Steele Crossing the Line
“Morning, morning,
morning,” Remington caroled to Mildred as he burst through the agency
door at nearly ten-thirty.
“Good morning, Chief,” Mildred replied in an equally cheerful singsong from her perch behind her desk. The printer behind her spewed paper, and whatever appeared on the computer screen made her hum in contentment.
“Any messages for me?”
“Nada.”
“Excellent.” He made a sharp left turn for Laura’s office.
“She’s not in yet, Boss. Hasn’t called in either.”
Turning, he furrowed his brow. Laura hadn’t mentioned that she would be late this morning--and they’d passed a lovely evening before she’d pried herself out of his bed and made for home. He’d missed her after she’d left but understood her need for personal space. They’d only “turned that corner” in the past three months, and she had a fierce desire to hang on to her independence--at least during the work week. Most weekends they happily cohabited in one or the other’s flat, but when Sunday night rolled around,
Laura flitted back to her loft or cheerfully packed his bag and escorted him to the door with a sweet kiss and a jolly wave.
“No?”
Mildred tapped her pen on the desk impatiently. “She’s not here, so tell me--did you get it?”
With most of his mind beginning to worry about Laura, Remington reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a ring. He’d had a devil of a time locating exactly what he wanted and had finally tapped into some old connections to get it. The deceptively simple setting revealed, only on careful examination, that the flawless square cut diamond was flanked, not by sapphires but small pieces of clear blue Royal Lavulite. He’d purposely chosen a smaller diamond, knowing Laura preferred quiet, elegant jewelry, but made up for the fact that it skimmed just under a caret by finding one that approached perfection. The lavulite made round blue statements on either side of the main stone, and the diamonds filled in the rest, blending in with the platinum setting.
On first glance, one merely noticed a pretty piece of jewelry. It took a second or a third to realize the ring was nearly encrusted with gems. Only a gemologist or expert jewel thief would discern the real value of the stunning creation.
“Oh, Boss, she’s going to love it.”
“You think?” He chewed on the nail of his middle finger.
“When are you going to give it to her?”
Taking the ring back, he studied it before slipping it into his inside jacket pocket again. “I don’t know yet. I don’t know if either of us is ready for that step.” Mildred started to ask more questions, but he gently cut her off. “Do I have anything on the books for today?”
“Nothing urgent. You two were supposed to research the Devlin case. I think Miss Holt planned visits this morning to a couple of family members. Do you want me to clear it?”
“I’m going to Laura’s loft. I don’t know of any reason why she’d be this late coming in.”
“You think she’s in trouble?” Mildred picked up on his worry and dialed Laura’s number. He waited, quiet and still, while the phone rang. She placed it back on the hook. “Only her answering machine is picking up.”
“Call Fred. See if she took the limo anywhere.” He paced as she did so.
“No dice. He’s cooling his heels at home.”
“Ah, I’m going to her loft to see if her car is there.” With quick, long strides, he left the office.
The missing Rabbit seemed to indicate Laura had, indeed, gone somewhere. The lock on the door confirmed it. Picking it with ease, he pushed her door to the side and closed it behind him. Her neat loft left few clues as to how long she’d been there before leaving, or how long she’d been gone.
But he had no compunction about lifting the lid to her laundry hamper. No--the clothes she wore last night weren’t in there. The bone dry tiles in the shower and the equally unused towel led Remington to believe she’d left sometime the night before. She’d left in a hurry and hadn’t called him. Stuffing down his hurt feelings, he continued to scan her loft for clues--and found one near the answering machine. A nearly full glass of wine stood nearby on the desk as if she’d set it down and forgotten it. A triple light blinked. He pressed the button to listen.
“Laura,sweetheart, it’s your Daddy. I know it’s been a while, but I’d love to visit with you. Give me a call at 555-3493.”
“Laura, honey, it’s your Dad. I’ve got to talk to you. I know you’re probably angry with me, but please call. 555-3493.”
“Laura, I’m desperate. I need to see you by three o’clock today. It’s important. Call me. 555-3493.”
Remington punched the button to stop the tape and closed his eyes. Her father. Damn. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to restrain the urge to fling the little machine across the room. Frowning again, he rewound the tape and listened to the last message again. If Laura had left last night, she hadn’t met with him. But she might have gone somewhere to lick her wounds--and that could be nearly anywhere.
Damn it, Laura. When will you trust me enough to come to me? Following his instincts, he picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello?” A thin, suspicious-sounding voice answered.
“Mr. Holt? This is Remington Steele, Laura’s associate.”
“Where’s Laura?”
Thinking rapidly, he covered for her. “She’s out of town on a case and had her calls forwarded to me. How can I help you?”
“Can you meet me in half an hour at the Living Room bar on Crenshaw and 28th?
“Certainly.”
Before he left, he dashed a quick note to Laura and propped it up on the wine glass.
“L-- Chastise me when I come home. I’ve gone for answers. --R”
The Living Room proved to be a seedy little tavern jammed into the middle of a nearly empty shopping strip where the only other businesses were a discount auto insurance outlet and a liquor store. A newer-model Cadillac took up a single space out front, making the Auburn look less out of place when Remington parked behind it.
He’d changed into jeans, boots and a sport coat before leaving Laura’s place. Given the location, he was sure a business suit would be inappropriate. He didn’t keep many clothes there, but even before they’d begun sharing a bed, having a change of clothes at the other’s home made a great deal of sense. He did remember to retrieve the ring and tuck it inside the new jacket. When a miasma of smoke and beer oozed out the door as he opened it, he congratulated himself on his foresight.
An older Hispanic man worked behind the counter, and Remington nodded politely as he took in the other patrons--a pair of elderly men mumbling to each other in a corner and a solitary man at a table who rose at the sight of him.
“Mr. Steele?” He held out his hand at Remington’s nod. “John. John Holt. Good to meet you. Glad you came.”
With a polite smile, Remington unbuttoned his jacket and signaled the bartender. “What are you having, mate?” First rule of thumb for eliciting information from a mark is to make him comfortable.
John’s eyes flattened almost imperceptibly before he grinned affably. “That’s good of you. This kind of day calls for something a little stronger than beer. Jack and Coke,” he told the bartender.
Remington matched the order. Over the quick transaction, he assessed the other man and didn’t like what he saw: mid-fifties, with all the smarm of a used-car salesman and the looks of a handsome man living a too-pampered life. As Laura’s niece, Laurie Beth, might say, he looked ‘squishy,’ pale-faced with bright eyes and a too-quick smile.
Pretending he knew nothing of this man’s current relationship with Laura, he casually opened the conversation. “Laura’s a wonderful associate. It’s a delight to be able to help out a member of her family.”
“She’s a great kid. Pretty, bright, insatiable curiosity.”
Kid? Laura hasn’t been a kid since … probably never. But it’s a damned good description. “That she is,” he agreed affably. “So, ah, Mr. Holt, what do you do?”
“John, please.” Remington could see the man was working hard for a casual ease and went along with it for the moment. “I’m an investor. Take a little here, take a little there, roll it all together and make it something big.” John’s brown eyes reflected a faint hardening, and the smile seemed a touch forced. “It’s a good life. Got me that car out there not too long ago.” He waved toward the Cadillac parked outside.
“Investments? I’m always on the lookout for something interesting.” Steele dangled the bait. He wanted John to forget for the moment that he was a detective.
“You’ve come to the right man, then.” John settled comfortably into his chair with a too-warm smile. “Let me tell you something hot I’ve got working.”
While Laura’s father spun a tale of instant riches with a flair that would dazzle even a reasonably intelligent man, Remington recognized a con artist at work. Laura’s talent for telling a lie came honestly. But she’d put it to good use, becoming a detective rather than a swindler.
Remington caught the bartender’s eye and signaled for a second round. “This sounds fascinating. Tell me more. I’ve got, say, fifty-thousand, that needs to be parked somewhere. And I’d rather avoid American taxes if you know what I mean.” He flashed his own dazzling grin.
An avaricious gleam touched those deep brown eyes, and John leaned in close. “I’ve got just the thing.”
As the bartender delivered the drinks and John laid out a maze of wire transfers and corporate tax shelters, Remington swallowed in disgust. This is why John Holt had called Laura out of the blue. Money. The sleazy scam man had interest only in his own comfort, and Steele was willing to lay odds that the absent father no longer had any interest in contacting his daughter now that a potential mark sat in front of him.
But Remington had bested many a man like him. For the next hour, he let John spell out a complicated money scam that sounded impressively honest. But given his own background and what he’d learned from Mildred in the past three years, Steele pinpointed exactly where the money would evaporate without a trace. When John finished his spiel, leaning back to take a healthy swig of his drink, he failed to notice Remington had left his own untouched on the table.
Now Steele took control of the conversation. As a good mark, he asked questions that brushed around the key point in the “investment.” When he homed in, John appeared calm as he fielded the questions. But as he circled away from it, the scam artist made the mistake of relaxing a little too much and letting his smile grow too wide.
Knowing he had the man cold, Remington shifted the conversation. “Excellent, mate. It sounds as if I’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this.” Taking a sip of his drink, Steele smoothly led the conversation around to Laura. “Doing business with my associate’s family only seems right. If I recall, Laura mentioned once her parents had divorced. You remarried?”
Some of the other man’s smarmy polish slipped. “Oh, hell, no. Once was enough.” Remington grinned suddenly as if to agree. “You’re not married either?” John asked.
Holding up his bare left hand, Remington quipped, “No, mate. No woman’s trapped me yet.” He raised his glass, and John tapped it with his own in a little toast.
“You’re a lucky one, then. Laura’s mom had me nailed cold.”
“How so?” Remington asked innocently.
“She got pregnant with Frances, and I was too stupid at the time to realize that I didn’t have to marry her.” John sighed. “But I did.”
“Ah, didn’t work out, eh?” he said sympathetically.
“No. Who wants to be weighed down by a wife and kids? You’ve met Abigail, I’m sure. She could drive a man to drink in a matter of weeks.”
Silently, Remington had to agree, but Laura’s mom did have her good points. Daniel certainly took a shine to her. But he only murmured and nodded so that John would continue.
“Frances wasn’t too bad. Quiet kid. Minded her manners. But Laura--Laura came along about the time I was thinking of taking off. I stuck around for a few years after that, but it got to me, you know? Always asking questions, always following me around. Even at five she had those big, damn brown eyes that made you think she could see straight through you.”
Biting off an epitaph, Remington only replied, “Laura remembers quite a few things about you with fondness--circuses, old television shows, that kind of thing.”
“It was the only way I could keep her out of my hair. Kid drove me crazy. And then when Frances saw her getting attention, she would start pestering me. There came a day I just couldn’t take it anymore. You know what I mean?”
“Not really, as I don’t have a family of my own, but please … educate me.” Remington seethed inside.
