Auld Lang Steele
He would almost miss this, he reflected as he smoothed the lapels of Remington Steele's tuxedo jacket for the last time. It really was astonishing how well the fictional detective's wardrobe fit his own slim frame – almost as if the clothes were tailor made for him. Or perhaps it was really the other way around. What was that old idiom? Clothes make the man. It was certainly true that every time he stepped into the Italian-made shoes of Remington Steele, he felt a little more comfortable in the role.
That was just one reason it was time to leave.
He patted a judicious amount of cologne on his face, gave himself a final once over in the mirror, then strode into the living room and sat on the sofa to wait. He'd miss this place, too. Steele's upscale penthouse wasn't the grandest place he'd ever stayed – two weeks in a villa in southern Italy, guest of a certain "lonely" countess, took that honor – but it was definitely swank. Certainly a far cry from the dingy bedsits and squalid flophouses where he'd spent a good part of his life. He'd even been able to personalize this apartment a bit, add some posters and a ficus. Maybe it was the Irish in him; he always liked a bit of greenery around. And the kitchen was a gourmet's dream, now that he'd equipped it with a few necessaries. Yes, the place was beginning to feel positively homey.
Another reason to cash in his chips and move on.
It was hard to believe he was still here on New Year's Eve, 1982. The past three months had certainly been … interesting. He was a man who relished new experiences, and portraying a respected private investigator – a good guy! – had been a lark. He hadn't expected to maintain the charade this long, of course. He figured a week, perhaps two at the most, would be sufficient to get a line on his next "opportunity." Then he'd be on his way, and Remington Steele would become again a mere figment of the imagination of the resourceful Miss Holt. Laura. The thought of her brought a smile to his lips.
And that was the most compelling reason of all to high tail it.
Yes, he'd enjoyed living the high life as the public face of Remington Steele. Accepting the accolades for the cases they– well, mostly Laura and Murphy – solved was gratifying. The few opportunities he'd had to actually participate in casework, like helping nebbishy Sheldon Quarry marry the girl of his dreams, gave him a feeling of real accomplishment. But he knew it wasn't these diversions that kept him turning up at the office in Steele's designer suits every day. It was Laura.
He'd been powerfully attracted to her from the start, but that was not surprising. He was a man who appreciated a beautiful woman – and Laura Holt was undeniably that. There was something different about her, though. As elegant and sophisticated in her professional role as any of the glamorous socialites he'd known, Laura was also uncommonly natural and unaffected. She had a wicked sense of humor. She had a keen intelligence. She had determination and spunk.
She had freckles.
He smiled again, picturing those little dots like brown sugar sifted over her face, her neck, her arms and, he suspected, over all the other parts of her he hadn't yet had the opportunity to explore. Not for lack of trying. He hadn't expected to be so consistently thwarted in his quest to achieve the union that even she freely admitted they both wanted. He'd figured it would take only a bit more coaxing, after she'd told him she'd love to "hop in the sack." But she'd also informed him their relationship would be strictly professional – and she'd remained frustratingly intractable on that point.
That weekend in the Devil's Playground … he was sure it would happen then. And he was pretty sure she expected it, too. But in the end, the only satisfaction they experienced was collaring Randi Russell for multiple murder. The weekend had also provided some clarity in their respective positions, though: Laura Holt was looking for something long-term, and he wasn't prepared to offer that.
So … it seemed the time had come to say goodbye. Or more accurately, not say goodbye. Partings, he'd found, were awkward and painful. So he avoided them. He'd accepted the invitation to the mayor's New Year's Eve ball as a final goodwill gesture for the agency. He would play his role to the hilt tonight, glad-handing all the right people, flashing his widest smile for the cameras, offering up pithy quips for the society columnists. And tomorrow he'd slip away, leaving the penthouse, the office, the persona of Remington Steele as vacant as if he'd never inhabited them in the first place.
Laura would be angry, of course. Possibly even hurt. He didn't like to think about that; avoiding causing her pain was a large part of why he was leaving. Well, he was honest enough to admit he hoped she might miss him a little, if only briefly. But he knew that a very little time would erase him from her memory and life.
