep for a while.  Playing with him was fun but exhausting.  

“Laura, don’t go back to sleep.  If you can wake up, you can go home.”

She cracked her eyes open.  “With you?” she repeated.

“If you like.”

“Mmm.”  The sound came out in a purr.  “I’d like that.”  

This time, he swallowed hard.  “Then let’s sit up for a bit.”  He helped her shift positions, holding her hands in a gentle grip as she sat up.

Gingerly, she explored the bump on the side of her head before rubbing the side of her sore neck--both as a result of the other car smashing into the driver’s side door of the Rabbit.  Luck had been with her for she had no other injuries.  She would miss the little car though.  She’d always liked the imagery of a white rabbit haring after clues.  

Frances popped her head into the room, her face lighting up when she saw Laura sitting on the bed.  “Oh, you’re up!  Thank goodness.  I always said you had a hard head, but you finally had to go out and prove it!”  

Laura let out a huff of laughter and listened as her sister came inside, rattling on with her usual litany of instructions and admonishments.  Frances and Remington had a short debate as to who would take her home.  Laura stayed silent, curious to see who would win.  He did, but not until Frances conceded with a sly grin she shot at her sister.  

Keeping her face blank took skill, but Laura managed it.  Frances had needled her for years about her relationship with Mr. Steele.  Now it was patently obvious that they were more of a couple than either of them had admitted.  

And suddenly, a sneaky plan worthy of anything her conniving partner could invent popped into her sore head.  She’d unwittingly laid the groundwork already; now she had the opportunity to uncover the finer nuances of her relationship with her partner and discover exactly what kind of future they had in store.


*****  


Remington tried not to give Laura too many sideways looks on the drive to his flat, but she had him baffled.  Throughout the final interview with the doctor and hospital checkout, she’d cleverly dodged any sort of personal questions--citing her head as an excuse.  She’d even given him the paperwork to complete.  

He’d thought it odd because Laura was picky about that sort of thing but neatly wrote in her personal information.  She sketched a signature on the bottom without bothering to check the details.  He wondered how she’d learned that he knew her social security number.  He’d come across it by accident in a file on her desk during tax season a couple of years ago but hadn’t mentioned it.  

“Laura, how did you know that I could fill out your paperwork?  That’s quite a bit of personal information.”

She smiled with a soft light in her eyes.  “Angels know everything.”

Firmly biting his tongue, he drove on.  Something wasn’t right with his partner.  



He left her waiting in the circular drive to his building while he ran upstairs, changed clothes and packed an overnight bag.  Fifteen minutes later they were on their way to her place.  He parked the Auburn in front of her building.  She looked up curiously but said nothing as she followed him inside.  He opened her hall door for her and took his turn waiting while she dug through her purse and came up with her keys, which she handed to him.  

That in itself wasn’t unusual.  Remington liked opening doors for her and often unlocked hers so he could do just that.  But once inside, Laura wandered around as if seeing the place for the first time. 

“Laura, do you know where you are?” he asked as she wandered over to the piano.  

She turned with another smile and held up a picture of herself and her mom.  “My place?”  She laughed at her answer and continued to wander about until she found the bathroom and disappeared inside.

As he made tea for the pair of them, Remington suspected she was more disoriented than she’d let on in the hospital.  She’d done a fair job of concealing it from the medical staff, but Laura was a clever lass who outwitted him with alarming regularity.  It was part of her charm and a source of endless fascination for him.  

When she appeared from the bedroom, she’d changed into a pair of curve-hugging jeans and a thin pink sweater.  Good Lord, the girl was lovely.  A car accident, concussion and trip to the hospital, and here she was--dressed as if for a casual evening out.  Very little threw Laura off her game, another gem he appreciated about her.  

