Chapter 2

Remington's head popped up and swiveled towards the living room as the doorbell announced someone's arrival. His eyes flicked to his watch, and noting the time, his brows drew together in a frown. Monroe's crew had departed with the bulk of his belongings some half-hour ago, and he wasn't expecting the cab for another twenty minutes. With a shrug, he dropped the pair of jeans he'd been folding into the suitcase laying open on the bed, and strode towards the front door as the buzzer sounded again.

"Coming, coming," he called out. A half-dozen long strides later, he swung open the door, admirably concealing his shock at seeing whom was standing on the other side of it. "Miss Holt," he greeted, coolly. "Forget something?"

"No, I…" Laura patted her stomach, trying to quell her rioting nerves. "May I come in?" He made a display of looking at his watch.

"Now's not a good time, I'm afraid," he responded. Her eyes blinked and her lips parted in surprise. She couldn't recall a single time in their association when he'd turned her away.

"We need to talk," she tried again.

"Can't imagine why," he responded, impassively. "Seems to me you covered all the bases with your normal thoroughness." A pained look settled on her face, as she shifted uncomfortably.

"About that—" He gave his watch another glance, perplexing her further. "Do you have somewhere you need to be?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he confirmed, then added. "And it wouldn't do for me to be late." She drew in her lips, her heart clenching in her chest.

"A date? At this hour?" The words tumbled from her mouth, unplanned in her dismay. The flash of injury in his eyes was quickly concealed with look of indifference and a display of his pearly whites.

"Given our conversation earlier, I believe the answer to that question falls under the heading of 'no longer your concern', wouldn't you agree?" He took some pleasure in her obvious upset at his answer, looking again at his watch as she averted her face and drew in a shaky breath. "Now, if you don't mind—"

"Mr. Steele." She drew out his name in a plea that nearly made her wince, and faced him again, but he'd had enough. For nearly three years he'd played it her way, only to find himself on the losing end for the second time in a little more than six months.

"Goodnight, Miss Holt," he bade, reaching for the door and beginning to close it before a flattened palm laid against it prevented him from completing the action. He swung back open the door, his clenched jaw and stormy countenance making her hand flutter up to lay at her throat.

"We really need to talk," she repeated, drawing herself up to her full height. With a shake of his head and a twitch of his jaw, he spun on his heel to return to his room.

"Have it your way," he said with a flick of his hand behind him. "You normally do." She scrunched her face at his back in dismay. This wasn't at all how she'd hoped things would go. She'd expected him to be angry with her, even standoffish. What she hadn't expected was blatant hostility coupled with outright disinterest. Finding the gumption from somewhere deep inside, she closed the door and dropped her bags on the floor next to the wall, then followed resolutely behind him while speaking.

"I was… upset… confused… earlier. Over our license, in part. I didn't –" Her words came to an abrupt halt as her eyes locked upon the suitcase lying on his bed.

"No need for explanations, Miss Holt," he dismissed as he folded a shirt and dropped in his suitcase, dissembling all the while that he'd neither noticed the abrupt end of her undoubtedly prepared speech nor the look of disbelief upon her face. "I had a little chat with our Mr. Bergman earlier this evening and he saw fit to restore your license immediately. I dropped it in the post 'round bout an hour ago. You should have it in your hands by Monday, I'd imagine."

Slowly, she lifted her head, allowed her eyes to travel towards the closets, their mirrored doors open, their contents gone. She gulped for air as she shook her head, as if doing so would magically replace the contents in the now barren space. She stepped backwards and leaned her back against the wall for support as her knees threatened to buckle.

"You're leaving?" she rasped, forcing the words past a throat that had grown so tight she was struggling to breathe.

He'd watched the scene unfold in those very same mirrored doors, thoroughly torn as his heart clenched at seeing her unconcealed devastation while at the same time it rejoiced she felt even a small measure of what she'd visited upon him hours before. In the end, the wounds inflicted by her were still far too raw, and his anger flashed, demanded he draw some blood of his own.

"That's one of things I always loved about you, Miss Holt. Observant, almost to a fault," he clipped out, tossing a leather jacket on top of the rest of the suitcase's contents, then closing the lid and zipping it closed. Her chest began to rise and fall, rapidly, visibly as two memories from days gone by, the events all too similar to those unfolding now, assailed her. With barely a flicker of his eyes in her direction, lest he fold, he walked past her into the bathroom.

"Are you coming back?" She closed her eyes, her fingers gripping the wall, knowing the answer before the question was asked.

"I don't see why I would," he replied, with a brutal honesty that cut deep. "You've made it abundantly clear there's nothing left for me here." She grasped at the tiny sliver of hope he'd inadvertently offered.

