STEELE INSEPARABLE, PART II: Steele-In-Law

AUTHOR: Madeleine Gilbert

SYNOPSIS: S-5 continuation. Back in Los Angeles, Remington and Laura discover more about his past and deal with in-laws, an over-zealous INS officer, disagreements over where to live, and the revelation that Juan really was captain of the fishing trawler. Roselli hasn't forgotten them!

SEQUEL TO: "Steele in Perspective", posted here on April 21, 2008 and at Written in Steele on May 1, 2008

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 is just my way of amusing myself by following up on a few questions that interested me when I contemplated Remington and Laura's potential post S5 life. What if the marriage on the fishing trawler were legal? How would Laura and Remington react? How would her family feel? Would they accept Remington, and how would he fit in with them? What would happen if Remington found out that the beliefs he'd been taught about his father since childhood weren't true? What would Laura think, and how could she help him? And, last but not least: how much worse of a person can Tony Roselli be?

And, oh, yeah: you'll encounter some familiar faces from throughout the series. Enjoy!

(1)

It was an early Saturday evening in Los Angeles, and approximately two million travelers were arriving from overseas through the LAX international terminal.

That was, at least, how it appeared to Remington Steele, who was himself returning from London, the last stop on a two-week honeymoon. The Steeles had been stuck in baggage claim for the better part of an hour, and Remington was chafing at the delay. "Look at all these people. Just look at them! Couldn't they have waited until tomorrow? Who comes back from holiday on a Saturday, I'd like to know. Who?"

His wife - or wife-to-be, depending on whether one defined their relationship by their wedding almost three weeks prior, which they alone knew was not, in reality, a legitimate marriage at all, or by their engagement, which had taken place the night before – looked up from the paperback she was reading. "We did, Mr. Steele," she pointed out calmly.

He shot her a glance of steely blue annoyance.

Laura remained unfazed. "Sorry. Didn't realize it was a rhetorical question." She closed the book and patted his shoulder. "Look on the bright side. Considering the alternative, a couple hours trapped in the airport is just a minor blip on the radar screen."

"That's what I love about you, Laura – the way you always maintain such a marvelous sense of proportion." But a fond smile replaced the ironic drawl in which he usually made that sort of remark.

She was right, of course: their current circumstances didn't bear comparison to the alternative. Instead of grousing about wasted time, he might very well have been instead in the custody of the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service.

They'd departed London knowing that Remington might be barred from entering the States, that the hours spent on the plane might be his final ones before arrest and deportation, and that there was nothing at this point that they could do about it. Their one scant reason for optimism was that the INS hadn't contacted their office during their stay in Britain. It was just possible that Tony Roselli, the nuisance from Mexico who'd become a potential spoiler in their relationship in Los Angeles and Ireland, and then morphed into a threat in London, had engineered an out for Remington – but only just. It was equally possible that he would use his clout in high government circles as a weapon for revenge, expelling Remington from the country.

The trip from London was long in actual hours, but all too short in other ways. It was hard, the closer they got to their destination, to pretend everything was normal. That they succeeded at all was due to Laura: with her gift for focus and control, she managed to keep them both distracted most of the time. But as they approached Los Angeles and the plane began its descent, even she had fallen silent. Their eyes met and held in a look, long and wordless. He'd picked up her hand and threaded their fingers together, and they sat that way for the duration of the fight.

The terminal was crowded, and the line to the Immigration counter snaked far out into the airport perimeter - both good and bad, they thought. Good, because the delay would afford them a few more precious moments together if their worst fears were to be realized. Bad, because the prolonged suspense was becoming almost more than they could take. Laura could feel the hand she held grow clammy as the minutes passed, and knew that the tremor in her own was just as obvious to him.

At last they reached the head of the line. By unspoken agreement, she fell behind a step so that he could precede her. But as he moved away, she suddenly pulled him back. He turned to her in surprise and then squeezed her hand, hard. It seemed to her in that moment that she could see his whole heart in his eyes. But the inspector at the empty window was gesturing at him impatiently, and Remington let go her, straightened his spine, and stepped forward with his passport extended.

And Laura stood as if rooted to the spot while she waited to learn his fate.

The man behind her tapped her on the shoulder. "Hey, didn't you hear? You're up."