Laura joined him at the island to drink her tea while he retrieved a cut of wild salmon from her refrigerator and set about creating a tarragon cream sauce while the fish marinated in lime juice.  He wanted to ask how she was feeling but knew better.  Laura hated to be coddled.  Instead, he took another tactic.  “I know you were a bit tired of the Rabbit, Miss Holt, but really, did you have to leave it in the middle of the intersection?”

Laura gave him an opaque look over the rim of her mug.  “Is it totaled?”

“Hmm.  It’s been resurrected more than once.  We’ll find out in the morning when the insurance adjuster comes to take a look.”  

Rather than taking him to task for calling on her behalf, she merely blew on her tea before drinking it again.  

He stirred the sour cream and cheese sauce and started to drop the spoon into the sink when Laura caught his hand from across the island.

“What is it?”

“Can I taste it?”

“Of course.”  He handed her the spoon.  As she sampled the white sauce, drawing the spoon delicately between her lips, a twinge in the lower portions of his anatomy reminded him that the object of his desire was only an arm’s length away.  He ignored it, as he did all too often.

Laura was taciturn all through dinner.  She answered his questions, offered none of her own and then disappeared into the bathtub when he waived her off from washing dishes.  He didn’t really want to press her for answers, but her behavior was so odd that he had to ask when she reappeared in a pair of pale blue striped pajamas.  “Laura, do you know who I am?”

She quirked her mouth in a half grin.  “I hope so since you’re staying here tonight.  I’d be disappointed in me if I let a perfect stranger sleep on my sofa.”  She slipped behind the curtain of her bedroom and turned out the light, leaving Remington waffling between bewilderment and annoyance at her clever dodge.


*****


Laura stifled her grin in her pillow, elated at the way she had confused Mr. Steele.  She wondered how long it would take him to catch on to her game.  She didn’t want to frighten him by taking the whole thing too far and promised herself that she’d deal with the fallout if it became necessary--or else she would suddenly “find” her memories.  

In a flash of insight at the hospital, she had realized she had a golden opportunity.  The nurse’s comment about forgetting an old boyfriend had sparked her own curiosity: what kind of person she would be if she couldn’t remember her father or Wilson and all those terrible feelings of loneliness left in the wake of their leaving?

Would she still have the need to be brutally independent?  To keep her partner at arm’s length in spite of her feelings for him?  Or could she let go and trust him with her heart?  



The next morning, Laura’s alarm sounded.  She reset it out of habit and rose to dress for the office.  As she exited the bathroom wearing a navy pantsuit, she found her partner sulking on the couch with his hair in disarray and a dark smudge of stubble on his face.  

He gave her a dirty look.  “Has the phrase ‘overachiever’ ever occurred to you?”  

“It might.  I’m dressed, obviously for work.  Are you going to drive me?” she asked innocently as he rose and stretched.

Looking hard into her eyes, he tilted her head for a better look.  His mouth tightened into a hard line.  “Only if you promise you’ll quit if your head hurts.”  

She began an automatic protest but then thought the better of it.  “All right.”

The look on his face was so suspicious that Laura nearly laughed and gave the whole game away.  She fled to the kitchen and occupied herself by eating a banana while Mr. Steele took his turn in the shower.  



At the agency, she had her work cut out for her.  She let Mr. Steele lead her to the eleventh floor and down the hall, where she made a point of pausing to read the name on the door.  She said a cheery “good morning” to Mildred and made small talk about the state of her head while Mr. Steele picked up his messages, the morning paper and his coffee before disappearing behind his office door.  She copied him, picking up her own messages and asking about her appointments for the day--she had two--before going into her office.

Apparently, Mildred knew her well.  A little thing like a concussion wouldn’t stop her from working.  While she drank her coffee, she thought about that.  In truth, she had a dull ache at the top of her skull and surreptitiously dug in her purse for the mild painkiller the doctor had prescribed.  She probably should have stayed in bed for the morning at least and wrinkled her nose at her own stubbornness.  