John settled in again with his Jack and Coke, smiling as if to an old friend. “The wife and kids thing gets old, cramps your style.” He shrugged. “The girls had their mother, so they were fine without me. I sort of eased my way out, and before you knew it, I don’t even think they realized I wasn’t living at their house anymore.”
“That’s very interesting.” Having heard all he could stand, Remington shifted subjects again. “So, what prompted your phone call to Laura? It sounded urgent.”
“Oh, you know, I was in town and wanted to see my girl. But it looks like I’ve missed her. We’ll catch up next time.” John had no idea he had just confirmed Remington’s suspicion.
“Sure, of course. So how do I go about this transfer?”
John slickly handed over a card with a phone number and bank routing number. “Call this in, and I’ll get you set up today.”
“What name will show up on my statement?”
“Ah, John Taylor or Taylor Investment Corp, based out of San Diego.”
“Excellent. I’ll be just a moment.”
Keeping an eye on Holt from the pay phone, Remington dug for a couple of quarters. He dialed the LAPD, asking for a detective he preferred. When Mark Peterson answered, he didn’t waste time. “Steele here. Got a name for you. Taylor, John out of San Diego. Also known as Holt, John out of Los Angeles. Got anything on him? He’s trying to run an investment scam on me.”
“Hang on … Hell, yeah, Steele. I’ve got a list as long as my arm. Warrants out the wazoo. Know where he is?”
“I’ll stall him. He’s at the Living Room bar--“
“On Crenshaw and 28th. Be there in ten.”
Steele made another quick call to Mildred and discovered that Laura had finally called in. He told her to tell Laura to stay home and that he’d be there before long. Flashing another quick grin to John, he pretended to write a series of numbers on the little card before hanging up the telephone.
As he returned to the table, he saw through the dirty windows two LAPD cars stop in front of the bar. For the first time in nearly an hour and a half, a genuine smile crossed his face, and he yanked John up out of his seat, pressing him to the wall as two officers walked in.
With all the icy rage he’d suppressed suddenly clear on his face, the other man flinched. In a deceptively soft tone, Steele told him, “You’ve made a mistake, John Holt. I will tell you this only once. Stay away from Laura … and her family. You threw away something damned precious, and you don’t even have the decency to know it. Perhaps your time in jail will give you an opportunity to think about that. But never contact any of them again.”
Holt’s nod reflected genuine fear. Steele peeled him off the wall to him over to the waiting police. He gave Detective Peterson the card with the phone number and routing number on it.
“Look, I’ve got to see about someone first. Can I give you the highlights now for your report, and then I’ll write up later exactly how he set up the investment scam? With that number, you should be able to track it. If you can’t, call Mildred; she’ll be able to lead you through it.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks, Steele. We owe you one for this.”
“No, you don’t. Just don’t let him wiggle away. If you need proof, I’ll make damned sure you get it.”
Peterson nodded with a snort. He and the rest of the LAPD detectives knew that Holt and Steele had seemingly magical ways of coming up with key evidence that often “anonymously” tipped off the police. As long as the department couldn’t prove where it came from, they were free to use it however they needed. It was a good day at LAPD when certain white envelopes appeared in the mail with no return address.
With one last look at Holt’s sullen face while the officer read him his rights, Remington gave the brief facts to the detective, signed the report and then bolted for his car.
The Rabbit was parked in its usual spot, and after doing the same with the Auburn, Remington wasted no time sprinting up the three flights of stairs. Laura pulled the door open after his signature knock. She’d obviously showered and changed, but the lack of sleep still shadowed her eyes.
He glanced over at the answering machine and saw the light still flashing in a triple beat. Without hesitation, he crossed over to press the delete button.
“What are you doing?” Laura asked after closing the door and sliding the bar back into place.
With both hands, he drew her to him. “He will never bother you again. The man is a damned fool.”
She put her hands up to keep him from hugging her. “You had no right to interfere.”
“I have every right. When someone frightens you enough that you spend the night walking the beach or the piers in distress, I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit back and do nothing, Laura.” He leaned over to catch her downcast eyes. “That is where you were, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Venice Beach.”
“Ah, the one with the amusements. I should have guessed. Busy enough to be safe, quiet enough to let you think. And what conclusions did you come to?”
“Tell me about your meeting first.”
Sighing softly, he walked into her kitchen to retrieve two glasses and a bottle of wine. “Have you eaten or slept?”
She shrugged, much like John Holt had earlier when he was prevaricating. “Some.”
Without another word, he set the bottle down and retrieved the makings of a pair of sandwiches from the refrigerator. When he’d assembled two, he opened the bottle and poured the wine. “I’ll talk while you eat.”
She complied without compliant, a testimony to her hunger in spite of her distress.
After they’d each taken a few bites, Remington began. “Would you agree that I know something about what it is to build up a father in your mind? Inventing reasons for his absence? Creating an idealized version that soothes over all the painful parts of what you do know?”
Laura nodded.
“Then you’ll understand that I know that what I’m going to tell you is going to hurt, because it’s going to shatter any illusions you might have. You’re going to be angry with me, but I’m willing to deal with that because we both know how deeply I … care for you.”
“Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore,” she retorted, putting down her sandwich.
“Then drink your wine. You’ll need it.” Remington picked up her free hand to caress the fingertips. “Laura, John Holt is little more than a scam artist occupying an LAPD jail cell at the moment. He tried to soak me for fifty thousand and has a list of warrants that made Mike Peterson giggle.”
“What … what did he say about me?”
His fingers clutched hers, and he tried to be kind. “He didn’t want you, Laura. He wanted your money. When I pretended to be a mark with the kind of cash he needed, he lost all interest in contacting you.”
Her face lost all remaining color, and she slowly rose. After a long look at him where he tried to divine her thoughts, she crossed her arms and began pacing across her living room.
For ten long minutes, Laura said nothing while she walked. Then the words came hard. “I suppose you’re responsible for seeing him off to jail?”
“It was either that or beating the bloody hell out of him for his stupidity. I rather thought you’d prefer the former.”
“Why did you go see him?”
“Laura, when was the last time someone frightened you into running? Do you have any idea what it was to come to the office to find that you weren’t there and hadn’t called? I came here to discover you’d been gone all night. I knew from the messages you hadn’t seen him, and you sure as bloody hell hadn’t called me.” Frustration over the latter part oozed into his tone, and he regretted it in a moment.
“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to check in with you,” she shot back acidly.
Attempting to recover, he modulated his voice again. “Laura, beyond the fact that I adore you to distraction, we’re partners. When I didn’t come to you before going to London, you were furious with me … because you care about me. Why do you think I would behave differently?”
The next words that came from her sliced through his heart, not because they were meant to hurt, but because they reflected the pain she had locked inside.
“You’re not supposed to adore me.” Her soft voice hardly carried to his ears as she blurted out a truth she’d kept buried.
“Why, Laura? Because a stupid man chose not to be a good father? Because he threw away something beautiful and precious because he’s a buggering idiot? Is that what’s been going around in that logical brain of yours all these years?” Remington tried not to be angry, but his words came out harder than he intended, and she snapped back.
“Get out,” she said, her voice cold and harsh.
But Remington wanted her fury. She’d kept this secret pain hidden for far too long, and he was determined to lance it once and for all. “No. I’m not going anywhere. Sure, you can be angry with me for the truth--but I’m only the messenger, Laura.”
She stomped to the door and yanked it to the side. “Go home. I don’t want to fight with you.”
He realized she was nearing her breaking point. She’d managed to keep all the hurt and anger toward her father smashed down since the first phone call last night, and now she was exhausted from the lack of sleep. The defenses she normally kept high and well-manned were crumbling, and she didn’t want him there to see them fall.
Deliberately antagonizing her, he reached across her and closed the door, driving the bar home. “No, I think not. You won’t admit it, even to yourself, but you need me right now.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. Just as you needed your father, but only he wasn’t there.”
She rubbed the back of her neck and walked away. Ascending the steps to her bedroom, she yanked the curtains closed to block him out.
He clenched his jaw, annoyed by her damned pride and prickly attitude at the moment. He cleaned up the remains of their sandwiches while she pouted behind the divide. The simple routine cleared his head again, and he girded his armor for a second round.
Parting the fabric, he found Laura sitting with her legs drawn up and her chin resting on her knees. She unfolded, putting her feet on the ground and her hands in her lap when he came in to sit next to her.
“Tell me about your father, Laura.”
Surprisingly, the words came.
First, she talked only of fond recollections. Throughout her recitation, she walked the loft, idly picking up various objects and putting them down again. Remington followed, taking whatever perch seemed appropriate as she spoke. For nearly forty-five minutes, she skirted the memory of the day he left. Remington could see her face becoming drawn as she closed in on the events. Then she gave up, abruptly spitting out the words as she described the scene when her mother realized he wasn’t coming home.
“She loved him so much. And her whole world stopped when he was gone. She had no idea who she was without him. Mom had to go back to work because there wasn’t any money coming in. Frances got stuck taking care of me after school and in the summers. And--“ her voice trailed off.
“And what, Laura?” he prompted gently.
“They never said, but I know they both blamed me. If I had been more like Frances, he wouldn’t have left. She never bothered him. She and Mom let him be, but not me. I followed him everywhere, adored him, until he finally went away.” Laura closed her eyes as a slow tear traced its way down her cheek at last.
Remington gathered her to him and held her there. “This at least I can do for you, Laura. John admitted he was planning to leave before you came along. When you did, he stayed for a few more years. Nothing you, your sister, or mother did would have made him into a better man that would have stuck around.”
“How did you get all this out of him?” she wondered.
“I’m a damned good detective. It’s all natural instinct and a fabulous teacher.”
Gradually, Laura brought her arms around his waist and laid her head against his throat. “You’re a great deal like him. Charming, witty, and capable of making a woman lose her head over you.”
He tipped her chin up. “I might say the same about you. Charming, witty, and you’ve led me on a dizzying chase for years.“ The side of his mouth turned up. “Planning to leave me?”
“No, of course not.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
“I know.” He laid a sweet kiss against her lips. When they parted, she leaned her head on his chest again, and moments later her shoulders began shaking as the tears came at last. Without breaking his hold, he lifted her into his arms to carry her to the sofa. He sat with her there while she cried in silence over the revelations and memories. He used his left hand to retrieve the handkerchief he’d stuffed into his front coat pocket and pressed it into her hand.
After she used it to mop up tears, she kept the crumpled fabric in her fist on her lap. It was only when her hand unclenched that Remington realized she’d fallen asleep. He let out a long, shuddering breath of his own. He toyed with her loose fingers, removing the hankie and setting it aside.
Understanding fully where Laura’s insecurities were rooted brought with it a kind of healing he hadn’t anticipated. Even as they shared a bed the past three months, Laura held some part of herself aloof. He’d begun to wonder if they’d ever be able to cross that line--the one where she fully engaged in their relationship.
