STEELE INSEPARABLE PART IV: Steele in the Shadows
AUTHOR: Madeleine Gilbert
SYNOPSIS: S5 continuation; fourth in a series. When Roselli threatens Laura, the Steeles must struggle with Remington's impulse towards retaliation.
SEQUEL TO: Part I, "Steele in Perspective'; Part II, "Steele-In-Law"; Part III, "Ancestral 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, Lou Grant, WKRP in Cincinnati, their producers, actors and their agents, MTM productions, the NBC television network, the CBS television network or with any station or network carrying the show in syndication.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: One of the reason I preferred Remington Steele to its precursors (Hart to Hart) or imitators was that it avoided "Laura-in-peril" stories. It's a convention that I've always hated in "couples" series, especially when it results in the male half experiencing a moment of truth at the hospital bedside of his injured mate or colleague. Somehow, it would've cheapened it for me if Remington and Laura had reached an understanding about their relationship through such an overused—and, frankly, lame--dramatic device.
So, despite what the synopsis above seems to suggest, this isn't that kind of story.
Instead, it's a look at how Laura's independence and Remington's desire to protect her might clash when she's endangered. We saw glimpses of that side of him in the series. How would marriage change that? And how would he react if Roselli were the threat?
In my estimation, here's how it would play out.
Finally: San Sebastian Park and WNTL-AM "NewsTalk L.A." don't exist, as far as I know. The Los Angeles Tribune is a fictitious newspaper created by the writers of the MTM series Lou Grant.
As always, additional characters from outside the RS canon, apart from historic personages, are fictional and created by the author. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Exceptions are the mentions of Art Donovan and Andy Travis, characters created by MTM for the series Lou Grant and WKRP in Cincinnati, respectively.
"He's gonna leave this town wishing he and that wife of his had never been born".
Orson Welles as Hank Quinlan, A Touch of Evil, 1958
Chapter 1
On an early September evening in Los Angeles, it was the moment, imperceptible yet definite, when the last light of dusk gives way to the violet shadows of twilight.
At that moment two dark silhouettes detached themselves from the deeper darkness of the belt of oak, cypress and scrub pine that ran along a private road in the hills north of Hollywood. With one accord, they headed towards the chain link fence that separated the woods from the pavement.
One of the silhouettes was tall and lean, the other shorter by a head or more, slender and shapely. But there was a similarity about them that went beyond the black both wore. It was in the fluidity and economy with which they moved and in their speed. Though the man's stride was longer—the taller figure was masculine—the woman had no trouble keeping pace with him. An onlooker would have noted that she was usually a step or two in the lead.
Side by side they reached the fence, leaped for the top and scrambled up. Here the woman was a split second behind her companion. It was only because her jump couldn't achieve quite the same height as his. She climbed just as confidently, went over just as nimbly, as he, without waiting for him to lend her a hand. Nor did he stop to offer one.
Knees bent to cushion the impact, they landed together on the other side. There they crouched low and scanned their surroundings. A grassy declivity separated them from the road. Across the road, past another ditch, lay a second, narrower thicket of oak and eucalyptus. Beyond it was their destination, a secluded estate.
But they would have to cross that strip of open ground to reach it.
When they did, it revealed the advantage she had over him: she could run like the wind. It seemed his long legs were no match for her fleetness. Or were they? Even after they were over the other ditch and into the oaks and eucalyptus, where they slowed to a brisk walk, the man never overtook the woman. The truth was, his lagging behind was due not to any weakness on his part but by choice. He had been shielding his partner unobtrusively since they'd left the shelter of the woods.
At the far edge of the oak grove, Laura Steele hunkered down next to her husband. The narrow beam of a penlight illuminated the face of his wristwatch, the second hand of which he was watching intently. Before them was the wall that guarded the rear of Jürgen Eitschl's property. In their initial reconnoiter last week—she disguised as the driver of a commercial laundry truck, collecting the household's wash, he as the delivery man—Remington had honed in on this area as the soft spot in the estate's defenses. From here, timed correctly, he could temporarily disable the alarm system. It was also a short distance away from an unoccupied wing of the house, the perfect access point for them.