"That's okay, you go on," she said, not even noticing when the guy jostled her as he went past. She held her breath while Remington's Immigration inspector took the offered passport. Now he was riffling through it with the most cursory of glances. A moment more, and he'd spread it on the counter in a practiced gesture. Bang! He brought the stamp down upon it. Then he handed it back to Remington. "Next in line?" he called, directing his gaze towards Laura.

The minute she was finished, she flew across to Remington, who had withdrawn beyond the inspectors' range of vision. She dropped her bags and flung her arms around his neck. "What did I tell you? Inseparable!"

He caught her in an embrace that lifted her clear off the floor. "I'm beginning to share your conviction," he murmured.

For once, the possibility that others might be watching didn't deter them from savoring the moment, and there was a noticeable interval before he set her back on her feet. He bent to retrieve the scattered bags, with a smile up at her glowing face. "I must say, it's immensely gratifying, your enthusiastic reaction to this turn of events. Not to mention endearing."

She reddened a little in embarrassment. She had been more unrestrained than usual, running into his arms like that. Then she shrugged. So what if she had? For years she'd been damming up her deepest feelings for him behind a wall of carefully calculated indifference, measuring her actions and responses so that they matched, but never exceeded, his – or at least what she imagined his would be. Was there any more reason for that, or need? None that she could see. Ireland had removed the necessity for good. And, if she wanted further proof, the expression on his face confirmed it. Her outburst of affection really had delighted him.

"What can I say?" she replied, taking the bags he held out and slipping her free hand through the crook of his elbow. "You bring out that side of me."

They set off for baggage claim. "Whatever Tony has in mind, at least getting you deported doesn't figure into it," she mused.

"So it would appear. But I don't imagine for a moment it's unintentional."

She glanced at him. "You think he planned it this way?"

"I wouldn't rule it out. One thing's for certain, though. If I am back in the country under his auspices, it's not because he's doing us a favor. He wants me here for a reason."

They walked a little farther in silence. "Cape Fear," he said suddenly.

"Well, I don't exactly fear Tony, but I do agree that we need to be on our guard."

"Robert Mitchum, Gregory Peck, Polly Bergen, Universal, 1962. Mitchum plays a psychopath who wreaks slow revenge on an enemy who's crossed him, and begins by stalking the man and his wife."

"That's a bit of a stretch, isn't it?"

"Is it? He's followed us twice already that we know of, and possibly more, if yesterday's any indication. You never saw him tailing you. You said so yourself. And that, my love, scares me more than anything else."

"You spent more time with him than I did. Is it something specific he said or did that's nagging you, or is it more of a gut intuition?" Three years ago - two, even - she wouldn't have dreamed of putting such a question to him. Over time, however, she'd gained great respect for her husband's insights about people, which were frequently more on target even than her own.

"I don't know, Laura," he said. "Intuition, I suppose. I've the feeling he's not the type to overlook an outstanding debt like this one. One way or the other, he'll exact his pound of flesh."

When the skycaps finally unloaded their bags onto the carousel with hundreds of others, and they'd managed, not without difficulty, to extract them from the mass, they exited at the arrivals level. There they found Fred, their reliable driver, waiting for them; Remington surrendered the baggage cart to him. "Nice to have you back, Mr. Steele, Miss Holt – er - "

" 'Mrs Steele' is fine, Fred. And it's nice to be back."

While Fred stowed the luggage, the Steeles settled into the back seat of the limo. Remington wrapped his arm around Laura's shoulders and she nestled close, leaning her head against him. "Tired?" he said softly.

"Mm, a little jet-lagged. You?"

"The same. Looking forward to a long, lazy morning in bed tomorrow."

They contemplated the pleasant prospect. Meanwhile, Fred closed the trunk and climbed into the driver's seat. "The apartment, Mr. Steele?"

"Yes, please, Fred, home it is. Home, indeed. Thank you." He smiled down at Laura. " 'Home'. That certainly has a different ring than it used to, eh, Mrs. Steele?"

But she jerked upright and moved away from him. "Hold on a minute, Fred," she said sharply, though it really was too late, since he'd already pulled into traffic. Remington she pinned with a stony glare. "What do you think you're doing?