He had to give her credit though. Since the Friedlich Spa, she’d more than met him halfway. Their first tryst had occurred shortly afterward. He still wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t planned the whole evening, but the fact she hadn’t bothered packing a toothbrush before staying the night led him to believe she’d let nature take its course that time, rather than withdrawing as usual when their kisses progressed to a certain point.
Laura’s head sagged as she sank further into the depths of sleep. He thought about carrying her to bed, but had to admit that no matter how romantic it might appear, he wasn’t up to standing up with a hundred pounds of deadweight in his arms unless it was a bloody emergency. Instead, he eased out from under her and stripped his jacket off to lay across her before yanking the boots from his feet and setting them by the front door. A few loosened buttons and rolled up sleeves felt much more comfortable. While
Laura slept on, Remington retrieved a deck of cards from her kitchen drawer and began amusing himself by playing progressively complex card tricks on her coffee table.
An hour later and bored out of his mind, he ransacked her kitchen for the makings of dinner. That it was Thursday and they’d spent the previous weekend at his place added a layer of complexity to the prospect. He’d learned after the first night of sleeping in Laura’s bed that any sort of extended stay at her place required a trip to the market for foodstuffs. She despised grocery shopping, viewing it as an annoying chore unless he was along. Her idea of a grocery list involved yogurt, fruit, a few ingredients for a salad and a handful of slices of ham and cheese for an occasional sandwich.
As Remington was uninterested in surviving on such meager fare, it had become their habit to sleep in on Saturday and venture to the market before lunch time. He would restock her pantry and make certain before he left on Sunday that she had real leftovers for the week.
All of this guaranteed the cupboards were rather bare at the moment. With an arched brow at the inevitable yogurt taking up space on the shelves, he raided her freezer. He still suspected that Laura had no idea that the thing could be used for more than storing ice. He regularly split whatever entrée he'd prepared and placed half of it in there for later use, but unless he pulled it back out again, Laura seemed oblivious to the fact that food was kept inside. Any time he popped by her place during the week, he retrieved something or another and stuck it in her fridge. Since it was almost always gone the next time he came over, he assumed she either ate it or fed it to the neighbor’s cat.
This time he found the lasagna from two weekends ago. A few minutes in the microwave thawed it for the most part, and he set the glass pan in the heated oven. French bread was a lost cause for now; they would have to settle for a salad with croutons made from sandwich bread. He grinned to himself as he opened the cabinet where his spices were stored. He’d been appalled that first weekend to discover Laura kept only salt, pepper, and an old bottle of Italian seasoning on hand. He’d lectured her all the way to the grocery store and back again about proper spices.
The spirited discussion they’d had over olive oil actually made him chuckle. Even she had to admit he had a point, though, when he’d seduced her that night with little more than her taste buds.
He ran a thumb along the blade of the bread knife to make certain the honed edge still held true. Making a mental note to bring his whet stone tomorrow evening, he proceeded to slice the crusts away from the sandwich bread and form perfect squares out of the rest. A drizzle of olive oil and the right seasonings finished his preparations, and the croutons went into the oven on a cookie sheet.
Turning to the sink to wash his hands, he found Laura blinking sleepily at one end of the kitchen, well out of his way.
“Feel better?” he asked as he rinsed off and dried with a dishtowel.
Laura took fuzzy mental inventory of the last thirty-three hours: two scant hours of sleep, the discovery that her father really was as much of a creep as she’d suspected, and Remington charging to her defense as her own personal white knight. Now he was in the kitchen making dinner as if all was well.
“I’m not sure yet.” Her stomach growled as the smell of something rich and Italian wafted her way. Remington walked over with a fresh tomato he’d diced for the salad and slid a chunk into her mouth before kissing it. The flavors exploded on her tongue. Hunger rose up and demanded to be satisfied. “You’re always feeding me,” she noted.
Backing away to check on something in the oven, he said only, “I like to cook. Cooking for two is infinitely preferable to cooking for one.”
Bleary as she was, she grasped that he was giving her space, not pressing for answers or even offering solace. Solace, she discovered as she thought about it, that she wanted. Edging into the kitchen, she fumbled for plates and napkins, setting both on the counter.
“Thank you, Laura.” He continued to bustle about the kitchen.
Telling her inner independent-woman-I-don’t-need-a-man-for-anything voice to shut up for a minute, Laura blurted, “You’re always taking care of me.”
He pulled out the croutons and set them on the stove before putting down the hot pads. “I don’t do half the things I’d like to do. You let me feed you, give you an occasional foot rub and work with you. On weekends, we live together--something I would prefer to do every day--but I’m so bloody grateful for those two days, I won’t beg for the other.” He stopped, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go there.”
Laura took another step toward him. “Why did you see him?” she asked once more.
“Because I couldn’t stand to have him hurt you again. If he’d turned out to be the right sort of misguided chap, I could have arranged for you to meet him and have the family reunion you’ve always wanted. If he wasn’t … I’d at least spare you the misery of having to confront what he really was face to face.” He leaned against the counter and rubbed the back of his neck. “Laura, I know you could have managed the situation. You’re too good. But if you didn’t have any misgivings, you would have gone right away. When I heard the messages and realized you were upset at the idea of seeing him again … I did what I thought was best.” Remington reached out to touch her cheek. “Please don’t be angry with me.”
Closing in another step until she stood in front of him, she quietly said, “I’m not. I’m just not used to having my very own champion to fight my battles for me.”
“More like an emissary. I watched you fight your own battle right here in your loft.”
With a rustle of clothing brushing clothing, Laura reached up to wrap her arms around his shoulders and neck. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Oh Lord, Laura, there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be.” He buried his face in her hair.
After they cleaned up the kitchen from dinner, the energy Laura’s short nap generated waned. She slipped into a nightshirt that only flirted with the bottom curve of her rear and gratefully crawled between the sheets after eliciting a promise from Remington that he would stay the night.
Surprised she asked, he agreed readily. Given that the evening was still young, he found an old movie to keep him company. When he slid into bed with Laura afterward, she turned to him in her sleep. He brushed a kiss against her cheek and draped an arm across her waist.
*****
When the alarm clock clicked over to the morning deejays on KROT, Laura fumbled to flip the switch before Remington began muttering curses.
“Laura, we’re going to have to negotiate on that alarm. It’s not fitting to have those two characters crawling through my dreams before I wake up. What time did you set the damned thing for anyway?”
“It’s seven. You’re grumpy this morning.”
Reaching for her hand, he placed it on his raging erection. “I’ve discovered that sleeping with you before I’ve made love to you plays hell with my libido. I’ve been doing my damnedest to keep my hands off you for most of the night because you needed your rest,” he groused.
Laura gave him a firm stroke, and he arched under her hands. “No obligatory comments about preferring to wake up this way?” she quipped.
He cracked one eye open. “Why do you think I like being with you in the mornings?” One hand began to toy with her hair before dropping to tease her breast through the thin shirt.
“Then you’ll like this even better.” She stripped off the fabric covering her to straddle him, sinking down to take him inside without any further preliminaries. She didn’t give him a chance to work his usual magic. Instead, she ambushed him with a rush of sensation on his already sensitized body. Steadily, she wove her own spell, taking her time about it while she trailed mouth and fingers over him. He’d demonstrated his incredible control any number of times to her in the past three months. She’d learned a
few tricks in the meantime that tripped that restraint, and she put them to good use this morning.
Lacing her fingers through his, she pinned his hands on either side of his head and leaned down as she took him up near the breaking point. “I love you,” she whispered as she held him on the edge.
Abruptly, he clutched her hands and came apart as he stumbled over her name. Laura joined him when the sensations overwhelmed her too, drifting down to lie on his chest as she shuddered against him, still holding hands.
When they came back to their senses, Laura had to wiggle out of Remington’s arms as he attempted to entice her into a second round. “I’ve already missed a day at work yesterday. We have a lot to do today to make up for it.”
The sparkle in his eyes told her he’d anticipated her response. “Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She rolled her eyes and bent to gather her shirt from the floor. He took advantage of her distraction to slip from the bed and into the shower. “Don’t you dare leave me without any hot water!” she yelled. The water heater held exactly enough for one really hot shower and another tepid one.
“If you’d join me, we wouldn’t waste any,” came the reply.
Conceding that he might have a point, Laura slipped into her shirt long enough to tidy up the bedroom before work. Remington had mentioned last night that the bar had been full of smoke, and she wrinkled her nose as she picked up his shirt to throw in with her own dry cleaning. She was fairly certain some of his clothes had come back with the last batch; she was right. A grey suit and white dress shirt hung in her closet.
As she walked back up the bedroom stairs, she snagged the jacket he’d worn yesterday off the railing where he’d left it. It too smelled of smoke, and as a matter of habit, she checked each pocket before tossing it in with the other clothes. She fished out a crumpled up handkerchief, a business card with a police report number from Mike Peterson and a ring.
Over the years, Laura had been educated by her jewel thief-turned-detective partner on all sorts of antique jewelry--everything from Edwardian to mid-century modern styles. At a glance she identified it as Art Deco, Remington’s favorite period for jewelry. Admiring the pretty setting for a moment, she automatically tilted it, looking for an inscription. The one she found had her easing down onto the bed in astonishment. On the left side were her initials, L.E.H. On the right were Remington’s, and across the base of the ring the words, I love you, were written.
The words she’d been craving were here--engraved on what she now recognized as an engagement ring with stones of what she suspected were Royal Lavulite. Remington knew her too well. She would never select something this stunning for herself … but she would wear it with delight if he gave it to her. With shaking hands, she looked up as Remington opened the bathroom door. “Laura, do I happen to have a suit or at least a change of--“ he broke off as he realized what she held.
“You do. It’s in my closet.” She dropped the ring into his hand and fled into the bathroom to hide. The rapidly cooling water forced her to shower in a hurry. She dried her hair and applied a thin veneer of makeup before diving into a pantsuit and heels.
The process still took twenty minutes, and Remington stirred his tea as Laura descended from her bedroom. He pushed her cup and saucer toward her as she approached. Trying to be nonchalant, she asked, “Do you want to take one car or two to the office?”
But he wasn’t playing along. “That sounds like a question married people ask each other.”
She winced. “I wasn’t trying to snoop. You know how I check pockets before I put things in the hamper.”
“I know. I picked up the ring yesterday morning, or I would have left it at home.”
Laura played with her cup. “What … what were you planning to do with it?” Out of the edge of her vision, she saw him give her a questioning look before he stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“Actually, I had planned to take it home and stare at it for an hour or two every night for the next month or so while I try to figure out what you will do with it. We’ve been playing a lovely game of poker these past few years. If I raise the stakes as high as I’ll go with this one, I don’t know if you’ll take my bet, call it or fold. I’m fairly certain you won’t quit the table, but losing this hand might cause an enormous setback for both of us.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Mean what? That I don’t know what you’ll do?”
“Do you mean what you wrote inside?”
The intensity in his blue eyes captivated her as he brought two fingers to stroke a lock of her hair. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. “Of course, I do, Laura.”