The moment had arrived. "Now," he whispered soundlessly and extinguished the penlight before slipping from her side.
The alarm system's metal housing was embedded in the wall a couple of yards to their right. Impossible for a casual passerby to recognize or locate it. Yet he'd found it with no problem the other day, already thoroughly familiar with its mechanics, strengths and weaknesses. It had been a long time, years, since she'd asked him to explain the steps he would take to neutralize a particular alarm, or even given it a second thought. He would pull it off. Didn't he always? Laura smiled to herself. Some women's husbands followed baseball; some hunted or fished; others restored cars. Hers kept abreast of the latest developments in security apparatus and amused himself by plotting ways to circumvent them.
The flash of the penlight told her that he'd reached his destination. In her mind's eye she pictured him, the light clamped between his teeth, leaving his gloved hands free. Once they'd exposed the wiring, they would travel as rapidly over it as if choreographed, those skilful hands of his. The way they moved over her body when he was making love to her? Considering the question, she felt a delicious tingle. No, of course not. There would be nothing sensual in his actions right now; he had never been one those thieves who derived an almost orgasmic thrill from their own daring. The work was exactly that: work. She was his love.
As he would undoubtedly show her later at home.
Another involuntary shiver coursed through her. She had to admit, she'd been struggling to suppress the pull of desire for him from the moment they'd begun to get ready for tonight. She couldn't quite put a finger on the reason. Most likely it was the sight of him in the black turtleneck and trousers that were his standard uniform for clandestine work. Hadn't it been a spur to her imagination since the very first time he'd invited her along on a job? The Carnover Museum, the theft of The Five Nudes of Cairo. An intoxicating brew, that night had been, composed of pushing her physical capabilities, testing the sharpness of her wits, purposely courting danger—and him. The most important element of all. His quiet confidence as he'd completed one stage of his plan and proceeded to the next. His blue eyes resting on her, warm with amusement and approval. The play of his lean muscles when he'd strung the line that would carry them over the floor sensors, propelled himself along it, then turned to catch her and set her down, holding her to him for the extra seconds that allowed her to run her hands over his shoulders, to mold her body against his. It couldn't have been more effective as foreplay than if they'd been reclining on the floor in front of his fireplace with the whole night ahead of them.
Foreplay. Wasn't it what the previous four years boiled down to, really? And hadn't the work been an integral part of the mix? Working together day in and day out had taught them to operate physically as two halves of a whole. It was in the work that they'd developed their non-verbal communication, the brief touches and glances that linked them when words couldn't. No wonder that when they'd finally made love, they were in such amazing synch from almost the beginning. They'd been unconsciously rehearsing the steps of that dance for a long, long time.
A brilliant observation. She'd make sure to store it in her memory so she could share it with him. Safer in the meantime not to indulge in reverie that involved the bedroom. They couldn't afford that sort of distraction--or any other, for that matter. Not now, when success hinged on both of them maintaining clear minds and cool heads.
Sooner than she'd foreseen, he was back. In the darkness he slid a hand under her braid to caress the nape of her neck, totally out of character for him while the most complicated phase of the operation still lay ahead of them. An intuitive response to her wanting him? She threw him a quizzical glance. It was more difficult to see him, since he had cut the electrical flow to the security lights this side of the house. But she could've sworn she caught a gleam of something odd in his eyes. Ridiculous to think it might be trepidation. In any case, the look was gone before she could confirm her impression. Instead his other hand went to the left pocket of her black jumpsuit to pat the cold steel secreted there.
Ordinarily they carried the agency gun only as an extreme defensive measure, or in the face of a definite threat. Even on high-risk incursions like this one, they preferred to rely on their wits to extricate them danger. But two months of steady work on the Demerest & Associates' case had led them to scrap their original theory that three independent brokers were sabotaging the firm. The brokers' activities were only an offshoot a much bigger conspiracy, a ring of international financiers who were trying to undermine key American businesses by destabilizing their stock. A murderous group, as events had proven. They had already done away with one of the original targets of the Steeles' investigation, Paul Kozemchak, in an apparent "accident" while driving through the Canyon. Tonight, when the Steeles were breaching the home ground of the ringleader, Jürgen Eitschl, the gun seemed not only a sensible precaution, but a necessary one. And in the division of responsibilities for executing their plan, handling the gun naturally came down on Laura's side. Remington had never had any problem acknowledging that she was the better shot in pressure situations.
