CHAPTER 1: COUNTDOWN

October 7, 1987 Thirty-seven weeks and three days

If Laura had even the slightest concern Remington's attraction to her would wane the more ungainly she became as her pregnancy progressed, those fears would have been firmly put to bed. If anything, those unconscious touches he'd bestowed upon her across the years only increased in frequency, and, at home, the man could barely keep his hands off her. Oh, not just sexually, although he remained as ardent a lover as ever and seemed to revel in the challenge of finding new positions deigned to bring her the greatest pleasure. He certainly made no secret of how much he savored her normally responsive body's even greater sensitivity and his delight in being able to tease her even more easily over the edge into oblivion.

But, their very vigorous bedroom life aside, it was moments like these, right now, which he craved the most: Her reclining between his legs on the couch, her stomach bared so his sensitive fingers could feel their child's every movement, while they spoke quietly in front of a low burning fire. His hand followed the movement of what he believed was a small baby's bum, moving from left to right in its mother's womb.

"Baby Steele is quite active this evening," he observed. She lay her left hand over his, and toyed with his wedding band.

"Baby Steele has been active all day," she corrected, then added a bit sheepishly, "I might be paying the price for that cup of coffee at lunch."

"Lau-ra," he drawled, ducking his head around her neck so she could see the look of censure upon his face. She held up a hand, in response.

"I know, I know, we agreed: no caffeine. But you try hauling around an entire extra person in your body day in and day out and see how tired you get," she defended. "Sometimes a hefty dose of sugar isn't enough to get me through." She peered down at her belly. "Besides, I've already gained twenty-six pounds. Twenty-six! It will take me a year to lose it all." She'd been appalled the day prior when the scale had registered a whopping one-hundred-twenty-seven pounds.

"And yet you remain the most beautiful woman in every room," he countered, bussing her against the top of her head.

"You're biased," she retorted with her normal claim. He nodded his head.

"That I am. How could I not be, when it's my child that has you so gloriously rounded?" he challenged, as his right hand caressed what felt like foot, pushing against her belly. "This... testament... to what you feel for me, your faith in us? Hmmmm? But it makes what I say no less true." She sighed and relaxed against him.

"You're very good at this, you know." He grinned unseen.

"I've had a lot of practice of late, but that too makes what I say no less true." He'd had both practice and a bevy of advice from Zeth, Christos, Murphy and Jason on what not to say, lest he wished to incur his pregnant wife's wrath. He lifted a hand to draw the back of his fingers along cheek and jaw, before using two fingers against her chin to turn her head to look at him. "In fact, I plan to show you very shortly..." he touched his lips to her nose "... precisely..." a touch of his lips to her chin "...how desirable..." a brush of lips against her cheek "... I find you." His lips settled over hers, and he partook greedily of the lips offered up to him. He caressed, teased, nibbled then probed briefly, before withdrawing, taking satisfaction in the dazzled brown eyes that looked back at him.

"A hands-on demonstration, I take it?" Smiling, he leaned down and kissed her again.

"At the very least." With a waggle of his brows, he settled back in behind her, his focus returning to the baby who'd just given his hand a swift kick.

"A future dancer in the making," he murmured.

"Or soccer player," Laura countered, quietly. "Did you speak with your Father today?"

"Mmmm. He and Catherine will arrive Sunday evening and remain until right after the New Year." She smiled, and began toying with his ring again.

"That'll be nice for you." She felt him nodding behind her. "Are they staying at the Wiltshire House?"

"Yes, yes. And your mother?" She let out a long breath.

"Arriving next weekend and staying until a week after the baby's born," she provided.

"Does she believe the accommodations at the Rossmore will suit her needs?" he queried.

"She says they will, but you know Mother. I'm sure she'll find something to complain about," she bemoaned. "Frances, at least, is thrilled Mother won't be there criticizing, giving advice... cleaning." He chuckled warmly behind her. She struggled to push herself up into a sitting position, tugging down her shirt as she did so. "I'm want a bath. My back's killing me," she told him.

"Care for company?" Standing she looked down ruefully for her toes which had disappeared a couple weeks back.

"If you think you can fit," she groused, drawing another chuckle from him as he stood to guide her upstairs towards the bedroom.

"I hardly think that will be an issue as even rotund with child, you are a wisp of a thing." She scowled at him over her shoulder. He couldn't be sure if her displeasure was directed toward his description of her tummy or her stature, but he suspected a combination of both. No matter, for despite her occasional gripes about her size, he knew she relished every moment of the pregnancy. There was a serenity about her these last months that he'd never laid witness to before. He couldn't help but believe he'd remember the rest of his days the look that would cross her face when their child moved within her. It did a man's heart good to know his wife was as mesmerized as he by the tiny life they'd created together.