"That's not true," she countered, passionately, drawing out the last word. "I suggested we take time to consider our personal relationship, not our professional." He blew out hard, short, dismissive puff of air between his lips as he passed her, overnight bag slung over his shoulder.

"I believe we've traveled this road before, have we not?" he asked, a pointed reference to those months after Cannes. "A road we agreed, if I recall correctly, neither of us had traveled well… or happily. It's not an experience I'm willing to repeat." Grabbing the handle of his suitcase, he lifted it from the bed and headed towards the living room. In the space of a heartbeat, watching him pick up those bags, she veered from defeated to pluckish.

"So that's it?" she demanded, as she followed in pursuit of him. "What happened to the man who once told me he hoped he'd learn to stand and fight?" Dropping his bags next to the credenza, he whirled to face her, fury turning his crystal blue eyes white hot.

"What do you think I've been doing the last three years?" he bellowed. He paced the floor as he raged, gesticulating frequently. "I stayed as you tried to deny what we both felt between us from the start, then once you'd accepted it, I stayed as you held me at arm's length, giving you the time you needed to work through all your bloody fears and inhibitions." She wrapped her arms around herself and tipped up her chin a notch, vexed by that last. "I stayed after Cannes, accepting your decision as my penance, hoping that you might one day change your mind. I staed even as I was made to watch you flirt with and date men who weren't deserving of you, while I sat here alone, wondering if you taken them into your bed when you'd never given us half chance. Three years of changing who I was, what I was, so that I might finally measure up in your eyes to your mythical Remington Steele. Fight? All I've done is fight, and it's never been enough for you, and tonight you made it patently clear it never will be and neither will I." Finished, he stood, chest heaving from the rant, as he dragged both hands through his hair. She was shaking her head as she approached him.

"I don't need you to be the Remington Steele I created," she corrected, reaching out and gently grasping his upper arms. "The only person I think of when I hear the name, is you." He softened beneath her touch, shifted with uncertainty, then suddenly he was gone, putting space between them again.

"Tell me, Laura, if that were true, why is it you've never called me 'Remington'? Hmmm?" he challenged. She circled her arms around herself again, averted her face.

"I don't know," she answered, earning a derisive laugh from him.

"I think we both know, the ever pragmatic, logical, Laura Holt never does anything without knowing the reason why," he discounted, wearily. "But we both know the why of it, don't we? A name stolen, but never earned. You'll never be able to see past the way I stormed into your life, exposing your secret, claiming the role for my own." She was shaking her head in denial before he finished.

"That's not true. Not now at least," she refuted. "Maybe when I believed you were refusing to tell me your real name and it was just one more thing that you had over me. Wanting me to let you in, yet being unwilling to do the same for me." She dropped her arms then held her hands out, palm up, as if in a plea. "But, that hasn't been the case for a while now." She let out a short sigh, then wrapped her arms around herself again, protectively, as she ambled across the room, brows furrowed, thinking. "Not since Ireland." He'd held his eyes on her throughout, searching for any signs of deception, calming as he found none.

"And since?"

She visibly flinched when he posed the question, the question requiring an honest answer the type of which they'd almost always avoided on a personal level in the past. An answer which would expose her own vulnerabilities, allow them to be exploited, if he so chose. But she'd come there that evening wishing to clear the air between them, hoping they'd finally find a way to close the divide between them, to move forward. Her eyes fell on his suitcases, still positioned near the front door.

"Tonight… after I left here…" she began, shifting her eyes to him, then away, unable to look at him when she said the next, "I got on a plane to go to Mexico with William Westfield." Her eyes darted to him, seeing the instant recognition set in. Emotions danced across his face - hurt, betrayal, disbelief, anger - before his jaw tightened.

"Didn't realize you and he had been dating," he answered quickly, bitterly as he stormed towards her, and grasping her by the arm, took her with him towards the door. "A gentleman should wish the two of you every happiness, but I'm not feeling very sporting at the moment." He threw open the door. "Get out!" She easily pulled her arm from his hand and backed away, tipping her chin up defiantly.

"Not until you hear me out," she refused. He leveled a scorching look upon her.

"Anxious to share the details of how you'd intended to shag the man?" he accused, slamming the door shut. "Have at it then. What was it to be? On your back or—"

"Stop!" she shouted, holding up a palm towards him in emphasis. He clamped his mouth shut, and stood before her, glowering, his chest heaving. "Stop before you say something neither of us will ever be able to get past," she pleaded, voice softening. He laughed softly, sardonically, as he rubbed a hand over his mouth and sidled past her.

"Oh, a bit late for that, don't you think? I think you've already said more than enough—"

"I don't think it is, if you'd just let me finish." Face pinched with distress, he turned to look at her while shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. He leveled his eyes on her, daring her to lie to him.

"You had planned to screw the man, hadn't you?" She winced at his choice of words and the venom with which they'd been said. "A man you've only known two days… a suspect at that?" Her eyes held his as she answered.

