The Canon Series

Laura finds herself bogged down by the past while Remington wishes to live in the present and look towards the future. After a return to Cannes and a chance encounter with Felicia in Paris dredges up old memories, Laura's nightmares resurge with a vengeance. The discovery that Remington has hidden something from her, only makes her more committed to discover the reason why Roselli targeted them in the first place, placing the two firmly at odds with one another.

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
Down the Rabbit Holt

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.


Chapter 1: Pont de l'Archevêché

January 28, 1987

Remington shoved his hands in his pockets as he strolled about the living room while waiting on Laura to appear, noting that it still felt naked to him, three weeks after they'd taken down the last of the holiday decorations. Clean, elegant, but naked none the less. Yet more proof of how much the young woman upstairs entering his life had changed it. He'd told her, not too long ago on a beach


"Before, I didn't know where I'd be next day… or with whom. Didn't really matter, though. I always liked it like that. But then it all changed the day I met you."


All around him there were examples of precisely how much, starting with the very rooms he was strolling through now. He'd only ever known two homes of any permanency and both had been by her hand: The flat where he'd lived the first four years after arriving upon her doorstep, and now their home. That the homes had come in adulthood, nearly two decades after he'd dispelled of the belief he even needed such a thing, only one of the many ironies that were the result of her at work in his life. Once a man that trotted the globe, leaving footprints but little else behind in each temporary destination, who found his happiness in gaming rooms, at parties, and in the beds of countless women most of whom were but strangers, his life couldn't be more different. A life of excitement, daring, even glamour, for certain, but a life that left him always restless. He woke in sheer contentment each morning now, and lay his head down each night replete, within the four walls that made up their home.

His eyes caught the light gleaming off his cuff links. Lifting his arm, he rubbed a thumb across one of the links, bearing his initials. Yet another change in his life, by virtue of his wife's tenacity. A name of his own, scribed into the annals of a government office in Ireland, proof of his very existence. No longer would he be the man born, lived and died with no proof of his presence upon this earth. He was Remington Chalmers Steele, born Baby Boy Duffy. Son of Leighton Sinclair and Fiona Duffy. Private detective. Husband of Laura Elizabeth Holt Steele. Perhaps one day a father. Past, present and future all bound, now, to a name that was his and his alone.

Lifting his left hand, he rolled his ring between thumb and forefinger of the right. Husband. Maybe the biggest change of all. Gone was the man who sought careless liaisons meant only to sate the body. Gone was the man who had convinced himself he neither needed nor wanted a lasting connection to another person. Gone was the man who slipped out in the middle of the night. In his place, a man that hadn't been able to get the woman upstairs out from under his skin for four and half years. The even bigger shock was he had absolutely no desire to do so. Waking to her in the morning, falling asleep with her at night, was the perfect way to bookend each day. That alone eased the difficult days and as for the good days? It made those positively glorious.

A glance at his watch showed it was nearing seven o'clock, leading him to congratulate himself for the small fabrication of informing her their reservation was for eight o'clock rather than the eight-thirty it actually was. Habitually late for pleasurable pursuits, that wife of his was.

He smiled as he tried to envision what gown she would choose to wear that evening. At his insistence, they'd returned to Chantal's shop the day they'd arrived in Cannes at the start of their vacation, under the guise of wanting to introduce Jocelyn to the eclectic boutique. Laura had cast a bemused look in his direction, knowing he was hoping she'd make some purchases of her own… for his benefit. After all, it was from Chantal's shop that she'd bought all the enticing little numbers she'd modeled for him over the last months. She'd taken the time to model several gowns and outfits for him, buying a half dozen combined, then he'd made it a point to peruse men's wear in hopes something else had ended up in those bags. Given her raised brow and refusal to allow him to carry the bags to the car, he suspected he many nights to look forward to in months ahead.

Their stay in Cannes had been necessarily brief, given the itinerary he had planned for them in Paris. The first evening, the two couples had elected to remain at the villa, going to bed early and laying the jet lag to rest. The next day, they visited Henri and Joelle before heading to the casino for an afternoon of gaming. Jocelyn and Monroe departed in the early evening for Isola 2000, allowing Remington and Laura to dine at Palm d'Or that evening, followed by a delightful and laughter filled romp on the hammock.

Blessedly, Laura had seemed to innately understand that while he treasured their time together there, it was best had in small doses, at least for now. The memory of Daniel still lingered within those four walls, casting a pall of melancholy over him now and again. Rather than attempting to pry his feelings from him, as she might have in years past, she instead used touch to both soothe and draw him out.

