The third and final installment of the HOW Steele Cold Facts trilogy.
We're just going to get our feet wet this week.
Chapter 1
Mildred's hand flew to her chest and her face contorted as the phone she'd held in hand slipped free and clattered to the floor while she gasped for breath. The world tilted crazily on its axis and it felt, to her, like someone had suddenly deposited a Mack truck on her chest. Only moments before each breath had come easily, unnoticed, but now the same task took Herculean effort and required every bit of her concentration.
A sudden, loud thump. The sound of metal grinding against metal and shattered glass. Miss Holt cut off in midsentence.
Miss Holt!
With one hand clutching at her chest, she dropped to her knees and scrambled for the phone with her free hand. Snatching it up, she pressed it against her ear.
"Miss Holt?"
The answering silence was deafening.
"Miss Holt!" she cried out, praying for an answer that didn't come.
With a moan, Fred reached for the door handle before the limo had even settled on all four tires again. His head jerked from side-to-side like faulty bobble-headed doll when the tires made contact with the ground, the frame of the limo groaning under its own weight as it settled back on the road. In an instant, he slung the door open and tried to lunge from the vehicle, only to discover he was still restrained by the seat belt. Releasing the latch he tumbled out, hitting the asphalt on his knees before forcing himself to his feet.
Traffic on Wilshire had been unusually light for midday during the work week. The light hadn't even been yellow, but green, beckoning it was safe to continue forward. The transport truck had come of nowhere. He'd seen a flash in his peripheral vision, but it had been too late as the truck had t-boned them, hard enough that the passenger side of the limo had tilted ominously upwards.
Yanking open the rear, driver's side door, Fred threw himself inside.
Oh shit. OhshitOhshitOshit.
Miss Holt's face was covered in blood, enough so that he could watch it drip from chin to chest. She'd take the brunt of the impact, the truck ramming into the door next to which she'd been sitting. Unconscious, it was only her seat belt preventing her from falling in repose against the seat.
Unless it's a choice of life and death, do not move someone who is injured.
His first aid training played through his mind. Was it a choice of life and death? How was he supposed to know? He had no medical training except for the damned first aid class his sister had insisted he take before he could take his six-year-old niece on trips around the city on their uncle and niece days.
The phone.
It wasn't on the cradle. He grabbed the cord and reeled it in. Only then did he realize someone was on the other line.
"Hello?"
"Fred!" Mildred puffed between gasps of breath. "Fred! What's going on? Is everything okay?"
"We've been in an accident. Corner of Wilshire and Western. Call for help. Call the Boss. Miss Holt took the brunt of it. It looks bad. I gotta go."
Without ceremony he hung up the phone and returned his attention to Laura. Her chest rose and fell, a good sign. That she was out cold… well, that wasn't so good. His gaze returned to the seat belt, something about it causing worry to niggle at his brain.
What? What? What is it?
The appointment! It couldn't be good for the baby to have the seat belt digging into Miss Holt's stomach like that.
Where's the help already!
Hearing no sirens in the distance yet, Fred went with his gut. Cradling Laura's head in one hand, he released the seatbelt with the other then eased her down on the seat.
"Miss Holt?" he called, to no avail.
Fingering through her hair, he found the source of the bleeding. Yanking off his jacket, he quickly removed the dress shirt beneath then tugged his t-shirt up over his head. Folding it, he lay it over the gash and applied pressure.
Then sat back and waited for help to arrive…
"Magnifique, comme toujours, mon ami," Remington complimented Pierre as he removed the empty place which not too long ago had sported canapés au camembert upon it. He hummed in approval as the waiter standing next to Pierre presented the second course: pan-seared artichoke with balsamic glaze.
"Je suis heureux qu'il réponde à l'approbation de quelqu'un avec vos goûts exigeants," Pierre replied. "Jacques, leur vin." He snapped his fingers in disapproval at the waiter, who hastily picked up the bottle of wine and topped off the glasses. Without missing a beat, Pierre switched to English, for Daniel's sake. "With my own hand, I've prepared the faisan fourré à la sauge et auxpommes vertes. No more than ten minutes and it will be yours to savor. I will leave you to your meal." With a bow, he left the two men to one another's company.
"So, tell me Daniel, how is that stud you were so enraptured with working out?" Remington wondered, taking a bite of the artichoke.
"I think we've indulged in more than our share of trivial matters between last evening and lunch thus far, don't you?" Daniel challenged, with the lift of a single brow. "Tell me, Harry, how do things fare with your Linda these days?" Remington looked up through his lashes at Daniel as he leaned over to take another bite of his food.