Blinking as she exhaled, it still took her a moment. Her hand shook slightly as she raised it to caress his cheek. She placed her lips on the other one for a kiss. “Let me know what you decide. Just remember, I know your ‘tells’ when you’re bluffing.”
She withdrew her hand from his cheek and turned to gather up her purse and coat. He stopped her with a hand to the elbow. “Laura, do you …” Looking up, she met his eyes again.
“Love you? Of course, Remington. So much that I break out in a nervous sweat every time I think about it.”
With a chuckle, he stood to drop a kiss in her hair before escorting her out the door. “That sounds familiar.”
* * * * *
She didn’t precisely forget about the conversation, but somehow she failed to make a crucial connection between it and the events of a certain Friday night almost two months later. Murphy called on Tuesday to mention he was working a case in LA and was interested in hanging out over the weekend. Remington’s once-a-month poker night with Monroe, Donald, and Mike Peterson happened to be that Friday night. When Mike had to cancel, threatening the plans for the evening, Remington offered to let Murphy sit in.
Laura frowned at the setup, not wanting to miss visiting with her old friend.
“Come, then,” Remington suggested. “You can blow on my cards and make them lucky.”
“As if you need it.”
“Then you can make sure I’m not cheating.”
“That I can do.”
Frances surprised her when she arrived with Donald. “He said you would be there, so I thought ‘why not?’ Mom is watching the kids, and we’ll have a chance to visit.”
Laura’s smile was genuine. The last few times they’d been together had been a great deal of fun, much more so than when they were children. Remington and Laura had met with Donald and Frances over lunch a few days after the incident with John Holt to give them the details. The sisters shed tears together and then decided their mom didn’t need to know. Both men looked relieved at that. Abigail on a regular day could be a handful. An insulted Abigail was impossible for anyone but Remington to manage.
While the men dealt cards, drank and smoked stinky cigars, the sisters traded jests with them for a while. Eventually, though, they drifted into the kitchen to talk in private.
“How are things between you and Remington?” Frances asked as she poured potato chips into a wide bowl.
Her mouth turned up. “Honestly? Better than I ever imagined.”
“How so?”
Laura leaned on the counter and picked out a chip. “Do you remember when I lived with Wilson?”
“Yes.” Frances looked a little cross.
“We did very little together. I cooked--which isn’t saying much--and cleaned and did laundry. We both worked late and on weekends. Occasionally, we went out for dinner and slept together. Really, we did little more than keep a house.” Laura sighed as she thought of it.
“And now?” Frances prompted.
Laura smiled happily. “We share. He cooks; I clean. We do laundry together because he doesn’t like the way I fold his socks, and I don’t like the way he folds towels. We watch TV or old movies together, and he doesn’t mind my analyzing the story while it goes along. We argue about nearly everything, but it’s all in good fun. I don’t think I win all the time, but I don’t ever feel as if I’m losing either. We don’t always stay together at night, but when he’s not there …I miss his company."
“It’s not weird having him at home after working all day with him?”
“No. He still has an allergy to legwork, and I despise Chamber of Commerce meetings, so we’re not always together.”
Bluntly, Frances asked, “Are you still afraid he’s going to leave you?”
Laura felt her mouth drop open. “How did you know about that?”
“Oh, come now, Laura, give me a little credit. With Daddy and Wilson leaving the way they did, it only makes sense that you would be scared. The first time you introduced me to Remington, I realized you were in love with him. He’s the only man since Wilson to peak your interest. I still don’t know what you saw in that idiot.”
“That’s quite an analysis. Accurate, though. And the answer is ‘no.’ I don’t think he’s going to leave me. By the way, Wilson was the polar opposite of Daddy. That’s why I thought he was right for me.”
“He couldn’t keep up with you.”
“I never gave him the chance.”
“Remington keeps up with you.”
“Oh, Frances, it’s so much more than that. He doesn’t need to possess me or treat me as an inferior. I’m his partner, first and foremost, whether it’s in the office or in bed. He loves me.”
“He finally told you?” Frances reminded Laura that she’d spent an entire afternoon fretting to her sister about the inadmission.
Thinking of the ring, as she had daily since she’d seen it, Laura smiled. “Yes.”
A shout from the living room distracted both of them, and they peeked around the corner to see what was going on.
“Laura, come keep an eye on this detective of yours. He’s cheating. I’m sure of it.” Murphy grumbled as he threw in his hand.
“Ah, mate, you’re outmatched in every way, and you know it.”
“Steele--“
“I’ll referee,” Laura interjected. When she eased onto Remington’s lap, she could see the surprise in Murphy’s face. She never sat in anyone’s lap like decorative arm candy. But she liked it here. Remington slid his arm around her, nuzzling her neck while she studied his cards.
She caught Murphy’s questioning look. “What is it?”
He shook his head. “Just that you two look like a couple. I didn’t think I’d ever see that day.”
Monroe interjected, “Ah, Murphy, my new friend, this beautiful woman has led our friend Steele in a merry chase for all these years. She has him eating out of the palm of her hand.”
“Oh, is that it? I thought she’d lost a bet,” Murphy quipped.
“You’re stalling again. Ante up, Michaels.” Remington had an edge to his voice that only Laura heard. She patted his knee to soothe him before she stole a sip of scotch from his glass.
The play continued through the evening. Frances subbed for Donald when he made a quick beer run, and later Laura sat in for Remington while he put together a tray of nachos. When the first one was cleared after only one pass around the table, he grumbled good-naturedly while assembling a second. Laura hadn’t played poker since Havenhurst, and she was pleased to find she could still read Murphy.
Three hands in, he cursed a blue streak as he folded yet again. “Goddamnit, Laura! I’ve played you for years, and you still pull that one on me.”
“One would think you would have learned by now,” she retorted.
Remington set down the plate. “You two used to play poker?”
Murphy muttered, “Every other Friday night for five years. Are you telling me you two haven’t taken each other on?”
“I didn’t think Laura--“ Remington started.
She slanted a wicked glance at him. “Be careful, partner.”
“Enjoyed the game,“ he finished with a grin as he shifted Laura to sit under her again.
Monroe checked his watch. “My good friends, I must take my winnings and go home. It is getting late, and tomorrow is a busy day in the retail world.” He stood and held out a hand to the other players.
“Steele, Piper, good to see you both. Murphy, it has been a delight to play, and I hope we do it again.”
After he left, Remington arched a brow at Laura. “Care to play?”
“I’m in.”
Donald busted a half hour later and settled in with Frances on his lap to watch the rest of the game. Laura decided that Murphy had improved since he’d moved to Denver, probably because he had different opponents to face. Remington was inscrutable as usual, and she was careful to randomly shuffle the cards to keep him from counting them as easily. It didn’t always help, but it was all she had.
It was only when Murphy finally threw in the towel an hour later that Laura realized she’d been set up. More than half the chips on the table were in her pile, and she and Remington were in a face-off. He’d added a pile of chips on the last card. She’d seen it and raised it substantially, forcing him into a bad spot. With the four queens she held, there weren’t many hands that could beat it, and Remington didn’t have many chips left in his kitty.
“I’ll see your bet and raise it again,” he said.
“With what? A promissory note?” Laura quipped. She snapped on the answer even before Remington laid the ring on the pile of chips accompanied by a gasp from her sister.
“With this. I think it more than matches anything you’ve played tonight.” He put his cards down to wait for her move.
Laura didn’t look at him for a moment. He probably expected that she would end the game play right there, but then again, surely he knew her better than that. They would see this through. She took her time. As she saw it, she had four choices in front of her. Of all of them, walking away from the game held absolutely no appeal. Folding was equally abhorrent--she played to win.
That left two options: call Remington’s bet and force him to show his cards, or go for the win with the upper hand. A smile began to play on her face. She knew what he wanted her to do, and he didn’t even have to cheat to make it happen. All he’d done was count the cards and wait for her to have the right hand.
Four pairs of eyes stared, three brown and one blue, while Laura mused over her options. Lifting her head, she studied Remington, ignoring the smiles and grins on the other three faces. She knew he had something that could beat her hand. He wouldn’t have put the ring on the table otherwise.
She couldn’t call and win; he would have to show his hand. Laura had spent their whole association helping him keep his secrets, and she wasn’t about to start revealing them now. But to raise the bet meant coming up with something to match the ring and top it. What could that be?
In a moment, she knew. A fifth option presented itself, and she knew how to make it happen. “Murphy, will you get me a piece of paper and a pen?” After rummaging for a moment, her old partner dropped a notepad and pen on the table in front of her.
She had only one possession that meant the world to her--one thing worthy of the life Remington offered. It was the one she’d dangled in front of him long ago. With an elegant hand, she wrote out a single short sentence on the notepad, tore the paper out and folded it in half. Then she pushed every single chip she had to the center of the table. “I’ll match your bet--”
Remington blinked and his jaw firmed in unhappiness.
But she grinned. “--and I’ll raise it if you’ll accept this as a guarantee.”
His eyebrows flew up as he took the sheet of paper from her fingers. As he opened it, the look on his face reminded her of the moment in London when she and Mildred gave him a new passport with his name so he could come home. The anticipation around the table hummed.
With a snort of laughter and a smile that lit up the room, Remington closed the paper and laid it next to the ring. “I accept.”
Now the ball was in his court. Laura rested her elbow on the table with her hand on her chin while she waited to see what he would do.
Reaching for the notepad, he scrawled a quick note, folded it and tossed it on the pile. “I call. Show me your hand, Laura.”
She flipped over the cards to reveal the four queens.
Remington stacked his cards and conceded. “I can’t beat that, Laura. You win.”
Without saying anything, she reached for the folded note. “Two weeks in Paris for a honeymoon. I’ve a mind to collect on an old bet,” she read.
“You didn’t win that one either,” she quipped. “It was a draw, remember?”
“Depends on how you look at it.” Laura looked up to find Remington standing next to her. “Are you going to marry me, Miss Holt?”
“Of course, Mr. Steele. You owe me a honeymoon in Paris.”
Hours later, after Monroe had returned with Mildred in tow to celebrate, and several empty champagne bottles lay scattered across the flat, Laura nestled sleepily in Remington’s arms. Her left hand with the engagement ring rested on his chest, and he toyed with it.
Still dazed by champagne, happiness and commemorative sex, Remington floundered to gather his spinning thoughts before he fell asleep. “Laura?”
“Hmm?”
“I thought you would hold most of the chips to match the ring and use the rest to raise the bet so I would fold. Why did you bet half the agency? You know I would never take that from you.”
In the dark, he could hardly see her face when she raised her head. “Why did you write ‘I love you’ on my ring.”
“So when I couldn’t say the words you would already have them.”
“Think about it.” She dropped her head back onto his shoulder.
“Laura, my head is spinning. I’d rather not be a detective at this moment.”
“If I lost the hand, you’d be stuck as my partner.”
“In other words, you were hedging your bets.”
Murmuring her assent, she wiggled closer. “Same reason you folded on four kings.”
