The cold Irish whiskey did nothing to ease his temper. He hadn’t been this angry in … never.

This wasn’t the snap of heat that flared with consistency between him and his partner, nor was it youthful rage born of desperation and fear. Deny it he might, but this kind of icy fury came only from loving a bright, difficult woman with a dry wit and simmering passion.

“Who happens to have enough dark corners in her past to make any arguments about mine completely unreasonable,” he muttered as he sipped.



The day had started out fine—a typical California day of sunny 70s. He and Laura had spent a long night on stakeout, nabbing the perp in question with a series of incriminating photos just after dawn . With no little glee, Laura delivered them to the police station in person and nearly danced back into the agency to call her client with the gory details.

Remington scrubbed his face, already anticipating the cushiness of his pillow as he dozed in his chair. Laura popped her head into his office.

“Want lunch?”

“I want my bed.”

“You can have both.”

He peered at her. “You’re rather chipper for someone who hasn’t slept in 30 hours.”

“I love the smell of a closed case on a Friday morning. Makes my weekend so much better. That and an invoice for lots and lots of billable hours.” Her joy was infectious. He smiled in spite of his weariness.

He gathered his coat and shrugged it on while Laura waited at Mildred's desk.  A vaguely familiar woman walked through the front door.

“Barbara!”

Ah, yes. The old classmate.

“Laura! I’d hoped I’d find you here. I was downstairs doing at the bank and thought I’d see if you were in.”

“I’m here.” Laura threw out her hands comically. “We were about to do lunch. Care to join us?”



The four of them caravanned to an open-air eatery known for its fabulous salads. 

Remington leaned over to Laura as they walked in. “This is a girl’s luncheon place. Why am I here?”

“I need a buffer.” She threaded her arm through his and flashed Barbara a smile.

“You invited her to lunch. Why am I a buffer?”

“You’ll see.”

He did. Barbara, in her role as a child psychologist, analyzed everyone in terms of his upbringing. Laura did her best to keep the speculation to the clients and the various criminals they’d encountered over the years. In fact, Barbara had a keen mind for the suspects’ characteristics and motives as Laura would describe a case.

Remington eyed his partner in a new light.  “Laura, I thought your degree was in Mathematics?”

“It was.” 

“From the sound of things here, I’d guess you absorbed as much psychology as logic.” 

Barbara laughed.  “She did.  As we studied, we debated logic, emotion, needs, desires.  It was no surprise to any of us that Laura wanted to be a detective.  Nothing got by her.  Want to know what happened at a party the previous night?  Let Laura take a look at the house the next day and she could tell you who had to do the ‘walk of shame’ that morning.”

“The ‘walk of shame?’”  Remington questioned as Mildred giggled behind her napkin.

Laura looked up mischievously from under her lashes.  “Haven’t you ever had to go home the next morning in the same clothes you had on the night before?” 

He arched a brow.  “A gentleman never admits to such a thing.”

His partner grinned.  “Well, try ‘not admitting it’ when you live in a sorority house.  Sunday morning meant drinking coffee on the front steps and applauding as the girls came home.”

“And I suppose you never had to do this ‘walk’?” 

“Laura?”  Barbara waved her hands in denial.  “She’d climb through her window before she’d make that walk.” The wall-climber in question seemed amused, but he caught the faint hurt in her eyes. 

Barbara missed it.  “Of course, that has its own risks too.”

“Why is that?” asked Mildred. 

“Laura’s room was on the third floor.  Her best friend lived right beneath her.  One day, Laura planned to surprise her boyfriend after hours and climbed out the window.   She didn’t have to go very far.”

In a deceptively mild tone, Laura filled in the rest.   “Geoffrey and Amy were in Amy’s room.  Uh, sleeping.”

“That must have been a shock,” Mildred put in.  Laura shrugged.

 “She got her revenge,” Barbara told them.  “It was sneaky, subtle and pure Laura Holt.” 