Of course, the trip to the Casino revived bad memories itself, for it was there that Roselli had confronted and first accosted Laura and it was there that she had finally faced Roselli was not simply a rejected suitor but truly out of his mind. Remington had watched as several times throughout the afternoon she'd blanked her face and her eyes had grown shuttered, all the while knowing the why of it. During those times, he made a point to kiss her teasingly, to touch seductively, reminding her of the games that had been afoot upon their last visit and, thankfully, drawing her out of the past back into the present. Still, neither were disappointed when they left Cannes behind, both recognizing it would take some time for it to stop being both blessing and curse.

Another glance at his watch had him calling upstairs.

"Laura, you're preparing to give 'fashionably late' an entirely new connotation."

In their bathroom, Laura rolled her eyes and gave a shake of her head. He was something else, that man of hers. Remington Chalmers Steele thought nothing of arriving at the office two hours late, but be five minutes late for a dinner reservation, the theatre or the ballet, and he was fit to be tied.

"Two minutes, no longer," she called back, picturing him pacing the living room and glancing at his watch every thirty seconds or so.

Closing the hasp of the gorgeous ruby and diamond necklace Remington had given her on Christmas, she stepped back to critically assess herself in the bathroom mirror. She'd donned a form fitting red gown that fit tight to the knee then flared out slightly until it reached the floor. The bardot collar with the off the shoulder cap sleeved gown left her shoulders completely bare and although it hugged her gentle curves, overall the gown was sexy yet modest. She'd chosen the dress, specifically, so that she could honor Remington's one request on the evening: that she wear the necklace and matching earrings he'd gifted her with at Christmas. After much thought, she'd decided to wear her hair down, ala Rita Hayworth in Fire Down Below (Robert Mitchum, Jack Lemmon, Columbia Pictures 1957) which leant a classic bent to her overall look.

In a rare splurge, she'd purchased the dress while wedding gown shopping with Jocelyn in Paris. She'd been drawn to it instantaneously. The style harkened backed to the days of mid-century Hollywood glamour. The color was one of the most complimentary on her. And a certain Christmas gift had come to mind the moment she saw it. Still she'd fussed and fretted over the purchase. If Remington had his way, there would be only a very limited window of opportunity to wear it. Jocelyn has taken note of her indecision and inquired about it.

"You look amazing. What's there to think about?" Laura had glanced at her image in the mirror again, then shook her head.

"Will you give me your word not to repeat a word that's said, especially to Monroe?" Jocelyn's eyes widened with interest.

"Of course. What's said here, stays here." Laura smoothed her hands down over her waist and hips, turning slightly to look at the dress in the profile.

"Remington and I are not trying not to get pregnant. There's every possibility if I don't wear the dress in the next couple of months that I won't be able to for a long time to come. Knowing that, I have a hard time justifying the purchase of something that may never be worn." Jocelyn laughed away Laura's concerns.

"Laura, Remington and Monroe are men who take the most minor of occasions and find a reason to turn them into a call for romantic celebration. Do you honestly believe you won't find a reason to wear the gown in upcoming months?" Laura's eyes lit up and a wide smile graced her face.

"Good point," she acknowledged. Jocelyn returned her eyes to her own image in the mirror.

"In regard to the other matter, congratulations," she told Laura, catching the other young woman's eyes with her own in the mirror. Laura shook her head.

"Oh, no congratulations are necessary. We're not trying. As I said, we're just not trying not to."

"Que sera, sera?" Laura nodded.

"Exactly." She gave Jocelyn a sidelong glance. "Have you and Monroe discussed children?"

"Of course," she laughed. "Monroe would like to think our engagement was a surprise, but you know how it goes: When a man starts asking your opinion on children, they're hearing wedding bells in their minds."


"Supposing you had children. Just supposing…"


The memory had come unbidden to her mind and made her chuckle softly. Some detective you are, she admonished herself lightly. With any other man, she would have realized the underlying intent, yet with Remington it had only left her baffled as to why it had come to mind in the first place.

"And?" Laura prodded, setting aside the memory to engage in the here and now.

"Monroe and I both come from large families. He's one of eight, I'm one of six," she shrugged, as though that made her answer a given. She laughed again at the expectant look on Laura's face. "We're thinking four, maybe five…"

"You're not worried about your career?" she asked out of curiosity.

"Not really, to be honest," Jocelyn answered, tipping her head from side-to-side. "I love what I do, don't get me wrong. But a career will not last a lifetime, whereas family will."

