Laura reached across the sofa, fumbling for the ringing telephone.  As she brought it to her ear, she glanced at the clock.  Who calls at one in the morning?  Hunching her shoulders in anticipation of bad news, she answered, “Hello?”

“Mmm, Laura?”  

“Mr. Steele.”  Not her favorite person at the moment.  

“He--llo, Misssss Holt.”  

The sing-song in his voice sounded off.  “Mr. Steele?”

“Is that me?  Of course, that’s me.  And how are you, my lovely Laura?”

Was he … intoxicated?  She frowned.  “Where are you?”

“Ah, that’s the dilemma I have.  It seems that I’m at a bar.  There’s a very nice gentleman here; ah, Jack is his name.  Good name.  Jack.  Jack Nicholson, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, United Artists, 1976.  Or was that 1975?  One forgets these things--" 

With the other hand, Laura reached up to rub the bridge of her nose.  Her wayward associate had undoubtedly been drinking.  Unusual perhaps, but less surprising after the nasty argument they’d had earlier in the day.  

“--of Endearment, Paramount Pictures, 1983.  Depressing sort of movie.  You’d like it.”

“Mr. Steele!”  She cut off his rambles.

“Yes, Miss Holt?”

“Does Jack want me to come get you?”

“Jack Nicholson?  Of course not, love.  He’s an actor.  A very good one.”

Tucking the phone under her chin, she pretended to strangle an invisible neck in front of her.  Exasperated, she yelled, “Not that Jack.  Jack, the man standing in front of you.”

“Oh, that Jack. Good Lord, Laura, I can hear you quite clearly.  Yes, of course.  He’d rather I didn’t drive home.  Personally, I believe it’s a perfectly good evening for a walk and not all that far from my flat, but Jack’s being a little prissy about that sort of thing.”

“Have you looked outside, Mr. Steele?  It’s storming.”

“Ah, so it is.  You’re terribly clever, Miss Holt.  So, ah, will you send Fred to pick me up?  Now that’s rather silly.  I should call Fred myself.  But I do enjoy hearing your lilting voice, Miss Holt.”

“I’ll come get you myself.”

“No, no need.  I’ll call Fred.”

As if she was speaking to a four-year-old, she explained, “Mr. Steele.  It’s nearly one in the morning.   Let’s let Fred enjoy his evening.  Where are you?”  

“Finnegan’s.  It’s just--“

“The one halfway between your place and mine?”

“That’s the one.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.  Tell Jack.”

“Laura, I promise you Jack Nicholson isn’t interested in what time you’re picking me up.”

Patience, Laura, she told herself.  “Not Jack Nicholson.  Jack, the man standing in front of you.”

“Oh, that Jack.”

“That’s the one,” she said very sweetly.

“Of course. “

Another thought crossed her mind.  “Did you drive?”

“Of course, I drove, Laura.  It’s raining outside.  Haven’t you noticed?  Really, Miss Holt, for a detective, you shouldn’t miss the little details.”

She flexed her fist.  One of these days.  “Can I talk to Jack?”

“Jack is probably at home, Laura.  He doesn’t frequent this bar.  In any case, I don’t know why he would want to talk with you at this moment.”  Before she could reach through the phone line and wrap the cord around his neck, she heard another man’s voice.

“Miss Holt?”

“Jack.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Can you keep him from going anywhere?  I’m going to take a taxi so I can drive his car home.”

The man chuckled.  “Yeah, sure.  I can do that.  Gotta say, Miss Holt, your man’s a character.”  

“He’s not--I’ll be there as soon as I can.”  She nearly slammed the phone on its cradle.  Then she picked it up again to call for a cab. 

“I guess I can’t wear pajamas to a bar,” she muttered in annoyance after she’d hung up a second time.  While she slipped on a pair of jeans and a simple white t-shirt, she rapidly sorted through her options.  They had an appointment with the museum at ten tomorrow.  Fred was scheduled to pick her up at eight-thirty, Mr. Steele at nine.  Given the hour, by the time she had Mr. Steele settled, it would be nearly three in the morning by the time she returned home.  It would be easier just to crash on his sofa, and Fred
could get them at the same time.

