Chapter 1

It hadn't been an easy few days by anyone's standards. Hell, it hadn't been an easy few weeks, all beginning with Remington's hair-brained scheme to marry a rented hooker to solve his immigration woes, then Laura and Remington marrying on a tuna boat to the same end. But it hadn't ended there, of course. No, everything but the kitchen sink had been tossed at the embattled couple, who sorely needed time to decompress, get their thoughts in line… to do the one thing they'd struggled with for years to do, but in the months leading up to the stunt with the hooker had gotten much better at: to talk. Instead, their honeymoon had been hijacked, Remington had been frame for murder, they'd been hired by a fictitious client to chase a piece of art half way around the world, a castle had been inherited, they'd been embroiled in an espionage plot, and a father had been found, then lost. Oh, and there was the matter of a devious ex-lover of Remington's appearing in the midst of all of this and an archaeologist/INS agent/spy who was openly and avidly sniffing after Laura… when he wasn't using her for his own gain, that is.

Then, there was the big step. Despite the upheaval of their personal relationship wrought by his hooker-wedding plan, in the jungles of Mexico they'd vowed to finally cross that line. An act of desperation? Perhaps. It was a valid question: Was the refusal to move their relationship into the bedroom what was preventing them from finally, truly moving their relationship ahead? Of course, both refused to consider the very real possibility that making love would change absolutely nothing, could actually complicate things further. Yet, despite all the rest of the events in their lives, chaotically dragging them along, they'd remained steadfast in their determination to finally become lovers.

But first, there had been a con to put into play, and now a funeral to watch as it was broadcast across the British Isles. So here he sat, the depth of his grief at his loss of Daniel weighing heavily on his shoulders, staggering him when caught off guard. And here she lay, across his lap, cradled in his arms, doing what had become second nature to her across the years: protecting him in times of turmoil. In silence, they focused on the television in front of them.

"In London, a military funeral was held today for the man who spearheaded the exposure- and subsequent capture-of British Intelligence double agent, Sterling Fitch. In gratitude for his heroics, Daniel Chalmers was posthumously knighted."

Laura smiled softly. Daniel Chalmers, knighted. It would appeal to Daniel's vanity, and certainly, if still alive, he'd possessed the elan to carry off such an honor.

The news broadcast continued, flashing to a hero's burial occurring in Moscow:

"In a related ceremony in Moscow, a high ranking KGB official, Sergei Kemadov, was given a hero's burial, for what the Kremlin ambiguously described as 'assorted heroic activities on behalf of the state'." Her smile widened

Remington picked up the remote and turned off the TV, his normally straight shoulders bowed in his grief, the normal sparkle of mischief in his eyes dulled by sorrow.

"Only Daniel could end up being buried as a national hero in both London and Moscow," Laura observed, a laugh trickling through her voice. He nodded slowly, sadly.

"It's the ultimate con. He deserves nothing less." She moved her hand, lying it atop his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"You're a good son." He laughed softly, doubtfully, full unconvinced of that.

"I only wish I could have spent more time with him."

"On the other hand," she reminded him,, "You spent twenty years with him."

"Yeah." he agreed, then tossed the remote to another nearby couch and shifting position pulled her further up in his arms to gather her more tightly to him.

"Well, one thing's for certain," he said quietly, staring into her eyes, "I'm not going to waste precious time showing people who are close to me how I feel for them."

He bowed his head slightly towards her lips, and she lifted her head so their lips would meet. He brushed her lips with his, then kissed her, his mouth moving over hers softly, tenderly, trying to convey everything she meant to him in a single, breathtaking kiss as his hand slowly journeyed up her neck to stroke.

Laura moved suddenly out of his embrace. He dropped his now empty arms and looked away, feeling bereft by the sudden loss of her, before seeing her hand reaching out for his.

"Care to elaborate, Mr. Steele?" she asked, smiling invitingly at him.

"Well," he replied, standing then sweeping her off her feet and into his arms "We have the castle to ourselves- Mrs. Steele."

Laura closed the door to the salon behind them, as he walked with her in his arms towards the stairs. She glanced quickly around the room to see if anyone was nearby, and saw the large foyer was completely empty. She listened close and heard only the sounds of an empty house.

"Where are the servants?" she queried.

"Out celebrating," he told her. "I decided to give them the castle."

"Hmm. That was awfully generous of your lordship," she replied, running her hand down his chest and then brushing her lips across the area over top his heart.

"The act of a desperate lord, I assure you."

Suddenly remembering Mildred, she darted her head around Remington's shoulder, again looking around.

