Chapter 4

After Benjamin's departure, Laura spent the night at Remington's, neither particularly interested in being apart after the strains of the day and a couple of close calls that could have cost either of them their lives. In fact, they'd been in bed for only a few short minutes before she'd propped herself up on an elbow and had leaned down and kissed him, thoroughly, making what she needed patently clear. He wasn't inclined to argue, needing the affirmation that she was here, safe, as much as she, but he'd looked dully at the cast on his leg then back at her as if to say he was hampered at the moment and would be unable to make love to as he'd like and she was accustomed to. She'd merely smiled, then had made love to him in a manner that had left them both quaking and clutching at one another in the aftermath. After a bit of housekeeping by her for them both, she'd slipped into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, and had laid down, head on his shoulder, nuzzled against his side, an arm holding him securely, and, with a soft sigh, had allowed oblivion to steal her away.

On the surface, it appeared they'd both come through the events with nary so much as a hangnail. In reality, however, Remington had been left introspective, and on more than one occasion had left Laura flummoxed and more than a little off balance. Such as the morning after Delgetti and Wally had been dispatched.

"You know, Laura, we've been so busy lately, exploring and defining our personal relationship that we've taken the professional side for granted. It's not until something like this comes along to force one to reevaluate."

"What exactly are we reevaluating?"

"Like, do you intend to pursue this line of work for the rest of your life?"

"I haven't really given it much thought."

"Supposing you had children? Just supposing. Would you intend to continue working? Or would you feed the little tykes breakfast in the morning and then rush off to a nice, juicy murder? I mean, would you call them up at school and apologize because you couldn't pick them up because you were being held hostage?"

Oh, she'd managed to play it off, feigning offense when she'd asked if he was trying to tell her he believed women were meant to stay at home, but in truth, the questions and their possible implications had left her reeling. Just whose children was she having? His? Why else would he be concerned what her future plans for her children might be? And if that were the case, wasn't he putting the cart a quarter mile or so before the horse? After all, he'd still not spoken a word about how he felt or where he believed they might be going.

Instead of taking comfort in the possibility he was looking that far into the future and seeing her at his side, it simultaneously frightened her and left her more confused than ever.

It would take two weeks, but Remington came to the realization that Laura was an accomplished actress, so much so that she would have fared very well in his previous chameleon-like existence. Two weeks. By the time he'd realized she'd not walked away unscathed but had been left with a gaping wound delivered by the hand of her secret admirer, he'd replayed the weeks in his mind and recognized the signs she was struggling had been there all along.

After Delgetti and Wally had been hauled off, Laura had spent the next three nights with him, and by the time those had elapsed? The weekend had arrived… the weekend that should have, by all rights, taken place at the loft, but she'd begged off, pointing out it would be far easier on him to be at his flat where there was an elevator at his disposal. She'd gone home on Sunday evening, as she normally would, but had prolonged her goodbyes until nearly midnight. Throughout the work week that followed, she'd been temperamental, had sniped often, but this was not tremendously out of the ordinary, and he'd written it off to having to take on most of his work as well, given his physical limitations. Likewise, he'd written off the several times she'd dozed off at his place in the evenings, as this, too, was fairly normal and, again, she'd been carrying a tremendous workload on her slim shoulders.

It wasn't until their next weekend approached, that those little hairs on the back of his neck had stood at attention, notifying him something was amiss with his Miss Holt. Once again, she'd insisted they stay at his flat, her reasoning unchanged from the week prior, but this time he'd argued he was perfectly capable of navigating the three flights of stairs. It had been nearly three weeks since they'd spent time at her loft, and he was convinced the stock of food he'd last left with her would be long gone… not that he'd admit this concern to her, lest he wished to have his ears verbally boxed as she replayed yet another rendition of 'I can take care of myself.' Finally, thoroughly aggravated, she plopped her hands on those slender hips and narrowed her eyes on him.

"Why does it matter so much to you that we stay at the loft?" she demanded to know, crossly. He'd given her a lopsided grin and a waggle of his brows.

"Because I happen to enjoy befouling those otherwise pristine sheets of yours." She'd not found that at all amusing and he'd turned serious. "There was a time when I didn't believe you'd ever share that much of your life with me, Laura and it means a great deal to me that you do."

Well, how could she possibly wage a successful argument against that? And she hadn't. So with Fred's assistance, Remington had completed his traditional trip to the market, then once all the food was put away began cooking that night's meal.

Laura had been tense, jumpy and withdrawn all evening, enough so that he'd begun to question if she was put out with him for something, although for the life of him, he couldn't come up with a single thing he'd done in recent days to make her so. Normally when she was out of sorts, he'd suggest an evening stroll along the beach, or he'd entice her into a dance with an offered hand, to ease her out of her mood. Neither, however, was an option this evening given the limitations imposed upon him by his cast, and unlike his flat, there wasn't a jacuzzi tub where a hot, soothing soak could be had. A couple of glasses of a fruity Merlot, viewings of Pillow Talk (Tony Randall, Thelma Ritter, Doris Day, Universal, 1959) and Houseboat (Cary Grant, Sophia Loren, Martha Hyer, Paramount, 1958), and a long, long massage of her neck and back, finally left her dozing. Not what one might call a rollicking Friday night, but if he'd helped soothe whatever it was that had gotten under her skin, he was more than satisfied with the results.