She didn’t really want to change that aspect of her personality; she thought her ambition was one of her best characteristics.  She liked her work and, despite his grousing, Mr. Steele put in equal time--assuming that she overlooked the occasional long lunch at the cinema and the fact he strolled in anywhere between nine and ten-thirty.  Mildred admirably held up her end and managed the constantly changing schedule with aplomb.  With the three of them working in concert, the agency generated a solid income well able to support all of them.  

But when did ambition become self-sacrificing?  The agency certainly did well enough these days that a day or two of rest wouldn’t hurt business.  She groaned softly; Mr. Steele would be shocked to hear her admit such a thing.  

For now, she would do what she could.  She preferred the quiet of the mornings to study her case load and plan her strategy for the day.  In this, she and Mr. Steele were utter opposites.  She found the clues step by step, as if building a pyramid.  Mr. Steele strolled up to her tower of information, scaled the sides with skill and a healthy dash of luck before arriving at the top--usually meeting her there with the answer.  His intuition used to annoy her, as did his movie references, but now she understood his mental shorthand just as well as he accepted her methodical approach.  It wasn’t all that different to the way they approached work in general.  Laura worked patiently and methodically.  Remington popped in, surveyed the scene, listened to her recap, and came up with conclusions that ranged from mediocre to brilliant--usually the latter much to her annoyance.   And if he didn’t have a solution, then his insight often led her to the answer.  

Laura rested her hand on her chin.  They made a good team at the office.  She wrinkled her nose, admitting that they did just as well in private.  Over the years, they’d settled into a routine of sorts--when cases allowed.  During the week, they often saw each other after hours and kept company throughout most of the weekend.  Laura slept on his couch as much as he had hers--so much that they kept small personal toiletries at each other’s home.

Lately, the urge to crawl into bed with Remington had become nearly irresistible.  She was having a hard time remembering why she’d refused to sleep with him in the first place.  But each time she tried to cross that line, she turned back in confusion.  His patience had worn thin some time ago, but she could see him holding on to it with the strength of will he’d developed as a child.  

She had no excuses anymore not to trust him with her heart.  He’d certainly proven himself time and again--so why was she still holding back?  

Shaking her head at the lack of answers, she looked down at her files.  With her next client due at ten, Laura read through the notes Mildred had made when setting up the appointment and decided to give it to Mr. Steele to see what he would do with it.  It was a relatively straightforward skip-trace on a missing relative--not her partner’s usual avenue because these cases normally involved extensive legwork.  

She opened the connecting door and surveyed his office, as if seeing it for the first time.  In surprise, she realized he had made extraordinarily few changes from the original décor she’d picked out.  Any other person would have added his own touch through either mementos or artwork.  Mr. Steele had done neither in over four years.  

“Miss Holt?”  

“Hmm?”

“Laura?  Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no.  I was … admiring your office.  It seems to suit you.”

He drew his brows together.  “It’s not mine.  It’s yours.”  

Now why did that notion bother her?  “Your name is on the agency, and you don’t think this office is yours?”

“What kind of question is that, Laura?”  

She leaned against the edge of his desk.  “Probably an impertinent one.”  She held up the file.  “Want to sit in with me on my next appointment?  He’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”

As if on cue, the telephone buzzed.  Remington leaned across to answer.  “Yes, Mildred?”

“Mr. Saldonado is here.  Is Miss Holt available?”

“Send him in here.”

“Yes, sir.”  

Remington leaned back in his chair while Laura took her usual perch on his desk.  She evaluated that position while Mr. Steele opened the conversation with the client.  Sitting on his desk was subservient, but her height was elevated, giving her superiority.  She supposed the juxtaposition was just another example of the constant jockeying for dominance in their relationship.  

Smoothly, she fielded the procedural questions about conducting a trace on Mr. Saldonado’s brother.  With the finesse of a long partnership, the pair reassured Mr. Saldonado until Laura took him back into her office to make a list of last known addresses and other personal details about the client’s brother.  