With that in mind, she dialed his answering service while packing a small overnight bag in her bedroom.  “Fred, Laura Holt.  There's been a change of plans for the morning.  I’m going to end up at Mr. Steele’s tonight; will you pick up both of us there at nine?  Enjoy your breakfast and I’ll see you then.”  She hung up again, stuffed the pajamas, lingerie and shoes into the bag and made a mad dash to the bathroom for her cosmetics and toiletries.  Her suit for tomorrow stayed on the hanger, but she dropped a plastic bag over it to protect it from the rain.  Damn it, Mr. Steele was a pain in the--  The doorbell rang.  She snagged a jacket off the chair and closed up her loft for the night.  

During the short taxi trip, she rubbed her arms against the cold.  They had argued earlier that day, this time over his name.  They were working a case for a computer hardware firm and had staked out the headquarters, a small building in the suburbs of LA, to watch the movements of a particular employee.  

He’d asked her to call him “Remington,” at least in private.  She’d stuttered and said “No” just as the suspect strolled out of the building.  They’d followed the employee and caught him handing a delicate piece of equipment over to a competitor.  The authorities and the man’s boss were called, and Remington Steele Investigations successfully closed another case.  

But Mr. Steele hadn’t forgotten her answer.  “What is it with my name, Laura?” he’d asked on the way home.  “Four years and you can’t call me anything other than ‘Mr. Steele’?  Try it out, Laura.  Remington.  It’s not a simple name, but it’s mine.”

“Is it yours?” she’d shot back, frantically grasping at anything that would keep her from having to admit that calling him “Mr. Steele” kept some sort of token distance between them.  

His cool blue eyes had flattened, and his jaw had tightened in anger as he’d jolted the car to a stop in the parking garage of the Century Towers.  “I don’t know, Laura.  You created it.  You’ve let me use it.  You even obtained a passport for me that happens to be the only legal documentation of my existence.  At what point do I earn the privilege of keeping the bloody name?”

Laura slid farther down in the taxi seat.  She’d hurt him.  Knowing him as well as she did, she’d lashed out exactly where she could wound him the most.  And then she’d run away, gathering her things from her office and fleeing home.  No wonder Mr. Steele had found a bar after work.  

Passing a few bills to the cab driver, she directed him to pull up near the Auburn where she tossed her things into the car before running through the rain to Finnegan’s dark wooden door.

She found him inside, warming a barstool and chatting up a man she assumed was Jack.  He held an icepack to his cheek and sipped something she hoped was non-alcoholic.  When he spied her, he was his usual charming self, flashing her a quick grin.  “Miss Holt.  Jack, I’d like you to meet my associate, Laura Holt.”  He waved rather randomly from one to the other.  

Crossing her arms, she leaned her head to the left.  “What have you done?”

“What?  Oh, this.”  He pulled the cloth from his cheek to reveal a darkening bruise.  “’Tis nothing.  Ol’ boy over there got his knickers in a twist when I took him in a game of billiards.  Thought just ‘cause I’d had a drink or three that I’d be an easy mark.  But I’ve done better than him on worse.”

Laura took a minute to process that last sentence, finally realizing he meant that he’d won games off better opponents when he was in worse condition.  She shot a look at Jack.  “Is this true?”

“Laura!” Steele protested.  

“Yes, ma’am.  Didn’t think he could walk straight, but he cleared the table.  Pissed the other guy off good and proper.  Other guy popped him one; your man came back with a neat punch that laid him out cold.”  He shrugged.  “All in all, not much of a bar fight for a Thursday night.  You gonna settle your tab, Steele?”

“Aye, mate.”  Remington dropped several bills on the bar.  “That cover it?”  

“Sure thing.”  

“Then we’re good.  Come, Laura.  Let’s go home.”  He slid off the bar stool, caught himself before heading all the way to the floor, straightened his denim jacket and staggered toward the door.  Laura followed with a smirk.  

“Good Lord, it’s raining,” he said as he pushed open the front door.  

“Yes, Mr. Steele.  That’s rather observant of you.”

“Well then, perhaps we shall call a cab.  It’s too wet for walking.”

“Better yet, how about I drive your car.”

“The Auburn?  How did that get here?”

“Apparently, you drove it here, Mr. Steele.”

“Now why would I do a thing like that?  Oh, yes.  The rain.  I see.”

Laura could only roll her eyes as she gave him a little push to get him moving toward the car.  He sang Irish drinking songs all the way home, making her smile.  His raspy baritone didn’t quite hit all the notes, but all in all, it wasn’t too bad.  Still singing, he didn’t notice when she parked in his garage and retrieved her things from the car.  