To say she slept restlessly that evening would be an understatement. Twice he'd been awakened when her hand had clenched his chest tightly enough to be painful and another time he'd been roused when she'd sat up in bed, panting, staring blindly about the room. But what had really grabbed his attention was when she'd woken up and gone from window-to-window in the loft, pulling down and then shuttering close the blinds that had never been there before, only so an hour and a half later, clearly believing she'd left him undisturbed, she'd checked the latch on the front door, then tested each of the windows in the kitchen and dining room before returning to bed.

The following day, it was as if nothing had happened at all. She'd awakened with a smile and, soon thereafter, had quite thoroughly seduced him, leaving him to get a few more winks when she'd departed for a morning run. After her return, she'd showered, changed and shared an enjoyable breakfast. The remainder of the morning saw him prepping meals to freeze for the week ahead while she worked out at her barre then went over case files. Throughout it all, they'd spoken quietly, teased frequently, and laughed often. That evening, dinner at L'Ornate – where Pierre had fawned all over his favored customers who'd once again made the headlines – was followed by an evening at the theater where they'd attended a production of Les Miserables. It had, all-in-all, been the perfect day in his estimation, and based on how Laura had taken his hand in the limo, tangled their fingers together then rested her head against his shoulder with a quiet sigh, she appeared to feel the same.

Thus, it was completely unexpected when she'd grown increasingly more tense and jittery after they'd returned to the loft. Once more, they indulged themselves, this time with a simple Pinot Grigio, and he'd massaged her tension away. But, that night, much like the night before, she slept fitfully. When she'd left the bed for the second time to check doors and windows, he'd, quite frankly, had enough. Turning on the lamp next to the bed, he slung on his robe, and made his way downstairs.

"Laura, don't you think it's time you shared whatever it is that's going on?" he asked, leaning his backside against the arm of a chair and crossing his arms. She forced a reassuring smile onto her face.

"I'm just a bit restless, that's all," she prevaricated. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I believe we both know it's more than that," he told her, challenging the falsehood. "Both last night and tonight, you've been living on the edge of your nerves, jumping at the slightest sound, more tense than I may have ever seen you. You're waking up in the middle of the night to close shades, lock doors, and even in your sleep you're battling something." She averted her faced and wrapping her arms around herself, rubbed at them with her hands.

"It's nothing," she dismissed while giving her head a slow shake. The second denial pricked his temper.

"Lau-ra," he drew out her name, his patience wearing thin. "How often have you rasped in my ear about coming to you when I'm in trouble? That whatever it is, we'll work through it together?" Her chin lifted an inch, but she held her silence. He searched his memory for anything at all that might give him a clue as to what was going on with her, straightening slightly when he found it. "What happened here that night with that… that… deranged bugger?"

"Nothing happened here," she bit out, her chin going upwards another notch. He gave his head a sharp nod.

"Not here," he jumped on that bit of information. "But something did happen," he pressed. Once again, she remained resolutely silent. "Damn it, Laura!" he shouted at her, while dragging a harsh hand through his hair. "Have you any idea what's going through my mind right now? What it is you haven't told –"

"He had pictures, alright!?" she yelled back, throwing her arms out in her frustration.

"Pictures," he repeated. "Pictures of what?" He watched as she sucked in her lower lip and blinked her eyes rapidly. "Pictures of you?" She flinched at the words. "What kind of pictures of you?" She retained her stubborn silence until he rasped out, almost painfully, "Laura…" She crossed her arms around herself protectively again.

"Some were nothing more than pictures printed in the newspaper at one time or another." She took a deep, stuttering breath. "Others were of me, here, when I believed I was alone, in the privacy of my own home." He rubbed at his mouth with a hand.

"He's not coming back, Laura." It was all he had to offer, and he hated it.

"I know that," she acknowledged, then dropping her arms reached for a brow, "At least in my head."

"But in your heart?" She looked up at the ceiling, blinking her eyes again.

"I feel… violated," she whispered. "He was watching me. When I worked out at my barre, made a cup of tea, when I was in bed… showered." She dropped her head down to look at him. "I used to believe there was nothing that could make me feel worse than being reduced to 'just flesh' by someone. I was wrong. It's knowing someone's watched me in my most private moments, that he's seen things, knows things about me, that I've chosen not to share with anyone but you in—" Her face crumpled, and it took every bit of the strength she possessed not to break. Drawing in a staggered breath, she gave him a pained look. "This was my home." With the aid of his crutch he made it across the room to her, and wrapped his free arm around her, drawing her close.

"It still is, Laura." He pressed his cheek against the side of her head, and tugged her a little more tightly against him. "Did he violate it? You? Yes, he did. But don't give him more than he's already taken."

"I'm trying," she whispered.

"You're not in this alone. I'm right here with you, all the way," he promised. She nodded her head rapidly against his shoulder. "Come back to bed with me, hmmm?" Taking a deep breath, she tilted her head back and smiled at him.

"Is that a proposition, Mr. Steele?"

"It's whatever you wish it to be, Miss Holt," he told her quietly, then leaned down and pressed his lips against her forehead, letting them linger, then repeated, "Whatever you wish it to be." Stepping out of his embrace, she took his hand in hers and weaved their fingers together.

"Then, let's go bed," she agreed, giving his hand a tug.

He gladly followed along.