It was Friday afternoon and three days after the events with Dancer/Anthony Delgetti and Wally Donovan, and Laura Holt was uneasy. Her reaction wasn't logical, since both men were locked away. Dancer's bond had been withdrawn and, after his round of witness tampering, his was a one-way trip to the Federal penitentiary. His sudden reappearance and violent attacks against his trial witnesses, including Laura, Steele, and Mildred, were meant to terrify. But in the aftermath of Major Descoine's sadistic revenge against Remington Steele Investigations several years ago, Laura had vowed never to be intimidated by a vengeful criminal from a past case. No, she wouldn't lose sleep over Dancer.
As for Wally…well, once his competency hearings were complete, he'd never be a free man either, and Laura drew satisfaction from that. The discovery that Wally had been stalking her, and in fact had violated her life and home and those close to her, had infuriated Laura in a way neither Dancer nor Descoine could touch. Immediately after his arrest, she'd spotted his computer and had a sudden suspicion that he'd watched her from more than just the fire escape. She had raced upstairs and, aided by the police, prowled her loft and located the hidden camera from which Wally had watched her as she went about her daily life. Dressing for work. Emerging from the shower. Working at the barre. The police seized the camera as evidence, too fast for Laura to grab the device and pound it into smithereens. She wanted to burn the photos and negatives of herself that comprised Wally's sick shrine about her, but the police had seized those, too. The D.A. was a personal acquaintance and he swore to Laura that purloined pictures of her in various stages of undress would not be circulating amongst the police. Yeah. Right. She'd heard those empty promises, however well meant, during her years at Havenhurst, and she knew there would again be compromising photos of herself that decorated the insides of police lockers across LA for months and maybe years to come.
It was something she learned to live with. It was the price of being a female PI.
Naturally, she'd soft-pedaled to Mr. Steele what she and the police had found. It was an ironic blessing that the broken leg had kept her partner from seeing the nauseating wall of photos that papered Wally's sick shrine. Steele would either have riposted a bon mot about Wally seeing more of her than he ever had, or he'd have beaten Wally to a pulp. She rather suspected the latter, as she was well aware of the dark side to Mr. Steele that he nearly always kept carefully masked. Perhaps Wally got away better than he deserved.
Laura sighed. She could handle the Major Descoines's in her life. She could handle the Dancer's and Wally's as well, given time and emotional distance. What she wasn't certain how to handle, and what still made her uneasy these three days later, was an unasked-for aftermath to that bizarre case.
And this was, quite unexpectedly, Mr. Steele himself.
Dealing with him had been easy, at first. He'd been lucky in that his broken leg wasn't as severe as it could have been and, after casting the cracked tibia and holding him over night, the hospital released him home. Which meant that Laura and Mildred had to deal with an immobile Mr. Steele, once again trapped in his apartment with a heavily-plastered broken leg and unable to do anything more exciting that smash another set of champagne glasses. Thank goodness for Crate and Barrel. Meanwhile, he fretted over missed fencing lessons. A fundraiser for film preservation. His inability to cook a proper meal because he couldn't reach the stove.
Mildred, of course, had no tolerance for his pity party. She'd promptly marched out and, to Laura's amusement, returned to his bedroom an hour later to drop a heavy plastic shopping bag atop his plastered leg. "Ouch!" he'd protested and poked with suspicion at the bag. "What is this? An anvil?"
"The Complete Films of Humphrey Bogart on VHS."
His face transformed into the kid who'd just burgled the candy store. Or found Laura naked. "Really?" He began to eagerly rummage through the bag, but Mildred's next words stopped him.
"Forty hours of Bogie," she said, channeling her inner Nurse Ratchet. "So suck it up, buster, and stop whining." She still hadn't forgiven him over the passports.
Laura gazed at the incomplete pile of paperwork that sat before her at her desk and wished her own problem with Mr. Steele could be fixed that easily.
The problem had arisen when she'd stopped by his apartment after work to share Wally's psychiatric files that the D.A. had kindly forwarded to her. She'd found him, handsome as always in pajamas and robe and ensconced in a personal midden of blankets, video tapes and a book about Tolstoy in London. She had anticipated just a nice, professional chat about the case. Something to take Steele's mind off his predicament. Instead, Steele had sent her own mental state into a tizzy. "You know, Laura," he said as soon as Nurse Ratchet and her thermometer had disappeared, "we've been so busy exploring and defining our personal relationship, we've begun to take the professional side for granted. Then something like this comes along and forces one to reevaluate."