24 August 2009
“Good morning, Chief,” Mildred replied in an equally cheerful singsong from her perch behind her desk. The printer behind her spewed paper, and whatever appeared on the computer screen made her hum in contentment.
“Any messages for me?”
“Nada.”
“Excellent.” He made a sharp left turn for Laura’s office.
“She’s not in yet, Boss. Hasn’t called in either.”
Turning, he furrowed his brow. Laura hadn’t mentioned that she would be late this morning--and they’d passed a lovely evening before she’d pried herself out of his bed and made for home. He’d missed her after she’d left but understood her need for personal space. They’d only “turned that corner” in the past three months, and she had a fierce desire to hang on to her independence--at least during the work week. Most weekends they happily cohabited in one or the other’s flat, but when Sunday night rolled around,
Laura flitted back to her loft or cheerfully packed his bag and escorted him to the door with a sweet kiss and a jolly wave.
“No?”
Mildred tapped her pen on the desk impatiently. “She’s not here, so tell me--did you get it?”
With most of his mind beginning to worry about Laura, Remington reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a ring. He’d had a devil of a time locating exactly what he wanted and had finally tapped into some old connections to get it. The deceptively simple setting revealed, only on careful examination, that the flawless square cut diamond was flanked, not by sapphires but small pieces of clear blue Royal Lavulite. He’d purposely chosen a smaller diamond, knowing Laura preferred quiet, elegant jewelry, but made up for the fact that it skimmed just under a caret by finding one that approached perfection. The lavulite made round blue statements on either side of the main stone, and the diamonds filled in the rest, blending in with the platinum setting.
On first glance, one merely noticed a pretty piece of jewelry. It took a second or a third to realize the ring was nearly encrusted with gems. Only a gemologist or expert jewel thief would discern the real value of the stunning creation.
“Oh, Boss, she’s going to love it.”
“You think?” He chewed on the nail of his middle finger.
“When are you going to give it to her?”
Taking the ring back, he studied it before slipping it into his inside jacket pocket again. “I don’t know yet. I don’t know if either of us is ready for that step.” Mildred started to ask more questions, but he gently cut her off. “Do I have anything on the books for today?”
“Nothing urgent. You two were supposed to research the Devlin case. I think Miss Holt planned visits this morning to a couple of family members. Do you want me to clear it?”
“I’m going to Laura’s loft. I don’t know of any reason why she’d be this late coming in.”
“You think she’s in trouble?” Mildred picked up on his worry and dialed Laura’s number. He waited, quiet and still, while the phone rang. She placed it back on the hook. “Only her answering machine is picking up.”
“Call Fred. See if she took the limo anywhere.” He paced as she did so.
“No dice. He’s cooling his heels at home.”
“Ah, I’m going to her loft to see if her car is there.” With quick, long strides, he left the office.
The missing Rabbit seemed to indicate Laura had, indeed, gone somewhere. The lock on the door confirmed it. Picking it with ease, he pushed her door to the side and closed it behind him. Her neat loft left few clues as to how long she’d been there before leaving, or how long she’d been gone.
But he had no compunction about lifting the lid to her laundry hamper. No--the clothes she wore last night weren’t in there. The bone dry tiles in the shower and the equally unused towel led Remington to believe she’d left sometime the night before. She’d left in a hurry and hadn’t called him. Stuffing down his hurt feelings, he continued to scan her loft for clues--and found one near the answering machine. A nearly full glass of wine stood nearby on the desk as if she’d set it down and forgotten it. A triple light blinked. He pressed the button to listen.
“Laura,sweetheart, it’s your Daddy. I know it’s been a while, but I’d love to visit with you. Give me a call at 555-3493.”
“Laura, honey, it’s your Dad. I’ve got to talk to you. I know you’re probably angry with me, but please call. 555-3493.”
“Laura, I’m desperate. I need to see you by three o’clock today. It’s important. Call me. 555-3493.”
Remington punched the button to stop the tape and closed his eyes. Her father. Damn. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to restrain the urge to fling the little machine across the room. Frowning again, he rewound the tape and listened to the last message again. If Laura had left last night, she hadn’t met with him. But she might have gone somewhere to lick her wounds--and that could be nearly anywhere.
Damn it, Laura. When will you trust me enough to come to me? Following his instincts, he picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello?” A thin, suspicious-sounding voice answered.
“Mr. Holt? This is Remington Steele, Laura’s associate.”
“Where’s Laura?”
Thinking rapidly, he covered for her. “She’s out of town on a case and had her calls forwarded to me. How can I help you?”
“Can you meet me in half an hour at the Living Room bar on Crenshaw and 28th?
“Certainly.”
Before he left, he dashed a quick note to Laura and propped it up on the wine glass.
“L-- Chastise me when I come home. I’ve gone for answers. --R”
The Living Room proved to be a seedy little tavern jammed into the middle of a nearly empty shopping strip where the only other businesses were a discount auto insurance outlet and a liquor store. A newer-model Cadillac took up a single space out front, making the Auburn look less out of place when Remington parked behind it.
He’d changed into jeans, boots and a sport coat before leaving Laura’s place. Given the location, he was sure a business suit would be inappropriate. He didn’t keep many clothes there, but even before they’d begun sharing a bed, having a change of clothes at the other’s home made a great deal of sense. He did remember to retrieve the ring and tuck it inside the new jacket. When a miasma of smoke and beer oozed out the door as he opened it, he congratulated himself on his foresight.
An older Hispanic man worked behind the counter, and Remington nodded politely as he took in the other patrons--a pair of elderly men mumbling to each other in a corner and a solitary man at a table who rose at the sight of him.
“Mr. Steele?” He held out his hand at Remington’s nod. “John. John Holt. Good to meet you. Glad you came.”
With a polite smile, Remington unbuttoned his jacket and signaled the bartender. “What are you having, mate?” First rule of thumb for eliciting information from a mark is to make him comfortable.
John’s eyes flattened almost imperceptibly before he grinned affably. “That’s good of you. This kind of day calls for something a little stronger than beer. Jack and Coke,” he told the bartender.
Remington matched the order. Over the quick transaction, he assessed the other man and didn’t like what he saw: mid-fifties, with all the smarm of a used-car salesman and the looks of a handsome man living a too-pampered life. As Laura’s niece, Laurie Beth, might say, he looked ‘squishy,’ pale-faced with bright eyes and a too-quick smile.
Pretending he knew nothing of this man’s current relationship with Laura, he casually opened the conversation. “Laura’s a wonderful associate. It’s a delight to be able to help out a member of her family.”
“She’s a great kid. Pretty, bright, insatiable curiosity.”
Kid? Laura hasn’t been a kid since … probably never. But it’s a damned good description. “That she is,” he agreed affably. “So, ah, Mr. Holt, what do you do?”
“John, please.” Remington could see the man was working hard for a casual ease and went along with it for the moment. “I’m an investor. Take a little here, take a little there, roll it all together and make it something big.” John’s brown eyes reflected a faint hardening, and the smile seemed a touch forced. “It’s a good life. Got me that car out there not too long ago.” He waved toward the Cadillac parked outside.
“Investments? I’m always on the lookout for something interesting.” Steele dangled the bait. He wanted John to forget for the moment that he was a detective.
“You’ve come to the right man, then.” John settled comfortably into his chair with a too-warm smile. “Let me tell you something hot I’ve got working.”
While Laura’s father spun a tale of instant riches with a flair that would dazzle even a reasonably intelligent man, Remington recognized a con artist at work. Laura’s talent for telling a lie came honestly. But she’d put it to good use, becoming a detective rather than a swindler.
Remington caught the bartender’s eye and signaled for a second round. “This sounds fascinating. Tell me more. I’ve got, say, fifty-thousand, that needs to be parked somewhere. And I’d rather avoid American taxes if you know what I mean.” He flashed his own dazzling grin.
An avaricious gleam touched those deep brown eyes, and John leaned in close. “I’ve got just the thing.”
As the bartender delivered the drinks and John laid out a maze of wire transfers and corporate tax shelters, Remington swallowed in disgust. This is why John Holt had called Laura out of the blue. Money. The sleazy scam man had interest only in his own comfort, and Steele was willing to lay odds that the absent father no longer had any interest in contacting his daughter now that a potential mark sat in front of him.
But Remington had bested many a man like him. For the next hour, he let John spell out a complicated money scam that sounded impressively honest. But given his own background and what he’d learned from Mildred in the past three years, Steele pinpointed exactly where the money would evaporate without a trace. When John finished his spiel, leaning back to take a healthy swig of his drink, he failed to notice Remington had left his own untouched on the table.
Now Steele took control of the conversation. As a good mark, he asked questions that brushed around the key point in the “investment.” When he homed in, John appeared calm as he fielded the questions. But as he circled away from it, the scam artist made the mistake of relaxing a little too much and letting his smile grow too wide.
Knowing he had the man cold, Remington shifted the conversation. “Excellent, mate. It sounds as if I’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this.” Taking a sip of his drink, Steele smoothly led the conversation around to Laura. “Doing business with my associate’s family only seems right. If I recall, Laura mentioned once her parents had divorced. You remarried?”
Some of the other man’s smarmy polish slipped. “Oh, hell, no. Once was enough.” Remington grinned suddenly as if to agree. “You’re not married either?” John asked.
Holding up his bare left hand, Remington quipped, “No, mate. No woman’s trapped me yet.” He raised his glass, and John tapped it with his own in a little toast.
“You’re a lucky one, then. Laura’s mom had me nailed cold.”
“How so?” Remington asked innocently.
“She got pregnant with Frances, and I was too stupid at the time to realize that I didn’t have to marry her.” John sighed. “But I did.”
“Ah, didn’t work out, eh?” he said sympathetically.
“No. Who wants to be weighed down by a wife and kids? You’ve met Abigail, I’m sure. She could drive a man to drink in a matter of weeks.”
Silently, Remington had to agree, but Laura’s mom did have her good points. Daniel certainly took a shine to her. But he only murmured and nodded so that John would continue.
“Frances wasn’t too bad. Quiet kid. Minded her manners. But Laura--Laura came along about the time I was thinking of taking off. I stuck around for a few years after that, but it got to me, you know? Always asking questions, always following me around. Even at five she had those big, damn brown eyes that made you think she could see straight through you.”
Biting off an epitaph, Remington only replied, “Laura remembers quite a few things about you with fondness--circuses, old television shows, that kind of thing.”
“It was the only way I could keep her out of my hair. Kid drove me crazy. And then when Frances saw her getting attention, she would start pestering me. There came a day I just couldn’t take it anymore. You know what I mean?”
“Not really, as I don’t have a family of my own, but please … educate me.” Remington seethed inside.
John settled in again with his Jack and Coke, smiling as if to an old friend. “The wife and kids thing gets old, cramps your style.” He shrugged. “The girls had their mother, so they were fine without me. I sort of eased my way out, and before you knew it, I don’t even think they realized I wasn’t living at their house anymore.”