In the bedroom, Remington slid down the zipper to Laura's dress, then scattered kisses across the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and smiled, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze before he left the room to draw the bath, then took a moment for herself, clasping her hands on her belly while looking down at it. In only three weeks, the baby would make its appearance. Girl or boy? Raven hair or auburn? Blue eyes or brown? The instincts of an artist or the analytical mind of a mathematician? She closed her eyes and concentrated on the movement of the baby beneath her hands, inside of her. Whatever he or she would be, they would be an active one.

She'd enjoyed every second of the pregnancy, surprising even herself. She'd expected to feel resentful when the pregnancy imposed its natural limitations on her and her job, but that day had never come. Oh, she'd suffered many a wistful pang, wishing it was she out on the streets chasing down leads with Remington, but her mathematician's logic had bided her well: given he'd been willing to sacrifice his life to make sure their child arrived into the world safely, then she could willingly sit out a few months of the action to do the same. And, on those days when logic was not near at hand, the image of Remington lying on her lap in the loft, his hand touching her stomach while his eyes asked what his lips couldn't – is our child safe – would flash through her memory, and she'd be chastened immediately by the reminder of what was most important of all.

But, all that said, she was ready for the pregnancy to end and the baby to arrive. When the baby wasn't tap dancing on her bladder, making her use the restroom every fifteen minutes, it was knocking the wind straight out of her with swift kicks to the diaphragm. She'd lost the ability to wear heels more than a month ago, and was relegated to flats, if she could even wear them as several times she'd been forced to wear tennis shoes to the office... and then only after Remington had tied them, trying his best to conceal an amused smile that she was unable to reach them. The burden of the extra weight on her petite frame left her shoulders and back aching by evening. And, she'd come to the horrifying realization she might have to eat her words very, very soon.

"I'm looking forward to the days when you'll need to be hauled to your feet."

"You're confusing your movies and reality again, Remington."

Thus far, she'd managed to get up and down from a sitting or prone position wholly by her own device, but with increasingly more difficulty. So far, Remington had resisted the urge to offer his help, but on more than on occasion she'd caught the glimmer of a smirk that told her he was eagerly awaiting the day she'd be forced to ask. The very idea made her want to stomp her foot, knowing she'd hear until the end of days exactly how much the movies reflected real life.

Then, of course, there was the irritating fact of how she'd changed in the eyes of the world around her. She was no longer Laura Steele, nee Holt, intelligent, competent woman and private investigator, but had been relegated to the status of 'incubator of new life.' Somehow conversations, from the most mundane to meetings with new clients or interviews of suspects had suddenly turned into a slew of questions directed towards her – 'When's the little blessing due to arrive?', 'Is it a girl or boy?' and her favorite, 'Have you signed the baby up for preschool yet?'. Then there were the clients who looked at her in horror, inevitably blurting out 'You're not going to be investigating this in your condition, are you?' She'd swallowed many a growl of utter frustration at those. But the worst of the worst were every woman over the age of forty who felt the need to touch her rounded belly. Many a time she'd stomped into the house or Remington's office threatening...

"I swear to you, Remington, the next person who puts their hands on me I'm going to clobber!"

In response to which she'd receive an amused smile and much placating. If she heard 'Now, Laura...' cross his lips another time, she very well might throttle him, instead.

And, selfishly, she admitted, she longed to be able to get as close to Remington as she wished. She missed the weight of his long, lean frame covering hers, feathering her fingers down the length of his back, the feel of his bare bum beneath her hands when they made love. She yearned to splay partway across his body, her head resting in the nook of his shoulder, to run her fingers through the hair on his chest, to stroke his side as she fell asleep pressed against his warmth, wrapped in his wonderfully comforting, earthy smell. She positively itched, to wrap her legs around his hips, to use hands, mouth and words, to make him drive into her hard and fast. But above all, she ached to feel him collapse atop her, breathless, covered in sweat, his face pressed into the crook of her neck, while she burrowed a hand in his damp hair as the other stroked his back, calming his body in those moments after he'd buried himself as deep within her as he could, then shuddered in her arms as he came apart inside her.

Three more weeks, she sighed to herself. And twenty-six pounds, she added. How much their lives would change in that time: the birth of their child, many sleepless nights, she imagined, and it would no longer be just she and Remington. There were days it scared the hell out of her. Was she ready for this? Would she be good at this? They were still so new at marriage, still working out the kinks. Would they find a way to continue nurturing their relationship while learning how to be a team when it came to raising a happy, secure, well-adjusted child? Many a night, she had lay awake staring at the wall, as Remington would say, masticating all those concerns.