He only wished it would be that easy for him. It always had been before. His whole life he'd slipped from identity to identity as easily as others changed their socks. But somehow this time felt different. His mind drifted back to a moment. Standing on a pier at the marina. A full moon. A soft breeze. Laura.
In his time he had kissed a great many women, and though he believed in maintaining a gentlemanly discretion in such matters, he knew he was damned good at it. When he'd turned on the charm on that pier, seen her respond by moving in to accept his lips, he fully expected the kiss to have an effect on her. He hadn't anticipated the effect it would have on him.
Having watched countless cinematic love scenes, he knew what Hollywood wanted a kiss to be. Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in the surf. George Peppard and Audrey Hepburn in the rain. Cary Grant and Grace Kelly and fireworks. Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergmen and a telephone. Cary Grant and almost anybody, anywhere.
However, his own rather extensive experience had produced no fireworks, literal or figural. Oh, he was very fond of kissing. In and of itself, kissing was an appealing occupation, and it often led to even more pleasurable pursuits. But he knew perfectly well that kissing was a chemical, not a magical, interaction. Nerve endings stimulating other nerve endings, neurons firing, synapses sparking. Kisses were usually pleasant, sometimes delightful, occasionally delectable. But for him, at least, the earth never moved. Until …
It was ridiculous and slightly mortifying even now to recall his reaction to the simple act of pressing his lips against Laura's. Was there really a jolt like an electric current? Did the rest of the universe actually drop away, leaving only him and her and a dizzying sea of sensation? He had been drunk before, and this giddy, off-kilter feeling bore some resemblance to that. If the rush he experienced in that moment was anything like the high from illicit drugs, he could understand why people got addicted. Every since that single, fleeting moment he'd lived with a constant, low-level craving. He longed to taste her, breathe in her scent, feel her soft, warm body pressed close to him.
It was all very disconcerting.
He had no idea whether Laura had experienced anything close to what he had during that first kiss. Truthfully, he had been so stunned by it that Laura was well into a conversation with Emery Arnoch before he remembered where the hell he even was. He liked to think she had been a little … warmer … toward him after that (though he suspected the untimely appearance of Felicia not long after had largely undone the small reserve of trust he'd earned with Laura).
If it was just about sex, this strange reaction he couldn't seem to shake, it wouldn't be so worrisome. Physical arousal was definitely a component; he'd had any number of occasions to be grateful for the concealing bulk of Steele's large desk when Laura had strolled into his office wearing one of those short pencil skirts that showed off her toned legs and well-formed derriere to such pleasing effect.
No, it was the other aspect of this attraction that unnerved him. It was the way he equivocated over his tie rack every morning, trying to decide which one she might like best on him. It was the momentary acceleration of his heartbeat when he heard her voice as he entered the office, and the foolish grin he couldn't suppress when she archly suggested that reading the Lifestyles section of the L.A. Times did not constitute a productive use of office time and resources. It was the tender, warm feeling that came over him when he found her sleeping in their suite in the Devil's Playground, causing him to spontaneously bend and gently kiss her cheek. It was wanting to look at her and talk to her and be with her every waking moment of every day. Good God, what had she done to him?
Forming some kind of … attachment … to this woman was out of the question. Attachments were dangerous and ultimately painful. He'd made that mistake with Anna and vowed never to let anyone get that close again. And so by this time tomorrow he would be on a plane to … who knew? Someplace where he wouldn't be tempted by a chestnut-haired, brown-eyed, deliciously freckled beauty. He just had to get through this last evening.
Damned freckles! Laura peered into the mirror of her compact and dabbed a bit more powder over the bridge of her nose. Countless hours spent in the California sunshine were among the happiest of her childhood memories, and she'd always considered her "sun kisses" a badge of honor of sorts. Recently, however, she had begun to feel slightly self-conscious about them. It was hard to avoid the contrast between her own lithe figure and bronzed complexion and the flaxen-haired, cleavage-flaunting, porcelain-skinned goddesses that attracted Mr. Steele's notice. Not that the man's taste in women made any difference to her …
"Just turning onto Rossmore, Miss Holt."
"Thank you, Fred." Laura snapped the compact shut and waited for the limo to glide to a stop outside Steele's building. It felt a little unreal that she would be attending the mayor's New Year's Eve gala on Mr. Steele's arm. Since the break-up with Winston, she'd gotten used to spending the last night of the year in her bathrobe, with a pizza and a quart of raspberry swirl, watching Dick Clark.