“That’s very interesting.” Having heard all he could stand, Remington shifted subjects again. “So, what prompted your phone call to Laura? It sounded urgent.”
“Oh, you know, I was in town and wanted to see my girl. But it looks like I’ve missed her. We’ll catch up next time.” John had no idea he had just confirmed Remington’s suspicion.
“Sure, of course. So how do I go about this transfer?”
John slickly handed over a card with a phone number and bank routing number. “Call this in, and I’ll get you set up today.”
“What name will show up on my statement?”
“Ah, John Taylor or Taylor Investment Corp, based out of San Diego.”
“Excellent. I’ll be just a moment.”
Keeping an eye on Holt from the pay phone, Remington dug for a couple of quarters. He dialed the LAPD, asking for a detective he preferred. When Mark Peterson answered, he didn’t waste time. “Steele here. Got a name for you. Taylor, John out of San Diego. Also known as Holt, John out of Los Angeles. Got anything on him? He’s trying to run an investment scam on me.”
“Hang on … Hell, yeah, Steele. I’ve got a list as long as my arm. Warrants out the wazoo. Know where he is?”
“I’ll stall him. He’s at the Living Room bar--“
“On Crenshaw and 28th. Be there in ten.”
Steele made another quick call to Mildred and discovered that Laura had finally called in. He told her to tell Laura to stay home and that he’d be there before long. Flashing another quick grin to John, he pretended to write a series of numbers on the little card before hanging up the telephone.
As he returned to the table, he saw through the dirty windows two LAPD cars stop in front of the bar. For the first time in nearly an hour and a half, a genuine smile crossed his face, and he yanked John up out of his seat, pressing him to the wall as two officers walked in.
With all the icy rage he’d suppressed suddenly clear on his face, the other man flinched. In a deceptively soft tone, Steele told him, “You’ve made a mistake, John Holt. I will tell you this only once. Stay away from Laura … and her family. You threw away something damned precious, and you don’t even have the decency to know it. Perhaps your time in jail will give you an opportunity to think about that. But never contact any of them again.”
Holt’s nod reflected genuine fear. Steele peeled him off the wall to him over to the waiting police. He gave Detective Peterson the card with the phone number and routing number on it.
“Look, I’ve got to see about someone first. Can I give you the highlights now for your report, and then I’ll write up later exactly how he set up the investment scam? With that number, you should be able to track it. If you can’t, call Mildred; she’ll be able to lead you through it.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks, Steele. We owe you one for this.”
“No, you don’t. Just don’t let him wiggle away. If you need proof, I’ll make damned sure you get it.”
Peterson nodded with a snort. He and the rest of the LAPD detectives knew that Holt and Steele had seemingly magical ways of coming up with key evidence that often “anonymously” tipped off the police. As long as the department couldn’t prove where it came from, they were free to use it however they needed. It was a good day at LAPD when certain white envelopes appeared in the mail with no return address.
With one last look at Holt’s sullen face while the officer read him his rights, Remington gave the brief facts to the detective, signed the report and then bolted for his car.
The Rabbit was parked in its usual spot, and after doing the same with the Auburn, Remington wasted no time sprinting up the three flights of stairs. Laura pulled the door open after his signature knock. She’d obviously showered and changed, but the lack of sleep still shadowed her eyes.
He glanced over at the answering machine and saw the light still flashing in a triple beat. Without hesitation, he crossed over to press the delete button.
“What are you doing?” Laura asked after closing the door and sliding the bar back into place.
With both hands, he drew her to him. “He will never bother you again. The man is a damned fool.”
She put her hands up to keep him from hugging her. “You had no right to interfere.”
“I have every right. When someone frightens you enough that you spend the night walking the beach or the piers in distress, I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit back and do nothing, Laura.” He leaned over to catch her downcast eyes. “That is where you were, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Venice Beach.”
“Ah, the one with the amusements. I should have guessed. Busy enough to be safe, quiet enough to let you think. And what conclusions did you come to?”
“Tell me about your meeting first.”
Sighing softly, he walked into her kitchen to retrieve two glasses and a bottle of wine. “Have you eaten or slept?”
She shrugged, much like John Holt had earlier when he was prevaricating. “Some.”
Without another word, he set the bottle down and retrieved the makings of a pair of sandwiches from the refrigerator. When he’d assembled two, he opened the bottle and poured the wine. “I’ll talk while you eat.”
She complied without compliant, a testimony to her hunger in spite of her distress.
After they’d each taken a few bites, Remington began. “Would you agree that I know something about what it is to build up a father in your mind? Inventing reasons for his absence? Creating an idealized version that soothes over all the painful parts of what you do know?”
Laura nodded.
“Then you’ll understand that I know that what I’m going to tell you is going to hurt, because it’s going to shatter any illusions you might have. You’re going to be angry with me, but I’m willing to deal with that because we both know how deeply I … care for you.”
“Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore,” she retorted, putting down her sandwich.
“Then drink your wine. You’ll need it.” Remington picked up her free hand to caress the fingertips. “Laura, John Holt is little more than a scam artist occupying an LAPD jail cell at the moment. He tried to soak me for fifty thousand and has a list of warrants that made Mike Peterson giggle.”
“What … what did he say about me?”
His fingers clutched hers, and he tried to be kind. “He didn’t want you, Laura. He wanted your money. When I pretended to be a mark with the kind of cash he needed, he lost all interest in contacting you.”
Her face lost all remaining color, and she slowly rose. After a long look at him where he tried to divine her thoughts, she crossed her arms and began pacing across her living room.
For ten long minutes, Laura said nothing while she walked. Then the words came hard. “I suppose you’re responsible for seeing him off to jail?”
“It was either that or beating the bloody hell out of him for his stupidity. I rather thought you’d prefer the former.”
“Why did you go see him?”
“Laura, when was the last time someone frightened you into running? Do you have any idea what it was to come to the office to find that you weren’t there and hadn’t called? I came here to discover you’d been gone all night. I knew from the messages you hadn’t seen him, and you sure as bloody hell hadn’t called me.” Frustration over the latter part oozed into his tone, and he regretted it in a moment.
“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to check in with you,” she shot back acidly.
Attempting to recover, he modulated his voice again. “Laura, beyond the fact that I adore you to distraction, we’re partners. When I didn’t come to you before going to London, you were furious with me … because you care about me. Why do you think I would behave differently?”
The next words that came from her sliced through his heart, not because they were meant to hurt, but because they reflected the pain she had locked inside.
“You’re not supposed to adore me.” Her soft voice hardly carried to his ears as she blurted out a truth she’d kept buried.
“Why, Laura? Because a stupid man chose not to be a good father? Because he threw away something beautiful and precious because he’s a buggering idiot? Is that what’s been going around in that logical brain of yours all these years?” Remington tried not to be angry, but his words came out harder than he intended, and she snapped back.
“Get out,” she said, her voice cold and harsh.
But Remington wanted her fury. She’d kept this secret pain hidden for far too long, and he was determined to lance it once and for all. “No. I’m not going anywhere. Sure, you can be angry with me for the truth--but I’m only the messenger, Laura.”
She stomped to the door and yanked it to the side. “Go home. I don’t want to fight with you.”
He realized she was nearing her breaking point. She’d managed to keep all the hurt and anger toward her father smashed down since the first phone call last night, and now she was exhausted from the lack of sleep. The defenses she normally kept high and well-manned were crumbling, and she didn’t want him there to see them fall.
Deliberately antagonizing her, he reached across her and closed the door, driving the bar home. “No, I think not. You won’t admit it, even to yourself, but you need me right now.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. Just as you needed your father, but only he wasn’t there.”
She rubbed the back of her neck and walked away. Ascending the steps to her bedroom, she yanked the curtains closed to block him out.
He clenched his jaw, annoyed by her damned pride and prickly attitude at the moment. He cleaned up the remains of their sandwiches while she pouted behind the divide. The simple routine cleared his head again, and he girded his armor for a second round.
Parting the fabric, he found Laura sitting with her legs drawn up and her chin resting on her knees. She unfolded, putting her feet on the ground and her hands in her lap when he came in to sit next to her.
“Tell me about your father, Laura.”
Surprisingly, the words came.
First, she talked only of fond recollections. Throughout her recitation, she walked the loft, idly picking up various objects and putting them down again. Remington followed, taking whatever perch seemed appropriate as she spoke. For nearly forty-five minutes, she skirted the memory of the day he left. Remington could see her face becoming drawn as she closed in on the events. Then she gave up, abruptly spitting out the words as she described the scene when her mother realized he wasn’t coming home.
“She loved him so much. And her whole world stopped when he was gone. She had no idea who she was without him. Mom had to go back to work because there wasn’t any money coming in. Frances got stuck taking care of me after school and in the summers. And--“ her voice trailed off.
“And what, Laura?” he prompted gently.
“They never said, but I know they both blamed me. If I had been more like Frances, he wouldn’t have left. She never bothered him. She and Mom let him be, but not me. I followed him everywhere, adored him, until he finally went away.” Laura closed her eyes as a slow tear traced its way down her cheek at last.
Remington gathered her to him and held her there. “This at least I can do for you, Laura. John admitted he was planning to leave before you came along. When you did, he stayed for a few more years. Nothing you, your sister, or mother did would have made him into a better man that would have stuck around.”
“How did you get all this out of him?” she wondered.
“I’m a damned good detective. It’s all natural instinct and a fabulous teacher.”
Gradually, Laura brought her arms around his waist and laid her head against his throat. “You’re a great deal like him. Charming, witty, and capable of making a woman lose her head over you.”
He tipped her chin up. “I might say the same about you. Charming, witty, and you’ve led me on a dizzying chase for years.“ The side of his mouth turned up. “Planning to leave me?”
“No, of course not.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
“I know.” He laid a sweet kiss against her lips. When they parted, she leaned her head on his chest again, and moments later her shoulders began shaking as the tears came at last. Without breaking his hold, he lifted her into his arms to carry her to the sofa. He sat with her there while she cried in silence over the revelations and memories. He used his left hand to retrieve the handkerchief he’d stuffed into his front coat pocket and pressed it into her hand.
After she used it to mop up tears, she kept the crumpled fabric in her fist on her lap. It was only when her hand unclenched that Remington realized she’d fallen asleep. He let out a long, shuddering breath of his own. He toyed with her loose fingers, removing the hankie and setting it aside.
Understanding fully where Laura’s insecurities were rooted brought with it a kind of healing he hadn’t anticipated. Even as they shared a bed the past three months, Laura held some part of herself aloof. He’d begun to wonder if they’d ever be able to cross that line--the one where she fully engaged in their relationship.
He had to give her credit though. Since the Friedlich Spa, she’d more than met him halfway. Their first tryst had occurred shortly afterward. He still wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t planned the whole evening, but the fact she hadn’t bothered packing a toothbrush before staying the night led him to believe she’d let nature take its course that time, rather than withdrawing as usual when their kisses progressed to a certain point.