"Well, I don't mind saying Laura and I were both caught unaware when we realized you and our Ms. Krebs had become co-conspirators," he announced.
"All for good cause, my boy," Daniel was quick to reply. "All that skulking about was putting quite the damper upon my relaxation time." Remington nodded.
"Yes… well… thank you," he told his mentor, sincerely.
"Then might I assume your days of traveling the world are over?" Remington raised brows at the man.
"Enough so that the loft and flat have been placed on the market," he confirmed as he took another bite. "Matter of fact, Laura's meeting with a potential buyer for the, even as we speak," he grinned.
"Planning on, in that crass American terminology, 'shacking up'?" Daniel speculated.
"I prefer the term 'living together', but, yes, that… is what Laura and I have agreed to." Daniel's eyes studied the younger man, as Remington concentrated on the food before him while studiously avoiding Daniel's gaze.
"But you've something else on your mind that she neither knows about nor has agreed to, is that it?" Daniel asked. The way Remington's eyes flickered to him, then away was all the answer required. Setting down his fork Daniel reached for his tumbler of scotch while regarding his protégé. His sudden laughter drew the eyes of several nearby diners. "Planning to shackle yourself to her, are you?"
"Glad you find the idea so amusing," Remington replied in a droll tone.
"More… perplexing, I think. I seem to recall a young man telling me on more than one occasion that fidelity goes against human nature and marriage was nothing but a fairy tale." Remington nodded his head, while taking another bite.
"Mmmm, I did," he agreed, "and what's more I believed it. But just as I'm no longer the person I once was, my thoughts on some matters have changed as well."
"And now you believe those things are possible?" Daniel challenged. Remington looked Daniel in the eye.
"I believe in Laura, Daniel," he told him with confidence. "If I've learned anything these last years, it's that when Laura is onboard with something, we never fail."
"Is it that or your desire—"
"Excuse me, Monsieur Steele," Pierre interrupted, stepping up to the table with a portable phone in his hand. "Your Madam Krebs is on the phone, insisting she must speak to you at once." Remington tapped his napkin against his lips, then after laying it on the table took the phone from Pierre.
"My apologies, Daniel. Won't be but a minute." He depressed the 'talk' button then lifted the phone to his ear. "Steele, here."
"Mr. Steele… Boss," Mildred panted. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the filing cabinets, a hand pressed to the base of her throat as she tried to draw a clean breath.
"Yes, Mildred," he answered brightly. "Indulging in lunchtime calisthenics, again?" Over the last few weeks, the woman had been continually voicing her determination to lose the 'extra ten pounds' she was carrying.
"I… think… I'm hav-… having… a.. hea-… heart attack," she managed.
"A heart attack?" Remington's voice grew loud with alarm and he bolted out of his chair and strode rapidly towards the maitre de stand. "Are you at the office, darlin'?"
"Ye-… Yes… Boss—"
"Mildred, stop talking, I need you to focus on breathing." He snapped his fingers in Pierre's direction. The owner of L'Ornate looked up, a question on his face. "Ring up emergency services. Tell them we've need of an ambulance at our office, possible heart attack." He returned his attention to the phone. "Helps on the way, Mildred, and I'm leaving right now. I'll be there in no time."
"No… No…" she panted, insistently. "Miss… Ho-… Holt—"
"Laura's on her way? Then I'm afraid you'll have to endure the both—"
"No!" she cried out. "Acc-… accident."
"You had an accident?"
"Mi—… Miss… Ho… Holt!" she tried again. Remington's heart plunged to somewhere in the vicinity of his feet and his pulse began to race.
"Laura's been in an accident?" he managed to rasp around the lump that had formed in his throat.
"Wil-… Wilshire and We… Western… Bad." Remington drew a hand through his hair then pressed that hand to his mouth. The two most important women in his life, both of their lives potentially on the line. He wanted to bolt out the door, get to Laura as quickly as he could, but if he abandoned Mildred in her hour of need and anything were to—
"Harry, go to Laura," Daniel told him quietly. He'd followed Remington from the table and had heard enough of the one sided conversation to get the gist of what was going on. Taking the phone from Remington's hand, he lifted it to his own ear.
"Millie, it's Daniel. I'll make a poor substitution I'm sure, but I'm on my way."
She nodded, unseen, then dropping the phone, closed her eyes.