To Steele or Not to Steele
Setting: immediately after "A License to Steele"
By the time the hubbub died down, he'd missed his plane and Miss Holt was gone. He didn't mind the delay; one more night in a luxury suite – on the Remington Steele Agency's dime – would give him a chance to relax after what had been an unexpectedly strenuous day. The Royal Lavulite would still be waiting for him in San Francisco tomorrow, after all.
"Four Seasons," he told the driver as he climbed into the backseat of the Yellow Cab. It was a 20-minute ride, long enough to settle back in the seat and reflect on the past 72 hours. Even in a life as fast-paced and dangerous as his, these past three days had been remarkable. Not the failed heist, of course. That was an anecdote he wouldn't share with Daniel the next time they traded war stories over a glass of sherry! He comforted himself with the thought that he certainly could have lifted the jewels, if he hadn't chosen to be gallant; as pleased as Miss Holt and Mr. Murphy were with their security strategy, he knew it was laughably amateurish.
Juggling identities wasn't anything new, though maintaining both Ben Pearson and the unexpected detour into Remington Steele's spendy Italian shoes certainly kept him on his toes. He'd seen every variety of scam in his time – had run some pretty ingenious ones himself – but this con that Miss Laura Holt was fronting was in a class by itself. A high-profile, but entirely phony private eye! For an apparently straight shooter, Miss Holt had an admirably devious streak.
And THAT was what made this little interlude so … interesting. A smile tugged at his lips as he thought of Laura. What a corker she was! He recalled with amusement and a little flush of arousal how she had reacted when he took the stage as her Remington Steele at Hunter's gala. If looks could kill! He could still see the fire in her eyes, feel her trembling fury as he steered her around the dance floor, letting her know he'd discovered her little – make that BIG – secret.
She was beautiful when she was angry. She was beautiful when she wasn't angry. Different from other women he'd known, and he'd known many women. He'd seen it the minute he met her. Funny thing, that. In fact, when he'd walked into Steele's office as Ben Pearson, saw her stand to greet him with that slight, questioning smile, he'd experienced an odd feeling. Not déjà vu, exactly. But a vague sense of familiarity. She was a stranger to him, of that he was sure. He never forgot a face. Yet when he locked eyes with her he felt a jolt that seemed very like … recognition. It was almost as if he heard a voice inside his head, joyful and surprised: "Hey, it's you!"
It had lasted but an instant, and he hadn't had time to think about it again until now. He wished he hadn't. It was strangely unsettling, that sense of connection with this woman. Even more inexplicable was the hollow thud that accompanied his last sight of her this morning as she waited in her limo and he departed in a cab very much like the one he was in right now. The thought had even crossed his mind: I will never see her again.
That was a first.
He was not a man to have regrets; there was no percentage in dwelling on the past. Experiences – good, bad or indifferent – were meant to be felt and then discarded. He'd learned long ago to keep his eyes fixed to the horizon. Onward to the next day, the next place, the next encounter with a beautiful stranger. Keep moving. Run faster. No stopping. No looking over your shoulder, because you might catch a glimpse of what you're running from.
Damn it. He should have caught the red-eye. Suddenly the prospect of time to think felt very uncomfortable.
The cab pulled up to the hotel and he handed the driver enough bills to leave a good impression. As Miss Holt had promised when she said goodbye again, he found his reservation waiting for him. The suite was up to Mr. Steele's exacting standards. The bathroom alone was larger than the cheap bedsit he'd inhabited for a short time in London – but not as large, of course, as the filthy alleys he'd called home for most of his life before that. It would be something, living like Remington Steele.
There he was, thinking too much again. He needed a distraction. It occurred to him to call Miss Holt and invite her to dinner. But the quickening of his pulse when he thought of seeing her again convinced him that was a bad idea.
He ordered room service. The mini-bar in the corner beckoned, but he resisted the impulse to blunt his over-active mind with its inventory. He wasn't much of a drinker, though he could appreciate a fine wine or a bottle of champers … especially when enjoyed in the company of a beautiful woman.
Laura Holt sparkled like champagne. Oh, she wasn't giddy or bubbly in a superficial way. Rather, she seemed to glow from within, like candlelight reflected in a glass of Dom Perignon.