"Bath's ready, love. Only thing missing is you," the man himself called to her from where he leaned against the wall, wrapped now only in a black silk robe. Laura startled from her thoughts, then smiled over her shoulder at him.

"Coming," she answered. Ducking into their closet, she stripped down and donned her own robe, then joined him in the bathroom. Slipping out of her robe, she tossed it across the chair of her vanity without a trace of modesty. Taking his offered hand, she stepped into the tub, then waited for him to join her.

Modesty. There was another thing that had gone the way of the wind. Entering her sixth month of pregnancy, she'd become increasingly self-conscious of her rapidly expanding form, and had, for a time, made it a point to crawl stealthily from bed to shower and dress for the day as Remington slept, while at the same time she'd stopped wearing his pajama shirts, which she could no longer button over her tummy comfortably, purchasing some modest, cotton nightgowns to wear instead. Having spent a lifetime assessing people based on their actions, he'd caught on rapidly, of course, and had made his thoughts on the matter clear, with nary a word said. On day four, he'd climbed into the shower shortly after her, where he'd washed her head-to-toe before seducing her beneath the gentle spray of the water. When she'd stepped from the shower, dried off, then tied the towel around her, it had been quickly tugged free, and dropped to the ground, his arms wrapping around her in replacement. He'd waited until her eyes met his in the bathroom mirror, a flush stealing over her skin in answer to the naked desire she saw burning white hot in his eyes. Only when she leaned into him, relaxing into his embrace, did he buss her on the cheek and leave the room to dress, point made.

As for those nightgowns? Well, he'd made his opinion on that matter very clear as well, sliding into bed one night, garbed in pants and shirt. Regardless that the nightgown reached nearly to her knees, he'd worked it up until his hand lay on her bare stomach, leaving her with a mound of fabric uncomfortably piled at her waist. She might have adjusted to that particular situation, but what she found intolerable was the fact there was nary an inch of his skin available to her seeking hands, save for his feet, hands and face. She'd shifted and squirmed, finally turning her head towards where he lay spooned at her back.

"Lose the shirt, Mr. Steele," she whispered the order. Behind her, his lips lifted in a smile, the words taking him back to the first time she'd said those very words to him.

"Bit of a nip in the air, don't you think?" he asked by way of refusal. Her brows knit together.

"Bit of a—It's the middle of the summer," she protested.

"Mmmm, that it is. The air conditioner must be set a bit on the low side." He shifted closer to her and feigned going to sleep. Her frown deepened.

"Then turn it up." He shook his head.

"We're both comfortable, covered as we are. Let's get ourselves a few winks, hmm?" He bussed her on top of her head, then snuggled down behind her again. Wait for it, Steele, old sport. He felt the tension in her frame, as she plucked absently at his sleeve, while her mind focused on the obstacle between her and sleep. When what he was about finally clicked, she let out an aggravated puff of air and flopped over to her back.

"Oh, for god's sake!" she muttered the oath, crossing her arms and shaking her head. "It won't button." He pressed up on an elbow resting his head in his hand and looked a down at her with amusement.

"Given it is perpetually in the state of being unbuttoned once you come to bed, I'm not sure I see the problem," he noted lightly, with a lift of his brows.

"It's your shirt," she reminded him.

"Mmmm, as it has been for near on two years now," he agreed, lifting her hair over her shoulder and cupped her face in his hand. "I still don't see the problem." She flopped back to her back and covered her face with her hands. "Lau-ra..." he drew out her name. With a long sigh, hands still covering her face, she shook her head.

"I don't feel like myself," she admitted with considerable difficulty. "I feel ... gawky... ungainly..." she dropped her hands. "... huge. I can't even fit into a man's clothes."

"I don't see how that's possible, given I find you to be the most extraordinarily lovely woman I've ever seen," he told her, sincerely, tracing her cheek with the back of a pair of fingers. She turned on her side to face him, laying the side of her head on folded hands.

"You're biased," she accused quietly.

"I disagree. But even if that were the case, shouldn't the opinion of the man you share a life, a bed with, hold some sway?" he posited. And with those words, she'd relaxed and smiled.

"It holds a great deal of sway, Mr. Steele."

"Then, do you think we might dispose of this..." he plucked at the sleeve of the gown she was wearing, unable to come up with a suitable description, "...yeesh." Her laugh trickled across the room even as she took his hand and sat up.

"It's not that bad," she scolded, lifting the gown over her head.

"Love, I haven't seen anything quite so matronly since Scarlett sat vigil at Melanie's bedside," he dissented, removing his shirt and helping her into it.

"Gone with the Wind, MGM, 1939," she recited automatically. "Need I remind you it was set in the nineteenth century?" He raised his brows at her.