"Shall I phone Mr. Steele's apartment?" Fred asked as they idled at the curb outside the building.
"That's all right, Fred. I'll go up." Laura waited for Fred to open her door and stepped carefully out of the limo. Her gown - a form-fitting, solid-sequined number in midnight blue - was neither practical nor comfortable. But she knew it looked great on her. Its slightly-off-the-shoulder cowl neckline provided an illusion of more on top than was really there, and the dress hugged her slender waist and skimmed her narrow hips. The skirt was narrow, but a slit up the right side offered a bit of maneuvering room and revealed a little slice of shapely leg with every step.
Her wardrobe was just one element of her lifestyle that had gone upscale since her mystery man had slipped into the shoes of the fictional Remington Steele. Six months ago the agency was barely hanging on, and Laura was facing the very real possibility of downsizing from their high-end office suite to something decidedly more modest. It irked her slightly that the solid investigative work she and Murph had been doing for close to two years hadn't provided much traction for the agency's success, but within a couple of months of this smooth conman taking on the public face of Remington Steele, high profile cases were coming out of the woodwork. Still, who was she to look a gift horse in the mouth? As infuriating as he could be, the man had performed admirably in the role of the urbane, sophisticated detective.
Mincing to the elevator in her unreasonably high heels (Mr. Steele had almost nine inches on her) Laura punched the button for his floor and attempted to prepare herself to withstand the man's undeniably devastating charm. She'd been powerfully attracted to him from the start, but that was hardly surprising. She'd like to meet the woman who wouldn't be affected by those intense blue eyes, that sexy accent, his flawless bone structure, the way he wore a tux like he'd been born in one.
Still, she was slightly mortified by how easily he had circumvented her defenses and insinuated himself into her life. She was Laura Holt, after all – too smart, too independent and, frankly, too wary to allow some smooth-talking Casanova to wheedle his way into her agency, much less her bed. And yet … here they were.
Despite all of Murphy's warnings and disapproving scowls, despite the shyster's refusal to reveal even so much as his real name, despite his persistent disregard for things like the agency's budget or a full eight-hour workday, despite his increasing penchant for involving himself in their cases instead of staying on the sidelines where he belonged, despite all this and much more that drove her crazy … she liked him.
Worse, she trusted him.
In the face of plenty of evidence to the contrary, Laura believed the man when he'd told her he didn't kill Ben Pearson; that he wouldn't steal the royal lavulite while it was under her watch; that even though he'd stolen the Five Nudes of Cairo once before, he was only planning to heist it again to catch the real thief; that he'd never do anything to put the agency or its reputation in jeopardy. She had trusted him in all these instances and more … and he had not betrayed that belief. Moreover, he had stayed. It had been almost three months now, long enough for him to pull whatever scam he might have been plotting. And though Murphy continued to issue dire predictions on a daily basis, the truth was that "Mr. Steele" had only been good for the agency. So far, anyway.
Laura leaned on the buzzer outside Steele's door until it opened and the man himself stood there, smiling.
"Wow," he said, giving her a once over with such obvious appreciation that Laura felt a warm glow blossom inside her.
"Ready, Mr. Steele?" she asked, filling her own admiring eyes with his dashing form.
He nodded. "Let's make it a night to remember, Miss Holt."
The man some called Steele figured he might be forgiven for puffing up a bit as he strolled into the Beverly Hills Country Club with Laura Holt at his side. Dressed to the nines, mingling with the high and mighty in a glamorous setting … such scenes were not unprecedented in his experience, especially in the past few years. But it was a far cry from the way he'd spent most New Year's Eves. Not so long ago he would have been loitering outside the pubs in London, hoping one or two of the gentlemen coming and going would be feeling merry enough to toss him a quid … or drunk enough to be easily relieved of the same coin in a quick bump-and-run.
