Picks up after the conclusion of Steele Tested. Laura struggles with the limitations of her injury; the Steele's celebrate their first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years as man and wife.

Pure romance, folks. No trauma until the next round

For the most effective reading, my work should be read in chronological order as many of my one off's are spun into the history of the characters later on down the line. The chronological order of what I've written to date are as follows:

Steele Torn & Trying to Holt On
Cannes Steele be Trusted (co-written with the super-talented SuzySteele)
Steele Forsaken
Steele Mending
Steele Working out the Details
Steele Settling In
Steele Finding Comfort
Steele Holting on To Christmas
Steele Holting on To The Holidays
Holting on to the Moments
Steele Cold Relief
Steele Cloned
Steele Hurdling Obstacles
Steeling the Big Apple
Steele Dying to Get it Right
Holting Steele - Part 1 of the Be Steele My Heart series
Be Steele My Heart – Part 2 of the Be Steele My Heart series
Steele Pursued – Part 1 of the Steele Tested series
Steele Tested – Part 2 of the Steele Tested series
Steele Thankful

Standard Disclaimers apply: I hold no ownership or rights to the series or characters. I simply choose to borrow the characters I love to write.

As dawn breached the horizon outside the terrace doors, Laura stretched herself awake with cat-like grace, a rather challenging undertaking given her husband's lean frame pinning her to the bed. While they had fallen to sleep after making love in the normal manner – her head nuzzled into the place beneath his shoulder that seemed made for her and her alone; her arm wrapped over his abdomen, hand resting on his ribs; and a leg slung over his hips – she found at some point of the night that position had nearly reversed. Now, Remington lay on his stomach, face burrowed into a pillow, an arm wrapped around her, his hand clasping her waist, and a long leg crossing a hip to tuck itself between her legs. Despite the massive king sized bed that graced their bedroom, they used little of the space as they slept, neither sleeping well unless they had some form of contact with the other. Well, at least we haven't tumbled out of bed lately, she smirked. With a roll of her eyes and a quiet laugh, she sidled out from beneath her husband's limbs, then, glancing a kiss across his cheek, slipped from their bed.

She wrapped her arms around herself, and rubbed them, a soft smile playing on her lips. They'd been living in their new house for a full two weeks now and she was still having a hard time believing that this was her life. Six and a half months ago, on the eve of their first, disastrous wedding upon the fishing trawler, she'd believed she watched everything she'd hoped for crumble around her and lay in ruins at her feet – as much her own doing as his, she was no longer afraid to admit. Now, however? Here she was married to the man she'd loved for years – blissfully married, she corrected, that thought stunning in and of itself – and they were living in a house they'd purchased together, furnished together, and had turned into a home, together.

This room was at the center of it all. Not his bedroom or my bedroom, but ours. The recognition of that sent a chill of pleasure down her spine. The brand new bed, from headboard, to frame to mattresses, that only they had ever slept on. The matching nightstands on each side of the bed. Her long dresser with the mirror topping it, his bachelor chest nearby. To the far side of the room, in the sitting area, the couch they'd picked out together, the widescreen TV from his old bedroom, and a tasteful piece of furniture that masked their own personal wine fridge. Already they spent several nights curled around one another on that couch, glasses of wine nearby, watching The Fugitive together – yes, he was still paying off the bet they'd made before their life took an unexpected and nearly disastrous detour.

The décor of the room was the perfect blending of the two of them – a bent towards art deco for him with all the whites, blacks and grays, and splashes of red dashed throughout for her. White curtains with a gray pattern hung at each of the half dozen floor to ceiling windows that spanned either side of the fireplace. When open, they added to the airiness of the room, allowing sunlight to flood it. However, the man who appreciated his sleep had spared no expense when it came to the custom window treatments. When closed, they pitched the room into darkness, so that even at noon when the sun hung high in the sky, the room remained black as night.