Once inside his condo, she hung the suit in his closet and dropped the bag in his bathroom.  She came out to find he was still leaning against the wall where she’d left him.  

“Mr. Steele, exactly how much have you had to drink?”  The last time she’d seen him this drunk was while masquerading as a Peppler.  He’d been in a confessional mood then but lost his memory the next day.  She still suspected his lack of recall was rather convenient.

“Oh, I don’t know, love.”  Laura felt her heart clench at the endearment, only to ache as he continued, “How much does it take to erase what ye told me this afternoon?”  The Irish threaded through his voice as he turned haunted blue eyes to her.  

She took his face in her hands, framing it so that she could look into those eyes.  “I’m sorry, Remington.”  She used his name deliberately.  “Remington Steele is your name.  I think of no other when I say it.”

“Why, Laura?  Why do you hurt me so?”  His blunt words cut into her, and she winced.

“Because you matter, Mr. S--Remington.  Because I care a--a great deal.  I don’t have many walls left to stand between us anymore.”

“Why do we need walls, Laura?  Aren’t we past that by now?  I’m not leaving; you’re not leaving.  We care for each other.”  He tentatively stroked her hair.  

The last defenses around her heart crumbled as she looked into earnest blue eyes with such desire and hope in them.  “Why indeed?” she asked softly.  Tugging gently, she led him into the bedroom.  “Go lie down.  I’ll get something for that cheek.”  He staggered once in the process before sprawling out on the black comforter.  

By the time she returned with ice, Remington snored lightly on his pillow.  She pulled the chain on the lampshade before touching her lips to his cheek.  “Sweet dreams, Remington Steele.”


*****

“Go home, Laura.”

At first, his order smarted, and she stormed off to the bathroom.  But remembering that Remington needed more than words to understand, she stripped off her jeans and t-shirt to pull on the short pajamas she’d brought with her.  She wasn’t leaving him in this condition whether he liked it or not.  From the top of his closet, she retrieved the blankets he kept there and dropped them on the sofa for later.  

His eyes nearly crossed when he saw her.  “Did I miss something?”

“Yes.  You need me.”  She meant because he’d been drinking.  

He agreed for an entirely different reason.  “I do.”  

"Come on; let’s get you in bed … Remington.”  

Marveling at her forward behavior, he followed like a puppy.  “Of course.”  

He stumbled against the sofa, and she caught him.  He sat hard on the back of the couch, pulling her to stand between his legs again in the process.  Laura held him until he steadied, tilting her head down to look into his face.  Despite the rum and smoke from the bar, Remington still smelled all man and cologne.  As his mouth touched hers, she inhaled--closing her eyes at the familiar scent that never failed to steam up her senses.

For once, she gave in, tracing his full lips with her tongue, sucking lightly, and then diving into savor the depths of his mouth.  He groaned, running his hands through her hair and giving back with equal fervor.     So lost was she in the taste of him, she didn’t notice his hands drifting down her back to slide under her pajama top.  Only when bare fingers grazed her waist and thumbs brushed her nipples did she gasp in shock.  She’d forgotten how good a man’s hand could feel there.  And when he unerringly stroked and plucked, she realized how much she’d wanted his hands on her flesh.   

It wasn’t her intent to take advantage of him while he was drunk.  She would have been furious with him for doing the same to her.  But greedily, she leaned into his touch, wanting more in a way she’d denied herself for four long years.  Despite his state, clever fingers still managed to free the four buttons holding her top together.  When his lips closed on her breast, she had trouble breathing.  

Each time she tried to muster up the nerve to push him away, he suckled a little harder, a little more deeply, until she was gasping for air.  A hand drifted up the inside of her thigh and found her already slick.  He stroked while he suckled, and she imploded, jerking with the force of her climax.  

He held her in place, never relenting in his pace.  A long finger found its way inside to stroke, long and deep.  More is all she could think.  She fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, yanking when they wouldn’t give way.  And when his chest was bare, she finally found the courage to pull away from his hands.  Flushed, panting and desperate for more, she uttered, “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry.  I want this.  I want this so much it hurts.  But I can’t do this to you when you’re intoxicated, Remington.”  

In a swift move, he swept her into his arms, staggering only slightly as he took her into the bedroom.  He unbuttoned his jeans, dropping them to the floor before crawling on the bed beside her.  She could only sit where he’d placed her and stare dry-mouthed at the masculine beauty before her.  