She put her hand over his. "Safe and sound, Mr. Steele," she whispered.
In response he lightly kneaded her nape again and then released her. "Onwards, Mrs. Steele."
Once over the wall, they threaded their way through a series of terraced gardens until they reached level ground. Their goal was a kind of enclosed porch, a room with a flat roof from which they could gain entry to a second floor window. Nearby was the added bonus of a sycamore with a sturdy trunk and branches. Even the lowest foothold was too high for Laura to reach on her own, so Remington bent over and locked together the fingers of both hands, his palms forming a stirrup she could step into for an upward boost. Aloft, she was as agile and sure-footed as a cat, her childhood aptitude for climbing trees standing her in good stead. He came close behind, equally fearless, equally cat-like.
At length he let out a low whistle. She halted and glanced down at him. He had arrived at what he calculated to be the nearest they could get to the roof, which nonetheless left a gap of several feet between it and the tree. Already he was stretching up for the branch above him, preparing to swing. No need for words between them: the instinctive understanding borne of years of partnership told her he was going over first, where he would be in position to help her negotiate the gap. Sound and logical. Even if she hadn't thought so, she would've obeyed his directions. She always deferred to his greater experience, as well as his judgment, in circumstances like these.
From there it was almost ridiculously easy. Jim Demerest had sketched a layout of the house, with which he was familiar, and Remington had committed it to memory. They were making their way to the ground floor, towards a combination library and conference room in which Eitschl's safe was concealed. Tricky, it might have been, to enter it unnoticed, for it opened onto the wide central hall. But Remington had avoided the main staircase, choosing as an alternative a back stairway that led to the butler's pantry. On the same side of the hall as the library: minimal exposure for them. And he had planned the job to take advantage of the fact that the house was supposed to be empty for the evening, except for the live-in help, a staff of three. Laura had to hand it to him. Five years of relative prosperity and respectability hadn't dulled his attention to such crucial details.
By the glow of his flashlight they were able to pick out the floor-to-ceiling cabinetry of the butler's pantry, a restaurant-sized walk-in refrigerator and a screened door. On the latter he focused the light for a longer interval before directing it upward at his face. It illuminated his sideways nod. A possible exit, he was telling her in their wordless shorthand. He'd already indicated a couple of others, a precaution in case they had to flee in a hurry, or, God forbid, they were separated before they could make their escape.
He killed the light and cracked the door a few inches. They stood for a few moments in breath-held silence, ears straining for the slightest noise from the house around them. Nothing. At length the gentle pressure of his hand at the small of her back signaled her to exit ahead of him. Hugging the wall, they slipped smoothly to the library, and were inside.
Finding the safe ate up more time than he'd allotted for it, she could tell. Little signs betrayed his frustration, the narrowed eyes, his tongue caught beneath his front teeth. But his fingertips exploring walls and bookshelves and furniture were as systematic and sensitive as always. And when he finally discovered the mechanism—a cupboard disguised by wainscoting, the latch part of its wooden trim—his grin sparkled like a mischievous boy's.
Laura had swiftly unfastened the waist pack he was wearing beneath his black windbreaker and extracted the papers it contained. Protected between two sheets of cardboard were the records of the stock transactions that Eitschl's organization had placed though Demerest & Associates by means of its plants, Paul Kozemchak and Nehri Dhillon, along with a corresponding confirmation that showed in what form the transactions actually went through on the trade floor. The originals, of course, were in safekeeping at the agency. So was the identity of their informant. Terrified by Kozemchak's murder, Adrian Mihalec had turned over the evidence of the transaction orders he'd altered at the New York Stock Exchange on Eitschl's instructions. It wasn't enough proof to put Eitschl away--not yet, anyway. But it was the first step in the Steeles' plan to obtain that proof. If all went as they hoped, Remington Steele Investigations would have cracked the kind of breakthrough case that could raise their profile to heights they'd only dreamed about up to now. National recognition. Security retainers from wealthy, influential companies. Even the People magazine cover Remington had so coveted in the spring.