After he’d left, Remington quietly opened her door.  “A concussion certainly hasn’t stopped you from doing your usual excellent job.”  

For once, Laura didn’t brush off the compliment.  She turned in her chair and smiled.  “Thank you.”  

He slid his knuckles over her cheek.  “How are you feeling?”

It took some effort on her part not to pretend with him, but she accomplished it.  With no little chagrin, she admitted, “My head hurts.”  When his eyebrow shot upward at her honesty, she thought he would pack her up and send her home.  Instead, he moved behind her chair.  

Warm hands tugged her hair away from her neck and began massaging the entire length between the base of her skill and the hard muscles in her shoulders, giving her instant relief from the subtle ache that had bloomed in her head.  While he rubbed, little tingles worked their way down her torso and into her stomach--reminding her how attractive she found him.  So many times she suppressed her desire for fear of losing her identity to him.  

She’d given him the opportunity--hell, she’d practically given him permission--to be dictatorial … and he wasn’t.  Had she underestimated him that much?  

When she leaned into his hands, he responded by digging his thumbs into the exact point of tension at the base of her neck.  At her gasp of relief, he halted his motion.

“Oh no, don’t stop.”  

“Laura, those are words I’ve longed to hear.”  His thumbs resumed stroking the sore tendons.  

The sensuality of his massage and her decision not to prevaricate made her verbal filter gossamer thin.  She closed her eyes and quipped, “Haven’t heard them enough lately?”

“Haven’t heard them at all.”  

“There’s always a first time.”  She infused a deliberately flirtatious tone in her voice and was rewarded when, for the briefest moment, his hands quit moving before shifting to stroke the long strands of her hair from underneath.  The tug of heat in the pit of her stomach matched the gentle tugging of her hair.  Then he resumed rubbing her neck until the last of the tension flowed away.  

He eased around to her side.  “Think you can make it until lunch time?  You’ve one more appointment at eleven, and then we can call it a day.”  

“I think so, yes.”

With a nod, he kissed her temple and returned to his office.  Laura sat in astonishment for a full three minutes before turning back to her work.  


*****  


Remington didn’t pay much attention to the stack of paperwork on his desk.  Instead, he stared through the window and tried not to worry too much about his associate in the next office.  Laura demonstrated all too often that she could take care of herself and didn’t appreciate his meddling.  But he wasn’t sure if she could think for herself in this situation.  

She’d dealt with the new client without missing a step, although he found it odd that she asked him to sit in on the meeting.  Was she unsure of her own competency at the moment?  Now that was more like the Laura he knew--covering her tracks without hinting of any deficiencies in her abilities.  

It was in times such as these that he found himself utterly frustrated by his partner.  For all that Laura insisted they needed to “talk” about their relationship, she was more reticent about her thoughts and emotions than he.  He had tried to talk; he had even written that bloody letter in which he’d admitted to caring for her more than any other in his lifetime.  

Did he love her?  Probably, he admitted.  But damned if he would go laying his cards on the table without seeing hers in return.  

Lost in thought, time slipped by him.  Thus he was surprised when the connecting door popped open and a wan-faced Laura leaned against the frame.  

“I think I’ve had enough.”  

He didn’t hesitate.  He snatched his coat off the back of his chair and retrieved Laura’s from her office to help her into it.  “I’ll mark it as a first--Miss Holt taking half a sick day.”

She let out a weak laugh.  “I’ll never admit to it if questioned under duress.”

“I’ll remind you at every opportunity.”  

“I’m certain you will.”

The barbed exchange alleviated some of his concern as he held the door of her office open.  Laura’s wit sharpened whenever she felt smug for some reason or another.  He wondered--

In the reception area, Mildred gave Laura a sympathetic look.  “Oh, Miss Holt, you look like you need to rest for a bit.”

“I am.  Remington is taking me home.”  