The foyer was full of Beautiful People, including several celebrated beauties of the silver screen. For once, however, Steele's head wasn't turned by the sight of the glitterati. He was squiring Laura tonight, and he could honestly say she was a stunning as any starlet in the room. He was glad she'd worn her hair down tonight – it was his favorite style for her. The soft waves framed her face beautifully and spilled to her shoulders, providing easy access for his fingers to brush "accidentally" as he removed her wrap and handed it to the coat-check girl. It was as soft and silky as he knew it would be. He hoped that delicious sensation would stay with him a long time.
Entering the crowded ballroom, Steele caught sight of their host, the Honorable Tom Bradley, mayor of Los Angeles. He'd met the man several times at various functions, and Bradley gave him a smile and slight nod from across the room. Mr. Steele's eyes swept the room, trying to decide where to start schmoozing. He was eager to conclude the "official" part of the evening so he could devote as much of the evening as possible to being with Laura.
At that moment the orchestra, a Guy Lombardo-esque ensemble, struck up a mellow rendition of "The Way You Look Tonight." Steele's work ethic abruptly wavered. The night was young. Surely there was time for one dance before his nose hit the grindstone. Beside him, Laura was swaying gently to the music. He turned to her and extended a hand. "Care to?"
She smiled and he led her onto the dance floor, folding her in his arms. It felt so natural with her, he reflected. From the first there had been a perfect synchrony between them when they danced. His mind traveled back to the first time they were partnered, at Gordon Hunter's gala to introduce his Hunter JetStar 6000. She had been furious with him then, having just discovered that he'd been posing as her Remington Steele. He recalled how her eyes flashed fire, how he'd felt her actually quivering with outrage as he held her for the first time. Even then, though, they'd quickly established an effortless rhythm. It was a tantalizing suggestion, he thought, of how well matched they might be in another kind of dance.
Her eyes weren't flashing now. In fact, they drifted closed as he pulled her closer against him. Sighing, Laura rested her cheek on his lapel. They weren't making much progress around the floor, mostly standing in one place, gently rocking in one another's arms. That was fine by Steele. He'd be more than satisfied if the orchestra just kept playing this same romantic melody all night long.
Steele lowered his head slightly to breathe in the delicious scent of her hair. As he did so, his attention was caught by a couple dancing nearby. The gentleman was nondescript – an older fellow, slightly paunchy and florid about the face. His partner, however, was stunning. She was a tall redhead, dressed in a shimmering black sheath with a high hemline that displayed her fabulous legs and plunging cleavage that flaunted her other most obvious assets. Silver stiletto heels and a beaded bag on a gold chain over one shoulder completed the outfit. Steele thought for a moment that her partner might be her father … but surely if that were the case, she wouldn't be pressing herself so intimately against the man. His curiosity piqued, Steele watched the couple drift around the room. The redhead certainly seemed enamored of the oldster, running her hands over his shoulders, down his back and around his waist in a way seemed both highly inappropriate and oddly familiar to Steele.
"What are you looking at?"
Steele realized with a start that the song had ended. He glanced down to see Laura looking at him quizzically. "Nothing," he said, a little flustered. "Just the other couples. It's quite a mixed crowd." He clasped her elbow and led her from the dance floor. "Time to make nice with the upper crusters, eh?" He glanced down at his watch and did a quick calculation in his head. "You take this side of the room, and I'll attack the other side and we'll meet back here in, say, 45 minutes?" He smiled. "Enough for a few more dances and a New Year's toast."
She nodded her agreement. "Onward and upward," she muttered dryly, rolling her eyes as she plastered on her broadest smile. "Deputy Mayor Springfield! How wonderful to see you!" she called, sashaying off in the direction of a small cluster of dignitaries.
Steele allowed himself a moment to watch her depart, relishing the view. Here was one more sight he didn't want to forget. Steele felt a sudden pang of regret and a bit of guilt. How would Laura react if she knew what he was planning … if she realized that he was memorizing every moment of this evening, filing it away in a corner of his mind to be retrieved and savored some day, in some far off place, after enough time had passed to dull the sting of her absence.
This time, leaving would be hard. Hard … but necessary. "Onward and upward," Steele muttered to himself as he set off in pursuit of his own influential quarry.
