A forgotten scene from "Tempered Steele". Part of the series "Becoming Steele".

Maybe this is going to be an awful idea, Laura reflected as she zipped her Rabbit to the address that "Remington Steele" had given her. Several weeks back, when they had come to an agreement about his contract with the agency, she had offered him the use of the agency's apartment, one they had rented under the pretense of creating their fictitious Remington Steele. Hotels in LA weren't cheap, at least the type of hotel she suspected his high-flying ways were accustomed to, and as part of their bargain she thought it was only fair to offer the property to him. What impressed Laura was that he had insisted on paying the apartment's rent before she'd had the opportunity to raise the issue. That bumped him up a notch in her book. In Murphy's book it only raised suspicions. And once "Mr. Steele" had clarified that he'd cover the rent from his own salary, Laura had agreed to finalize their deal. Several days after that conversation, he had approached her with his usual flirtatious manner.

"Ah, Miss Holt. Hard at work keeping the agency wheels running smoothly."

She looked up from the case report she'd been editing. "Someone has to do the work around here. Flattery will get you nowhere." Okay, what are you up to today?

He propped a slim hip against her desk (Down, girl!) and gave her a dazzling smile. The one that made her knees weak despite her best efforts. "I rather hoped to curry your favor with a modest proposal." Since she had read Jonathan Swift and was conversant with understatement, she gave him an encouraging look.

"Propose away, Mr. Steele. The worst I can say is 'no'."

"Well, then…Would it offend you if I relocated to an alternative apartment?"

She blinked, her pencil suspended in midair. "Relocated?" she echoed while her brain caught up. I thought you were going to make a pass at me, was her next response, and her let-down must have shown because his smile softened.

"One befitting Remington Steele, of course. Nothing…" and he hesitated just long enough to make it an innuendo "…inappropriate."

"I eagerly await the results," she had replied evenly, not letting him get the best of her, and then proceeded to suggest several possibilities. She didn't really know what he was looking for, and perhaps the one she had selected for her fictitious Mr. Steele was too expensive? The lease for the current apartment was a month-to-month – it was all the Agency dared commit to – and at the time she thought a flashy venue was necessary to attract the level of clients she wanted. There was certainly an array of less expensive rentals, but she couldn't for a moment imagine this impeccably-dressed Brit would venture near one of those. He had noted her suggestions willingly and then declined her offer for further assistance in what was obviously a foreign city to him. So there the matter laid.

Now, driving for the first time to his new residence, she was naturally curious about where he had decided to reside.

To hell with curiosity. I'm deep down terrified of what I'll find and what's going to happen tonight.

It had all started with another surprise, earlier that day at agency. She, Murphy, and Him were discussing the Dillon Electronics case. At least, it was supposed to be just her and Murphy until He had jumped into the discussion.

"It's clear," he had begun. "The only way to solve this fiendish case is to trap the murderer into confession."

Laura nearly spilt her coffee and only a quick jerk backward had prevented brown stains from splashing across her blouse front. "We're going to do what!?"

"I'd like to see that," said Murphy. Then he rethought it. "No, I take that back. I definitely do not want to see that."

"It's blindingly simple and elegantly brilliant!" Steele had enthused. "We bring the suspects together and lay out the evidence. Evidence so water-tight that the murderer is forced into confession."

Laura frowned. "Haven't I seen this in a movie?"

"The Thin Man. William Powell, Myrna Loy. MGM, 1934. You'd be a marvelous Myrna Loy, Miss Holt."

Despite herself, a corner of her mouth twitched. "Really?"

"Laura…" warned Murphy.

"I'm kidding, Murph. What makes you think this has even the remotest chance of working? And please don't quote another movie."

"It's the evidence. Don't you see? By spelling out the evidence, the suspects notice the discrepancies in each other's stories. Because the discrepancy makes their own alibis look bad, they're more likely to confess the truth and implicate each other."

Murphy stared at ersatz Steele. "You've got to be kidding me." He looked at his partner. "Laura, tell him he's got to be kidding us."

Her nose wrinkled in a manner that she'd no idea other men found endearing, otherwise she would have abandoned it post haste. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "there's a certain, crazy logic to it that might make it work."

Steele blinked. "There is?"

Murphy groaned. "Laura. Don't tell me you've drunk the Kool-Aid too!"

"It might just work, if we played our cards right." As she spoke, she began to pace Steele's expansive corner office and could see the pieces falling into place. "We can play the tensions of Roger and Hanna and Meacham against each other. They're not exactly Happy Families. If we can drive the wedge further, then maybe they'll start exposing each other."

"I don't know, Laura. Hanna Dillon seems to be so controlled and on top of everything."

"Well, maybe so. But if we can widen that rift between her and Roger, then maybe she'll tell us who she really thinks did it..."

Since they were so accustomed to it being just the two of them, neither had noticed that their Steele-for-Hire had slipped away until he returned to the office minutes later, rubbing his hands together and wearing an expression of glee.

"It's all set. They'll be there at seven this evening."

Laura paused in mid-thought. What did he say? She mentally rewound the tape. Then leapt from her chair. "They? They who?"