Shocked by the change of name, he missed closing her door properly, and it shut on the tip of his finger instead.  “Ow!  Sh--  Sugar!”

Both women looked around at him with worried expressions.  

“Are you okay?” Laura asked.

“Boss?”

Sucking on the tip for a moment, he pulled it out and shook the throbbing away.  “Ah, just caught my hand in the door.  Nothing to fret about.  Come, Miss Holt.  Rest is what you need.  We’ll see you on Monday, Mildred.”

“Sure thing, Chief.” 



They were making slow but steady progress across Wilshire Boulevard when his curiosity got the better of him.  The formality of last names had always put a certain emotional distance between them.  Was Laura ready to close that gap?  He had to ask.  “Laura?  Why did you call me Remington?”

From where she leaned against the headrest, she didn’t bother opening her eyes.  “What should I call you?”

Flabbergasted, his mouth dropped open as he pressed the brake for the next red light.  “Ah, whatever you like, I suppose.”

Now she turned to look at him.  “But surely, you must have a preference.”

“You’ve always called me ‘Mister Steele.’ ”

She raised her eyebrows and waited.  He ran a hand through his hair, discomfited by the conversation.  But he’d liked the way she said his name--as if it were honestly his and not something she’d created on a whim. 

With an airiness at odds with his real feelings, he suggested, “Remington is fine.”  Then he arched his own eyebrow, adding, “Not ‘Remy’ though.  Can’t abide the nickname.  Sounds like a pet poodle.”  

Laura smiled, closing her eyes again.  



Anticipating her protest, Remington made a mental list of reasons why they were going to his place rather than hers.  But Laura didn’t argue when he parked the Auburn in the garage below his flat.  Her head must have been hurting more than she let on, for she didn’t quibble even when he insisted she sleep in his bed.  

She did wrinkle her brow as he walked her into the bedroom.  “The sheets are fresh, Miss Holt.  Nap as long as you like.  Go on.  I’ll bring you water and your pill.”  When she stepped out of her shoes, he pivoted and headed for the kitchen.  

As he filled the cup with water, the thought of Laura sleeping in his bed did very little to stop a half dozen fantasies from popping into his head.  Firmly yanking them into a quiet corner so they wouldn’t romp unhindered in his brain, he returned to the bedroom to find Laura tucked under the covers, sound asleep.  

He set the glass and medicine on the night table without a sound and then watched her sleep with a wry smile on his face.  He’d finally gotten her into his bed.  Damned shame I’m not in there with her.  Idly, he retrieved the silk blouse that had fallen to the floor and laid it across the slacks on the foot of the bed, then stared at both with dumb shock.  Eyes flicked to the woman curled up under his coverlet.  With a single finger, he nudged the cover down just enough to reveal a bra strap and a bare shoulder.  Gulping hard, he tugged the sheet back up and fled the room.  
Laura wearing only her bra--and he assumed panties--in his bed wasn’t fair at all.  Regardless of her condition, his libido could handle only so much temptation.

With shaking hands, he poured two fingers of Irish whiskey into a short glass and cradled it between his hands as he sat on the couch.  


*****


She slept throughout the afternoon and into the evening.  Remington took his time preparing dinner but eventually had to muster up the courage to wake Laura.  

After downing the Jameson’s, he’d distracted himself with the television, the newspaper, a long vigil on the terrace with a cigar and finally, dinner preparation.  Ten minutes in a cold shower would have accomplished miracles, but deprived of that avenue, he was forced to find other entertainment.

“‘Once more into the breach,’” he muttered under his breath as he pushed the bedroom door open.  “Henry V, Laurence Olivier, Two Cities Films, 1944.”  Laura had turned over to lie on her back with an arm outstretched toward the door.  The other hand rested on his pillow beside her head.  She’d tucked the sheets under her arms, exposing her shoulders and a broad swatch of skin above her breasts.  