It was a heady thought, one that had the power to throw her completely off her game if she dwelt on it too long. She forced herself to focus on her husband. The combination detected, he had opened the safe and was turning to her for the paperwork. "Ironic, isn't it?" he whispered as she handed it over. "Ten years it took to build my reputation as a master safecracker. Now here I am, risking life and limb, not to take something out, but to put something in."
"And maybe catching the bad guys in the process. A fitting recompense for your misspent youth, wouldn't you say? Not to mention another chance to use your talents for good instead of evil?"
An irritated, sidelong glance was the only reply she got.
She pressed closer to him so that she could supervise his disposition of the papers. "They have to look natural, like they've been in there all along. Otherwise Eitschl will smell a set-up." When he had stirred them into a different configuration and glanced down for her approval, she shook her head. "Worse." Another attempt; she reacted with an exasperated sigh and another head shake.
The frown between his brows told her she'd tried his patience too far. He stepped aside and motioned for her to take his place. "By all means, have at it."
Finally they were done. Sharp-eyed, they surveyed the room, ensuring they'd left nothing out of place. He strapped on the waist pack. Across to the door they sprinted, where he held it open for her and followed right on her heels.
They never made the butler's pantry.
But almost. For Laura had just taken hold of the doorknob when there came from behind them the sound of another door opening: the front entrance.
The hall chandelier blazed into life, pinning the Steeles beneath its glitter. Nothing but their eyes moved as they exchanged a glance.
A voice in German-accented English: "Turn around slowly. Hands where I can see them, bitte."
Profound relief that neither of the men who loomed across from them was Eitschl. Momentary, though, that relief, banished by the snub-nosed pistol aimed directly at Remington's heart.
The gaze of the unarmed man swept Laura from head to foot, returned and lingered. A lazy grin turned up the corners of his mouth. Remarking it, she kept her own face impassive. Here it was, a potential opening she and Remington could exploit. She hoped he'd realized the implications, too. If ever they needed to be on the same page in terms of strategy, it was now.
"Weapons?" said the one with the gun. "Check them. Him first."
His companion seemed to take inordinate pleasure in buffeting Remington about while he searched his clothing. The waist pack he ripped open, folded inside out and cast to the floor. "Nichts," he said.
He turned to Laura.
It came to her in a flash what her next move should be, as soon as he leered at her again and ran his hand slowly down her arm. The same stupid ploy men of his stripe always used, with minor and unremarkable variations: expecting to reduce her to quivering jelly by mean of an implicit sexual threat. The lack of creativity would have been laughable, if it weren't for his partner's firepower. She made a big show of shrinking away, wide-eyed and scared, the way she might have done were she not a trained professional. In reality, she was watching him covertly, alert for a break in which to retrieve the gun from her left pocket…
Suddenly he was rocked backwards, yanked off balance by Remington's grasp on his shoulders. Remington with matter-of-fact politeness said, "I'd appreciate it, old chap, if you'd take your hands off my wife."
An elbow thrown at Remington's mid-section, doubling him over, and the man had twisted free; he grabbed her arm roughly, jerked her towards him. Off balance in her turn, she stumbled and went down on one knee.
Remington's snarl came from between bared teeth as he leapt for the man, spun him around: "Keep your hands off my wife, you son of a bitch."And he drove his fist into the other's abdomen.
So much for her strategy. She could've smacked her forehead in dismay at the magnitude of his blunder, but controlled the impulse. It was act now or not at all, draw the gun, remove the safety and jump to her feet in one swift motion, hoping that the gunman's attention was on the fight and not on her.
Luck was with them. He was shouting something, hurtling past her to his companion's rescue. No wonder, for Remington was smashing away at the other man with single-minded ferocity. His opponent was getting his licks in, too—she could hear the solid thump as they made contact—but her husband, lighter on his feet, weaving and dodging, was oblivious. From the expression on his face she concluded that he would happily continue until he'd killed the guy, never mind the cut welling blood above his left eyebrow, the pain she knew was throbbing in his right hand.