Shaking away the memory now, Laura smoothed her hands down the material and with a final look in the mirror, gave her head a nod of approval. Leaving their bathroom she moved to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed to slip on the pair of red stiletto's she purchased with the dress as her mind drifted again.

The second day Remington and she had spent in Paris was full of the romance Jocelyn had mentioned the following day. It had begun with breakfast in bed and a sumptuous round of lovemaking. Their first stop on the day had been a tour of Musee D'Orsay. He hadn't been wrong. Degas's pastels, Dancers, had captivated her. On his part, it had been an inspiration and he'd sworn to himself then and there that he'd begin a series of sketches of Laura at dance. He could imagine the series hanging in her dance room, if, that is, they passed snuff.

After the promised lunch at Fabrizio's, they toured the famed Pere Lachaise. Remington's knowledge of the cemetery far surpassed that of their tour guides and she found herself tuning out the guide, instead choosing to focus on him.

"Although Abelard and Heloise were buried together upon their deaths, when it came to the attention of abbot some years later the lovers were entombed thus, he had them exhumed and they were separated, so the abbot thought, for the remainder of their eternal sleep. It remained so for two centuries when at last Josephine Bonaparte, enraptured by their love story, ordered that their remains be reunited here in a single tomb at Pere Lachaise. They were, so to speak, the first 'residents' here. Since that time, lovers from across the world pilgrimage here in hopes, perhaps of finding the same, eternal love shared by them."

"The tomb of Theodore Gericault," he indicated at one point. "A painter of some promise, his works were, more often than not, dark in both color and nature as he enjoyed depicting the psychological pain of his subjects. There are those that say it is only fitting he painted such anguish, given the questionable mental health of himself and various family members." His hand followed the lines of the statue of Gericault's prone position. "He is rendered in this manner as, in his final days, he was unable to walk due to numerous riding accidents." Leaning down to press his lips next to her ear, he told her in an undertone, "Although rumors abounded that his inability to walk had nothing whatsoever to do with riding accidents and everything to do with making love often and with great vigor, to the point it eventually rendered his legs useless." Her brows had drawn upwards in amusement.

"A cautionary tale?" she mused, just as quietly, drawing a soft laugh from him. "Maybe we should curb our own enthusiasm in that area given, as my partner, it is essential you have your legs under you."

"Bite your tongue, love," he chuckled low in his throat. "If given the choice of making love with you less or dawdling after you on weakened legs whilst pursuing a case, I choose the latter. And, given you are as insatiable as I," he added with a waggle of his brows, "I'd wager you'd do the same."

"Are you sure you want to place that wager, Mr. Steele?" she asked, tapping a finger upon his chest. "Four years…" Lifting her hand, he brought her wrist to his mouth, suckling gently while his eyes held hers. He smiled, smugly, as he felt her shiver at the action.

"Absolutely, Mrs. Steele." Flushing, she swatted his chest playfully then turned forward, feigning interest in their guide. Soon, her husband's penchant for storytelling stole her interest again.

"The tomb of Victor Noir," he mused aloud. "Would have likely lived his life in obscurity, had he not been the messenger to prince Bonaparte."

"'Don't kill the messenger,'" she nodded thoughtfully. He looked at her, brows raised.

"I'm impressed. Familiar with a bit of French history, eh?" she shrugged.

"I think most people are familiar with that expression."

"I'll lay you odds you've no idea why women come from all over to sit atop Noir's grave," he challenged.

"Mmmm, not at all," she admitted.

"It is said that should a young woman sit upon his statue, within one year they will find themselves gifted with a great lover." Laura raised her brows and eyed the statue thoughtfully.

"Is that so?" she asked, a mischievous gleam in her brown eyes.

"Mmmm," he confirmed on a hum, missing the look altogether. Releasing the hand whose fingers had been tangled with her own, she took several steps towards the tomb before it occurred to him to wonder what she was about.

"Uh, Laura?" She turned to look at him, her eyes widening in faux innocence.

"Yes?"

"Where exactly do you think your off to?" he queried, crossing his arms and drawing his brows together.

"To sit on the statue, of course." Laughing aloud at that, three swift strides brought him to her. Taking her hand in his again, he pulled her back out to the walkway.

"Your suggestion that I am but a mediocre lover wounds me to the core," he playfully lamented.

"Maybe just challenging you to step up your game, Mr. Steele," she countered.

"And a second arrow has been slung, in as many minutes. I see I'll have to take you up on that challenge, Mrs. Steele, but be forewarned… There will be begging before I'm done." She raised a brow at him.