By far, her favorite part of the room was the fireplace where her attention was now focused. Many nights they'd flung the bedroom windows fully open and set a blaze going, watching the flames leap and dance as they laid upon the bed, her head in his lap, his hands in hers, when they settled into their nightly ritual before bed. But it was so much more than those moments that made her heart pitter-patter when she looked at the marble structure. Centered above the mantle was his favored picture of their wedding day: Them on the dance floor their faces in profile, their love for one another vivid upon their faces, as the back of fingers skimmed downwards along her bared back. Each time she saw the picture she could recall exactly how she felt at that moment. Staggered on either side of their wedding picture were a series of framed sketches, done by Remington's hand. The first kiss they'd ever shared on the docks. Them, dancing on the terrace in New York. His hand, held in hers, a single finger tracing his palm. Them, spooned around each other in sleep and another of them relaxing on the hammock in Cannes. The two of them wearing robes, kissing, his hand, fingers spread, cupping her head and neck. Him, brushing his lips over her knuckles – he attired in a tux, she in a strapless ball gown. Some of the most poignant moments of their lives and romance, all there before her.

She turned to glance at the bed, looking fondly at the man at the center of it all. He'd stormed into her life more than four years ago, forcing her to make room for him. He'd aggravated her, charmed her, infuriated her, romanced her, pushed her, had even left her… and had scared the hell out of her through it all. He'd also waited for her, and despite all her fears and inhibitions, despite his own past that left him tongue tied and terrified of being abandoned, had dared to allow himself to love her and had managed to dare her to risk her heart again. She nibbled her bottom lip, admiring his bare back and arms. She laughed lightly at his hair sticking up to and fro, the style no doubt due to the attention of her hands last night.

The object of her admiration stirred in his sleep, a hand searching for her – her clue to slip out of the bedroom before her could lure her into a morning romp. Today was her last day of freedom for two weeks, the surgery on her ankle scheduled for the next morning and she'd already been forewarned by her surgeon that he expected her to remain off the foot for that proscribed amount of time. She intended to spend the bulk of the day wrapping up a couple of skip traces and closing files. Then, for the next two weeks, the bulk of the Agency's responsibilities would once again fall on the shoulders of her partner.

She showered quickly, then efficiently blew dry her hair, removing any signs of her hair's natural curl. After applying a light layer of makeup, wrapped only in her robe she made her way downstairs to where a pot of hot coffee should be waiting if the timer started the brew as scheduled. Filling her favorite mug, she stared at the room before her, the one that showed most the merging of their two lives as one. The dining room table from his apartment stood in their informal dining area; the barstools from his kitchen lining the peninsula. The living room furniture they'd chosen together framed the fireplace. And, to the left of that on the raised platform, her most treasured possession: the baby grand he'd given her after her home had been bombed. And above the mantle of the fireplace in the living room, the gift he'd surprised her with the night they'd arrived home from Greece: A nearly life sized painting of the two of them, commissioned off of the very picture that hung above the mantle in their bedroom. She blinked her eyes rapidly, always bowled over by emotion when she thought for any length of time about what she viewed as their true wedding.

Turning left, she exited the house through one of the French doors that led to the covered veranda. Curling up in one of the lounge chairs they purchased, she drew the afghan folded neatly at the bottom of the chair up over her legs. Clutching her mug in both hand, she took a sip of the hot, life-infusing liquid and looked out over their back yard. The large lap pool, the hot tub, the outdoor fireplace and seating area, the outdoor kitchen and the large expanse of lawn beyond it all.

In Greece, when her nightmares were at their worst, Remington had 'given' her two dreams – shared with her the dreams he had of their future together. She'd been… relieved… when his own nightmares had begun that a difficult conversation, a tension relieving massage, some much needed sleep and a day of play on the Aegean had put his demons to rest. If it had come down to reciprocating, she giving him one of her dreams to chase the nightmares away, she would have found herself at a loss. This, this life they'd somehow forged with one another, was her dream, had been since she was a starry eyed teenager: the owner of a successful private detective agency; a man that loved her with all that he was and whom she loved with every fiber of her being; and this amazing house they now owned and had already turned into a home together. And at the center of it all, he was there. Her only answer, then, at her disposal would have been: I already have my dream. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Unbeknownst to her, the man at the center of her thoughts stood behind her, wrapped in his robe and leaning against the jamb of the door through which she'd left the house, watching her silent contemplation. She jumped slightly, drawing a smile to his lips, when he leaned over and swept her hair to the side to press a kiss on the side of her neck.

"Another nightmare?" he asked, his breath warming her ear. He stretched out in the lounge chair next to hers, a cup of tea in his own hands. He'd been concerned when he woke as she still often left their bed to wander the house on her own, trying to deal with the aftermath of the dreams that plagued her.