“Laura, if I can shoot pool blind with drink and still win, I assure you I can make love to you in the same state.”  He slipped her shorts from her body, leaving them both naked as he pulled her to him and began his onslaught to her senses.  

Arguing seemed pointless.

*****

The annoying buzz of the alarm clock intruded on his sleep.  He reached out, slapping it off and knocking the damned thing to the floor in the process.  Muttering curses, he leaned over the bed to see what time it read.  Eight-fifteen.  Who cared?  His head pounded as he lay against his pillow.  His mouth tasted of cotton, and every muscle in his body ached.  Nine minutes later, the devil’s creation blared again.  Eight-twenty-four.  He banged on it again, and reason began dribbling into his head.  Slowly, he worked through the purpose for the alarm at this ridiculously early hour.  Damn.  Laura was to pick him up at nine for a … an appointment with a museum director.  Bloody hell, it was something he had to attend or face her wrath.  

Rubbing his face with his hands and then reaching down to give his balls a nice morning scratch, he groaned.  How much had he had to drink last night?  He remembered his argument with Laura, driving to Finnegan’s after work, shooting a round or two of pool, and then … nothing.  He dropped his hands on either side of him, the right one landing on … a spot of wet on the sheets?  He opened his eyes.  Good Lord.  The sheets on the other side were thrown back.  Stunned, he rolled up on an elbow and picked a long, brown hair off the squashed pillow.  Bloody hell, just whom did he bring home last night?  

Jumping out of bed and immediately regretting it when his head flared into violent pain, he staggered about the room in an attempt to determine what he’d done last night … well, besides the obvious.  Now that he was awake, he recognized the sore satisfaction in his body that came from a very lovely romp in the bedroom.  Eight-thirty two.  Laura.  Oh dear Lord, she would be here in twenty-eight minutes.  Throwing the covers over the evidence, he headed for the bathroom in time to hear the shower come on.  

Only a tiny squeak of terror left his lips as he touched the door.  

OhwhatinthebloodybuggeringhelldidIdolastnightandwhyisshestillhere?  In a sheer panic, he dashed to the living room, looking for some idea of who was in his shower.  He found nothing.  No clothing, no purse, not even a jacket to indicate what sort of woman was currently occupying his bathroom.  

Oh, what did it matter?  Laura was going to kill him regardless.  Fumbling for some sort of action, he dashed into the kitchen.  Toothbrush, comb, yes, yes, it was all still there in the back of the dishtowel drawer.  Years ago, he’d stashed emergency toiletry items here.  He despised looking rumpled the morning after a liaison and learned to keep a few things in here.  He ducked his head under the cold water, toweled it dry and finger-combed his hair.  A quick brush of the teeth, a swipe of deodorant and a pair of aspirin did much to make him less bleary-eyed, if no less panicked.    

He found his watch near the alarm clock on the floor.  Eight-forty two.  How long was the creature going to take in his shower?  Could he get her out in ten minutes flat?  He desperately hoped Laura wasn’t early.  It was too late to call Fred and ask him to delay a bit; Laura was surely already in the limo.  He grabbed a pair of slacks and was stuffing his arm into a sleeve when the shower cut off and the doorbell rang at the same time.  

Wide-eyed at the disaster about to befall him, he froze in the doorway.  He knew that when Laura caught him here with another woman, she was sure to squash him like a bug.  And he would deserve it.  He didn’t think she would buy stupidity and drunkenness as an excuse.  Escaping over the terrace began to look like an excellent alternative.

The doorbell rang again as he tightened his belt and fastened the cuff links on his sleeve.  Time to pay the ferryman.  Praying for mercy, he opened the door.  

And didn’t get any.  Felicia, in all her delectable blonde glory, leaned against his door frame.  “Hello, Michael.  My, my, you’re up early.”  She flicked his unbuttoned collar and strolled into his flat.  “Is this how you dress for work now?  How charming.”

“Felicia, this is not the time.  What do you want?”  He suspected he should be grateful she'd used the front door this time, but it was difficult to see any glimmer of light at the moment.

“Always so suspicious--I just dropped by to see you.”  She took a little tour of his flat.  “I see you’ve changed a few things since the last time I was here.”  

“Felicia, the last time you tried to ‘help me’ I was nearly killed.  No, thank you.  And change is what happens when you stay in one place for more than a couple of months.”  

“And how is Lisa?”