"Oh? By me… or you?" He threw back his head and laughed again, releasing her hand to grasp her about her waist.

"I guess that remains to be seen, eh?"

After dinner that evening, they strolled along the Seines, eventually crossing thePont de l'Archevêché. Pausing midway across the bridge, Remington swept Laura up in his arms, kissing her thoroughly, releasing her only when they needed to breathe. He grinned as brown eyes dazed with ardor looked up at him.

"Not that I'm complaining, but what was that for?"

"Laura, we are currently walking along one of the most romantic of paths Paris has to offer. Do you really need to ask?" he queried, touching a single finger beneath her chin, then fastening his lips over hers, for a tender, lingering kiss.

"I guess not," she breathed, when their lips separated again. Releasing her and taking a step back, with a flourish, he presented her with a bowed box.

"A gift? What for?" He nodded at the box.

"Open it." Brow furrowed with curiosity, she took the box from his hand and pulled loose the ribbon. Lifting the lid, dimples flashed as she removed the object from its container.

"A lock," she noted. Turning it over, her eyes flicked to him and back again. "LH & RS. Nous aurons toujours Paris." She looked to him for translation while mumbling under her breath, "I knew I should have taken French."** Grinning, he grasped her free hand in his and lifted it to brush his lips across her knuckles.

"'We'll always have Paris,'" he translated, "Casablanca, Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Warner Brothers, 1942." His blue eyes twinkled, as she shook her head.

"I should have known," she said drily. A memory from the past suddenly took front and center.


Well, if I solve the case first, say… a weekend. Just the two of us. In… Paris?"

"You're on. And if I win, I want one year of your life."

"Laura, indentured servitude went out with the top hat."

"No, I'm talking about your mysterious past. I want to know what happened in ONE year. Without exaggeration or embellishment."


"You've been waiting four years to use that line, haven't you?" she asked, laughter threading her voice. He didn't need to ask what she meant, as he'd been assailed by the same memory when they first booked their passage to Paris.

"Would I have?" He shrugged. "If we'd become lovers as I'd hoped, I likely would've… Though neither as a parting line, as you're likely imagining even now it would have been, nor would they have been words I'd uttered to another previously, as you'd have believed then."

"And if you'd said them, what would they have meant?" she asked, cornering him neatly, or so she thought. He shrugged carelessly.

"I wouldn't have quite known myself," he admitted easily, stooping down to find the perfect place to attach the lock. "I'd found my Ilsa, that much I knew, but as much as you enchanted me, there were only two things I knew with absolute certainty."

"Oh, what two things?" she asked, leaning back against the rail of the bridge, locks and all.

"First, that despite your claims you wanted more than a roll in the hay, had I said those words to you and had you understood the intent behind them, you'd have been as terrified as I."

"Mmmm," she hummed, not denying the charge. "And second?" He looked up and held her gaze when next he spoke.

"I was far more selfish than Rick Blaine," he glanced up and smiled before returning his attention to the bridge, "There wasn't a chance I'd send you off with Murphy or any other bloke, no matter the cause." She laughed merrily at the thought, reaching down to scruff his hair with her hand. "Ah, right here should do nicely, don't you think?" Squatting down next to him, she nodded her head.

"Perfect, I'd say." He held the lock out to her.

"The honor is yours, Mrs. Steele. It is, after all, your gift." Laura took the lock from Remington's hand and secured it to the bridge, smiling at the snick of the lock and when, at a solid yank, it held firm. They admired their handiwork for a moment then stood together.

"I guess I can add these keys to the other one in my jewelry box. At this rate, when I'm old and gray, we'll have quite a collection." He plucked the keys from her hand.

"Have you noticed the different types of locks on this bridge, love?" Her brows knit together as she studied them.

"All different sizes, colors and models; some that are keyed, some that are combination," she assessed with a shrug of her shoulders. "All of which make sense to me given people from across the world place their locks here."

"Mmmmm, all that is an apt description," he agreed. "But, like many places where romance blooms in Paris, the 'Locks of Love Bridge' has its own stories, as well." He fingered a combination lock, turning his head to meet her eyes, then nodded towards it. "It is said the faint of heart, those who do not believe their love will endure, secure combination locks to the bridge, so that in the future they may return and remove it when that love fails. Those who believe their love will stand the test of time use locks with keys, and the most daring of those, toss their keys from the bridge into the Seine as those keys will never be needed again." Separating the two keys, he handed one to her. "Tell me, Mrs. Steele, which of those are we? The mere believers or the staunchest among them?" She smiled widely, those splendid dimples on full display for him.