Mildred’s eyes widened.  “What’d you do, Miss Holt?”

“Me?” Laura asked with false innocence.

Barbara smiled.  “Amy’s door—which Amy swore she’d locked—was propped open with a book sometime in the night.  When the house mother made her rounds, she shrieked loud enough to wake the whole sorority.  Amy was on probation for the rest of the year. ” 

Remington caught Laura’s expression.  The betrayal had hurt—enough that it still stung.  Yet, a hint of a smile playing on her lips told him she’d orchestrated the petty revenge.  He’d ask her the title of the book later. 

“Still,” continued Barbara, “it explains Laura’s ability to evade marriage and commitment with the nimbleness of a cat on a mantle.”

Laura glared at her friend.  “I do not.”

Barbara shook her head.  “Really, Laura.  The only serious relationship you’ve had since then was Wilson.  And he was about as unsuitable as a raincoat on a sunny day.”

“He was a nice man!  Good job, good manners—“

“And an utter bore.  Come on, Laura.  Wilson thought you were outrageous, outspoken and entirely too smart for your own good.” 

Remington leaned back in his chair and grinned.  “I’ve met Wilson.  She’s right.”

Mildred tilted her blonde head in confusion.  “How did you meet him, Boss?”

Sighing heavily, Laura propped her chin on her hands and answered for him.  “A few months before you came on board, Wilson had a problem with a dead body.  He thought I could help.” 

“And did you?”

“Of course.  I think he even got a promotion at the bank out of it.”

“Miss Holt, I can’t imagine you dating a banker,” Mildred protested.

“Not only did she date him, Ms. Krebs, she lived with him for a year and a half,” Remington told her.

“Miss Holt!”

Laura shrugged. “I was young. I made a mistake.”

“Laura, the man wore white belts. That’s not a mistake; that’s a tragedy.”

Barbara hid a smile behind her hand. “So what about you, Mr. Steele? Do you think Laura is outrageous, outspoken and too smart for her own good?”

“I find her challenging, passionate and utterly fascinating. Wilson was an idiot.” Laura flushed, looking anywhere but at him.

“And what do you think about Remington, Laura?” Barbara prompted.

Her mouth opened and shut several times before she answered. “He’s charming—and a good partner.”

Several moments of silence passed before Remington realized she wasn’t going to elaborate.



He let it slide until he stopped her in the parking lot. Mildred and Barbara had already taken off—the former to close out the office for the day and the latter to return to her home on the other side of town. Laura frowned up at him when he escorted her to the Rabbit.

“What’s gotten into you?

“I’m rather disappointed in your assessment of me. I’m surprised you didn’t add irresponsible and conniving to that list,” he snapped.

“I wasn’t planning to, but now that you mention it—” she shot back.

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep; perhaps he’d simply had enough. He wasn’t sure why her words angered him, but they did. “Four years, Laura? And all I get is that I’m a good partner?”

“It’s a compliment, not an insult, Mr. Steele.”

“It’s something you say to a bloody co-worker.” He assessed her still figure. “That’s all we’re ever going to be, isn’t it?”

“No, I ….” Her voice trailed off in faint confusion. “I never said that.”

“Remember what I said about ‘actions, not words,’ Miss Holt? You’re doing a damned fine job of showing me exactly where I stand in your life.” Not giving her a chance to reply, he stalked to the Auburn. The car roared down the street, leaving a stunned figure behind.



Midnight found him nursing a glass of Jameson’s in a futile effort to quiet his anger. He’d slept some, then showered and changed in an effort to cool his temper. Neither had worked, hence the drink. But his innate aversion to artificially dulling his senses kicked in, and he set it aside.

Christ, he was tired of this game he and Laura played. Oh, the daily tete-a-tetes were amusing. But when would they stop doing this bloody dance around each other? Sleeping alone had long since palled. He’d half expected that she would follow him home to give him a thorough railing. He’d hoped she would. That she hadn’t was yet another sign of the way matters stood.