All the time the man with the pistol was maneuvering around them indecisively. Trying to get a clear shot, or not too comfortable in handling a gun? Not that it mattered. Light glinted on the barrel as he raised it, sighted along it.
She sprang forward, a swift running step, with a well-aimed kick at the back of his knees that toppled him. His hands spread to break his fall and the gun skittered across the floor. She dove along its trajectory, snatched it up, and was on her feet again. A gun in either hand, she braced herself, shouted, "Hold it right there."
Extremely gratifying to witness, their instant compliance. Still more gratifying, despite her annoyance with him, was the open admiration on her husband's face as he released his opponent, who was much worse for the wear than he.
Without removing her gaze from their captives, she passed him the pistol to him, butt first. "You okay?" he asked. His breath was still coming in hard gasps.
"Fine. You?"
"Great. I suggest we neutralize these gentlemen as quickly as possible, before the homeowner arrives and we find ourselves back in the same predicament."
Eitschl's guards—or whoever they were—had shifted uneasily at the word 'neutralize'. Laura contemplated them. "Got any ideas? There's no time to look for rope, and we certainly can't take them with us."
A beat while he considered it, frowning, the cut on his forehead lending him a slightly raffish air. "Think fast," she added.
The lift of his eyebrow told her when inspiration had struck. So did the glance he threw over his shoulder at the door to the butler's pantry.
The silent give-and-take that had failed between them so abysmally a few minutes earlier was back in operation, it seemed. She didn't need his explanation to guess what he had in mind.
They considered the two men again with an identical gleam in their eyes; when they spoke, it was in unison.
"Strip," said the Steeles.
"What the hell were you thinking back there?" Laura demanded.
True to form, she was venting her pent-up displeasure by speeding eastward on Santa Monica Boulevard as fast as she could manage. Regaining enough calm to speak had eaten up the first ten minutes of the drive. In the Rabbit's passenger seat, Remington gazed out the window, holding a blood-stained tissue to his forehead, lost in thought. Either that or he was keeping quiet in the hope that her bad mood would subside if he did nothing further to annoy her.
Even though they'd wrapped up the caper without a hitch—the guards divested of their clothing and locked in the walk-in refrigerator, their own escape uneventful—she wasn't willing to let him off so easily. "That wasn't a rhetorical question."
" 'Back there' is such a vague term. Could you be a little more specific?"
"Oh, don't be obtuse. You know perfectly well I'm talking about those men. What the hell were you thinking?"
With a sigh he lowered the tissue and examined the crimson smear on it. "I don't recall thinking anything."
"Well, you should've been! How's this for starters? 'I wonder what Laura's got up her sleeve? I wonder how we can work together to get out of this?' But no! Instead you go off half cocked, emotion clouding your judgment, to hell with acting as a team!"
"Really, Laura. Now I'm supposed to be able to read your mind?"
"Why not? You used to be able to. And not so long ago, either. Las Hadas? Norman Keyes? Ring any bells, Mr. Steele?"
"The only ringing I hear right now is in my ears." He tossed the crumpled tissue out the window.
"And whose fault is that?"
"From the tone of your voice I presume you think it's mine."
"Damn right I do! Jumping that guy. Picking a fight. 'Get your hands off my wife'. Care to explain that one?"
"I wouldn't have thought it needed explaining. You're my wife. He had his hands on you. I wanted them off. I asked him nicely; he declined to oblige. I changed his mind for him. End of story."
"I could've handled him, Remington, and you know it. You didn't have to rush to my rescue. It was foolhardy, it was stupid, it was reckless, it was--"
"You're missing the salient point, aren't you?"
She glanced at him, tight-lipped.
"It worked. Here we are, objective accomplished, safe and sound." He raised a hand and regarded its knuckles, which had split and bled from the force of the punches he'd thrown. "Relatively speaking."
"Barely. By the skin of our teeth, no thanks to you. If we hadn't had the gun with us--"
"—One or the other of us would've found some way to disarm them. Which, in fact, you did, impressively, while I had them otherwise occupied. You don't call that teamwork?"