He wanted to bury his face in the silky, freckle-dotted flesh.  Bugger me for being a cad.  Annoyed with himself for lusting after his ailing partner, he steeled himself and sat on the edge of the bed where he could cup her hand with his and place a kiss in her palm.  

She smiled first, then opened her eyes.  “That’s the second time I’ve been awakened by an angel.”  

Not liking her response, he admonished, “I’ve been called a great many things, Laura; an angel isn’t one of them.”

“Good.  Then I’m the first.”  She put a hand to the sheets and rolled to her side to face him, keeping the covers firmly in place above her breasts.  But she forgot about the mirrors on the other side of the bed.  

Remington didn’t.  The view of Laura’s bare back undid all the hours of deliberate distraction, and his stomach clenched as lust burned bright.  For a moment, his control broke.  One hand fisted in her hair, the other caressed her spine while he possessed her mouth with nibbles that changed to a dark exploration between heartbeats.  The taste of her befuddled his senses far better than the whiskey.  A shadow in his mind noted the lack of protest and encouraged him to savor the flavor of her neck.  Her sharp inhalation stabbed into his groin.  When he would have brushed the sheets away to expose her lovely form, he checked himself, pulling away to stand by her bed.  

He started to apologize, but Laura sat in a daze, her eyes black pools of desire.  A slow grin of satisfaction crossed his face.  “Dinner is ready.  Feel free to come as you are.”  Whistling a tuneless ditty, he strolled out of the room.


*****


Laura jammed her feet into her slacks, annoyed that Remington had the upper hand at the moment.  She’d honestly had such a splitting headache that she’d done exactly what she would do at home--stripped down to her underwear and crawled into bed.  

That she was in his bed hadn’t clicked until he sat on the edge and woke her with warm lips to her hand.  As she realized her predicament, she’d tried for casual sophistication, but he dashed her attempt with a kiss that shattered whatever sensibilities she had.  

He could have had her, and they both knew it.   



Wonderful smells dancing in the air told her that her stomach was in for a treat.  She shrugged on her jacket like a suit of armor and marched to the door--where she paused for a deep breath before gathering her courage to face him once more.

The smug grin on his face hadn’t gone away.  “Ah, I see you have resumed your usual attire.  Damned shame, that.”  

“I’m not about to have dinner wearing nothing more than underwear, Remington.”

He shot her a heated look as he ladled soup into a bowl for her.  

Creep.  I hate it when he does that.  Laura spun around and stalked away.  She sat ramrod straight as she waited for him to come to the table.  

Over soup and salad, she began to relax as Remington chose not to needle her further about her state of dress.  Instead, he asked about her head and the various symptoms she’d experienced during the day.  Satisfied with her answers, he changed the topic once again.

“We haven’t discussed the case you were wrapping up yesterday, Miss Holt.”

Blankly, she asked, “What case?”

He waved with his fork before taking another bite.  “Scarsdale.  You were following him when you had the accident.”

This time, a quick scan of her memory revealed … nothing.  Shaking her head to negate the discovery, she asked, “Where were you?”

“Finishing off the Winters case testimony in court.”

She set her spoon down and rubbed her temples as she tried to remember the hours before the accident.  On any normal day, Laura’s mind kept the smallest details carefully slotted for instant retrieval.  When all she found was a yawing blankness, she shoved her chair back and bolted to the terrace.  

“Laura!” Remington called out as he followed her.  She paced from one end of the short expanse to the other in agitation.  He caught her on the second lap and pulled her to him in a tight embrace.  “Talk to me.”  

Shaking her head again, this time in agitation, she said, “I can’t remember.  I know I there’s something there that I’m supposed to know, but I can’t remember any of it.”  The irony of reality intruding in on her joke wasn’t lost on her and didn’t give her any comfort.  She rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder.  

“The doctor in the emergency room said this could happen.  He said to give it a few days.  As you heal, the memories may come back.”  

“May?” she protested.

