Chapter 9

Madame Beaubien, the realtor from Agence Beaubien Immobilier, Menton, was everything Laura was afraid a Frenchwoman would be, chic, self-confident and faintly superior. She arrived at the villa promptly at ten the next day and proceeded to scrutinize the house with authority, Remington with admiration, and Laura in her shorts, tank top and athletic shoes with blatant amusement.

Her husband had greeted her with a derisive grin when she'd joined him and Mme. Beaubien in the kitchen—their first encounter of the day. "Ah, there you are, Mrs. Steele! Off for your morning run, I see."

"You know how I am about sticking with a routine." She turned to the realtor and held out her hand. "Laura Steele."

"Marie-Marthe Beaubien. I was explaining to Mr. Steele the state of the market for homes in Menton this summer. It's a seller's market, as you Americans like to say." She was taking a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. "These are some comparisons--"

Laura waved her off. "That's okay. I'm sure Mr. Steele has matters well in hand."

"At the top of my game, as usual, darling."

"Then I'll leave it to you." Without waiting for an answer, she strode to the door.

Out on the rue Ferdinand Bac, she walked for a while, getting a feel for the terrain around her. The road was smooth enough, but not level, rising and falling as it curved through the hills. The steep banks that climbed on either side were thickly wooded with cypresses, palms and olive trees, and trapped the sun between them, so that, though it was only mid-morning, it was already baking. No problem for her, California girl that she was. It looked as if her choice was either to plot a course downhill, towards the harbor, or head north and higher into the hills. The idea of saving the most rigorous portion of the run until last appealed to her. She drew in a deep breath, and pushed off in the direction of the Mediterranean.

Their waking hours over the preceding days had been so crammed with travel, visits and meetings that she'd had barely a moment to herself, let alone for her exercise regimen. Now she lost herself in the speed and motion, the pounding of her shoes on the asphalt, the coordinated workings of her breathing and heartbeat. Concentrated thought wasn't achievable, but it didn't matter. At this juncture, she welcomed a respite from thinking.

She ran for a long time, turning south onto one of the roads that ran parallel to the sea, but avoiding the beach itself. At last, almost grudgingly, she slowed her pace, giving herself the break she would need for the journey back uphill. That was the thing about running, she reflected: the freedom and release you felt at the outset was, in reality, temporary. The moment always came when you had to return to your starting point.

And you couldn't always outrun your thoughts.

To give herself credit, she'd assimilated that little truth years ago, and so running away wasn't her goal. The adrenaline rush, that was what she was after. The chemical high soaking her brain, washing away the emotional miasma from yesterday, so that she could think their over their conflict logically and come up with a way to defuse it. Anything was better than continuing to beat her head against the brick wall where her resolution and Remington's opposition had collided.

She'd stuck to her guns the night before by sleeping in the villa's middle bedroom. Calling it 'sleep' was a stretch, of course. If the sound of pillows being punched and squeaking mattress springs were any indication, Remington, on the other side of the wall that divided them, had had the same problem. Today, this morning, they had by unspoken agreement practiced complete avoidance of one another--not altogether easy, given the size of the house. It reminded her of their stay at the Friedlich Spa last year, where they'd had their worst fight to date, followed by forty-eight hours of struggling to maintain the silent treatment in uncomfortably close quarters. They hadn't managed it very well then. She was willing to bet it wouldn't be any easier now.

Why was he being so stubborn? It honestly bewildered her. He was perfectly capable of contrariness for its own sake, but generally it was for the pleasure of proving how quickly he could set her off. What was missing now was any hint that he was amusing himself, the trademark smirk, the clever little barbs at her expense. She'd have to be completely oblivious not to recognize that he was in dead earnest about the stance he'd taken…and, underneath it, deeply angry.

Angry with Daniel? Without a doubt. Until their arrival the other night she'd had no inkling how much Remington had set his heart on finding some sort of final farewell from Daniel at the villa, or at least some key to the enigma that was his past. Remington had played it, to borrow Robbie's phrase, extremely close to the vest. It was a stark reminder that he was still in many respects a closed book to her, one that might never be easy to read. As far as the anger went, however, she took his side completely. No matter how much she'd learned to sympathize with Daniel since he'd died, she couldn't give him a pass on this one. She was too familiar with what her husband was suffering: the impotent rage that builds up in a child when a beloved father chooses to remain silent rather than speaking. Another issue they had in common. Unintentional the cruelty on Daniel's part, or Jack Holt's, may have been. It was cruelty nevertheless.

Still, the pieces didn't fit. Remington had carried anger around with him for years, directed at the same object, though with a greater intensity. Daniel had said that he had grown up hating his absent father and that the hatred had never died. But he hadn't let it stop him three years ago from searching for clues about his name in Kerry Clare. Presumably he had restrained it last fall, before meeting with the Earl of Claridge to determine whether he was the Earl's long-lost son. In both cases she'd taken it for granted that he would exchange his Remington Steele identity for the real one if he were successful. She'd never asked him whether he would or not; she hadn't thought she needed to.

So his vociferous objections to 'John Chalmers' made less sense than ever. Did it mean anything that the other two leads had cropped up before they were married? If so, maybe that was why his response was different. He hadn't yet invested himself as fully in Remington Steele as he had over the past two months. He'd still lacked that whole-hearted commitment to his alter ego and to her, that new, fierce loyalty, the heightened protectiveness she'd begun to observe in him lately.

Would he have pursued his real name if they hadn't gotten married?

She stumbled, almost fell. Her footsteps slowed; she stood in place, staring unseeingly out over the Mediterranean.

Could their marriage, and not Remington Steele, be the obstacle standing between him and his true identity, his heritage, his family?