"Another challenge, Mr. Steele?" she teased questioningly, her brown eyes glimmering with the joy of knowing what he hoped she'd do.

"Perhaps it is," he grinned back at her. "Stalling, are you?"

"Not at all," she answered pertly, turning to the side and executing her best pitcher's stance. Pulling her arm back, she slung it forward, throwing the key a good distance down the Seine. She turned to him and lifted her brow expectantly. Without all the pomp, he threw his key into the river behind hers, the gathered her to him, pressing a kiss to her forehead, before leaning back to look down at her.

"Seven months back, even if I had told you how I felt about you, you would have hesitated to do that," he observed.

"Just goes to show how far we've come," she answered, smoothing her hands up his chest, then wrapping her arms around his neck. And it had.

That night they'd danced along the Seine as Remington had promised. They discarded their normal rule of no public displays of affection. This was Paris, after all. There was no need to worry a client would see them 'groping each other', as Remington had once called such acts. So, lips freely brushed against each other, fingers lovingly wandered through hair, and hands freely caressed. Several times across the evening, Remington had gathered her close, hugging her as they danced. By the time they returned to the Hotel Plaza Athenee, their bodies were vibrating from hours of touches, flirtation and simply being near one another. He removed his coat and helped her out of hers, then gathered her close again.

"J'ai besoin de toi," Remington whispered to her, before fastening his lips over hers and dipping down to sweep her up in his arms. Laura wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers toying in his hair, as she returned his kiss, then, with a flick of her tongue to his lips, upped the temperature further. Eager hands skimmed away clothes, their first joining both fast and giddy, as they rolled across the bed several times, once leaving them dangling precariously on the edge, vying for the upper hand among much laughter.

Laura hadn't even caught her breath yet, her body still shuddering from her climax, when Remington began anew. This second time he was the devoted lover he so often was when he ached to convey what he was feeling through deeds, although these times were often peppered with words in Gaelic. On this night, as his fingers trailed and lips left sparks in their wake he took her over the peak again and again, while whispering endless words of love: "Ton amour est aussi précieux que l'or," "tu es l'amour de ma vie," "tu es ma joie de vivre," and "tu es la femme de mes rêves!" His hands, his mouth, his words overwhelmed, and sensing he would go on all night, denying his own pleasure if allowed, she wrapped her legs around his hips, holding him still as he began his downward journey once more. Threading her fingers through his hair, she urged his head upwards so their eyes could meet, then lay her palms on each side of his face.

"Rem… please … I need you, sweetheart," she murmured breathlessly, then sighed deeply while arching her back from the pure pleasure of the sensation when he eased slowly inside of her as his lips found and devoured hers.

Afterwards, they lay sated, she on her back, he on his stomach, his head resting on her breast, an arm slung across her waist, as she stroked brow, hair and back. Eventually, on a stuttering exhale, his breathing calmed to a more regular state and he wrapped both arms around her, rolling over until she lay stretched out atop him. Resting her chin on arms crossed and laying on his chest, she gave him a bemused smile.

"English, Greek, Gaelic and now French. Should I even bother to ask how many other languages you speak?" He lifted a brow at her even as his fingers wended through her tresses.

"What's life—" She blew out a puff of air and laughed.

"Without a little mystery," she cut him off. "You don't even have to say it."

"There's so few left. How is a man supposed to keep your interest should he give all his secrets up, eh?" She leaned forward to touch her lips to his.

"Oh, something tells me even without your secrets, you'll continue to hold interest," she'd contradicted, making his…

"Lau-ra!" the man himself bellowed from below stairs, tearing her away from her memories.

"Coming! Coming!" she called back, quickly slipping on her second shoe. Grabbing her coat off the bed, she hastened out of the room.


** A/N: While relatively rare in Seasons One through Four, on occasion writers would fail to keep with Canon. In Steele Away With Me Part 1 (Season Two Episode 1), while searching the neighborhoods of Acapulco for the home of Pedros Campos, Laura, whose Spanish is dismal (shocking given she grew up in Southern LA), makes the aggravated comment "I knew I should've taken French." Yet, in Steele at It (Season 3 Episode 1) she suddenly understands French well enough that she can translate an alert that is heard coming over a gendarme's radio, "Inspector Vouvray has just issued a warrant for your arrest." In this case, I choose to take Gleason's knowledge on the matter over Melvoin's.