"You're still not getting it. I wouldn't have had to, if you'd waited five seconds for me to draw our gun."
They wrangled back and forth for the rest of the ride to Windsor Square. There, by virtue of necessity, they called a temporary halt to the hostilities. While she proceeded up to their bedroom to trade her jumpsuit for pajamas and to gather the items she would need to patch him up, he remained downstairs to lock up—just one of the domestic habits he'd begun gradually to acquire since they'd taken residence in late July.
A week and ten days after he'd returned from London, to be exact. Their trip to claim the inheritance he'd received from Daniel and its near-catastrophic aftermath, when she had left him in Menton. Privately she was convinced it was why the move to the house in Windsor Square had held an extra significance for her. It almost hadn't happened. Totally her fault, as she was too well aware. In her drive to persuade him to take the name John Chalmers—his grandfather's name, Daniel's final request of his son—she'd made some decisions that might have ended their marriage. For a few horribly painful days, she'd feared that it was over, that she'd lost him. Thank heaven he'd had the good sense to ignore her when she'd forbidden him to come back to Los Angeles as Remington Steele. What it amounted to was that he'd done for her what he always claimed she did for him: he'd saved her from herself. An unexpected turnabout, as well as humbling, but one she accepted with gratitude nevertheless.
They'd emerged from the turmoil intact. Still, it had revealed a truth she probably should've been smart enough to recognize on her own. Remington Steele was no longer a name she could bestow and withdraw at will. It was bound inextricably to the identity of the man she'd married, not just his public persona, but his private self. He'd sealed his claim the instant he'd voluntarily renounced his Chalmers birthright for it. That, too, was something she'd had to accept. Not entirely easy, since her belief that he'd made the wrong choice was as strong as ever. It was for the same reasons she'd argued in Menton, anxiety over what would happen to him should someone unearth Steele's true origins, the desire to see him openly acknowledged by and connected to the talented Chalmers family. But she kept it to herself. She wanted him more than she wanted to win this round. If that meant relinquishing control to him, so be it.
Meanwhile the erstwhile rootless wanderer was embracing life in the house left him by Patsy Vance with his accustomed zest. That side of him wasn't so surprising to her anymore. What did surprise her were the pangs of regret she'd suffered at leaving Rossmore. Though moving day hadn't hit her quite as hard as the destruction of her first home three years ago, it was hard enough. But just as he had three years ago, Remington summoned the right words to put it in perspective for her.
He'd quietly come up behind her where she was lingering just inside the living room and enfolded her in his arms. The apartment was empty, the last of their belongings in transit across the few miles that separated Hancock Park and Windsor Square. All that remained was for them to lock up and drop the key at the realtor's. "It's not an ending for us," he'd said, his lips close to her ear. "We're merely resuming in a new setting, the very thing you're so good at. Don't tell me you can't imagine the possibilities."
She'd managed a laugh—a little shaky, but a laugh all the same. "Of course I can…Xenos."
"Of course you can." He'd turned her to him and searched her eyes. "It crept up on you unawares, didn't it? Thinking of this place as home.''
"If you'd predicted four months ago I'd feel so…nostalgic…about leaving here, I would've clobbered you. It is home. Although I'm wondering if the attraction isn't the place so much as the person I've been sharing it with. Pretty corny, huh?" And she'd wrinkled her nose, self-deprecating.
"Not at all. My thoughts exactly, in fact." Lifting her chin, he'd kissed her gently. "Ready when you are, my love."
Her eyes had traveled the apartment in a silent farewell. It was here more than anywhere else that the illusion of Remington Steele had taken on substance over the years, until it had fully assumed the flesh and blood of the man now holding her in his arms. Every room had played a part in the transformation. The living room hearth and sofa where they'd lain so many evenings, lost in each other; the terrace that had been the scene of dinner parties and cocktails and hours of confidential conversation. The dining room and the countless gourmet feasts with which he'd wooed her. The bedroom door they'd finally had the courage to open, and the durable union they'd forged once inside…
Before emotion could get away from her she'd drawn in a deep breath, met his steady blue gaze and nodded. "Ready."
