Laura

Mr. Steele and I arrived in Catalina early in the evening. Just as he'd alluded to when he'd first mentioned taking the trip, he was a skilled pilot. I don't know why I was surprised. After all, I'd had a firsthand glimpse at those very skills last year during the Dumont case.

This time, Thank God, he didn't leave me at the controls while he bailed out.

I'd written off our trip to Catalina as a lost cause after Bernard, Mildred's nephew, had unwittingly dropped a case in our laps – or rather, Mr. Steele's tub – in the form of the body of Harold Delanian. It had been a quick case, taking less than a day to wrap, and relatively painless, all things considered.

Relatively.

With no cases left on our desks, when Mr. Steele suggested we reattempt the previously aborted trip, he hadn't needed to nudge me in the least. I made a beeline out of the Agency doors with him right on my heels. I wasn't about to take a chance something else would come along to prevent us from enjoying this time together. Lesson learned.

We dined at a quaint, waterfront restaurant, indulging our appetites with oysters on the half shell, a salad of crisp greens and a main course of prawn linguine. After, we strolled along the shoreline of the beach, then had sat watching the bright stars twinkling in the inky sky. There are no stars in Los Angeles, the fog and lights of the city obscuring them, so the sight was truly something to behold.

We sat there long enough for the night air to grow cool, but the temperature had nothing to do with the shivers that would course down my spine, or the goosebumps that raised on my skin. Mr. Steele was solely to blame for those.

Not that I wasn't a willing participant. I was, very much so. The man knows how to kiss, how to enflame my senses when he wishes to do so, and he certainly wished to do exactly that tonight. The soft urgency of his full lips against mine, his intoxicating flavor, the whispering stroking of his fingers against my neck, my sides, leaves me staggering and I am ready to toss caution to the wind.

So I am thrown completely off balance when his lips suddenly leave mine and he gets to his feet, holding a hand out to me.

"It's getting a bit chilly."

His breath is short as he speaks, telling me he is affected as I am by our recent shenanigans. So what's the deal? I wonder, as I lay my hand in his and he pulls me to my feet. I sure as hell know it's not the weather, because I'm feeling very, very warm.

I briefly flirt with the idea of turning the tables on him: The intended seduced becoming the seducer instead. Briefly. Almost immediately I cast the idea aside, as my one attempt at seducing him had been not only an unmitigated disaster, but had wholly insulted him.

"You decided, without discussion, that we were finally going to consummate our relationship."

"Well, isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes, but I'd like to have some small say in the matter."

Six months later, I mentally bop myself in the head. It's not the first time, I've done so. What had I been thinking?

Parity. He craves it, both at work and in our personal relationship, and can become downright testy when he believes it to be lacking. Oh, for the most part, he allows me one up on him at the office, so long as he's amused by it and not feeling particularly petulant. It is, after all, my Agency.

It hadn't occurred to me that night in Cannes, that when it came to our personal relationship he'd stand for nothing less. I'd blindsided him that night at the hotel. There had been no dinner, no dancing, no talking quietly before the fire, sharing kisses and caresses, then naturally easing past that line at the bedroom door. I'd simply decided…

"Tonight's the night!"

Even worse, I announced my intentions to Mildred before him. Thank God he'd never found out that little detail or the explosion between us on the streets of Cannes would have been nuclear as opposed to merely scorching.

What was I thinking?

He hadn't been at all flattered or amused when I'd flung myself at him. It took me weeks after that night to admit to myself that he'd been stony in my arms as I'd kissed him, that his voice had been cool, detached to the point of disinterested. I think he was relieved, in a way, that Joelle had surprised us when we'd walked into his room.

I hadn't given any consideration to what he wanted… or, far worse, to what he needed. Had it been any other man, I would have accused him of falling victim to the caveman mentality of a man being the sexual aggressor. But I know better. That's not the case with my Mr. Steele. He's what some might call a 'throw back,' a man driven toward romance… a man driven to romance me.

And after years of waiting, he'd settle for nothing less.

Which takes me full turn: What's the deal?

A lovely dinner. Check. A romantic stroll on the beach. Check-check. Making out on the beach beneath a blanket of stars above us. Check-check-check.

So why had he backed away.

I can ask myself the same question a hundred times, but in truth, I already know the answer to the question. While he likes to pretend otherwise, I'm not the only one hesitant to cross that line into the bedroom. There have been times I have stepped closer, only for him to pull away. I'm not the only one who needs something in order for us to move forward, he does as well.

"I was thinking we might enjoy a fire, watch a bit of television?" He tugs at his ear while he speaks, drawling a flicker of my eyes. He's nervous. I can't help my smile, which makes him pull at the lobe again. "I could order us up a nice bottle of wine?"

Wine, yes. Wine might be exactly what we need.

"Sounds lovely," I tell him.