His comments caught her out to sea. Professional side? What's wrong with our professional side? Puzzled, she asked, "What, exactly, are we reevaluating?"
"Is this a line of work you want to pursue for the rest of your life?"
The question was so unexpected that she took a seat at the edge of his bed, stalling for time as she tried to figure out where he was headed with this. Was this one of his usual glib questions? Or one of the rare serious ones? When in doubt, prevaricate. "I haven't really given it much thought." Which wasn't precisely true, because what she really meant to say was, "I've never given it any thought whatsoever. I love my job. I love this work. Even when the crazies come after us."
But Mr. Steele had continued, and followed a tangent that caught her completely off-guard. "I mean, for instance, what if you had children? Just for instance? Would you intend to continue working? Would you make the little tykes breakfast, then rush off to a nice juicy murder? I mean, would you call them to apologize for not picking them up at school because you were being held hostage?"
She blinked. Where on earth did this come from? And then a brief panic struck her. Oh, my god. My mother called him to find out what happened. Did Frances start this after seeing the papers? She'd grill Frances later. No need to blame Mr. Steele.
At least, not yet.
She decided to treat his question with light amusement. Unconcerned. With just the right level of protest that could serve to distract. "Mr. Steele, are you saying that a woman's place is in the home?"
"Well…" Then he reached for her and she let him draw her into his arms. Desire flared in those blue eyes and held hers. "I was thinking of a more specific area," he murmured seductively and then glanced pointedly at the empty half of the bed beside him. Gave her a suggestive look.
She snuggled in closer so they touched noses. He was warm and desirable and everything she wanted.
And Mildred was in the kitchen next door making tea.
"Tell her to go away," he murmured as he nuzzled her ear. When had he become so good at reading her thoughts? "I have the only care-giver I need."
"I don't want to raise your temperature," she teased.
"That's not the only thing you've raised." He wiggled his hips suggestively, and Laura suddenly laughed and mock-widened her eyes.
"Why, Mr. Steele? Do you mean that's not your cast?" And at his astonished expression she giggled, and they continued to jest and flirt until Mildred returned with hot tea and a change in conversation.
She had successfully derailed his question, that time. But his words echoed and haunted her through the rest of the week. Because once again, Mr. Steele was perceptively, impossibly right. Laura Holt did have those dreams and did ask those questions. And she'd dismissed them as impracticable long ago. Surely he wouldn't have asked those questions on his own, unprompted? Someone must have put him up to it.
Because to consider the alternative, that he actually wanted to know her answer, was far too dangerous.
So when she got home that evening, she grilled her sister, because they'd had a case that involved the Piper family a little while back with a dead man in her kitchen. Frances protested innocence. Of course. Laura then practiced meditative breathing and called her mother, who had heard nothing about the events and instead threatened to descend for a visit over Easter. Damn. It was always a gamble to call her mother.
And so Laura was left with a puzzle that made her uneasy, because she couldn't figure out what it was that prompted Steele's question.
Apart from that major distraction, the remainder of her Steele-free work week had been amazingly productive. There was an easy skip-trace, followed by a straight-forward search for Vigilance Insurance to locate a missing heir, which she'd brought Mildred into to build her experience. It was all so tiresomely trivial that that the cases could have been solved by the mother she was trying to avoid. She hadn't needed to tow Mr. Steele in her wake either, and his absence probably improved her productivity as well.
No, Mr. Steele wasn't around to interrupt her work or disrupt her concentration or flirt over his desk. It could have felt quite lonely.
Could have, except for one important fact. Mr. Steele was trapped in his apartment with a broken leg and telephoned her hourly out of sheer boredom.
In other words, he was driving her crazy.
Which probably meant that things were back to normal.
She missed him dreadfully.
So now it was Friday and she was wrapping up the report for Vigilance when the telephone on her desk buzzed. "Yes?" It was more of a sigh than genuine interest, because it was going on three p.m. and she knew precisely who the caller would be.
"Mr. Steele's on the line. Again."
"Again." She rubbed wearily at her nose, a very Steele-like gesture. "Put him through, Mildred."
"Laura, Laura, Laura!" caroled his familiar tenor voice over the receiver. He managed to sound both pitiful and sexy. How did he do it?
She suppressed a smile. "Yes, Mr. Steele? What is it this time? Did your remote go AWOL? Can't find your copy of Double Indemnity? Run out of champagne glasses?"