"Where's Mildred?

"I gave her to Mickeline."

"There's nothing between us and the bedroom door?" she asked, almost disbelievingly.

"Uh uh," he said, as he began to carry her up the stairs.

He spoke too soon. The phone on the foyer table trilled insistently and he cast a disbelieving look in its direction, knowing the woman in his arms would be unable to resist its siren's call. She never had been able to put them before a call, a knock on the door, business and she didn't disappoint now. She swung herself down to stand on her own two feet, a step above him.

"I'll get the phone. You turn down the covers," she said standing up on tip toe and kissing him.

"Hmmm hmmm," he nodded in agreement. He didn't argue. There was little point. Here a man was carrying her across a castle in his arms, prepared to do the same up two flights of stairs, then on to a room worthy of such a momentous occasion as them making love for the first time, and she was concerned with a blasted phone. Imitating a gun with his fingers, he took aim at the phone and fired. She laughed as he retreated upstairs, as suggested.

Jogging back down the few stairs between her and the foyer floor, she picked up the receiver of the phone.

"Hello?"

"Well, they finally released me," Roselli's voice came over the line.

"I never doubted it for a moment." She smiled, then cranked her head, watching, listening for Remington.

"I still think Steele's plan was a little risky."

"Kemadov cleared you, didn't he?" she asked,

"Laura, listen, what we talked about earlier- still stands."

"Laura!" Remington called to her from the bedroom. She glanced worriedly towards the bedroom upstairs.

"This really isn't the best time to discuss that, Tony."

"Laura, I'm not gonna give up on you." Her attention was drawn upstairs again.

"Laura! The bed's turned down!"

"I have to go. Right now," she said into the phone.

"Okay, when can I see you?"

"Fluffing up pillows!" Remington called down the stairs, drawing her focus again, as well as a smiled to her lips.

"Coming!" she called back, then into the receiver told Roselli, "I gotta go. Bye." She hung up the phone just as Remington walked down the first flight of stairs, stopping on the landing while casting her a weary look. She trotted up the stairs to him, had just turned to face him when the phone began to ring again. His shoulders fell, and bracing a hand on bannister, looked from the phone to her. Her eyes traveled the same path, a settled on the man before her.

"Let it ring," she told him. Pressing up on her tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

There was a moment's hesitation, then his arms embraced her, he leaned more fully into the kiss as he swung her back up into his arms, not a single word spoken. He carried her up the remaining stairs and into their room, swinging the door shut with a kick of a foot. Only then did he release her legs. She slid down his body, staying in his embrace, her arms returning to his neck. Their eyes met, held for long seconds, the significance of what would take place shortly lost on neither of them.

It was he who moved first. A hand leaving her waist, so that it might lift the heavy fall of her hair over her shoulder, so his hand might cup the lovely column of a neck, and draw her upwards to meet his descending lips. The tenderness with which his lips caressed hers, captivated her, sent shivers rioting over her skin. The poignancy of the moment was not lost on her. In this one kiss he was telling her, without ever speaking a word, that what was to come would not be a simple shag. Not in his eyes. Not between them. She stepped closer, drew her fingers through his hair, then settled a hand on the back of his head, pressing him nearer. She felt his sigh beneath her hand on his back, against her lips. He withdrew, lifted a hand, caressed her cheek as their eyes met, held.

"I never quite believed this day would come," he confessed quietly, his look of dazed disbelief confirming the honesty of the statement. "It seems…" he touched his lips to her left eye "I've waited…" then her right "Half a lifetime…" her left cheekbone "To get…" her right cheekbone "This close…" The tip of her chin "To hold you…" The tip of her nose "To make love to you…" his lips brushed featherlight against hers "To know…" he kissed her more firmly, then suckled on her bottom lip for a long moment "You are at last…"

The shrill ring of the phone in the foyer below, bounced off walls, echoed into their room, loudly, insistently, demanding not to be ignored. It effectively silenced his words, although he deepened the kiss, to sway her to keep near, to not back away. She stepped closer, opened her mouth to his questing tongue, hummed against his mouth. He said a prayer of thanksgiving when the insistent ringing ceased. Cupping her face in both hands, he delved deep, his tongue caressing hers, dancing with it, as he reveled in the familiar sweetness of her taste, too seldom experienced, but always cherished, remembered, craved. A hand slid behind her neck, keeping their mouths firmly latched together, as the other hand departed, dared to caress the gentle swell of her bottom. She pressed closer to him still, squirming against him at the sensation. Her reaction gave him the courage to ease a hand beneath her sweater. He hummed when his sensitive fingers felt the silken warmth of her skin beneath them, as he caressed the small of her back, traced the gentle curve of her waist.