"Precisely my point." He dropped a kiss on her lips, buttoning the final button that would close. They settled back on their sides, spooning together. Automatically his arm embraced her around the stomach, his hand lying against her taut skin. She sighed in satisfaction as her hand stroked his bare arm.

"Lau-ra..." Remington called to her again, jerking her attention from memories of the past to the present.

"Hmmm. What?" she asked, looking back over her shoulder at him.

"Caught you doing a bit of wool gathering again, eh?" he grinned.

"I seem to be doing that a lot lately," she confirmed, shifting slightly forward as his hands worked their way down her back, releasing tight muscles. "Mmmm, that feels wonderful," she complimented. "What's on your schedule tomorrow?" He pursed his lips as he gave the question some thought.

"Young Burton and I are going to follow up on those leads you ferreted out on the Marsten case in the morning, and in the afternoon, I'll have him accompany Brandon and I on the initial assessment of Lloyd's Jewelers," he provided.

"Do you think you might find time in there to have lunch with me at Casa Bianca?" She hummed as another tight muscle gave way. He chuckled behind her.

"Have a craving for an eggplant and sausage pizza, do you?" He found it positively endearing she'd be complaining about her weight one moment, only to rivet all focus on a craving the next.

"Yes," she sighed the word, vexed with herself. "But even more so, I want to get out of the office for an hour or two. Math major or not, I'm not cut out for sitting at a desk day-in-and-day-out." Leaning forward, he pressed his lips against her shoulder.

"It won't be too much longer," he reminded her, "And I'll be more than happy to hand off every last bit of legwork so you might scamper after leads to your heart's content."

"A sacrifice, I'm sure," she noted dryly.

"Laura, by the time I get to my morning paper, the news contained within has already been permanently etched into the annals of history," he bemoaned. She let out a sharp, quiet laugh, while stroking a leg with her hand.

"Believe me, I want things to return to normal as much as you," she assured him.

It was another, surprise, this, although she wasn't sure why it was. When she'd been healing from surgery after her kidnapping at Roselli's hands, he'd taken the weight of the Agency on his shoulders as he was doing now. Rarely did he complain, without an opening, as she'd given him just now. She had, however, been subjected, once that door was open, to long running dissertations on the havoc the pounding of the pavement was reaping on his fine leather shoes and his belief that the manager of the movie theater where he took in a matinee Wednesday afternoons had likely reported him as a missing person by now.

"How is Zack picking up on the security side of things?" she asked. Zack had begun tagging along with Remington three days ago, and they'd yet sat down to discuss his progress.

"He asks a good deal of questions, but never the same one twice. He reminds me of you, in a way, actually," he mulled, "An eye for detail, mind like a steel trap. That said, while it's a bit early to make an assessment, I suspect his heart lies in investigation, again much like yourself, whereas Brandon enjoys the challenge of outwitting the fox before it can enter then henhouse, so to speak." With a bit of difficulty, she maneuvered around in the tub then straddled his lap. His hands caught her hips to ease her down, before an arm circled her waist and the other hand burrowed in her hair. The iris of his eyes darkened, as he searched her face. "Something on your mind, love?"

"Don't you know?" she asked, with a lift of her brows.

She dragged her fingers through his hair, then used her fingertips to caress, feather light, behind his ears. His hands slid up to cup her face and he touched his lips to hers with a hum. Patting her on her bum, he helped her stand, then climbed from the tub before sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her to their bed. Laying her down, he joined her, then bent over and placed a firm hand on her moving stomach while she watched.

"Tá sé am a chodladh, ceann beag," he spoke to their child moving within her. "Do Da riachtanais a chuid ama ina n-aonar le do mháthair anois." Propping herself up on her elbows, she watched in fascination. He'd done this many times previously, and she was still astounded when their child settled beneath his hands, stilling completely within a minute's time.

"Let's hope Baby Steele is as susceptible to your charms outside the womb as in," she mused, as he stretched out on his side next to her.

"And Mrs. Steele? Is she susceptible to my charms? Hmmmm?" he hummed, lifting her hair over her shoulder, baring her neck to his lips. She shivered as he trailed those lips, whisper soft, over the sensitive skin.

"Mrs. Steele has, at times, been susceptible," she breathed, her fingertips caressing the back of his neck, making him do some shivering of his own.

"Mmmmm," he hummed, blazing a trail along her jaw. "Might now be such a time?" he queried, his breath against her skin setting it afire.

"We'll see if you can rise to the occasion, Mr. Steele," she teased. He grinned down at her.

"A challenge is it then, love?" he murmured the question, touching his lips to hers. "We both know I'm a man who enjoys the impossible challenge."

The sound of her laughter wafted through the air, right before his lips covered hers.