"I'd considered going to bed with him, yes," she admitted, a hand fingering her throat. Her face scrunched up and she had to look away from the raw hurt on his face she knew he hadn't wished her to see. With a sharp nod of his head, he walked towards the door again.

"Then it would seem more than enough has been said," he announced, swinging open the door. "If you wouldn't mind—"

"I'm twenty-nine years old, Mr. Steele," she spoke as though he'd never said a thing, as she slowly circled the living room, not looking at him. "It's been more than five years since Wilson walked out, and I haven't dated any man more than a handful of times, let alone gone to bed with any of them. Too driven, not motivated enough, too misogynistic, too boorish, too boring. And that was alright. I've never been prone towards one-night stands, casual arrangements, or going to bed with a man simply because I had an itch that needed to be scratched." His hand still holding the door open, he couldn't take his eyes off her as in three sentences he'd learned more about her romantic past than she'd shared in three years. She shrugged a shoulder. "And as my grandmother used to say to me 'Sometimes you have to date a lot of frogs, before you find a prince.' I'd believed I'd found a prince in Wilson, but instead he taught me a prince can sometimes turn into a frog without warning," she commented, ruefully.

"Am I to take it, then, that I'm yet another frog whereas Westfield is the prince in this little scenario of yours?" he speculated as to where she was going with this tale appeared to take shape, his anger piquing again.

"No, you aren't," she corrected, then lifted her face to the ceiling and placed a hand on her forehead even as he took some solace in her answer. "Three years, Mr. Steele and we're still frozen in place. I needed to know, if it's because of you or me." Releasing the door, he took several cautious steps towards her.

"And?" She turned to look at him while lifting her hands and dropping them.

"It's me… it's you… it's us." She growled in frustration. "You dole out pieces of your past as you see fit, but either you don't trust me to understand or you don't trust that I'll keep you and your secrets safe. It's…difficult…" she noted with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand, "To believe this, between us, isn't just a temporary amusement… a challenge… when you hide so much of yourself away from me. A part of me, a very large part, is afraid what Daniel said is true."


"Miss Holt, Harry is one of a kind. A true… artist. The only reason he hasn't painted himself out of your life is that the two of you have yet to experience the, umm, ultimate moment."


"You can't give weight to Daniel's claims," he insisted. "He's his own agenda, one which you don't fit into."

"Can't I?" she disputed. "You've told me often enough that you can't make a commitment beyond today."

"You're still afraid you'll wake tomorrow and find me gone," he summed up. "Shouldn't nearly three years of remaining here hold some weight?" Her eyes moved pointedly to the suitcases waiting next to the front door. "Excepting today, of course," he added, with a small, pained smile.

"Then there's me," she continued. "Every time we move even the slightest bit in the direction of becoming…" she gesticulated between them and blushed at the mere thought, "…intimate, I… panic… I freeze, I leave, as if I'm a sixteen-year-old virgin who's afraid of doing the deed. I'm twenty-nine, for God's sake, and certainly not a virgin. I'm attracted to you, always have been. I like spending time with you… Look forward to it, actually. I dream about us, as lovers. So, what's stopping me?" She paused to heave a frustrated breath. "I thought if I could go away with William, if I could…" she couldn't put into words and see that look on his face, "…then I'd know it wasn't me, but specific to you. As it turned out, I only had to think about doing it to find the answer."

"Which was?"

"You scare the hell out of me. That I'm angry not with you, but myself. Because good or bad, right or wrong, smart or foolish, and all in spite of the promises I'd made to myself a long time ago—"

She stopped speaking abruptly as a knock sounded on the still open door. They turned their heads as one to stare at an unfamiliar man standing in the door way.

"Someone called for a pick up from this address?" the man inquired. Remington mentally damned the cab driver to perdition for interrupting. Searching his pockets, he found his wallet and peeled off several bills, handing them to the man.

"This should cover the fare you would have made and something for yourself as well. I'll call back should I still need assistance." The driver skimmed through the money handed him and a smile lit his face.

"Thank you, sir. The name's Frank if you decide you need a ride." Remington fought the urge to slam the door behind the man, instead closing it quietly then turned to find Laura had moved to stand behind him.

"You were saying?" he prompted. She swallowed hard and flexed the fingers of a hand in her nervousness. She'd resolved one of them would have to take the leap first, and since she'd been the one to walk away, it was up to her to lay ownership to what she wanted, what, she now realized, she'd wanted for nearly three years. She stepped close to him, and lay a palm on his chest.

"I don't want to play games any longer, Remington," she told him, speaking in the general direction of a shoulder. "I want you, all of you," she drew in a breath, and, lifting soft brown eyes to stunned blue ones, she was finally honest with him, and herself. "I love you."