"Laura. I wouldn't waste your valuable time on such trivialities."
"Oh, yes, you would. You've moaned about nothing else for the past three days."
"Day Three of being trapped in this bed! While you dash about investigating murders and handsome clients make passes at you!"
She gave up on trying not to smile. "They weren't very handsome, Mr. Steele…Well, most of them."
"See! I knew there'd be trouble as soon as my back was turned!"
"Just relax and enjoy your days in bed. I seem to recall that you like laying around and not working."
"It's difficult to enjoy a bed when there's only one person in it. I have just the idea on how to fix it. Eh?"
She could see that raised eyebrow and hopeful look, and her smile widened. "I should think that enormous cast would put a kibosh on any proceedings."
"It damn well does," he now grumbled. "Don't you remember? We had a lovely evening planned for tonight. Until this. An early dinner at Mario's. Followed by tickets to the MGM film restoration gala."
"I remember."
"And even more stars than last year!"
"I remember. You wanted to meet Esther Williams."
"And Donald O'Connor. And Jane Powell." He sighed. "Especially Jane Powell."
"I also remember that the orthopedist said no activity until after your follow-up appointment on Monday."
"Bloody unfair," he sulked. "Why couldn't Wally have sabotaged my elevator next week?"
This was the third time today they'd had this exact conversation. Not to mention twice yesterday. "Now, Mr. Steele. I'm sure things will work out. I'll see you in –" She glanced again at her watch. Her plain Jane watch. Not the expensive one Wally had given her. "-in an hour and a half. Maybe two, if traffic's thick."
She could hear his enormous sigh. "I'll be waiting. And don't forget to pick up the things I asked for. Duct tape and heavy-duty garbage bags."
"Duct tape and trash bags," she echoed. "You wouldn't by chance be going all Raymond Burr on me? You know. He was the dismembering murderer in Rear Window?"
Steele's voice turned frosty. "Do not mention Rear Window in my presence ever again."
Laura laughed. "We'll watch The Great Escape instead. See you shortly."
She was still smiling as she hung up. What Mr. Steele didn't know was that she had arranged their own Great Escape for the evening. That happy expectation kept her working steadily for another hour.
At four Laura surrendered to the inevitable, packed her briefcase, and decided her work day was done. Seated at her receptionist desk and finishing her own self-imposed tasks before the weekend, Mildred Krebs took in the briefcase, handbag, and light jacket, and her eyebrows rose.
"Miss Holt, you're not leaving already, are you?"
"Why not? We've wrapped up the week's work. Take yourself home and have a nice weekend."
"Thanks, but not quite yet, hon. I wanna get the boss's insurance claims finished and into the post before the weekend." She took in Laura's appearance. "Got plans for the weekend?"
"We did, but they changed. Mr. Steele originally planned dinner at Mario's and then he had tickets for the film restoration society's reception."
"Oh, no! Was that tonight?" Her face fell. "Oh, he was talking about that for weeks. It'll break his heart, not being able to attend."
Laura rolled her eyes. "Tell me about it. That's what all of today's calls were about. It's driving him crazy. It's driving me crazy, too."
Mildred tapped a pencil against her chin, suddenly thoughtful. "Do you suppose our insurance goes as far as to cover a day nurse? I love the boss as much as you do, Miss Holt, but I can't be turning up every two hours to make him coffee or change his VCR tapes."
"He has a remote control." Then Laura sighed a little, relenting. "But I do feel guilty about his situation. He fell down the elevator shaft because my phone call distracted him. And that happened because Wally was infatuated with me. At least I can make it up to him."
"Sounds like a good plan to me, hon. Stop playing games and have a quiet weekend being honest with each other. See you Monday, then." Good ol' Dr. Krebs.
Laura quickly ran her errands, then stopped at her loft to change before heading to Steele's Rossmore apartment. She admitted herself with her key and called, "Hello? It's me."
"Laura!" There was no disguising the delight in his voice as it caroled from the bedroom, and Laura followed it to the source. As she expected, she found her partner lying in bed, looking handsome in his blue robe and burgundy pajamas and buried beneath a chaos of VCR and television remotes, video tapes, and his movie buff magazines. Laura had dressed carefully before heading to his place and, as she hoped, his eyes lit as he took her in.