"Off we go, then." He'd taken her hand, releasing it only as long as it took for him to turn the key in the outer lock. Hand in hand, they'd departed Rossmore for the last time.
Too bad the memory of his sweetness and understanding lacked the power to dispel her present annoyance with him. It didn't help that when he entered the room, he acted as if their argument was over, if not resolved. "A letter from Robbie and Kate, Laura. Have a look." He waved an envelope in her direction.
One of the happier consequences of their London trip was the long-distance friendship he was building with two of the cousins they'd met there, Archie and Robbie Dalgleish. Their mother, Daniel's older sister Lillian, was another story; she'd responded to Remington's advent in the Chalmers family with quiet hatred---a hatred he'd heartily reciprocated as soon as he'd uncovered her part in his mother's flight to Ireland when he was a baby. So far it looked like her sons either weren't privy to what had happened between Lillian and Remington, or it didn't matter to them. Robbie had re-established contact within two weeks of the Steeles' return to Los Angeles, and there were plans in the offing for another London visit around Christmastime.
If he'd hoped to mollify her by bringing the letter upstairs, he was disappointed. "Later. Come over here and take off your shirt."
"How is it you manage to make those words so unappealing?" He was eying her warily as he approached.
With the shirt discarded and tossed onto a chair, he perched on the edge of the bed. The first order of business was the cut on his forehead, so she tilted his face towards the light and set to work. In her irritation it was possible that she applied the antibiotic ointment with a shade more firmness than was called for.
"Ouch!" He ducked away. "Laura, please."
"What's the matter? Your macho swagger deserting you?"
"I thought the point of first aid was to soothe my aches and pains, not make them worse."
When she tried to resume with the ointment, he evaded her. "Hold still, you big baby, and stop whining," she snapped. "You really are a lousy patient."
"On the contrary. I'm a splendid patient, uncomplaining and grateful. You don't realize it because you're such a mercurial nurse. I never know what version I'm going to get. Which is it this time, eh? The angel of mercy, dispensing kisses as well as bandages? The stern taskmaster, scolding me for taking foolhardy risks while grudgingly tending my wounds? Or the detective, absent-mindedly inquiring after my welfare before leaving me in Mildred's hands--or, worse, to fend for myself?" He looked her up and down. "No need to answer. I can see it's the taskmaster."
She was pressing a bandage over the cut. "It's no picnic for me, you know, watching you get hurt. You always seem to forget that little fact. Especially when it's totally unnecessary, like tonight."
"There's where we differ. To my mind it was totally necessary."
"I can take care of myself, Remington. I've been doing it for years."
"I never intimated that you couldn't."
"Well, it sure seemed that way." Taking up a washcloth, she began to bathe the knuckles of his right hand. "Do have any idea how insulting it was, having you jump that guy? Like I'm an incompetent, helpless female, incapable of doing my job! It's almost as bad as calling me 'the little woman'."
"The thought that you're helpless or incapable never entered my mind, I assure you."
"Then why'd you do it?"
"Merely looking out for you. My prerogative as your husband and partner, if I'm not mistaken. Isn't that the general idea? Neither of us going it entirely alone anymore?" He gave her his left hand.
"Then it wasn't a knee-jerk Neanderthal attempt to shield me like I'm some delicate flower?"
"Laura. In all the years we've been together, can you honestly remember a situation where I've treated you like a delicate flower?"
Head on one side, she considered the question. "Now that you mention it…no."
"And I'm not about to start now." His gazed turned thoughtful. "Eitschl's was new territory for us, somehow. I think I just realized it."
"What do you mean? We've pulled hundreds of jobs like that."
"Yes, but this is the first since we've been married. It felt…different…out there with you tonight."
"I don't follow you."
"I'm not sure I understand it myself." He fell silent in a search for words to express what he was feeling, then shook his head, giving up. "Never mind. Anyway…perhaps we ought to consider giving each other the benefit of the doubt. I'll try and remember you're perfectly capable of handling the bad guys without any interference from me…you remember that I've always considered you the most resourceful, competent, intuitive investigator I've ever seen. Fair enough?"
"I can live with it if you can."