Laura’s head sagged as she sank further into the depths of sleep. He thought about carrying her to bed, but had to admit that no matter how romantic it might appear, he wasn’t up to standing up with a hundred pounds of deadweight in his arms unless it was a bloody emergency. Instead, he eased out from under her and stripped his jacket off to lay across her before yanking the boots from his feet and setting them by the front door. A few loosened buttons and rolled up sleeves felt much more comfortable. While
Laura slept on, Remington retrieved a deck of cards from her kitchen drawer and began amusing himself by playing progressively complex card tricks on her coffee table.
An hour later and bored out of his mind, he ransacked her kitchen for the makings of dinner. That it was Thursday and they’d spent the previous weekend at his place added a layer of complexity to the prospect. He’d learned after the first night of sleeping in Laura’s bed that any sort of extended stay at her place required a trip to the market for foodstuffs. She despised grocery shopping, viewing it as an annoying chore unless he was along. Her idea of a grocery list involved yogurt, fruit, a few ingredients for a salad and a handful of slices of ham and cheese for an occasional sandwich.
As Remington was uninterested in surviving on such meager fare, it had become their habit to sleep in on Saturday and venture to the market before lunch time. He would restock her pantry and make certain before he left on Sunday that she had real leftovers for the week.
All of this guaranteed the cupboards were rather bare at the moment. With an arched brow at the inevitable yogurt taking up space on the shelves, he raided her freezer. He still suspected that Laura had no idea that the thing could be used for more than storing ice. He regularly split whatever entrée he'd prepared and placed half of it in there for later use, but unless he pulled it back out again, Laura seemed oblivious to the fact that food was kept inside. Any time he popped by her place during the week, he retrieved something or another and stuck it in her fridge. Since it was almost always gone the next time he came over, he assumed she either ate it or fed it to the neighbor’s cat.
This time he found the lasagna from two weekends ago. A few minutes in the microwave thawed it for the most part, and he set the glass pan in the heated oven. French bread was a lost cause for now; they would have to settle for a salad with croutons made from sandwich bread. He grinned to himself as he opened the cabinet where his spices were stored. He’d been appalled that first weekend to discover Laura kept only salt, pepper, and an old bottle of Italian seasoning on hand. He’d lectured her all the way to the grocery store and back again about proper spices.
The spirited discussion they’d had over olive oil actually made him chuckle. Even she had to admit he had a point, though, when he’d seduced her that night with little more than her taste buds.
He ran a thumb along the blade of the bread knife to make certain the honed edge still held true. Making a mental note to bring his whet stone tomorrow evening, he proceeded to slice the crusts away from the sandwich bread and form perfect squares out of the rest. A drizzle of olive oil and the right seasonings finished his preparations, and the croutons went into the oven on a cookie sheet.
Turning to the sink to wash his hands, he found Laura blinking sleepily at one end of the kitchen, well out of his way.
“Feel better?” he asked as he rinsed off and dried with a dishtowel.
Laura took fuzzy mental inventory of the last thirty-three hours: two scant hours of sleep, the discovery that her father really was as much of a creep as she’d suspected, and Remington charging to her defense as her own personal white knight. Now he was in the kitchen making dinner as if all was well.
“I’m not sure yet.” Her stomach growled as the smell of something rich and Italian wafted her way. Remington walked over with a fresh tomato he’d diced for the salad and slid a chunk into her mouth before kissing it. The flavors exploded on her tongue. Hunger rose up and demanded to be satisfied. “You’re always feeding me,” she noted.
Backing away to check on something in the oven, he said only, “I like to cook. Cooking for two is infinitely preferable to cooking for one.”
Bleary as she was, she grasped that he was giving her space, not pressing for answers or even offering solace. Solace, she discovered as she thought about it, that she wanted. Edging into the kitchen, she fumbled for plates and napkins, setting both on the counter.
“Thank you, Laura.” He continued to bustle about the kitchen.
Telling her inner independent-woman-I-don’t-need-a-man-for-anything voice to shut up for a minute, Laura blurted, “You’re always taking care of me.”
He pulled out the croutons and set them on the stove before putting down the hot pads. “I don’t do half the things I’d like to do. You let me feed you, give you an occasional foot rub and work with you. On weekends, we live together--something I would prefer to do every day--but I’m so bloody grateful for those two days, I won’t beg for the other.” He stopped, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go there.”
Laura took another step toward him. “Why did you see him?” she asked once more.
“Because I couldn’t stand to have him hurt you again. If he’d turned out to be the right sort of misguided chap, I could have arranged for you to meet him and have the family reunion you’ve always wanted. If he wasn’t … I’d at least spare you the misery of having to confront what he really was face to face.” He leaned against the counter and rubbed the back of his neck. “Laura, I know you could have managed the situation. You’re too good. But if you didn’t have any misgivings, you would have gone right away. When I heard the messages and realized you were upset at the idea of seeing him again … I did what I thought was best.” Remington reached out to touch her cheek. “Please don’t be angry with me.”
Closing in another step until she stood in front of him, she quietly said, “I’m not. I’m just not used to having my very own champion to fight my battles for me.”
“More like an emissary. I watched you fight your own battle right here in your loft.”
With a rustle of clothing brushing clothing, Laura reached up to wrap her arms around his shoulders and neck. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Oh Lord, Laura, there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be.” He buried his face in her hair.
After they cleaned up the kitchen from dinner, the energy Laura’s short nap generated waned. She slipped into a nightshirt that only flirted with the bottom curve of her rear and gratefully crawled between the sheets after eliciting a promise from Remington that he would stay the night.
Surprised she asked, he agreed readily. Given that the evening was still young, he found an old movie to keep him company. When he slid into bed with Laura afterward, she turned to him in her sleep. He brushed a kiss against her cheek and draped an arm across her waist.
*****
When the alarm clock clicked over to the morning deejays on KROT, Laura fumbled to flip the switch before Remington began muttering curses.
“Laura, we’re going to have to negotiate on that alarm. It’s not fitting to have those two characters crawling through my dreams before I wake up. What time did you set the damned thing for anyway?”
“It’s seven. You’re grumpy this morning.”
Reaching for her hand, he placed it on his raging erection. “I’ve discovered that sleeping with you before I’ve made love to you plays hell with my libido. I’ve been doing my damnedest to keep my hands off you for most of the night because you needed your rest,” he groused.
Laura gave him a firm stroke, and he arched under her hands. “No obligatory comments about preferring to wake up this way?” she quipped.
He cracked one eye open. “Why do you think I like being with you in the mornings?” One hand began to toy with her hair before dropping to tease her breast through the thin shirt.
“Then you’ll like this even better.” She stripped off the fabric covering her to straddle him, sinking down to take him inside without any further preliminaries. She didn’t give him a chance to work his usual magic. Instead, she ambushed him with a rush of sensation on his already sensitized body. Steadily, she wove her own spell, taking her time about it while she trailed mouth and fingers over him. He’d demonstrated his incredible control any number of times to her in the past three months. She’d learned a
few tricks in the meantime that tripped that restraint, and she put them to good use this morning.
Lacing her fingers through his, she pinned his hands on either side of his head and leaned down as she took him up near the breaking point. “I love you,” she whispered as she held him on the edge.
Abruptly, he clutched her hands and came apart as he stumbled over her name. Laura joined him when the sensations overwhelmed her too, drifting down to lie on his chest as she shuddered against him, still holding hands.
When they came back to their senses, Laura had to wiggle out of Remington’s arms as he attempted to entice her into a second round. “I’ve already missed a day at work yesterday. We have a lot to do today to make up for it.”
The sparkle in his eyes told her he’d anticipated her response. “Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She rolled her eyes and bent to gather her shirt from the floor. He took advantage of her distraction to slip from the bed and into the shower. “Don’t you dare leave me without any hot water!” she yelled. The water heater held exactly enough for one really hot shower and another tepid one.
“If you’d join me, we wouldn’t waste any,” came the reply.
Conceding that he might have a point, Laura slipped into her shirt long enough to tidy up the bedroom before work. Remington had mentioned last night that the bar had been full of smoke, and she wrinkled her nose as she picked up his shirt to throw in with her own dry cleaning. She was fairly certain some of his clothes had come back with the last batch; she was right. A grey suit and white dress shirt hung in her closet.
As she walked back up the bedroom stairs, she snagged the jacket he’d worn yesterday off the railing where he’d left it. It too smelled of smoke, and as a matter of habit, she checked each pocket before tossing it in with the other clothes. She fished out a crumpled up handkerchief, a business card with a police report number from Mike Peterson and a ring.
Over the years, Laura had been educated by her jewel thief-turned-detective partner on all sorts of antique jewelry--everything from Edwardian to mid-century modern styles. At a glance she identified it as Art Deco, Remington’s favorite period for jewelry. Admiring the pretty setting for a moment, she automatically tilted it, looking for an inscription. The one she found had her easing down onto the bed in astonishment. On the left side were her initials, L.E.H. On the right were Remington’s, and across the base of the ring the words, I love you, were written.
The words she’d been craving were here--engraved on what she now recognized as an engagement ring with stones of what she suspected were Royal Lavulite. Remington knew her too well. She would never select something this stunning for herself … but she would wear it with delight if he gave it to her. With shaking hands, she looked up as Remington opened the bathroom door. “Laura, do I happen to have a suit or at least a change of--“ he broke off as he realized what she held.
“You do. It’s in my closet.” She dropped the ring into his hand and fled into the bathroom to hide. The rapidly cooling water forced her to shower in a hurry. She dried her hair and applied a thin veneer of makeup before diving into a pantsuit and heels.
The process still took twenty minutes, and Remington stirred his tea as Laura descended from her bedroom. He pushed her cup and saucer toward her as she approached. Trying to be nonchalant, she asked, “Do you want to take one car or two to the office?”
But he wasn’t playing along. “That sounds like a question married people ask each other.”
She winced. “I wasn’t trying to snoop. You know how I check pockets before I put things in the hamper.”
“I know. I picked up the ring yesterday morning, or I would have left it at home.”
Laura played with her cup. “What … what were you planning to do with it?” Out of the edge of her vision, she saw him give her a questioning look before he stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“Actually, I had planned to take it home and stare at it for an hour or two every night for the next month or so while I try to figure out what you will do with it. We’ve been playing a lovely game of poker these past few years. If I raise the stakes as high as I’ll go with this one, I don’t know if you’ll take my bet, call it or fold. I’m fairly certain you won’t quit the table, but losing this hand might cause an enormous setback for both of us.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Mean what? That I don’t know what you’ll do?”
“Do you mean what you wrote inside?”
The intensity in his blue eyes captivated her as he brought two fingers to stroke a lock of her hair. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. “Of course, I do, Laura.”