"Ahh. A beautiful woman is exactly what this invalid needs to behold." Laura wore a floor-length dress that was slit partly up one side and draped softly in all the right places. Her hair was pinned up and long earrings dangled to frame her slim neck. High heels extended the view of her long legs, because her Mr. Steele was definitely a leg man.
She set down his shopping bag and swirled to give him a full view. "I'm glad you like it."
"I definitely approve," he said warmly. Then his face fell. "And who's the lucky fellow who gets to enjoy this delightful view tonight?"
Laura frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You are dressed for an evening out. Not for an evening with a house-bound invalid. The last time I was laid up with a damned broken leg, you tootled off to interview a new round of desirable bachelors. Since I'm not in the office to keep a proper eye on things, I can only assume you've been seduced by one of our clients. Who's the bloke I have to assassinate?"
She grinned at his little fork of jealousy. "Ah. No clients, I'm afraid. I wrapped up the week's caseload. It's Friday night and I'm fancy-free." She sashayed into his room. "And there's only one eligible bachelor I'm interested in."
An eyebrow rose as he flirted back. "Oh? Should I know the lucky fellow?"
"I should think so," she said as she settled on the edge of his bed. She tweaked a dark forelock that had fallen out of place. "And I'm here to bust him out, in a manner of speaking."
His arm settled around her waist and he pulled her closer. "Breaking prison sounds delightful, but I'm not going anywhere. You heard the orthopedist. Immobile for a week so the bones knit properly. He's fussing since it's the same place as my last one."
"Well, there's immobile. And then there's immobile."
A hand traveled up her arm and sent electrical sparks shooting beneath the thin fabric of her sleeve. "There's something to be said," he allowed huskily, "for a quiet evening at home. With the right person." Laura's face tipped upward and met his for a series of short, playful nips and kisses that only served to intoxicate. It was with reluctance that Laura eventually pulled away.
"Did you have a good day?"
"Not half as interesting as yours, I'm sure. They Drive by Night in the morning, followed by a nap. Dark Victory with lunch, followed by a nap. The Great Houdini just wrapped up. I felt for Tony Curtis." He sighed melodramatically. "This penchant for leg-breaking grows weary. I'd happily exchange it for a cosh on the old noggin. Or a broken arm. Cracked rib. Injured foot."
"Look at the bright side. At least it's not your femur. Then you'd be in traction."
"This is supposed to cheer me up?"
"No, but this will," and she leaned forward to deposit a gentle kiss on his lips.
That indeed did brighten him, and his hand came up and around to tangle into her hair and pull her into an answering kiss. "I'm feeling better already," he murmured as he nuzzled an ear. "I'd recommend more of that therapy."
She kissed him again, letting lips caress his enticingly, and then pulled back with a smile. "I have something else to improve the patient's mood."
He grinned back. "I can think of something that would brighten my mood."
"That's for dessert. Assuming you can maintain your strength."
"Oh, I can certainly manage that."
She nodded toward his bathroom. "Then get out of bed and change. We have plans for the evening, starting with Mario's."
"Mario's?!" Blue eyes went wide and his voice rose a notch. "What? Dressed like this? In pajamas and velvet track pants?" He slapped a hand against the cast, then winced. "Hardly up to Mario's standards."
Laura blinked. "Velvet track pants?" Then she dropped a playful kiss on his lips. "Go freshen up. Dinner's still on."
Alarm abruptly replaced frustration as he considered what she'd just said. "Laura. You're not going to…cook for us, are you?"
But she only grinned. "Never fear. Mama has your evening all taken care of."
"Does Mama forget I'm in a wheelchair?"
"Listen to your mama. Dress nicely."
She knew she'd piqued his curiosity. He obediently scooted over and cautiously swung his good right leg over the edge of the bed, followed by the bad left one. Laura passed him his crutches and stood protectively nearby as he deftly maneuvered himself into a standing position.
"You're getting good at that," she quipped, and he pulled a face.
"Let's not make a habit of this, eh?" he grumbled and glanced about the bedroom. "Laura, where's those items I asked for? I'm desperate for a shower and a long stick that fits inside this cast."
"They're here." She handed him the purchases, still puzzled at the request. He disappeared into the bathroom, and moments later she heard the sounds of ripped tape and rattling plastic. Ahh…She grinned in comprehension. Nothing – not even an enormous plaster cast – would keep her Mr. Steele from less than sartorial splendor.