Making charming small talk was something at which he excelled, and often enjoyed. This evening, however, he found himself gritting his teeth through banal conversations about the weather, local politics, the stock market. In 30 minutes he'd managed to stroke the egos of three councilmen, the CEO of one of the city's largest manufacturing concerns, one or two B actors and the Dodgers' shortstop. Whether all the networking would result in business for the agency remained to be seen – but not by him, he had to remind himself. He could only hope that the effort he put in tonight would reap benefits for Laura. That's why he continued circulating, even though he was desperate to get back to her. He would not let it be said that he shirked his responsibility, even on his way out the door.
Steele snagged crudité from a passing tray and scanned the crowd for his next prospect. His eyes lit on a patch of bright auburn – the woman he'd seen dancing so lasciviously before. He'd caught sight of her several times as he mingled. Each time she was cozied up to a different man. Whoever she was, she seemed to be having a marvelous time. Steele observed her laughing as she playfully plucked the lapel of the city comptroller, then sidling up close to a well-known matinee idol, then pulling first an oil magnate and next a real estate tycoon onto the dance floor for the same sort of brazen clinches she'd bestowed on the first fellow.
Shifting his gaze from the redhead to his Rolex, Steele saw that it was nearly time to rejoin Laura. He looked over the sea of party-goers for his partner's slim form. Just then he felt a touch on his sleeve. It was the redhead.
"Care to dance?" she sighed, looking up at him with luminous, hungry eyes.
Steele considered the proposition. "Why not?" He smiled at the young woman as she slipped her arm through his and they headed for the dance floor.
Given her druthers, Laura would leave the "public relations" duties to Mr. Steele. She was perfectly capable of the soft of light banter that was required in such situations, but she didn't enjoy it. Mr. Steele, on the other hand, seemed to revel in rubbing elbows with high society. As she'd worked her way around the room, Laura had cast a few glances toward his side of the room. Mostly she saw him engaged in seemingly absorbing conversation with some bigshot or other. A few times, though, she caught him doing something else. He was staring at another guest – a striking red-headed woman with legs up to there and a bosom that would discourage the most determined underwire.
Laura watched him watch her. Suddenly she felt foolish for pouring herself into this dress, suffering in these heels. What was she doing here? This was Steele's kind of scene, and that red head was his kind of woman. Laura was just a speckled former tomboy from the Valley, playing dress up. Ridiculous.
Nevertheless, she was here now. She'd just have to suck it up and maintain her professional composure. Laura disengaged herself from a knot of businessmen and their wives and started to make her way to the rendezvous point with Mr. Steele. There he was, now talking with the redhead. Her cheeks burning, Laura watched the two of them saunter onto the dance floor. The woman wrapped her arms around Steele's neck, pressed her torso against his chest, moved her hips sinuously. And he was lapping it up. Laura saw him laugh at some remark he apparently found terribly witty, then press his lips close to her ear to whisper something. The redhead looked surprised, but definitely pleased by whatever he'd said. They stopped dancing and Mr. Steele slid his arm around the woman's waist. Feeling increasingly agitated, Laura followed their exit from the dance floor and watched them disappear through a door at the far side of the room.
So much for a New Year's toast with her! Laura was seething as she strode purposefully across the room, determined to confront the lothario and his conquest in flagrante delicto. Maybe it wasn't any of her business who he chose to … associate … with – but damn it! He was on the clock until midnight! She had a right to expect him to concentrate on making potential business contacts, not making contact with some cheap little piece of business.
The door that Steele and the woman had gone through led to some sort of service corridor, with several other doorways on each side. Laura stepped quietly down the hall until her attention was arrested by a soft giggle from behind a door that stood slightly ajar just ahead of her. Laura crept closer until she was able to peer through the crack into the room beyond. It was some sort of janitorial closet. She spied a variety of cleaning supplies, brooms, a mop standing in a large bucket on wheels, and various smaller implements on shelves. But Laura wasn't much interested in the furnishings of the place – her focus was drawn to the sight of Mr. Steele and the redhead locked in a passionate embrace. Laura saw the redhead lift her face toward Steele as he lowered his toward hers, their lips drawing ever closer … his arms sliding down her torso … pausing at her waist …
Abruptly, Steele grabbed the woman's purse and wrenched away from her.
"What the hell?" the woman exclaimed.