He'd hoped to dazzle her with that magnum in the hotel, though he couldn't say why. It was in his interest to have as little contact with the staff of the Remington Steele Agency as possible. Best not to make an impression that could later be recalled to a police sketch artist. Yet when he saw her sitting alone across the dining room, he'd called over a waiter without thinking. Perhaps, when it came to Laura Holt, not thinking was as dangerous as too much cogitation.
In any case, she had not been bowled over by his charm. That was interesting in itself. Moreover, he'd sensed more than a hint of defensiveness in her resentment that he'd mistaken her for an underling. Feisty, this one. It made him smile.
Listening to her rhapsodize about the perfection of Mr. Remington Steele, he'd figured she was in love with her boss. Even then he found himself wondering what it would be like to have a woman like this feel that way about him. Of course, that was before he knew Steele was a work of fiction, a fantasy ideal that would be impossible to challenge.
He was a man who enjoyed impossible challenges.
But he was no fool. He had come to Los Angeles to do a job. Months of meticulous preparation had gone into the operation. He had every intention of liberating the gems as planned, right up to the moment he bent to kiss her hand, looked into her beautiful, brown eyes.
Why hadn't he finished what he'd started? Who knew? Surely it couldn't be because she had believed him when he told her he didn't murder Pearson.
Ordinarily trust was no virtue in his eyes; he made his living exploiting the naïveté of others. He'd had no qualms about convincing her he was Ben Pearson, or that he was really seeking to avenge the murder of his courier brother. But there was simply no reason for her to believe him when he said he wasn't a killer. By then she knew he was a liar and a thief. Pearson's body was found in his room! Take his word against evidence like that? Daniel would have said Laura Holt was a patsy.
But he didn't believe she was an patsy. The truth was, he had no idea why she had believed him. It confused him. It fascinated him. And the way her trust made him feel … well, that scared him. It was just as well he had an early flight in the morning. Back to business. That's all he needed.
Even on a $300-a-night mattress, it had been a long eight hours. His sleep was disturbed by dreams, fleeting scenes cobbled up from memories of past escapades – some dangerous, some painful, some erotic. He remembered no details upon waking, only that one thread ran through them all: the image of a chestnut-haired, brown-eyed woman.
Shower and shave. Light breakfast and quick perusal of the Times. His own image smiled back at him from the front page under the headline, "Steele Pure Gold." The photo caption identified him as Remington Steele, and the petite figure at his side as "unidentified woman." He frowned. They might have made the effort to get her name.
Yet another cab ride. There were no jewels in play this morning, nothing to deter him from making his flight and putting the past few days behind him. He glanced at his watch. He hadn't allowed himself much extra time to get through ticketing and reach his gate.
He leaned forward. "Slight detour, mate," he told the driver. "I need to make a quick stop. Century Plaza Towers, Century City."
It was too early for the office to be open; he wouldn't see her. He would simply leave a note … though he had no idea what it would say. Thank you? Good luck? I'm sorry you didn't get the credit you deserve? He'd figure it out when he got there.
As expected, the offices of Remington Steele Investigations were dark when he stepped off the elevator. He paused a moment to study the letters on the glass. Then he grasped the handle of the door and pulled; it was, naturally, locked. Automatically, he fished in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a slim leather case. Selecting a delicate instrument from inside it, he inserted it into the lock, bent his ear close to the door and listened for the tell-tale click of tumblers drawing back.
He pushed open the door, entered the silent lobby, crossed the room and pushed open the red door leading to "Remington Steele's" sleek and spacious office. He quietly closed the door behind him, then walked behind the desk and sat down in the chair, swiveling it to look out the bank of windows at the LA skyline, gleaming in the morning sunlight. For just a second he pictured himself occupying this imposing space. Remington Steele. Brilliant sleuth. Respected community leader. Sophisticated and sought-after man about town.
It was only then that the thought occurred to him: What the hell am I doing here? He clutched the arms of the chair, ready to beat a hasty retreat.
Too late. There were voices in the lobby.
"Mr. Steele! I thought you were in San Francisco."
Mr. Steele turned the chair to face his visitor, smiling as he met Laura Holt's wide-eyed gaze. Standing, he remarked smoothly, "I was, but suddenly there was nothing for me to do up there." He rounded the desk, closed the office door and moved to stand beside Laura. A quick, sidelong glance showed him she was smiling. His own smile grew broader.
"Now … how can I help you?"
END