Irritated at his own weakness, he snatched his wallet and keys off the side table and quit the flat. A rough-and-tumble childhood had given him an impeccable ability to judge a person’s character in a snap. He’d honed the skill of winning another’s trust on those same streets—mostly for nefarious purposes. He bloody well knew Laura cared for him. More than any other had, for certain. And in spite of herself, she trusted him like no other. He’d been careful not to abuse it. Stretched it a bit, of course. Tapped around the edges to see exactly how far she’d let him go. But he’d never broken it. And wouldn’t. Nevertheless, Laura Holt hadn’t let him in.

A knock on her door produced no results, nor did ringing the doorbell. Assuming she was ignoring him, he slipped out the side door to the fire escape. With his knife and a steady hand, he slipped the catch from the third window on the left. He found her curled up in a tight ball, fingers still clutching a tissue, on her bed. She hadn’t bothered crawling under the sheets, nor had she changed clothes—mute evidence of how she’d spent the evening.

Bloody hell, Laura, how am I supposed to stay angry with you?

Without disturbing her, Remington made himself comfortable on the sofa. It was 3:22 when the light next to her bed snapped on. He opened his eyes in time to see Laura shuffling into the kitchen. She poured a glass of water, drained it, and placed it upside down in the sink.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Since a quarter to one.”

“Are you here to tell me that you’re done with all this? With me?”

“That’s what you’re expecting, isn’t it?” She looked away. “Tell me about Geoffrey and Amy.”

Her thin frame stiffened. “It’s nothing. Just old college stuff.”

Most of the time, his lack of formal education didn’t mean two shillings to him, yet when Laura spoke dismissively of her time at Stanford—the differences between them were never quite so clear.

“Now who’s evading whom? I’ve spent a day or two on a college campus. I won’t pretend to have been a student, Laura, but I think I’ve a healthy understanding of what goes on at one.”

“I’m not criticizing—” Laura threw up her hands. “It’s silly. Barbara gave you the gist of it.”

“Did she? Or is it another crucial piece to the Laura-puzzle I need to have to figure out how to get you into bed with me?”

Laura seemed to deflate. “Why is this always about the bedroom?”

“Because it’s the only thing left.”

“Is it?”

“I’m tired of waiting, Laura.”

Hurt, then anger, fired across the room. “Then don’t wait. Go find someone to warm your bed.”

Remington fought his own temper. “I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

Laura had the ability to still herself—to be a picture of tranquility while she processed information. He’d coined the phrase “icy calm” years ago. In truth, he’d applied it to her long ago, and—liking the description— she had instantly co-opted the expression. With those dark eyes holding his gaze, she explained, “Geoffrey was the first boy in college I liked. A lot,” she added. “When he cheated, I decided I wouldn’t let myself be hurt that way again. So I dated. I had good male friends. I slept with some of them. It was fun, easy, and when we went our separate ways, no one got hurt.”

Remington’s eyebrows went up. She was describing him.

“Surprised?” she asked, then shrugged her shoulders. “I liked it. Sex was fun; the relationships were simple. I always had a date and a good time without all the drama of most of the girls in my house.”

Firmly suppressing the flare of jealousy, he made himself ask, “What happened?”

“After college, I discovered that men either wanted straight sex and no strings, or they wanted to move in. I didn’t have male friends anymore. But I discovered I’m not a fan of one night stands. And moving in with a boyfriend didn’t necessarily mean we were friends.”

Understanding came swiftly. “That’s what is different about us. We’re friends.”

“We are. And we have a wonderful time together.”

He drew his brows together in speculation. “So you’ve recaptured with me a bit of what you liked so much in college.” She nodded. “Then why all the talk about commitment and not letting yourself go? And why the line at the bedroom? Seems like the former isn’t a requirement, and the latter would be the next step?” He raised his hands at her automatic protest. “I’m only following your logic.”