Steele favored her with a slightly smug smile. "You're pretty good," he said, raising his arm to hold the purse out of her reach as she lunged for it. "But I'm better."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she sputtered. "Give me back my purse or I'll call security."
"Oh, I don't think so," he answered. "Because if you did, I'm afraid I'd have to lift the lid on your little operation here. In fact, that's what I'll do even if you don't call security." He lowered the arm holding the purse and opened the clasp with one hand, keeping his eye on the woman as he did so. "I'm quite sure one of the many wallets in here will be the one you lifted from me on the dance floor."
She stepped away from him, her look of wide-eyed innocence transforming into a flinty scowl. "What are you, some kind of cop?"
Steele looked slightly miffed. "Not a cop. Remington Steele." At her blank look, he frowned. "I'm a private investigator, and quite a well-known one. Don't you read the papers?"
"Fine. What's your game?" the woman asked. "If you're angling for a cut of the take−"
"I assure you, I'm not interested in anything you have to offer," he answered.
"So what are we doing here?"
Steele shrugged. "The mayor has thrown such a nice party. I don't see any reason to spoil it by making a scene. Here's what we're going to do, you and I. We're going to walk very calmly out of this room and back into the ballroom, where my associate will be waiting. Then the three of us will find the head of security and have a nice little chat."
"Like hell we will!"
From her vantage point, Laura saw the redhead grab a shiny object from the shelf next to her and launch herself toward Steele. Reflexively, Laura burst through the door. Her heels and narrow skirt impeded her and she stumbled, pushing the mop cart into the woman who was attacking Steele. Knocked off balance, Steele's assailant staggered and dropped the weapon. It skidded across the floor, coming to rest at Laura's feet. It was a utility knife – several inches long and very, very sharp. Laura, the woman and Steele dove for it simultaneously. Laura came up with the prize, while Steele caught the redhead by the arms and hauled her to her feet.
"Nice of you to drop by, Laura," Steele said, grinning down at where she sprawled in an ungainly heap.
Laura twirled the knife lightly in her fingers and smiled back at him. "The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Steele."
By 11:45, Steele and Laura had transferred custody of the thief, along with the purse full of pilfered wallets, to the mayor's security staff. Steele flagged down a waiter and claimed a couple of glasses of champagne while Laura discreetly briefed the mayor on the situation. By the time she made it back to where Steele waited on the fringe of the dance floor, it was nearly midnight.
Laura accepted the champagne flute Steele handed her and took a sip. "Impressive night's work, Mr. Steele," she said, clinking her glass against his. "How did you know what she was doing?"
Steele drained his glass and gave her a slightly sheepish look. "I recognized her, er, signature moves on the dance floor," he said. "They bore a striking resemblance to my own technique, back when I was relieving society matrons of their pocketbooks."
Laura's eyes sparkled at him over the rim of her glass. "Really, Mr. Steele. And when exactly was that?"
"Well …"
Just then the orchestra leader's voice boomed out over the crowd. "Get ready, everybody. We're counting down to midnight! Ten … nine … eight …"
Steele took Laura's glass from her and set it and his own on a nearby cocktail table. "You promised me a New Year's dance." He slipped his arm around her waist and turned her toward him.
"… six … five … four …"
They stood face to face, incredibly close. Steele felt his pulse pounding as he gazed into her chocolate eyes, saw her lips part slightly.
"… three … two … one … Happy New Year!"
And suddenly they were kissing, and the room was spinning and her lips were warm and soft on his and Steele lost track of everything else as the kiss deepened and Laura's body became soft and pliant in his arms. When the kiss ended, they were still entwined, swaying to the sounds of "Auld Lang Syne" as the crowd whooped and applauded around them.
"Happy New Year," Laura murmured against his lips, then her mouth claimed his again before he could answer. A moment passed and he was looking into her eyes again, hearing her say something about a press conference the mayor wanted to hold tomorrow to congratulate him and the agency on collaring the pickpocket. He had a vague feeling there was something he had planned to do tomorrow, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what it was. So he nodded and smiled and kissed her again. And again.
As the final strains of the familiar song died away, they stepped apart, both breathless and beaming and a little flustered. "Something tells me 1983 is going to be a good year," Laura said.
"If the first five minutes are any indication," Steele replied, grinning. "I have a feeling you may be right."
END