“Laura.  She’s lovely.”  At least for the next few minutes.

“Have you managed to lure her to your bed yet?”

If you only knew.  “Felicia--“ he stopped when a pair of arms slid around his waist.  He closed his eyes in stark terror.  This wasn’t happening.  It can’t be happening.  Laura is going to murder me, hide my body, and come back to dance on my grave from time to time.  And I can’t say that I’d blame her.  

“Hello, Felicia.”  Laura’s dulcet tones came from behind him.  He turned to find her still damp from the shower, wearing an untucked blouse and a skirt.  Her deliciously satisfied smile pierced through his shocked brain, settling his fears in an instant and inspiring a hundred questions at the same time.  He clutched her to him, very nearly crying out in relief.  In a thousand years, he would have never guessed the long, brown hair on the pillow belonged to Laura Holt.  

She laced her fingers into his hair and pulled him down for a scorching kiss that shook his wobbly knees.  He knew the taste of a woman marking her territory, and in the face of a pretty blonde ex-girlfriend, Laura clearly indicated he was hers.  

“Ah,” Felicia’s eyebrows flew upward.  “I see you have.”  She fluttered her fingers at them.  “Go dress.  I can wait.”  

Without any further ado, Laura led him willingly into the bedroom and firmly shut the door.  He sagged against it and wrapped her in his arms.  Gasping with relief, he could only hold her.  

She touched his cheek.  “Are you okay?  It’s just Felicia.  We’ll handle her.”  

“Laura--“  He tried to speak, but words failed him.  In his life he’d narrowly avoided utter disaster a dozen times or more, but nothing compared to this.  Finally, he squeaked the words out.  “Laura, please forgive me for being impolite, but did we sleep together last night?  If we did, I’m thrilled, and you can’t dare leave my bed now, but I must confess I … I don’t remember much about last evening.”  

He tried to read her face, but she kept it blank on purpose.  She heaved a sigh.  “No.  You begged, pleaded even.  But I stood firm, resisting all your inebriated advances.”  

He almost bought it--and would have if not for the state of the bed and the sly, sexy gleam he caught in her eye as she turned away to dress.  Yanking her back to him, he landed a sizzling kiss on her unresisting lips.  Her hands slid under his shirt, across the broad tangle of curls and around to his back.  Breaking the kiss for a moment, he muttered, “How in the hell did I manage to talk you out of your clothes and make love to you through the night, and I don’t remember a damned thing?”

“I don’t know.  But you can do it all again if you’d like,” she teased shyly as she danced away from his grasp and headed for the bathroom.  She paused at the door, her expression becoming forlorn.  “You really don’t remember?”  

He opened his mouth to reply, only to discover his face was smashed against his pillow, and someone was shaking his shoulder.  


******


“Mr. Steele!  Wake up!  We’re going to be late if you don’t get out of the bed.”  Laura had been trying to wake him for nearly forty minutes now.  His alarm had sounded, waking her in the living room, and when he’d turned it off, she assumed he’d awakened too.  Knowing his penchant for punching the snooze button a couple of times, she’d slipped into the shower while he dozed.  But she’d come out wearing her business suit to find him still face down in his pillow.  

“Laura?” he mumbled.

She winced as she remembered their fight from the day before and the way she’d hurt him.  “Yes … Remington.”

Rolling over, blood-shot blue eyes opened, one at a time, until they focused on her.  Abruptly, he glanced at the other side of the bed, still smooth and neat as he hadn’t bothered crawling under the covers.  “Were ... you here last night?”  

“Yes.”   

“Why?”

“You called me.  You’d been drinking--rather heavily I might add.  I brought you home.”

Remington sat up, squinting up at her thoughtfully before crossing one arm and propping the other elbow against it, resting his chin in his hand.  “Is … anyone else here?”

Confused, she shook her head.  “No.”

“Ah, excellent.”  He straightened up, taking a long glance at the bed and then at Laura.  “I’ll be just a moment.”  The bathroom door closed, and the sound of the running shower could be heard.  

She sagged on the bed, still trying to clear the incredibly erotic dream she’d had from her mind.  Remington didn’t need to know that she’d spent more than two hours lying awake beside him.  Just once, she’d reached out to stroke the thick black hair curling over his collar before pulling her hand away.  When he’d mumbled her name in his sleep, she’d eased from the bed and smoothed the covers to conceal the evidence she’d been there.  The scant two hours of sleep she’d had on the couch had been full of lusty, detailed dreams that left her aching.