Blinking as she exhaled, it still took her a moment. Her hand shook slightly as she raised it to caress his cheek. She placed her lips on the other one for a kiss. “Let me know what you decide. Just remember, I know your ‘tells’ when you’re bluffing.”
She withdrew her hand from his cheek and turned to gather up her purse and coat. He stopped her with a hand to the elbow. “Laura, do you …” Looking up, she met his eyes again.
“Love you? Of course, Remington. So much that I break out in a nervous sweat every time I think about it.”
With a chuckle, he stood to drop a kiss in her hair before escorting her out the door. “That sounds familiar.”
* * * * *
She didn’t precisely forget about the conversation, but somehow she failed to make a crucial connection between it and the events of a certain Friday night almost two months later. Murphy called on Tuesday to mention he was working a case in LA and was interested in hanging out over the weekend. Remington’s once-a-month poker night with Monroe, Donald, and Mike Peterson happened to be that Friday night. When Mike had to cancel, threatening the plans for the evening, Remington offered to let Murphy sit in.
Laura frowned at the setup, not wanting to miss visiting with her old friend.
“Come, then,” Remington suggested. “You can blow on my cards and make them lucky.”
“As if you need it.”
“Then you can make sure I’m not cheating.”
“That I can do.”
Frances surprised her when she arrived with Donald. “He said you would be there, so I thought ‘why not?’ Mom is watching the kids, and we’ll have a chance to visit.”
Laura’s smile was genuine. The last few times they’d been together had been a great deal of fun, much more so than when they were children. Remington and Laura had met with Donald and Frances over lunch a few days after the incident with John Holt to give them the details. The sisters shed tears together and then decided their mom didn’t need to know. Both men looked relieved at that. Abigail on a regular day could be a handful. An insulted Abigail was impossible for anyone but Remington to manage.
While the men dealt cards, drank and smoked stinky cigars, the sisters traded jests with them for a while. Eventually, though, they drifted into the kitchen to talk in private.
“How are things between you and Remington?” Frances asked as she poured potato chips into a wide bowl.
Her mouth turned up. “Honestly? Better than I ever imagined.”
“How so?”
Laura leaned on the counter and picked out a chip. “Do you remember when I lived with Wilson?”
“Yes.” Frances looked a little cross.
“We did very little together. I cooked--which isn’t saying much--and cleaned and did laundry. We both worked late and on weekends. Occasionally, we went out for dinner and slept together. Really, we did little more than keep a house.” Laura sighed as she thought of it.
“And now?” Frances prompted.
Laura smiled happily. “We share. He cooks; I clean. We do laundry together because he doesn’t like the way I fold his socks, and I don’t like the way he folds towels. We watch TV or old movies together, and he doesn’t mind my analyzing the story while it goes along. We argue about nearly everything, but it’s all in good fun. I don’t think I win all the time, but I don’t ever feel as if I’m losing either. We don’t always stay together at night, but when he’s not there …I miss his company."
“It’s not weird having him at home after working all day with him?”
“No. He still has an allergy to legwork, and I despise Chamber of Commerce meetings, so we’re not always together.”
Bluntly, Frances asked, “Are you still afraid he’s going to leave you?”
Laura felt her mouth drop open. “How did you know about that?”
“Oh, come now, Laura, give me a little credit. With Daddy and Wilson leaving the way they did, it only makes sense that you would be scared. The first time you introduced me to Remington, I realized you were in love with him. He’s the only man since Wilson to peak your interest. I still don’t know what you saw in that idiot.”
“That’s quite an analysis. Accurate, though. And the answer is ‘no.’ I don’t think he’s going to leave me. By the way, Wilson was the polar opposite of Daddy. That’s why I thought he was right for me.”
“He couldn’t keep up with you.”
“I never gave him the chance.”
“Remington keeps up with you.”
“Oh, Frances, it’s so much more than that. He doesn’t need to possess me or treat me as an inferior. I’m his partner, first and foremost, whether it’s in the office or in bed. He loves me.”
“He finally told you?” Frances reminded Laura that she’d spent an entire afternoon fretting to her sister about the inadmission.
Thinking of the ring, as she had daily since she’d seen it, Laura smiled. “Yes.”
A shout from the living room distracted both of them, and they peeked around the corner to see what was going on.
“Laura, come keep an eye on this detective of yours. He’s cheating. I’m sure of it.” Murphy grumbled as he threw in his hand.
“Ah, mate, you’re outmatched in every way, and you know it.”
“Steele--“
“I’ll referee,” Laura interjected. When she eased onto Remington’s lap, she could see the surprise in Murphy’s face. She never sat in anyone’s lap like decorative arm candy. But she liked it here. Remington slid his arm around her, nuzzling her neck while she studied his cards.
She caught Murphy’s questioning look. “What is it?”
He shook his head. “Just that you two look like a couple. I didn’t think I’d ever see that day.”
Monroe interjected, “Ah, Murphy, my new friend, this beautiful woman has led our friend Steele in a merry chase for all these years. She has him eating out of the palm of her hand.”
“Oh, is that it? I thought she’d lost a bet,” Murphy quipped.
“You’re stalling again. Ante up, Michaels.” Remington had an edge to his voice that only Laura heard. She patted his knee to soothe him before she stole a sip of scotch from his glass.
The play continued through the evening. Frances subbed for Donald when he made a quick beer run, and later Laura sat in for Remington while he put together a tray of nachos. When the first one was cleared after only one pass around the table, he grumbled good-naturedly while assembling a second. Laura hadn’t played poker since Havenhurst, and she was pleased to find she could still read Murphy.
Three hands in, he cursed a blue streak as he folded yet again. “Goddamnit, Laura! I’ve played you for years, and you still pull that one on me.”
“One would think you would have learned by now,” she retorted.
Remington set down the plate. “You two used to play poker?”
Murphy muttered, “Every other Friday night for five years. Are you telling me you two haven’t taken each other on?”
“I didn’t think Laura--“ Remington started.
She slanted a wicked glance at him. “Be careful, partner.”
“Enjoyed the game,“ he finished with a grin as he shifted Laura to sit under her again.
Monroe checked his watch. “My good friends, I must take my winnings and go home. It is getting late, and tomorrow is a busy day in the retail world.” He stood and held out a hand to the other players.
“Steele, Piper, good to see you both. Murphy, it has been a delight to play, and I hope we do it again.”
After he left, Remington arched a brow at Laura. “Care to play?”
“I’m in.”
Donald busted a half hour later and settled in with Frances on his lap to watch the rest of the game. Laura decided that Murphy had improved since he’d moved to Denver, probably because he had different opponents to face. Remington was inscrutable as usual, and she was careful to randomly shuffle the cards to keep him from counting them as easily. It didn’t always help, but it was all she had.
It was only when Murphy finally threw in the towel an hour later that Laura realized she’d been set up. More than half the chips on the table were in her pile, and she and Remington were in a face-off. He’d added a pile of chips on the last card. She’d seen it and raised it substantially, forcing him into a bad spot. With the four queens she held, there weren’t many hands that could beat it, and Remington didn’t have many chips left in his kitty.
“I’ll see your bet and raise it again,” he said.
“With what? A promissory note?” Laura quipped. She snapped on the answer even before Remington laid the ring on the pile of chips accompanied by a gasp from her sister.
“With this. I think it more than matches anything you’ve played tonight.” He put his cards down to wait for her move.
Laura didn’t look at him for a moment. He probably expected that she would end the game play right there, but then again, surely he knew her better than that. They would see this through. She took her time. As she saw it, she had four choices in front of her. Of all of them, walking away from the game held absolutely no appeal. Folding was equally abhorrent--she played to win.
That left two options: call Remington’s bet and force him to show his cards, or go for the win with the upper hand. A smile began to play on her face. She knew what he wanted her to do, and he didn’t even have to cheat to make it happen. All he’d done was count the cards and wait for her to have the right hand.
Four pairs of eyes stared, three brown and one blue, while Laura mused over her options. Lifting her head, she studied Remington, ignoring the smiles and grins on the other three faces. She knew he had something that could beat her hand. He wouldn’t have put the ring on the table otherwise.
She couldn’t call and win; he would have to show his hand. Laura had spent their whole association helping him keep his secrets, and she wasn’t about to start revealing them now. But to raise the bet meant coming up with something to match the ring and top it. What could that be?
In a moment, she knew. A fifth option presented itself, and she knew how to make it happen. “Murphy, will you get me a piece of paper and a pen?” After rummaging for a moment, her old partner dropped a notepad and pen on the table in front of her.
She had only one possession that meant the world to her--one thing worthy of the life Remington offered. It was the one she’d dangled in front of him long ago. With an elegant hand, she wrote out a single short sentence on the notepad, tore the paper out and folded it in half. Then she pushed every single chip she had to the center of the table. “I’ll match your bet--”
Remington blinked and his jaw firmed in unhappiness.
But she grinned. “--and I’ll raise it if you’ll accept this as a guarantee.”
His eyebrows flew up as he took the sheet of paper from her fingers. As he opened it, the look on his face reminded her of the moment in London when she and Mildred gave him a new passport with his name so he could come home. The anticipation around the table hummed.
With a snort of laughter and a smile that lit up the room, Remington closed the paper and laid it next to the ring. “I accept.”
Now the ball was in his court. Laura rested her elbow on the table with her hand on her chin while she waited to see what he would do.
Reaching for the notepad, he scrawled a quick note, folded it and tossed it on the pile. “I call. Show me your hand, Laura.”
She flipped over the cards to reveal the four queens.
Remington stacked his cards and conceded. “I can’t beat that, Laura. You win.”
Without saying anything, she reached for the folded note. “Two weeks in Paris for a honeymoon. I’ve a mind to collect on an old bet,” she read.
“You didn’t win that one either,” she quipped. “It was a draw, remember?”
“Depends on how you look at it.” Laura looked up to find Remington standing next to her. “Are you going to marry me, Miss Holt?”
“Of course, Mr. Steele. You owe me a honeymoon in Paris.”
Hours later, after Monroe had returned with Mildred in tow to celebrate, and several empty champagne bottles lay scattered across the flat, Laura nestled sleepily in Remington’s arms. Her left hand with the engagement ring rested on his chest, and he toyed with it.
Still dazed by champagne, happiness and commemorative sex, Remington floundered to gather his spinning thoughts before he fell asleep. “Laura?”
“Hmm?”
“I thought you would hold most of the chips to match the ring and use the rest to raise the bet so I would fold. Why did you bet half the agency? You know I would never take that from you.”
In the dark, he could hardly see her face when she raised her head. “Why did you write ‘I love you’ on my ring.”
“So when I couldn’t say the words you would already have them.”
“Think about it.” She dropped her head back onto his shoulder.
“Laura, my head is spinning. I’d rather not be a detective at this moment.”
“If I lost the hand, you’d be stuck as my partner.”
“In other words, you were hedging your bets.”
Murmuring her assent, she wiggled closer. “Same reason you folded on four kings.”
24 August 2009
Steele Holting On
Steele
Holting On
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