Below stairs, the phone began to peel again.

Her fingers clutched his shoulders, pushed him away, their lips parting with a resounding 'pop'. Panting, he stared at her, noted her flushed skin, dazed eyes. He waited for her to reach for the hem of her sweater, to pull it over her head…

"I can't… I need…" she babbled. He reached out, cupping her neck, drawing her close again. His lips descended only to meet her cheek before she stepped away again. "The phone," she tried again.

Had she not been so dazed by his kisses, the feeling of his hands on her skin, had her blood not been roaring in her ears, her body shaking with need, she might not have missed the look of insulted disbelief that flashed through his eyes before they shuttered, closing himself off or the way he shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels. But she had missed all those signs as she turned towards the door, left the room.

It had been the last straw for him, as all the riotous emotions he'd shoved aside these last weeks swamped him, all the questions he'd patently ignored suddenly demanded answers. But her actions had made one thing clear: Things would never change between the two of them. Heat suffused his skin, part in humiliation, part because of the utter fury that roared through him like an angry wave crashing against the rocks during a violent storm. He strode past the bed they'd never shared, yanking open the closet door to where their joint belongings were stored, blindly grabbing first suitcase and garment bag, then arms full of clothing laying them on the bed. Meticulously, he hung suits and trousers, folded sweaters, which is how Laura found him when she returned.

She walked through the door, a smile on her face as she closed the door behind her. Her eyes scanned the vast room, surprised when she didn't find him waiting where she left him. When he saw him amongst the shadows, returning with another load of clothing from the closet, she stutter-stepped, blinked hard and drew in a sharp breath, her heart clenching.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice rising an octave in her confusion, as she took hesitant steps towards the bed.

"Who was on the phone?" he asked, patently ignoring her question. She blinked hard at both the question and the coolness with which it has been asked.

"I… I don't know," she answered, her eyes searching his face, picking apart his body language, as she tried to figure out what had made him change so suddenly from the tender, ardent, soon-to-be-lover she'd left, to the cool, granite hard man before her. "I disconnected it. Mr. Steele," her eyes widened when she saw him stiffen, his face infuse with red at her use of his name, "What is going on?"

"And the first time?" he asked, again sidestepping her question, but his discerning eyes coming to a rest on her face. His lips tightened into a thin line, his jaw twitched, when he saw a flicker of hesitation flash in her eyes. "Don't you dare lie to me, Laura," he bit out. "Not about us." She crossed her arms in front of herself, tilted her chin slightly upwards, showing a bit of defiance of her own.

"Tony," she clipped out. He gave his head a single, curt nod. It was then that she noticed for the first time, the bed upon which his belongings rested as he packed. The bed which had not been turned down, the pillows which had not been plumped. Anger and dismay warred within her. "But you knew that, didn't you?" Another curt nod was her answer. She watched as he crossed the room to the dresser he'd been using, while he removed pajamas, and undergarments.

"It's ironic, really," he muttered, almost to himself, as he passed her, returning to his suitcase.

"What is?"

"All these years, all the constant reminders you were unsure if I was worthy of your trust, never once did it occur to me to wonder if I could trust you," he seethed.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded to know, thoroughly affronted. A hand plunked down on her hip and she waved in a hand in front of her as she spoke. "I've never lied to you, I've never tried to put a fast one past you, I've—"

"Haven't you?" he bit out, cutting off her defense of herself. "How long had you known Daniel was my father, that he was ill?" Her skin blanched at the question, and her lips moved, but she never said a word. "I see, you've no answer for that one, eh? Let's try another, then, hmmm? Tell me, again, why it is you ended us last year?" The question caught her completely off-guard. She stumbled backwards a step, lay a hand against the base of her throat.

"I… I told you why," she stuttered at first, but her voice grew more confident as she went along, "You lost our license." He waited until her eyes met his, and she swallowed hard at seeing the white hot fury burning within those blue eyes which usually twinkled with amusement and mischief.

"Had I now?" The jaw twitched again, and his eyes left her to focus on the packing at hand. "I had time to think that evening, after you left saying... What was it again?" he mocked. "Ah yes, that we needed time apart, to consider whether we really shared anything in common, wasn't it?" He leveled furious eyes on her with the question, before returning his focus to the suitcase. "You were well aware the SBIL was investigating 'discrepancies" in the Agency files, files predating either my or Mildred's arrival, yet you absconded to… Where was it to again?"