While Steele showered, she disappeared into the living room and returned with one of his tuxedo's which she'd collected from his tailor; she had swiped it from him the other day when he wasn't looking and the man, when he learned of his client's plight, had made a special effort. Laura hung the suit against one of the mirrored closet doors where Steele couldn't miss seeing it, then returned to the kitchen and put together a salad. She opened a bottle of burgundy from Steele's wine cabinet and set the table for dinner for two. As she made the finishing romantic touches with candles, the apartment door buzzed and she greeted the new arrival.
"Good evening, Miss Holt," greeted Mario himself. "How is Mr. Steele this evening?"
"Grouchy and uncomfortable. He won't be chasing murderers in the near future."
"Nor escorting beautiful women to dinner." He gestured at the insulated hamper he carried. "Where would you like me to put this?"
From the bedroom came a plaintive, "Laauu-raaa?" and she pulled a face. "The kitchen, please," she said, dropping her voice so Steele wouldn't overhear. "The oven is set to warm. What do I owe you?"
"I'll send you a bill. I know you're good for it."
There came a second, more insistent, "Lauuur-raaaa?" and she hastened to the bedroom to find a half-dressed Steele perched at the bed's edge. His dress shirt was open and presented an enticing view of his sexy bare chest. She swallowed – down, girl – and then bit her lip with suppressed amusement as she realized the source of his frustration was a battle of pulling on a pair of loose - good gad! – track pants of royal blue crushed velvet.
Velvet track pants!? Where on earth did those come from!?
He was completely unself-conscious as he battled with the stretch pants. It was something that always puzzled her, that he was completely unashamed about states of partial undress, despite both his fashion fastidiousness and the opportunity to make a pass at her. He was an endearing mix of practical and romantic.
"Laura, I'm sorry," he was now grumbling, "the hem seems to be caught somewhere on the plaster and I can't reach it." And, indeed, she could see that the fabric had snagged on the ragged plaster edges surrounding his exposed toes.
She could also clearly see he was wearing a pair of snug-fitting briefs that showed him to every possible advantage.
Her mouth went dry and she hastily tore her attention back to his foot. "Um, here. Let me…" She knelt before him and slipped her hands beneath the cuff to work the fabric free. "Here we go," and she made the mistake of glancing up. Straight into his crotch.
He was still grumbling and grousing, but just then he glanced at her and saw her reaction, for his annoyance suddenly vanished and that seductive look reappeared. "Of course," he murmured, his breath warm against her, "we could just forego dinner and head straight for the main course."
"Miss Holt?" It was a man's voice. Mario's.
Steele froze. His features turned thunderous. "There's another man in my apartment?"
She grinned at his discomfort and rose, taking refuge in distraction. "Well, with you out of commission, I had to compromise." She crossed the room, unhooked the tuxedo trousers from their hanger, and tossed them at him. "Forgo the track suit. Try these on, instead."
"In case you haven't noticed, my leg is in a cast."
"I noticed. So I got you a present." She shook open the trousers and proceeded to demonstrate. With the soft tear of hook-and-loop tape, she showed him that the left outside seam fully opened so he could secure the fabric leg around his cast; the tailor had even added extra fabric to fully enclose the leg.
She smiled. "Remington Steele would never show up wrinkled."
Jealously turned like quicksilver to delight. "Laura. For me?"
"A special effort from your tailor. He doesn't want you to look less than perfect, either."
"Thank you." She started to turn away, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back, gently. "Who's the man?"
"Get dressed and find out." She kissed him warmly but briefly and headed out.
Mr. Steele didn't dither. She and Mario had just placed the heated food plates on the dining table when Steele appeared, negotiating carefully on his crutches. He took in the fully decorated table, the candles, the covered food dishes…and the familiar man standing beside the table with a white towel draped across his sleeve. An enormous grin lit Steele's features.
"Mario! But…how?"
The gentleman inclined his head toward Laura. "Thank your Miss Holt. She explained what happened and ordered dinner. I just came personally to assure myself that one of my favorite clients was still in good condition."
"Mario, thank you!"
He gestured at the table and lifted a silver lid from each plate. "Veal piccatta for you, with the perfect balance of lemon and capers. And mushroom and spinach ravioli for the lady."
"But you have a restaurant to run."
"I do. And so I must go. Have a lovely evening, Mr. Steele. Miss Holt."
"Thank you, Mario," said Laura and gave him a quick peck on the cheek as she showed him the door. She returned to find her partner still staring at the table. He looked a little stunned.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Steele?"
