STEELE INSEPARABLE VII: Wife of Steele

AUTHOR: Madeleine Gilbert

SYNOPSIS: S5, set in the Steele Inseparable universe; sequel to "Notoriously, Steele". "Woman of Steele's" Anna Simpson has been mysteriously paroled. She wants Steele back, and she's willing to use what she knows about his past to get him. Can Laura see the situation clearly enough to save him?

SHARES A UNIVERSE WITH/OCCURS AFTER: Part I, "Steele in Perspective'; Part II, "Steele-In-Law"; Part III, "Ancestral Steele"; Part IV, "Steele in the Shadows"; Part V, The Prequel, "Requiem in Steele Major"; Part VI: "Notoriously, Steele"

DISCLAIMER: This story is not for profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author does not own the rights to these characters and is not now, nor ever has been, affiliated in any way with Remington Steele, its producers, its actors and their agents, MTM productions, the NBC television network, or with any station or network carrying the show in syndication.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a companion piece and sequel to "Notoriously, Steele", in which I provided Steele with an opportunity to save Laura's life in romantic, movie-hero fashion. Here, in this sequel—which took on a life of its own, expanding until it was considerably longer than I first envisioned--I'm giving Laura equal time. Call it a Steele-in-peril, Laura-saves-the-day story.

It's meant to operate as a stand-alone tale, so that even those who are unfamiliar with the Steele Inseparable series may enjoy it. Obviously it builds on the events that took place in "Notoriously, Steele." Elements of back story from "Steele in Perspective" and "Ancestral Steele" have also been woven into its fabric.

For those reading a Steele Inseparable story for the first time: Archie and Robbie Dalgleish are the sons of Daniel Chalmers' surviving sister, Lillian, aka Mrs. Adair Dalgleish. Lucy Dale is a second cousin. All appear in "Ancestral Steele".

To those who have read and continued to read my stories: thank you for your interest. I am truly grateful to every one of you. And, to those who have also taken the time to leave feedback, I appreciate it more than I can say.

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Prologue

No matter what their commercials claimed, thought Laura Steele, Volkswagen hadn't built the Rabbit to travel at speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour.

She knew it because she was currently putting her own Rabbit to the test, not by choice but out of necessity. With the speedometer needle hanging at just under one hundred and five, the little car lurched and shuddered. There was a rattling sound from somewhere behind the dashboard, and a high-pitched whine in the vicinity of the steering wheel.

Her right foot steadily depressed the accelerator. The needle crept to the left. One hundred six. One hundred seven. One hundred eight.

Under the Rabbit's tires the southbound I-5 swept forward, a blur of hot asphalt. The desert landscape around her was indistinguishable at this speed. It wasn't as if she was sightseeing anyway. All her attention was on the roadside markers that were counting down the miles to San Diego, tangible proof that she was closing the distance that separated her from her quarry.

There were only six more to go.

One hundred nine. One ten.

Let me not be too late. In her head it repeated over and over. Please. Please. Let me not be too late.

Half a mile north of the combined Sassafras Street and Kettner Boulevard exit, she cut to the right across two lanes of traffic and took the off ramp with tires squealing. Her familiarity with San Diego was good enough that she found Harbor Island Drive without difficulty. In a matter of moments she was within sight of the bay.

Either Summergold Marina's layout was confusing, or the long, anxious ride had sapped her powers of concentration, because she had a hell of a time figuring out in which direction lay the slip she was looking for. After frittering away fifteen precious minutes, she broke into a run that took her back to her starting point.

The two men at work in the marina office looked startled as she burst through the door. "Hey, lady, do you mind?" one of them said.

She continued right up to the counter area. "I'm looking for a yacht," she said. "The English Rose. Can you tell me if it's here? Slip one ninety-eight. It would've docked around six last night."

"We don't keep track of our customers' comings and goings," said the other man, eying her with suspicion.

She'd extracted her i.d. from her purse and shown it to him before he was done speaking. "I'm a private detective, and I'm looking for one of the passengers. It might be a matter of life and death."

Glancing around, she made a quick inventory of her surroundings. The marina obviously did more than furnish dockage and repair boats; display shelves stacked with everything from marine radios to propane stoves indicated that it also engaged in retail business. "Maybe some of the crew came in for supplies?" she went on. "The captain's name is Watts, Mike Watts."

"I know Mike," chimed in the first man. "He was in last night. Stocked up on propane, paraffin, stuff like that."

Laura's heart leapt in sudden hope. "Did you see anyone else? The passengers I mentioned?" She held out a photo of Remington. "This man, for example?"

Her peered at it and nodded. "Oh, yeah, he was here. Him and some blonde." Now he was gazing at her more attentively. "You his wife?"

"Why do you ask?"

"He said to expect you. 'Slender brunette with knockout legs asking a lot of questions.' That'd be you?"

Slender brunette with knockout legs. It sounded like Remington. She could hear him drawl the words as clearly as if he were across the counter from her.

The buoyant feeling of a few seconds ago was turning into apprehension. Icy calm, Mrs. Steele, she told herself. Icy calm. "Yes," she said aloud.

By now the marina guy had elbowed his partner aside to unlock a drawer and rummage around inside. Withdrawing a parcel wrapped in brown paper, he offered it to her. "Said to give you this."

Her hands, she noticed with surprise, were quite steady as she accepted it. "Thanks. Which way to slip one ninety-eight?"

"Left on the boardwalk, keep going until you get to the last pier. Hey, lady--"

Already halfway across the room, she glanced back over shoulder.

"—you won't find him there."

"Why not?"

"They put out this morning. At least it's what Watts told me he was planning. From the amount of stuff he bought, looked like it'll be a long cruise."

"He didn't--" she paused to swallow and then to moisten her lips, but still her voice came out strangled—"say where they were headed?"

It figured all the guy could do was shrug. Blindly she slipped out the door; blindly, unable to draw a deep breath, she made her way back to the Rabbit.

Once there, away from prying eyes, she tore furiously at the brown paper. Something smooth and heavy and round dropped into her palm.

Gold gleamed in the sunlight. Sparks from the square-cut sapphire of Remington's wedding ring dazzled her eyes.

His note said:

Darling,

Not long ago you gave my ring back to me. Now it's my turn to return the favor.

As they say in the vernacular: you know what to do with it and everything it means.

Steele

She'd survived pain like this before, she told herself. The heaviness gripping her chest—that wasn't really suffocation. The pounding in her head would subside. So would the roaring in her ears. Any minute now, she told herself, her natural drive and determination, her great investigative instincts, her focus and control, would come to her rescue. They'd kick in, and she'd find him and bring him home.

The pep talk didn't do any good. For in front of her the entire time as a counterpoint was the vast expanse of the Pacific, reminding her that somewhere over it traveled a yacht called The English Rose, and its owner, Anna Simpson, and the man with her, Remington Steele. And there was no way of tracking them. They could be anywhere by now. Anywhere.

She had to face it. She might never see the man she loved again.

This time, Anna had won.

TO BE CONTINUED