"Mexico," she answered tightly, then, as she lifted fingers to brow to knead, defended again, "On a case."

"Ah, yes, yes. A case," he pretended to recall. "William Westfield, wasn't it?" he lifted his eyes to her, and bared his teeth as he said the name. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, absorbing the blow like a punch to the stomach. "Tell me, Laura, what is Antony Roselli to you, hmm?" Her eyes flew open, and she gave her head a shake at the sudden change of topic.

"Wha-… What?"

"A fairly simple question, don't you think?" he asked, sarcasm peppering each word. His eyes flicked to her, then away as he turned to the closet, retrieving his shoes. "I mean, he must hold some role in your life… some… interest…" he waved a hand in the air, mockingly, "For you to choose to converse with him right on the heels of leaving another man's arms as he was carrying you off to bed."

"Need I remind you, it's not me that's been pursuing him, but the opposite way around?" she countered, her own temper pricked by the question.

"When you're not busy rescuing his miserable hide, that is, right?" he posed acerbically. "As you were on the train to port?" Again, those eyes moved to her, watched her flinch, then moved away. "I must say, I've thought it over several times… indeed, pondered it into the wee hours of the morning many times over, and I can't quite recall…" he left the statement unfinished, knowing she'd be unable to resist the bait. Maddeningly, in her eyes, he zipped shut his garment bag, folded over and buckled it, without finishing his thought.

"Can't recall, what?" she enjoined.

"Sorry, sorry," he held up a hand, feigning distraction when they both knew otherwise. "I can't recall single time in these four years I've been courting you, undercover or not, that you've ever sat in my lap as we kissed, have encourage me to explore your mouth at my leisure, permitted me to allow my hands to roam freely wherever they wished…" His eyes shot arrows at her, "Or when you left my embrace panting like a…" He held up a hand, stopping himself before he finished that thought. Her hands returned to her hips and that chin tipped back again.

"Oh, for God's sake, is that what all this is about?" she demanded to know. "Jealousy?!"

"It's not, although it's not an emotion either of us are immune to, is it?" he countered. "Just how many times have you frozen me out for days… weeks solid, even, because you imagined I'd dallied with another woman? Felicia. Millicent. Anna. Joelle. Shannon. Those are but five names which come readily to mind," his voice continued to rise as he spoke, until it thundered across the room. "Yet, not once… not once!... did I do what I was accused of, let alone force you to watch as you did me on the train, in my flat! Enjoying it, none the less, knowing you were thrusting a knife into my gut, again and again!" She sucked in a harsh breath, reeling from both the accusation and the naked hurt which contorted his face. Still, her pride demanded payback for the former.

"Unless, of course, you consider me walking in on you trying to marry the hooker!" she screeched back at him.

"Nothing has ever gone on between myself and Clarissa, not because it wasn't offered, but because there was only one woman I wished to be with!" With those words, he deflated before her eyes, shoulders slumping, and a hand reached up to rub against a forlorn face. "I hired her to get me out of the mess with the INS, while making it clear there would never be anything more between us than a piece of paper with both our names upon it. Don't you think I wish I could go back, do it all over again? I do. Do I wish to God I could take back the way I hurt you? I do!" He crossed the room to lean his backside against the window sill, where only days before Laura had assisted Roselli out of the window. His anger was revitalized by the memory, his voice rising again as he continued. "I'm asking you again, Laura, what is Antony Roselli to you?" She pressed the fingers of both hands against her forehead in frustration, then dropped them and looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"I've made it clear to him that I can't leave you." Her brows furrowed, the second she realized her mistake.

"Can't," he bit out. "As if I'm an obligation, a job, as opposed to the man you've been committed to for near on a year now, the man that's waited four goddamned years for you!" he thundered the last. "Tell me, Laura, what is it about the man that makes you think so highly of him, hmmm? His looks, his mannerisms? Although, come to think of it, he does bear some resemblance to Butch Beamis, and we both know how quickly you succumbed to him, don't we?" She drew in a harsh breath, her eyes widening in shocked disbelief at what he was implying, acknowledging it for the insult it was meant to be. "Or perhaps it's because he's a man of such honesty, integrity?"

"Maybe it's nothing more than he didn't see me as second best to a hooker!" she retaliated.