That ache sent her to the kitchen to make tea for the pair of them.  



It was nine o’clock straight up when the telephone rang.  Remington snatched it up while fastening a cuff link and expertly making an elegant knot in his tie.  “Steele here. … Excellent.  We’ll be down in a moment.”  Laura held out his coat, and he slid his arms in before turning to do the same for her.  He pulled her hair out of the collar, automatically kissing her nape before dropping her hair loose and opening the apartment door.

When she didn’t walk through, he turned to find her standing in the middle of the living room with a hand to her neck.  Tuning in that something significant had happened last night, he returned to her and took her hands.  

He uttered the words in a weird echo of his dream this morning.  “Laura, please forgive me for being impolite, but did we sleep together last night?  If we did, I’m thrilled, and you can’t dare leave my bed now, but I must confess I … I don’t recall much about last evening.”  

Much as it had in his dream, her expression turned forlorn.  “You really don’t remember?”  He shook his head, and she looked away.  

“Laura, what happened?  What did I miss?  We fought yesterday.  Last time I checked, that didn’t result in waking up with you in my flat.”  

Her shadowed eyes met his.  “Can we talk about this after we have this meeting with the director?”

Testing the waters, he drew her hair to the side and kissed her neck again.  Goosebumps rose under his lips and she shivered, but she didn’t pull away.  “Do you promise, Laura?”

“Promise what?”

“That we’ll talk.  And afterwards, no matter what happens, you’ll stay with me tonight.”

“I ... I promise.”  

Bloody hell, what exactly did I do to elicit this kind of response from Miss Holt?  On the way to the museum, Remington confessed to the silly dream he’d had that morning.  “I suppose I heard the shower, but didn’t wake up enough to realize it was you.  All I could think was that you were on your way to pick me up, and I’d done something stupid.  Then Felicia was at the door.  But you were there to rescue me--again.  Good Lord, you have no idea what a relief it was to realize none of it had happened.”    

“You love her,” Laura stated without rancor.

“Not in the same way I love--“ he stopped, took a deep breath and finished, “--you.  But yes, I care.   She’s one of the few people who accept me for who I am.”

Letting his confession slide for the moment, she asked curiously, “Then why didn’t you stay with her?”

“We were friends.  Good friends.  But we used each other more than I’d like to admit.  I care for her, but I don’t trust her.”  He stroked her cheek.  “Now, you, I trust.  Trust enough that you’ll have a good explanation for last night.”  

Skimming through her options at the moment and latching firmly onto his admission, Laura squirmed in her seat, crossing her legs and recrossing them before picking at her nails while she deliberately implied that more than an innocent night’s sleep had occurred.  “I didn’t realize you wouldn’t remember.”

He took her hand and held it while propping his elbow on the door frame and nibbling on a thumbnail.  Hazy images of Laura began filtering into his mind.  He touched his cheek where he’d noted the faint bruising this morning.  “Did I cold-cock a fellow?”

“You did.  Over a--“

“Game of nine-ball.  Why do I keep thinking of Jack Nicholson?”

Laura smiled and shook her head.  “The bartender’s name was Jack.  He’s the one that wouldn’t let you drive home.”  

“So you came to get me?”

“You called me.  I took a taxi to the bar and drove you home in the Auburn.”

“Despite the argument we had yesterday, you came to get me?”

“Of course, Remington.”  She put her other hand on top of their joined hands.  “You had every right to be angry.  I … shouldn’t have said what I did.”  

“That’s the second time you’ve apologized for that.  Once was enough.”

“You remember?”

“Perhaps.”  He leaned in to capture her lips as the limo stopped in front of the museum.  

Flushed, Laura got out of the car.  Together they walked into the elegant building.  As they strolled about the exhibit they were to secure, Laura eyed Remington, trying to decide exactly how much he recollected.  

When they left, Remington called Mildred.  “Ms. Krebs, we’re going to lunch and then knocking off for the rest of the day.  Why don’t you do the same? … Yes, Miss Holt is with me. … She’s nodding in agreement.  …  I promise.  We’ll see you Monday.”  

“Fred, can you drop us back at my place?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Steele.”  


*****


They’d hardly closed the door to the condo when Remington swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bedroom.  

“Remington, I thought we were going to talk about it.”

“I think we did.”  

Arguing seemed pointless--again.



14 August 2009