He shrugged, ran a hand up her back to her neck and cuddled her close.  “I suspect this sort of thing depends on kismet and the individual.  Give it time.”  

“That’s not very reassuring.”  

“No, but we’ll deal with it as it comes.”

Surprised by his calm assurance, Laura nodded and held on.   


*****


Later they drove to her place, and Remington settled into Laura’s sofa for a second night.  He wasn’t much looking forward to the next day, for he intended to discover exactly which memories Laura was missing.  He didn’t care in the slightest if she’d forgotten every case they’d solved, but the idea that she might not remember any or all of their relationship made his stomach turn sour.  

Who are you?

If Laura, the one who had created this latest iteration of a nameless con artist, couldn’t remember him, did he exist at all?  


*****
 

The wide canopies of the trees in McCullum Park gave Remington and Laura plenty of shade for their late morning picnic.  With their repast cleared away and the basket left in the Auburn, the pair strolled in the dappled glade.  They’d avoided any discussion of Laura’s missing memories so far.  Instead, Remington had launched into a thorough review of Claudette Colbert’s career.  Laura liked hearing him talk about the various movies and roles the actress had played and the impact she’d had on subsequent movies.

But the animation in his blue eyes didn’t quite conceal the worry, and Laura discovered she didn’t have the heart to continue her charade for much longer.  

This morning, she’d asked Remington to stop by the agency on the way to the park and spent the short car ride flipping through her own notes.  It appeared that she’d blocked out any details of the Scarsdale case from start to finish, although she could clearly recall the other two cases she’d cleared the day before.  Having an honest gap in her recollections gave her the shivers again.  

“Cold?” Remington asked.

She shook her head.  “No.”  

“Wrong answer.  Then I can’t do this.”  He slung an arm across her shoulders, and she smiled at the comforting weight.  

They came to a spot that Laura recognized as the place where they'd found a long-lost diamond necklace.  Fiddling with the ring on her finger, she stopped abruptly to face him.  

“What are we?”

Her question caught him off-guard, and his face was blank with confusion.  “What do you mean?”

“Are we dating?  Friends?”

He pursed his lips, thinking, before taking her hand and running a thumb across her knuckles.  “More than that, I think.  We’ve too much history to be merely friends.  Committed, certainly.  Dating exclusively, one might call it.”

“But not lovers.”

His questioning eyes searched her face as he drew a lock of her hair behind her ear.  “Laura, I’d take you to bed in a moment if you would allow me.”  

“So what’s stopping me?”

He sighed heavily.  “If I could answer that, I would.”  With the toe of his shoe, he scuffed a twig into the dirt.  He drew her to him again and resumed their walk.  Laura sucked on her lower lip, searching for a solution.  

“Trust.”

“Trust, what?” she asked, startled.

“I think the first pair of years we were together, you didn’t trust me.”  He shrugged and flashed a grin.  “With excellent reason.  I’d dropped into your life and messed up your perfectly-designed plan.”   

“And now?”  She stopped walking and faced him with her arms crossed.

“You don’t trust yourself.”  

She wasn’t able to hide her irritation that he’d pegged her hard in the center of the target.  “Why not?”

“Because you love me, Laura Holt.”  Certainty layered his voice.  “And the idea absolutely terrifies you.  Somewhere in your lovely brain, you’ve decided that loving means losing--yourself, perhaps.”  
Knowing the truth was one thing.  Hearing it from Remington shocked her.  Stopping back, she took a ragged breath to speak, but he wasn’t finished.  He slid an arm around her waist and drew her back to him so they connected from breast to knee.  “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.  I like who I am now.  I won’t change any more to suit your needs.”

Astonished by his calm conviction, she breathed, “Who are you?”

Suddenly, his face lit up, brilliant in the afternoon sunlight.  “Remington Steele.  Your Remington Steele.”  

She laughed.  Digging up her courage, she blurted, “Is that love one-sided?”