"Tell me, then, what was tonight about, eh? Nothing more than to sate your curiosity after four years of waiting?" His voice turned bitter. "Or had you planned to give me a ride, then take him out for a test drive, weigh the pros and cons of both performances in that ever logical mind of yours and make a decision: him or me?" He hadn't seen it coming. He should have, because whether or not he'd thought the question in his mind, it should never have been given voice. In four long, graceful strides, she crossed the room, reared back her left arm, and slapped him so soundly across his face, his head snapped to the side, and the sound echoed in the room. Her hands flew to her mouth as she stumbled backwards several steps and her eyes widened in horror at what she'd done.

"I'm sorry," the words tumbled from her mouth, "That was uncalled for." He held up a hand and flexed his jaw.

"No apologies necessary, Miss Holt," he assured her as he stood, "I was out of line." Without another word, he crossed the room and retrieved his overnight bag from the closet, then moved to the bathroom to pack up the remainder of his belongings there. He saw her reflection in the mirror when she came to stand in the door. He averted his eyes, and swept everything belonging to him off the counter and into his bag with a single stroke of his arm.

"Reming-"

"Don't," he barked, the single word carrying every piece of the injury felt that she'd dare to call him by that name now. "Don't you dare choose, now, this moment, to call me by that name." He came to a stop before her, his face hard, implacable. When she finally stepped aside, he swept past her, striding with purpose across the room to sling his garment bag over his shoulder. She didn't know what to say to him, had never seen him this angry, this… hurt.

"Stop," she finally, blurted out as he leaned over to pick up his suitcase. "You stay. It's your castle. You should be here. I'll move to another room." She began walking towards the closet, when his next words stopped her in her tracks.

"That's not necessary, you can use the room, stay as long as you wish." His words set off alarm bells in her mind.

"Where are you going to be?" she asked, her hands clenching into fists at her sides, as she fervently prayed he didn't utter the words she knew to her very core were next to come.

"I can't do this any longer," he answered, his back to her, his voice dulled by the exhaustion that had suddenly taken hold. "I'm tired, Laura, and I've nothing left to fight with. I have been in love with you for so long I'm not quite even certain when it happened and have done all that I can to make you believe that: I stayed, I changed, I committed to you; I have remained faithful to you since the day Creighton Phillips passed through our lives, when first you gave me hope we might have a future. For four years, you have been the first thing I think about each morning when I wake, the last thing I think of when I fall to sleep." He sighed heavily, and rubbed a hand across his face. Behind him, she pressed her hands to her face, tried to muffle the sob that was ripped from her throat by his words, but couldn't. "But I'll never be enough for you, you'll never allow it to happen. There will always be a new reason you have to 'guard against me'… another William Westfield, Antony Roselli… if for no other reason than because they're not me. I'm just a man, Miss Holt. I'll never be perfect, and you'll never accept anything less of me."

"You promised me you wouldn't leave," she rasped, her voice thick with tears. He nodded, slowly.

"I did. And I'm not now, not by choice, at least," he answered, his own voice thick. "Like all the homes of my childhood, I wasn't enough for you to keep me, just for me. We both know the day you found me attempting that foolhardy marriage to Clarissa, I gave you the perfect justification you'd been waiting for and you mentally sent me on my way. You said as much in Mexico, although I failed to listen."

"I was just thinking, why do we put up with all of this. Why it never seems to get any easier."

"You mean why we don't just give up and, uh, go our separate ways?"

"But, you certainly made your intent loud and clear with Antony. Made certain, if you will, that I got it through my thick head there's nothing left here to fight for, though Christ knows I clung as long as I could to the belief that there was." She watched as his hand slipped into his overnight bag, pulled something out, then tossed it on the bed before crossing the room and reaching for the doorknob.

"Mr. Steele!" she called out to him, desperately. "Don't do this."

"Remington Steele doesn't exist, never has." Pressing two fingers to his lips, he laughed quietly, sardonically. "Although I certainly did my best to bring him to life… for you. Funny that. I'd managed to convince myself it was who I was, who I was meant to be." He nodded his head slowly to himself, gave a sad laugh. "But not you. Never you. You're far too clever for that." He swung open the bedroom door. "Goodbye, Miss Holt."

With those final words, he left, never looking back, the latch of the door clicking with absolute finality. White noise roared through her head, her vision clouded, and she would swear until her dying day that she felt her heart crack as a deep, yawing chasm opened there. Stumbling across the room, she grabbed blindly, frantically at whatever it was he'd left behind on the bed. What she found took her legs out from under her, and she landed hard on the floor. Turning to curl up against the side of the bed, she clutched it in both hands. He couldn't have said with any more conviction that he'd severed all ties with the life he'd claimed for his own, than he had by leaving it behind. For she held what he'd once claimed was the most precious gift he'd ever received:

The passport of Remington Steele.