"No, not at all. I just wanted to get a head start on the day," she assured him, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Ah, last day for a bit and all that, then, eh?" He was treading into these waters reluctantly.

They'd had a couple of explosive arguments in the past two weeks about her upcoming surgery, the one two nights ago heated enough that he'd crawled into bed fully expecting to be tossed out on his ear and relegated to another room for the evening, and frankly, after the things said, he wasn't sure if that was such a bad thing. Instead, after a lengthy silence that seemed to span hours but was actually only minutes, she'd stunned him.

"I'm sorry," she said so quietly he missed what she'd said the first time, especially in light of the fact they were both laying on their sides, backs to one another, as far apart as possible on the bed. He braced himself for round two on the evening.

"My apologies, Miss Holt, I'm afraid I didn't quite hear what you said," he told her, the cool, crisp British accent firmly in place. Across the bed from him, she squeezed her eyes shut and scrunched her nose. His tone, the name he chose to call her, spoke clearly that she'd wounded him in their fight earlier. She rolled over to face his back, tucking her hands under her cheek.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I don't know what gets into me sometimes. I just don't like feeling as though I have no voice in my own life," she sighed, "Or being told what I can and cannot do."

"You don't say."

"Remington…" Remorse painted the single word. His heart clenched in his chest and his own anger fizzled. He rolled over to face her.

"Laura, no one knows better than I how you dislike it when someone issues an edict and commands you to follow. Perhaps, as you said, my opinion is neither wanted nor needed, but –" She visibly flinched when he repeated to words she'd shouted at him, nearly verbatim.

"I didn't mean that," she interjected.

"Nevertheless, I simply wish when that venerable temper of yours ignites, that you'd at least try to recall I not only have a vested interest in your welfare, but I also only have your very best interests at heart."

"I know you do… even when it might seem otherwise." She sighed heavily. "It's just…" Her words trailed off. Reaching for her hand, he pulled it away from her forehead and folded it his own.

"It's just what?" She closed her eyes and shook her head.

"I feel like a spectator in my own life, at least where the Agency's concerned. We'd barely brought the Agency back up to full speed when I injured my ankle the first time and was for all intents and purposes sidelined. Then everything that happened last month and now, here I am again barely back for ten days and I'm grounded again." She growled in frustration.

"Granted, the situation is less than ideal, but where the Agency is concerned you could never be merely a spectator. As promised, I'll keep you buried up to that pretty little nose of yours in paperwork, we'll review all active cases each evening, you'll make the call on anything of import as you've always done," he reminded her. "I suspect what's really bothering you is that the doctor recognized right off that you'd attempt to wiggle around any limitations he attempted to set while you were in the office, so he chose to eliminate that possibility altogether." She snorted quietly in answer. "It's only two weeks, love, then you'll be right back in the thick of things." She scooted across the bed and pressed her forehead against his chest, her fingers playing with his hair there.

"I still hate it." He nodded his head, burying a hand in her hair.

"I know you do."

"Mmmm," she hummed her acknowledgment.

"Let's say we get you inside and get a bit of breakfast in you then, eh?" He stood offering her his hand, twining his fingers with her as he led her into the house when she stood. "Fuel that delightful little body for the rigors that lay ahead today." She stopped in her tracks when they stepped through the doors, catching him off guard. He turned to look at her then swallowed hard at the heated look in her eyes.

"I might suggest the same for you, Mr. Steele," she advised.

"Oh, planning to work me hard today, are you?" he asked, raising a brow, then found himself swallowing hard again when a single finger drew down his front from neck to waist, before the hand turned to caress his suddenly, very attentive manhood.

"Hmmm, not today. But I plan to work you very hard tonight," she told him in a heated voice, her lips whispering against the skin of his chest bared by the opening in his robe. "I intend to put into use every…position… that will be unavailable to us in the weeks to come." Embracing her with one arm, his other hand glided down her back to caress her bottom. He hummed and tilted his head back as her mouth trailed a path below his collarbone.

"Every position you say? Perhaps we'd be wise to get a head start on the evenings…festivities… then, Mrs. Steele," he suggested in a gruff voice, his hands sliding to her waist. She smiled against his collarbone and allowed him to lift her, then wrapped her legs around his waist. She tilted her head down, their kiss speaking of the passion to come. He groaned in disappointment when her legs left his waist and she slipped away from him, their lips parting at the last moment.