"Laura…This…" He waved a hand at the table. At her. At his tuxedo.
"If you're going to make a habit of breaking your leg," she teased, "then I thought we'd better develop a better plan to deal with it." Her expression softened with affection. "Besides, I knew how much you wanted to attend the gala tonight."
"But…my leg? Doctor's orders?"
"I did promise that I'd figured it out. Now, how about we eat before Mario's marvelous cooking grows cold?"
He didn't say the words, but as he carefully settled into his seat and passed Laura his crutches to lean against the wall, she strongly suspected that the warm look he gave her was one of love.
In his later years, Remington was occasionally overheard to say that the evening at the MGM gala was one of his favorites ever. MGM once claimed it had as many stars in its studio as there were stars in the ferment, and that night he met so many of his companions from those lonely, early years when he could only dream for the possibility of a better life. Typically, even in that crowd of stars he drew more than his share of attention, and that night, looking sexy in his tuxedo and dapper in his wheelchair, he found himself the center of attention. After all, the great detective Remington Steele was definitely news. He posed with Esther Williams and laughed at Van Johnson's stories, he melted into an absolute fanboy in front of Deanna Durbin, and nearly hyperventilated when introduced to a wryly amused Myrna Loy.
But his favorite moment amidst all those magical stars became preserved among the photos on the wall of the Agency office. A photographer at the event had captured him with Laura. She wore that deep navy gown with sequins that reminded him of a starlit Mediterranean night sky. He was elegant in black tie and tuxedo and was seated in his wheelchair, his leg sticking out in its black tuxedo pant. Laura was seated on the good side of his lap with her head resting against his. Every time he looked at the photo, he could again hear the music from the live orchestra as the musicians played movie music excerpts, and still feel Laura's warmth against him, while his hand that wasn't draped about her gently rolled one of the chair's wheels in time with the music, a little forward and a little back, as they swayed in rhythm and close-danced in his wheelchair. Jimmy Stewart was quoted the next day saying that it was one of the most romantic things he'd ever seen. And Jimmy Stewart was a man who knew something about romance. Not to mention being stuck in a wheelchair.
They might have "danced" until the wee hours, except Laura noticed her companion was starting to flag, and betrayed that the exertion might have been too much for his still-healing body.
"Come on, Cinderella," she teased, "time to take you home before your carriage turns into a pumpkin."
"Nonsense, Laura, the night is just begin—" The rest of his sentence ended in an enormous yawn.
The parking attendants helped Laura collapse the wheelchair and place it in the Auburn's rear seat – "Careful, eh? Those are leather seats" – followed by Laura's firm admonition, "No, you are not driving."
They rode home in companionable silence, and their amicability continued as Laura pulled into the Rossmore's garage. "Here, let me help you get upstairs," and he didn't object as she wrestled the chair from the car, unfolded it, and helped him inside. He prattled on – still a fanboy – about the celebrities they'd met that evening as she helped wheel him to the elevator and escorted him upstairs. She let him maneuver to reach his door and unlock it, and, always the gentleman, he gestured her inside first.
"Nightcap?" he asked as he followed her inside.
"That would be lovely. A small sherry, please."
"Dreadfully ungentlemanly, but I'll ask you to fetch the glasses and pour. Otherwise I'll be running low on stemware."
She smiled. "I don't mind." She poured for them both, and as she crossed the room to offer his glass, he reached out to touch her hand.
"You never do mind, do you?"
She shrugged, always uncomfortable with praise. "I'm just glad to help." He had leveraged himself out of the wheelchair and onto the sofa, his leg propped on the coffee table. Laura opted to sit beside him, one bare foot tucked beneath her and turned a little to face him.
"It was more than a little help this evening," he continued quietly. "I was moaning about missing our dinner and reception, and you made it happen."
"I know how much you counted on this evening. It seemed a shame to let Wally ruin it."
"It was far from ruined. It was magical. Thank you."
"For a wonderful evening?"
"For being you. I'm all too aware that I don't thank you enough."
"Seeing your reaction when you were introduced to Myrna Loy was thanks enough. For a moment, I thought you were about to pass out."
He grinned. "For a moment, I almost did!" As the silence relapsed, he toyed with the stem of his glass for some moments, thinking. Then he said, "Funny how it all works out, isn't it? Filming all those movies was just a job for the people we met tonight. And yet, those movies were a lifesaver for me. A warm fleapit to kip when it was too cold to sleep rough. A world to disappear into when the beatings occurred, or to keep the mind off hunger. A place to pretend I was loved." He looked over, then, at the beautiful woman seated quietly beside him. Neat and collected, as if she'd always been there.