"The Dillons and Meacham. They'll all arrive at seven this evening. Didn't you hear me?"

"Wait! Wait!" she cried, waving her hands as if she could flag him down. "What are you talking about? Arrive where?"

"But you just agreed to the plan. I've invited the suspects to dinner at seven. The movie was Dinner at Eight but seven seems reasonably fashionable for LA. It's not exactly Cannes."

"You just decided on your own to invite our suspects to a dinner party? Tonight?!"

"I thought you agreed to the plan!"

"Murphy, talk some sense to him!"

Murphy said, "Blah blah blah. Blah blah." Then stared at Steele. "Nope. Doesn't work."

"And where are we supposed to hold a dinner for…" she mentally counted, "six on such short notice!" And then her voice took real panic. "And who's going to cook it?!" She reached behind and scrambled for a Yellow Pages on the bookshelf. "Maybe we can find a restaurant on short notice."

"All taken care of," Steele said with a nonchalant wave. "Just be there by five. And formal dress, please. Appearances matter."

"Because chokeholds are easier in black tie," growled Murphy.

So here I am. Driving to his apartment so that we can identify a murderer using a plot from an old black and white movie that I haven't even seen. This isn't exactly how we learned to do it at Havenhurst.

He had given her the address and, as an LA native, she had a pretty good idea where he might be living. But she was wrong, off by a block. He wasn't renting one of those sleek, modern apartments she had mentally pegged and had suggested. Instead, she found herself staring at the grand dame of 1930s elegance, all crenellations and art deco.

Damn. Where the hell did he find this place? I didn't even know it existed. Or have I stumbled into Brigadoon? Now that wouldn't surprise me, since Mr. Steele's involved.

She found a parking spot – it had a garage with visitor parking, thank goodness – and took herself into the building, her high-heeled pumps dangling from one hand and the other raising the hem of her gown so she didn't trip on her flats. He did say fancy dress. I hope I haven't overdone it. How fancy is a bachelor going to get?

It was a fifth floor apartment and there was an elegant elevator, and she was beginning to wonder about what Mr. Steele had found for an apartment. "5A" he had said, and here was the right door. And thank goodness for an elevator. It'll make it easy for the carry-out guy to deliver dinner. Good thing I know who delivers on short notice. She double-checked that the phone number for a decent Italian was in her handbag. Pressed the buzzer. And waited. And waited.

Maybe this isn't the right place. Terrific. And then the door opened.

And there He was. He was wearing a tuxedo shirt, open at the collar and sleeves rolled up. And…an apron?

He smiled. That gorgeous, blue-eyed smile that caused a ping in her stomach despite her best efforts. "Miss Holt. Do come in."

She stepped inside, barely noticing that he had closed the door behind her. And stared.

This wasn't Murphy's bachelor digs, littered with sports memorabilia. Or her own comfy house. She didn't know what to expect, especially on short notice. Certainly not this.

Grey on grey elegance. A massive bank of windows that would capture the downtown skyline come nightfall. Movie posters on one wall. Were those vintage? A gas fireplace that spoke to a multitude of nights. She turned toward the dining area and gaped. Crystal? Silver? The table was perfectly set. It's like something out of an old movie.

"Is it all right?" A voice, anxious, at her side. She shook herself out of her amazement.

"All right? It's amazing!" If she had been looking at him, instead of at the furnishings, she would have seen him preen with pleasure. She waved a hand, still holding her shoes. "How did you manage?"

"Remarkable what's available for rental. Silver service. Crystal settings. Small white ponies."

She frowned and looked around. "Small white ponies?"

"Just checking that you and I were in the same universe."

Her nose twitched. "What's that smell?"

"Coc au vin. To be accompanied by roast potatoes and a spinach gratin. And several bottles of chilled Sancerre."

She only realized that she still hadn't moved when she felt him gently remove the shoes from her clasp. "You look marvelous, Miss Holt."

"Thank you," she managed, and knew she was blushing. Damn.

"Is anything the matter?"

"No! Yes! I mean," and now she finally focused on him. "I'm impressed. This is where you live?"

"It seems like a place that Remington Steele would choose."

"When I suggested this neighborhood, I was thinking of those new apartments a few blocks west."

"And it was an excellent suggestion. I looked at them. Not my style."

"Apparently not," she said, still overwhelmed. "You can afford all this?"

He made a non-descript gesture that didn't answer the question. "I believe we had agreed that the agency wanted to attract a certain level of clients."

"I know, but…Wow!" She finally looked fully at him. A number of thoughts crossed her mind, but what she said was, "So we don't need to hire a caterer?"

"All under control."

"Well, thank you."

He met her gaze. "You're very welcome, Miss Holt." The moment stretched.

And then the doorbell rang again.

Laura shook herself. "That'll be Murphy."

"Could you get the door? I'm going to hide this apron. Wouldn't want Mr. Michaels to receive the wrong impression."

He disappeared into the kitchen and Laura shook her head. "Now all we have to do is get through this evening."

But she was smiling more than she had when she arrived, and that was something.

THE END