"Anticipation, Remington, is everything," she reminded him, before walking away. He watched her, chuckling, as she began to ascend the stairs.

"I'll have you know, it will be nearly impossible to keep my mind on work today," he called after her. She turned and leaned against the railing, looking down at him, an impish grin on her face.

"And that will be different from every other day, how?" she teased, then continued up the stairs her laughter following behind her. He was still chuckling when he entered the kitchen to prepare the morning's meal.

Remington stayed behind when Laura left for the office. After cleaning up after breakfast, he'd taken tea in hand, fully intending to retire to their room to shower and dress for work, but had instead found himself wandering outside to terrace where he'd found his lovely wife that morning. Wandering over to the outdoor kitchen he ran a finger over the pristine grill cover, while looking out over their backyard. This is my life now. He could hardly believe it.

Five years ago, he hadn't even dared to dream of having all that he suddenly found he could call his own. A wife that he loved to distraction, that challenged him every moment of each day, that loved him back with all that she was. A name that he could give to her, to their children one day. He shook his head and laughed, touching his fingers to his lips. Children. I never imagined they'd be a possibility one day, not as I had lived. A profession, a reputation, he could take pride in. And this: the home he never believed he'd have. Everything he thought denied by virtue of his birth, was suddenly his. All because of a petite, headstrong, often infuriating, young woman that had stolen his heart like the thief he once was.

Returning to the house, locking the French doors firmly behind him, he walked across the informal dining room and into the living room, his eyes on their portrait above the mantle. He knew with absolute certainty that he'd never forget how he'd felt in that moment. After four years of pursuing her, then nearly letting go of it all, only for them to both fight to get past the injuries done to one another. To finally admit all that they were to each other. It was in that moment on the dance floor that he'd really believed she was his and his alone, as he was hers.

Married, he laughed quietly. Happily…contentedly… blissfully wed, to the woman that's been at the center of my dreams for longer than I can recall.

He'd only made it a few steps further towards the stairs when he stopped, a smile lighting his face. It was here, in the foyer, that their first memory in their first home was made.

He'd arranged for Fred to drive them directly to the house, instead of to the apartment as Laura had expected. She'd curled into him for the ride home, and while noticing the scenery outside of the windows didn't quite mesh with their normal route to the Rossmore, she shrugged it off to Fred taking a detour. Closing her eyes, she'd burrowed herself back into his side to continue to doze. She'd been confused when they pulled up to the house in Holmby Hills.

"What are we doing here?" she asked Remington as he opened the car door then extracted himself out from under her. After gaining his feet, he turned and offered her a hand.

"You'll see," he answered enigmatically. Looking her husband over with open curiosity, she took his hand and alighted from the car. Her laughter carried in the air when, three short steps from the front door, he swept her up in his arms.

"What are you doing?"

"Merely trying to eradicate the regrettable memory of the first time I carried my new bride across the threshold of our home some six months back," he answered with raised brows before touching his lips to hers. Swinging the door open, he carried her through, smiling as she stilled in his arms, taking in the sight before her. When she turned to look at him, the amber eyes he adored were open wide and lit with joy.

"But how?" she inquired.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Steele." Threading her fingers through his hair, she brushed her lips against his.

"But how?" she asked again. "We weren't here for the closing—"

"Mildred and our power of attorneys," he filled in as she slipped from his arms to poke her head into the doorway to their left.

"We hadn't even begun to pack—"

"A fair army of Monroe's men, I'd wager." She crossed the foyer and looked through the door to the right.

"Everything's here, exactly how we'd planned. How—"

"Monroe and Jocelyn, using the plans you and I'd sketched out." Returning to him, she slid her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, linking them behind his neck. Her dimples flashed, pure joy lighting her eyes.

"There are still times you can shock the hell out of me, Mr. Steele."

"I believe it's my job to keep you on your toes, Mrs. Steele," he smiled down at her. "Shall we take the full tour?" She shook her head while casting a lusty little smile his way. "Something else on your mind then?" An amused smile lifted his own lips.

"Don't you know?" Her lips pressed against his neck and lingered. Grasping her face in his hands, he teased her lips, before bending his knees and sweeping her up in his arms.

"As a very well-trained private investigator, I think I can solve the mystery."

Her laughter had followed them all the way up the stairs, before ending on a soft sigh.

Shaking himself loose of the memory, Remington whistled to himself as he ascended the stairs to prepare for the day.