"I never expected that any of those fantasy worlds could come true. And yet, here I am. Respected. Comfortable. And most amazing of all, I have you to share it with. You who made it all possible."
"You grew into the role," she said gently. "I won't say it's been easy. We've had more than our share of differences."
"True. Perhaps because we both care so strongly, eh?"
"Perhaps."
"What I really want to say, is that having you in my life is what makes it so wonderful."
She smiled back. "I'm glad to be part of it, too."
Their easy silence stretched as soft jazz from the stereo flowed about them. Finally, Laura set her barely touched drink on the table before her. Placed her hands against the front of her skirt, as if to smooth the fabric. "Well. I should be going." Her chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders, and the light from the fireplace made her freckles dance. She was so beautiful, and his heart turned over.
And then he said what he'd been wanting to say all evening. Perhaps all of his life. He reached for her hand and didn't release it. "Don't go."
"I can stay a little longer," she said, misinterpreting his meaning.
"No." He held her gaze. "Don't. Go."
She looked at him sharply, and he added, "I don't mean it that way," and gestured at his casted leg. "I mean, I do. But I can't do half of what I'd want to, no matter how powerful the desire."
"Then…what?"
He looked away, then. Rubbed a knuckle against his nose. "I'm, ah, I guess I'm not ready to see you leave yet."
"But I can be back tomorrow." She still wasn't understanding. He tried again.
"That's not what I mean, Laura."
Finally, she looked away, and her cheeks were pinked with color. "Well. I guess it wouldn't hurt to stay. You could use the help, I'm sure. I'll get the pillows and sheets from your closet—"
"Not that, Laura. I want us together. I want to hold you all night. I want to awaken in the morning with you in my arms."
"Are you asking if I want to go all the way?" She looked at him with the same trusting gaze she'd given him four years ago, when she held his fate in her hands and he had told Murphy that his future would be decided by Laura and no one else.
"I want to ravish you," he said honestly, and her eyes widened. "I want to make love with you until your skin burns and time ends. But…I can't like this." He gestured at his cast. "And I won't until, if and when, we're both ready."
"I want to," she said, surprising him. "If, and when, we're ready. But why now? Why the sudden need tonight?"
He fell silent, then, his gaze focused on the gas fireplace. When he finally started to speak, he addressed its dancing flames. "I almost lost you again, Laura. The other day…It was the longest hour of my life. I called your loft, and the phone rang and rang as I waited for someone to pick up and tell me you were safe. All I could think as I waited, not knowing…I couldn't imagine what my life would be like if you were no longer in it." He held her gaze and let her see his need, raw and unfiltered.
Because this was Laura, she homed right into his foolish impulsivity from the other day. "Is this what your comment about abandoning my kiddies was really about?"
"No. Yes. I don't know…All I know is that I almost lost you the other night. I need to know you'll be here tomorrow."
She softened, and there was a warmness in her gaze that she seldom let others see. All of it focused on him, and it made his breath catch. "I'll be here tomorrow. When you waken." She lifted a hand to softly caress his cheek. "In pajamas, because I'm not going to do it until you're healthy and ready." And then that impish look returned. "You'll need to be healthy and ready when we finally trip the light fantastic, Mr. Steele."
His heart turned over. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Miss Holt."
Her smile turned knowing. "And how convenient that I have a change of clothes in your closet? Funny. I thought we agreed to keep clothes at each other's place in case of emergency."
"I'd call this an emergency."
"Well." She leaned forward and placed a light kiss on his lips. "It's not like we haven't slept together before. And I'm happy to call this is an emergency."
He hadn't thought Laura would agree to his impulsive suggestion, and he felt as unsteady as a virgin on her wedding night as he laboriously dressed in his chaste pajamas and silk robe. Until half an hour ago he was thoroughly tired of that ensemble, having worn nothing but during several days of enforced immobility. Now, as he hobbled on crutches from the bathroom, he felt as dapper as he had in that tuxedo Laura had adapted for him. He grinned appreciatively as he caught Laura straightening a corner of the fresh bed linens. She still wore her evening dress, although he noticed her feet were now bare. He loved her bare feet. It was one less barrier between them.