"Well, then." He caught her hand and bent to press his lips to her palm.
His caress recalled her to her earlier desire for him; she reached out with the other hand to run her fingers through his hair. "I have to say, even though it fell apart at the end through no fault of ours, your plan was just about perfect. Brilliantly conceived, flawlessly executed."
"Good to know I still have what it takes to impress you." Twinkling up at her, he drew her to him for a kiss.
But before it had gone on very long, she pulled away and smiled into his eyes. "Bengay rubdown, Mr. Steele?"
"No one but you could make the prospect so inviting," he breathed.
When she had turned down the covers and he had stretched out on his stomach, clad only in briefs, she knelt beside him. Privately she thought her massage technique was nowhere near as good as his; his old flame, Felicia, hadn't been kidding years ago when she'd praised his mastery of the Tibetan method. Then again, he had never complained about her expertise, or lack of it. In fact, his usual response to her touch was a combination of contented sighs and hums of pleasure.
Exactly the kind he was evincing now. She focused her attention on the task before her, putting her heart into it. That was easy. His body remained a marvel to her, the long, lean limbs, the contours and bulk of his muscles, the dark curling hair, the sheer masculine beauty of him. The most beautiful man she'd ever seen. And he was all hers.
Even so, the contrast between her earlier expectations and this more prosaic reality evoked amusement in her. The Bengay, she thought, was the perfect symbol. "This isn't quite the evening I had in mind for us."
"Oh? What did you have in mind?
"Oh…you know."
"Tell me."
"Why don't you tell me? You're so much better at that sort of thing than I am."
He smiled. "Still a bit shy about it, are we?"
"It doesn't come naturally, let's put it that way."
"That's because you haven't had the practice. But I detect a latent talent lurking beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. After all, Laura, you've quite a vivid imagination--when you're willing to use it."
"Thanks," she said dryly. "All the same, I think I prefer showing you to telling you."
"Role reversal? Deeds before words? I knew it was only a matter of time before I'd bring you round to my way of thinking."
"Far be it from me to resist the power of your influence."
There were a few minutes of silence while she continued to massage Bengay into his shoulders and biceps. "I'm all ears, Mr. Steele."
"Let me see…Ah, yes. I think I know what you're driving at." His words took on the storytelling cadence he reserved for moments such as these. Irish music, she liked to call it. "We arrive home from Eitschl's in a celebratory mood. A successful break-in...our goals achieved…what better reason could there be? Besides, we've been on the same wavelength the entire evening, wanting each other, feeling the anticipation build…"
So she was right earlier when she guessed that he'd sensed her desire for him. She smiled to herself.
"Which means it's not an evening where we linger long on the subtleties of romance—"
" 'The subtleties of romance'?"
"Foreplay, of course. We'd already had it, you see. Our working together. It's always something of a duet, isn't it, the way we seem to read each other's thoughts, anticipate each other's responses, match each other's actions..."
"Funny. I was thinking exactly the same thing."
"Were you?" Drowsiness was insinuating itself into his voice.
"Mm. In fact, my theory is that's what the first four-and-a-half years of our relationship were really about."
"Intriguing." He yawned. "Tell me more."
"It makes sense, when you think about it. It's everything you said. The dance and learning the steps to it. It was always leading to the bedroom. It just took us longer than most couples to get there."
"Mm-hm."
"But when we did get there…we knew so much about each other already, it couldn't help but be fantastic. And it's only gotten better."
No response.
"Wouldn't you agree?"
Silence.
"Mr. Steele?"
"Yes, yes…I'm listening…listening…" Anything else he might have said trailed off into a long sigh.
She leaned forward to get a good look at him, though long acquaintance told her he was probably down for the night. Sure enough, his eyes were closed and his face had the expression it always wore in slumber: trusting, unguarded, ineffably boyish.
So much for her fantasies of hot kisses and everything that would naturally follow.
Her mouth curved in a smile, half rueful, half indulgent, as she slid off the bed. The sheet and blanket were folded back at its foot; she pulled them up and over him. Then she bent to kiss his cheek.
"Sweet dreams, my love," she whispered.
BE CONTINUED