He blinked at her change in tone. "Looking forward to spending the last of our honeymoon at home in seclusion with my lovely bride?" he suggested. He reached for her hand.

But Laura had no intention of allowing him to beguile her. She snatched her hand away."Wrong answer," she snapped.

He looked genuinely confused. "Not surprising, since I'm not sure what the question is, Laura."

"Oh, don't be obtuse! It doesn't become you."

"Obtuse?" he repeated. "Laura, I've no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about you! Is this what it's going to be like? You put a ring on my finger, and all of a sudden you're making the decisions without consulting me?

His frustration was increasing in proportion to her anger. "What on earth's gotten into you?"

"Where do you get the nerve, assuming we're going back to your apartment? Maybe I'd rather go to the loft. Did you ever think of that? Maybe there's stuff there I need to do. Maybe, after two weeks, it would be nice to shower in my own shower and sleep in my own bed. Did you think of that?"

Comprehension dawned. He narrowed his eyes. "So it's back to that, eh?"

He leaned forward and tapped their driver on the shoulder. "Fred, a moment. Pull over here."

Fred maneuvered the limo to the curb. He had scarcely braked to a stop when Remington emerged and strode over to open the door on Laura's side. Taking her by the arm, he pulled her out of the car and kept a firm hold on her when she would have twisted out of his grasp. Then he leaned his head in through the window. "Take a spin around the block, and meet us back here in ten minutes. Good man." And he rapped smartly on its roof as the limo pulled away.

He turned to Laura. Though his expression hadn't cleared in the slightest, his voice was under control. "Now then, let me see if I have this straight. You're angry because I asked Fred to take us to Rossmore."

"You're damned right, I'm angry."

"Because you meant to spend the night at the loft, instead of with me at the apartment?"

"I never said that."

"But it's what you meant, isn't it?" He was warming to his theme by this time. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Laura, but didn't we decide that A, we're not just married in the eyes of the world, we're truly committed to each other, as well? And that's what we've been doing for the last two weeks, building our commitment? And, B, didn't I also ask you to marry me, to make sure we have all the i's dotted and the t's crossed, so to speak, and didn't you say yes?"

"Would I be wearing this ring if you hadn't and I hadn't?" she retorted.

"Then explain to me what the problem is. Aren't we, as a married couple, supposed to be living together?"

"Of course we are! But why do you get to decide we're going to live at your apartment?"

He threw up his hands. "Decide? Decide? I never decided anything!"

"Didn't you?" She lowered her voice a register so that it was a fairly good imitation of his, accent and all. " 'Yes, Fred, home it is'."

"So? Not only are all my things there, but a good many of yours, too, if you'll recall."

"You know perfectly well that was only a ploy to get you off the hook with Immigration."

"Ah, Immigration. By all means, let's talk about Immigration. Aren't you being a little premature, assuming we're free from their scrutiny? What if they're watching even now? How's it going to look, our first night back in the States, if we spend it apart, hm?"

"If they were, don't you think they would've shown their hand by now? When you checked in, for starters? Look around! See any Immigration agents?"

"We're sure of that, are we? So sure that you're willing to risk my neck, the business, possible jail time for yourself as an accessory, and, incidentally, any hope of getting married any time soon, all because your knickers are in a twist over who gives the orders to Fred?"

"If you're going to fight, stick to one subject, all right? Either I'm not taking the Immigration threat seriously enough, or I'm unreasonable about where we – notice I said 'we', Remington, not 'I' – spend the night. Which is it?"

"On the contrary, Laura, I am sticking to the subject, because it's all of a piece, two sides of the same coin: your blasted determination not to surrender an inch, not a single inch, of control in any area of your life, including our relationship."

The limo was edging up to them gingerly – if such a description could apply to a two-ton Cadillac – and halted at the curb. Laura blew out an exasperated breath, turned away from him and marched over to it. After a beat, Remington went for the other side. The two rear doors slammed shut almost in unison. Inside, the Steeles maintained as great a distance from each other as possible, scowling across the no-man's land of the seat between them.

Fred cast them a wary glance over his shoulder. "Where to?"

Without replying, Remington folded his arms and turned to stare out his window.

It was then that Laura hesitated. Remington's words were reverberating in her head with a clarity that temporarily overrode her anger. Are you sure enough that Immigration has backed off that you're willing to risk my neck? he'd said. Are you so sure that you're willing to gamble on our wedding plans?