“Because we both know that we’re not ‘just friends.’ We’ve fought that for too long.”

With a flash, it all came together. Remington grinned. “I get it. I get you, Miss Holt.”

“Get what?” she asked with an irritable flick of her hands, a gesture so Laura that his smile grew wide.

“I defy your logic. You don’t know where to slot me.” He ticked off his fingers, happy again with his lightning-fast assessment. “One—I’m a friend, so I’m like—Milton.” He wiggled his brows at her as he crossed into the kitchen where he could see her face in the slanting moonlight. “Don’t tell me you didn’t trip the light fantastic with him. He admired your bum entirely too well. But you and I aren’t getting it on.” Laura said nothing—just clutched the counter behind her. “Two—I’m more than just a friend, so I can hurt you as Geoffrey did. Yet you know damned well I won’t cheat on you. I’ve had ample opportunity—as have you. Three—we don’t live together or sleep together, yet we’re much closer than you and Wilson ever were. I like your quirks, your passionate nature, and I’m not afraid of your brain.”

The suspicion in her eyes amused him, yet she was listening. He took her hand. “So that leaves the only slot you have left—and that’s the one for your father. Who left your mother and you girls out of the blue.” Remington drew her to him as he spoke. “Since I’m not one, two or three, I must be number four.” He kissed her wrist, sucking lightly on the skin where her pulse danced. Then he let go. He didn’t want to force or seduce her. He just wanted to move her off her damned island long enough for her to see the water wasn’t nearly as deep as she’d imagined. Or maybe it was, but she was a good swimmer—and so was he. The image tickled him.

“I defy convention. You’ll have to create a whole new slot for me.”

Laura let out a rare giggle. “When you put it like that, it seems ridiculous.”

“But accurate?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Laura leaned backward, as if to deny the obvious.

Knowing well that the battle was lost if she retreated, he challenged, “Running away again? You know, for someone who despises my dodges and deceptions, you’re not bad at either one. When are you going to stand still long enough to discover what we can really do together, Laura?”

“I’m not running.”

“Try that on someone who doesn’t recognize the signs.”

Icy calmed reigned. Then Laura breezed past him. “All right, Mr. Slot number five, try to keep up.” She stripped her clothing off until she stood at the top of the stairs wearing only a lace-trimmed ivory teddy—of the sort she preferred to wear as an undergarment. Silk clung; lace tantalized. The gauntlet had been dropped.

Remington stepped over the various articles littering the living room floor. If Laura were a live wire, she’d be showering sparks. He felt like a bug with a bright white light; regardless of the possible consequences, he simply couldn’t resist.

She slid her arms around his neck. “You know exactly how to get under my skin. I don’t know if that thrills me, terrifies me, or just flat out makes me mad. You want me. You’ve got it. But, so help me God, if you leave me, cheat on me, or think you’ve conquered me, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He held her close, his mouth hovering above hers.

“I’m not joking, Mr. Steele.”

“Neither am I, Miss Holt.”


*****

Conquered? Aye. Conquered was the exact word he would use. If he could raise his pole at all, he’d let her put any bloody flag on it she liked.

Remington peeled open his eyes to determine his vanquisher’s whereabouts. Ah. Face down on the bed next to him. He should take the opportunity to inflict some of the same tactics she’d unleashed on him—but where spirit was willing, the flesh was terribly weak at the moment. With all the patience of the fine detective she’d made of herself, she’d explored the scene, uncovered clues, coaxed, teased, even taunted him with words and body to elicit the reactions she wanted. Remington had been ambushed from the outset—yet he’d rallied, mounting his own campaign time and again. But in the end, Laura—sweaty, exhausted, and with an intense light in her eyes—had him at her mercy.

Deciding that perhaps the flag pole might be raised once more, Remington tugged the sheet down, revealing Laura’s slim form.

Even in defeat there is certain victory.



8 Feb 2011