"I thought you'd appreciate clean sheets," she said by way of an excuse. "You're not really in a position to change them, yet."
"Excellent initiative." His grin widened. "Are you planning to sleep in that? It's intoxicating, but it would ruin a stunning gown."
"What? Oh. No. I was just waiting to grab a quick shower."
"I see." Still smiling to himself and taking courage from Laura's discomfort, he took his own initiative and slowly leveraged himself from crutches to mattress. It wasn't easy or painless, and he must have betrayed himself, for Laura had paused, hand resting on the bathroom doorframe, and said, "I'm not sure this is a good idea. I'll take the sofa. You need to rest undisturbed."
"You won't disturb me." He scooted more securely onto the bed. "Take your shower."
"Well…Try to rest." Which was completely ridiculous when all he could think about was having this amazing woman in his bed. Willingly. She switched off the bedroom's overhead light and disappeared, pulling the door closed behind her. He fell back against the pillows, an arm behind his head, and imagined what accompanied every sound that reached his ears. The rustle of her gown as it was hung on the hook at the back of the door, revealing her body. The sound of water as it sprayed against the shower tile, as she stepped inside. The 'snap' as the shower door closed. Irregular splashes as her nude body moved beneath the spray. A 'thud' as the soap bar hit the floor. Bending over to pick it up. My God, this is almost as good as the sex itself. His hand drifted below the sheets of its own volition. And then…
Was that…singing? He knew well that Laura had a beautiful, melodic voice. He had luxuriated in it during her European concert tour with the Stanford alumni choir. The words were indistinct and he had to strain to make them out.
"A country dance was being held in a garden.
I felt a bump and heard an 'Oh! Beg your pardon.'
Suddenly I saw polka dots and moonbeams
All around a pug-nosed dream.'
It sounded like a tune from the 1930s or 40s, sung in three-quarter time. A romantic song. She's happy. Laura's in my bath preparing to bed with me, and she's happy. The realization intoxicated him and fizzed like bubbles through his blood. He wanted her there every night. Imagined them coming home each evening, preparing for bed just like this. She would come out, toweling her hair. Hang up the dress she'd worn. Slide beneath the sheets and he would draw her close.
He was swept by a longing so intense that he nearly doubled over from its pain. Is this what love is? Is this what love does? He needed her in his life more powerfully than anything he'd experienced before. He needed to belong to her, and she to him. He needed the warmth of her skin soft pressed against his own, her heady floral scent in his breath, her taste mingled with his. Needed to move inside her toward sweet release. He needed to ask her the question. He needed to hear her answer. If only he had the courage.
The water abruptly stopped and with it, the music. He held his breath, waiting. Finally, the door clicked open and Laura stood framed against the light. He grinned to himself. The light rendered her gown transparent and he admired her long-legged, slender form. Laura, you've forgotten your physics lessons. A moment later, the view disappeared as she switched off the light.
"Are you asleep?" she called softly.
"Almost," he replied, equally quiet. It was a lie. She still hesitated. "Come here." Another moment's hesitation, and then bare feet whispered across the carpet. The mattress shifted as she sat on its far edge. He extended an arm. "Come here, Laura." She pulled her feet from the floor, committing herself. Slid across to meet his arm. He curled it about her and drew her close, and she settled against him, her head resting in the curve of his shoulder. He could feel the flutter of her heart, like a frightened bird's, and the tension in her muscles. He slowly moved the flat of his hand up and down her arm, soothing her.
"Am I too heavy?" she asked. "I can move."
"You're fine. Shh."
They laid like that for some time. Slowly he felt her heart slow and her breathing become regular. He thought she might have drifted to sleep, and he began to drift himself as he thought about what had happened this evening and what it might mean.
Then, Laura spoke quietly into the dark silence, surprising him. "You're right, you know. I do think about the future, now and again. I think about the man I'd like to have children with. He'd be wise. Kind. Gentle. Loving, of course. Understanding…He'd be a committed father and partner, and he'd be there every day to help raise his children. He'd make excuses to slip away from work and attend the school play. He'd be late to work in the morning because he was up all night when the littlest one was sick. He'd help with the cooking, and the cleaning, and the laundry. And he'd be there to help mommy catch the killer, when necessary."
"A man that perfect sounds like a work of fiction, Miss Holt."
"Perhaps. But maybe you've noticed? The good dreams have a funny way of coming true."
"That they do. Good night, Laura."
"Good night, Mr. Steele."
THE END