Was she? The stuff she'd relegated to the background in Ireland in order to concentrate on the two of them exclusively seemed all at once to crash in upon her. The hastily contrived wedding on the fishing trawler; Estelle Becker, apologetic, but determined to stay on their case; Gladys Lynch's insulting stridency; the disastrous, aborted dinner party the last night before their departure for London. The immediate threat had seemed to recede while they were in Ireland, but how accurate, really, was that perception? All right, Remington was in the country now. But how long before Tony surfaced and decided to use what he suspected – she didn't want to believe that he actually had any solid proof – about Remington and their marriage against them? How much time did they have left before the other shoe dropped, and they were separated for good?

She was angry at him, it was true. Too angry to concede a single point of the argument to him, anyway. But she also couldn't imagine ever allowing anger to so carry her away that it would open up even the tiniest chance of putting him in jeopardy.

Fred was still waiting for her answer. "To Rossmore," she snapped. Eyes front, she directed her next remark to her husband. "This isn't over, you know."

He didn't move a muscle from his position. "Not by a long shot," he agreed.

In the underground garage at the Rossmore apartment, she was out of the car and halfway to the elevator that led to the residences before Remington knew what she was about. "Laura, wait!" he called, but she didn't break her stride. "Damn," he added under his breath. "All right, Fred. Let's get these bags upstairs."

They found Laura fuming in the hallway outside his door. Remington sized up the situation and grinned sardonically. "Forget our key, did we?"

She had, in fact, done just that, recalling too late that she'd left it at the loft when they departed for London. It had seemed the prudent thing to do at the time. Now, deprived of the statement she'd intended to make by letting herself into the apartment, she threw him an infuriated look. He could tell that her temper was on the edge of a second explosion, so, to exacerbate it, he took his time about unlocking the door. She pushed past him when he was done and stomped inside. The door banged hard against the interior foyer wall in her wake.

By the time they'd carried the bags in and he'd dismissed Fred, she was nowhere to be seen. He slammed the door shut in his turn and waited a moment. No response.

He went in search of her.

No Laura in the dining room or the kitchen. He poked his head into the bedroom. Her carry on gaped open on the bed, spilling out items that he recognized, but still no Laura. A few steps farther, and he could see, through the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar, her toiletries spread on the vanity, and hear the sound of the shower running.

The door swung open the rest of the way and Laura, dressed only in bra and panties, came out.

She paused for a split second when she saw him. Their eyes met. At the sight of her the cutting remark he'd planned to make died on his lips; he could only stand there, staring at her wide-eyed. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Her reaction was to tilt her chin in that stubborn way she had and to stride barefoot to the closet, where she reached up for the stack of towels on the top shelf.

It took him a moment to summon his voice. "Have everything you need?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

But, try as she might, she couldn't get at the towels. Remington sprang to her side and snagged a couple. He put them into her arms, added a wash cloth for good measure and smiled at her appealingly.

Laura looked back, completely deadpan. "Thanks."

She headed back to the bathroom. Without consciously deciding to do so, he trailed after her. On the threshold she halted and glanced at him over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. "Do you mind?"

"Of course not, by all means," he stammered. "Carry on, Mrs. Steele. Carry on." And he hastily withdrew.

Laura closed the bathroom door behind him and sagged back against it. She'd put on a good show out there, she knew, but the truth was, it had been more difficult than she would've expected to maintain the front. Half-naked herself, with Remington gazing at her with unmistakable longing in his blue eyes? It was all she could do to set her face in angry lines, to shut her lips tight against the apology she wanted to pour out to him, to turn abruptly away from him when what she really wanted was to throw herself headlong into his arms.

She wanted to, but she couldn't. There was a point to prove. Wasn't there?

In the shower, she debated it back and forth with herself. If she were to be fair, she had to admit that Remington's assumption that, of course, they'd be staying at Rossmore, wasn't the result of some drive to assert himself as the boss in their relationship. Even as she'd thrown it in his face, she'd known it was a low blow. But it was close enough to the real issue – didn't they make decisions together? weren't they a team? – that she felt had a right to be angry and a responsibility to call him on it. It would set a bad precedent for their marriage simply to let him off the hook, she thought.