There was a large tree in the clearing, one that he had once kissed her against rather thoroughly before she’d fled with him in pursuit.  Laura found herself pressed against it once again.  Remington bracketing her with one arm and his body.  With the other hand, he brushed her cheek, her hair and her neck before answering, “No.”  

The kiss began as a whisper.  “No,” he said again.  The sound of the word blew softly against her mouth.  As his lips moved across hers, to tease as was his wont, she suddenly pushed away from the tree, turning the softness into a storm.  She claimed him, holding his head so that she could taste all the essences of his flavor.  Their tongues touched, tangled, fought for dominance, then settled for taking turns in a sharing that threatened to overwhelm her.

When she tried to back away, Remington was there--holding her, easing the raging passion until they both had their breath again.  The delight in his eyes was unmistakable, as was the frank admiration for her challenge.  

The look heartened her courage.  She fingered the buttons on his shirt.  “You haven’t been my Remington Steele for a very long time.  He’s all you.  And that’s a good thing.”  

“Is it?”  

“I never wanted a puppet on a string, Remington.”  

“No?  Could have fooled me a time or twenty.”  

“Perhaps as an employee,” she demurred.  “But never for a partner--or a lover.”  At the last, she tilted her head back so that he could see her face.  

“What’s gotten into you, Miss Holt?”

“You.”  

His eyes widened at her frank admission.  “You’ll let me inside?”  

She bit back a grin at the double-entendre.  “I hardly think I can keep you out at this stage.”  

“And what stage is that, Miss Holt?”

The words stuck on her tongue, but she fought for them.  


*****


Remington didn’t think Laura realized she was fighting to break free of his embrace.  But he held her fast as he watched her struggle with her own emotions--her need to neither be abandoned nor to sacrifice her own personality warring with her desire for him.  She made a mess of his shirt as she clutched handfuls of his sleeves in her fists.  

He knew the moment the struggle ended, for she went still and smiled, wide and free.  “I love you.”  

Remington suspected she thought she’d surrendered, but he knew better.  For a man who had received remarkably few gifts in his lifetime--most of them from Laura--she’d bestowed upon him the finest gift, the single priceless gem he’d been unable to steal from her.  

Crushing her to him, he was speechless.  His throat thickened as he fought for his own composure.  He won, of course, but when Laura released him, he shook a little from the lack of contact.  
Then he was struck by her earlier words.  Narrowing his eyes, he accused, “You haven’t lost your memory at all.”

She grinned and backed up a few steps.  “I never said anything of the sort.  Although, I honestly can’t recall the Scarsdale case.”

He advanced slowly.  “Then what in bloody hell was with all those questions about my name, the agency and our relationship?”

“I was curious.  A good detective elicits information any way she can get it.”  

“A good det--  Somehow I think you’ve crossed the line on this one.”  He wasn’t really angry.  The retort had been an automatic riposte in the verbal game they constantly played, but the flash of distress on Laura’s face told him she’d not meant to hurt him.  She stopped moving and raised her hand toward him.  In a swift move, he intercepted her hand and yanked her to him to whisper in her ear, “You’re a bloody con artist, Miss Holt!”

Her shriek turned into laughter as her slim body trembled.  “From you, that’s quite a compliment.”  

“Hmm, perhaps it is.”  He let one hand roam over her back until it rested at the curve of her deliciously taut bum.  “Now, Miss Holt.  I think this exploration of our psyches should continue in a much, much more private place.”   

She trembled again but let her arms curve along his arms until they rested squarely on his chest.  She plucked at a button on his shirt so that her fingers could slide inside.  That slight touch lasered through him, a combination of heat and light that hinted of what he would find with her.  “Laura?”

“What are we waiting for, Remington?”  She let go of him, sidestepping in the direction of the Auburn.

He blinked, then raced her to the car.  



9 February 2010
edited 11 August 2010