She leaned her forehead against the tiled wall and sighed. Before Ireland, the choice would've been an easy one - keep up the silent treatment until he got the point. But now all she could think about was last night, and all the places where he'd touched her, and the ways in which he'd touched them, and his body beneath her own lips and fingertips. Which should win out: anger or romance? Sticking to her principles, or spending the night in his arms?

She was all but finished showering and still had no answers. Turning off the taps, she wiped down the tub enclosure and got out. She'd forgotten her bathrobe, she realized as she toweled off, and settled for the only option at hand: a terry cloth one of Remington's hanging on the hook behind the door. Bad mistake, as it turned out. It was redolent of his aftershave, and in no way conducive to banishing him from her thoughts.

He was there, unpacking, when she entered the bedroom. He looked up uncertainly. "All right?"

"Sure." She hesitated a second, still torn, thinking she should say something to lighten the atmosphere between them, yet unwilling to relinquish any ground. "I need to get dressed," she added and hurried past him into the living room to find her bags.

For a moment Remington considered going after her. His own anger, never long-lived under most circumstances, had fizzled out by now, and he was ready to see if they could talk it over and resolve it. Besides, sleep alone on their first night home? He found the idea absolutely appalling.

Maybe, he thought, he ought to do what he'd done in Ireland. Maybe he should just follow her, scoop her up in his arms and carry her off to bed. Show her how much he loved her, how sorry he was for fighting with her, instead of merely telling her. He let that pleasing daydream unspool on the movie screen of his imagination. Then he shook his head. He was already in enough trouble for trespassing on Laura's perennial impulse for control. No sense in provoking another quarrel while the previous one still simmered, or escalating the tension between them to an even higher pitch.

Allowing her time to cool off. That could be the answer. It would mean time for him to cool off, as well. He went to take his own shower.

He stretched it out as long as he could, his optimism growing. She might have reached the same conclusion he had, that it would be a shame to spoil their homecoming by spending it apart. Even now, she might be waiting for him to come to bed. In expectant eagerness, he wrapped up his bedtime routine, hustled into his pajamas – the pants, anyway, which he had to admit was kind of a waste of time, considering how soon he'd probably have them off – and opened the bathroom door.

The bed was empty.

He forced down his disappointment as he crossed the room. He'd seen her there so clearly in his minds eye! Perhaps it was to be Plan A after all, discussion first, so that they could bring it all that conflict from earlier into the open and air it before it festered further. He hadn't always been willing to try it, and still wasn't very good at it, but Ireland had helped him to take the first steps to changing that attitude. He was learning, anyway.

But the rest of the apartment was in darkness; it was only by the glow of the lamps on the street below that he could make out Laura's slight form curled up on the living room sofa. She'd grabbed the spare pillows and blankets and made it up as a bed for herself. Judging by the sound of her breathing, she was deeply asleep.

He wavered in the doorway. This reminded him of something, but what? Then he knew: the night after the Enterprow Foundation blew up her house. With literally nowhere else to go, she'd spent the night here, tucked up on the couch while he took the bedroom. There the sound of muffled crying had wakened him in the small hours of the morning. Laura, crying! The very idea of it was so extraordinary, so inconsistent with what he'd known of her up to then, that it took him a second or two to comprehend it. After that, he'd vacillated briefly over what to do next. She had been prickly and hostile all day, fending off his every attempt to comfort, support and protect, wrapping herself in a hard shell of aggressive competence. Maybe intruding on her now, however much he wanted to help, would only make things worse. But the heartbroken sobs went on, hurting his own heart so much that he decided he didn't give a damn if she rejected him. He got out of bed, fully prepared to go to her. Something had stopped him, though, on this very spot. Even now he wasn't sure what it was. The fear, perhaps, that they might cross a line that they wouldn't be able to re-draw, whether emotionally or physically? He'd almost retreated, had just turned away, when Laura's voice stopped him. "Don't go," she'd said.

A little pulse of hope was beating in him as he remembered her words. Minutes ticked by while he lingered there and simply listened. But there was only the slow, even, in-and-out of her breathing. At length he really did retreat, closing the door behind him quietly so as not to wake her.

TO BE CONTINUED