That angle hadn't occurred to her. But now that it had, the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that perhaps she was on to something.

What had Remington said? 'I won't leave you in the lurch.' 'I'm looking out for you, the way we promised to in our wedding vows.' 'I refuse to put you at risk by becoming John Chalmers.'

It wasn't just that he was taking Steele seriously. He was taking their marriage seriously—more seriously than she could ever have anticipated from her commitment-shy, footloose partner.

Was she in her way as bad as Anna—turning him into an expedient through the identity she'd manufactured for him?

She went back in her memory over the sequence of events following Daniel's death. What could they have done differently to avoid this outcome? Not much, she had to admit. There was far more they should have undone. If only they had waited to get married. If only he'd been impervious to her mother's and sister's needling. If only she had taken time to think over his proposal—a few days, a week—instead of doing what she rarely did: make a snap decision.

Oh, yes. That was the root of the mess. She, Laura Steele, the level-headed, the prudent, the analytic, had been indulging lately in an orgy of irrationality, leading with her heart rather than her head. Remington the sole purchaser of Patsy Vance's house. Well, the jury was still out on that. The placement of Daniel's monument. Not a big deal? Maybe not, but it was a symptom nevertheless. And she'd probably committed a thousand little lapses like it, simply because she was so happy with Remington, and because the sexual side of their relationship was so damned good…

She'd been operating against her own best instincts ever since Ireland. And it had returned to haunt her with a vengeance.

For it had led to a marriage that might prove the worst thing in the world for the person she loved best.

The coldness was spreading. She needed to get moving again. Maybe, if she tried her hardest, she could, against all odds, outrun her thoughts.

Back at the villa, it didn't help matters that the BMW had disappeared and her husband with it—an insensitivity that provoked a fresh surge of anger towards him. Restless, fuming, goaded by anxiety, she showered quickly and donned a bathing suit. The pool was the only appealing spot in this godforsaken hellhole. She swam laps until she was exhausted, and then lay out in the sun, hoping the golden heat would lull her into some semblance of calm.

She was startled awake by the sound of iron scraping on stone. Remington was dragging a chair closer to the chaise on which she was lying. "I expect there's no use in my asking if you want to go down to the beach," he said.

She sat up a little groggily. "None at all."

"Well, then, you might at least have waited, instead of taking a swim without me."

His sarcasm acted on her like a red flag on a bull. "Next time leave a note telling me where you're going and what time you'll be back, before you take off." And she swung her legs over the side of the chaise, prepared to leap to her feet and storm into the house.

With a hand on her chest he pressed her backward, not roughly, but with a firmness that meant he would brook no resistance. "Laura, don't."

In silence they sized each other up. She had subsided unwillingly against the cushions of the chaise, but was poised to bolt, glaring at him. His eyes were full of the same fire. But then he glanced away briefly, a suggestion that he was opting to stand down from their duel of wills. "This is too much like old times for my taste," he said.

"Which part?"

"All of it. The fighting. Ignoring each other. Sleeping alone. Take your pick."

"I don't appreciate being cut off in the middle of a sentence when I'm trying to get a point across."

"No more than I appreciate your badgering me on a subject I've asked you twice to drop."

"So now it's badgering? Thanks a lot."

"Poor choice of words." And he lifted both hands with the palms out to avert the flow of indignation he apparently suspected was coming next.

But she could tell a temporary truce when she saw one, and sighed. "We're not getting anywhere like this, Mr. Steele."

"Agreed." He eyed her warily. "I'm open to suggestions on how to avoid another blowup."

She relaxed a little more, the alternative of fleeing to the house suspended for the time being. "You could try hearing me out, no snide comments, no exclamations of outrage, no muttering under your breath, until I'm through."

"When have I ever done any of that when we're having a serious conversation?" She arched an eyebrow. "I'll do my best to rein it in," he added hastily.

"Okay." Difficult to say why, but suddenly it felt like the last opportunity she would have to present her case; she didn't want to screw it up. It occurred to her that a physical connection might be helpful, so she reached over and took his hands. Choosing her own words carefully, she said: "All I'm asking is for you to believe I want what's best for you. And to try and understand what it's been like for me, hearing the truth about your past."

Immediately he was on the defensive. "I've told you over and over, I'm not that man anymore. I don't know how else to prove it to you--"

"You don't have to. I was telling the truth when I said I accepted those parts of you. But you can't expect me just to listen to the stories, and not react. You can't expect it not to affect me to find out how you've been used…how you've been hurt…by people who pretended to love you."

"Over and long forgotten. After all, I'm the resilient sort. You've said so yourself."

He was shooting for lightheartedness, but it fell flat. "Not forgotten. Buried," she countered. "And maybe not as deep as you'd like to think. Then there's what you say about life as Remington Steele, what it gives you--what you never had anywhere else--stability, identity, permanence--"

"It does."

"It can't. That's what I've been trying to make you see, why I've been trying to persuade you to be who you really are, a Chalmers--"

"Trying to fix what no longer needs fixing."

"Trying to get you to accept what you've searched for all your life, something to hold onto, something permanent."

"Permanent," he said slowly.

"You said that mattered to you."

"Permanent," he repeated, his face darkening. "As opposed to impermanent." In a rapid movement she hadn't anticipated, he pulled away from her and sat upright. "This isn't about me and my name at all. This is you, hedging your bets, isn't it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Here I've been, baring my soul, so to speak, the differences between my old self and the new man I've become. And all the while the same old Laura's been scurrying about in the background, shoring up the same old defenses against me."

From what in everything she'd said had he inferred that? She gazed at him, feeling helpless. "How, the same old Laura—?"

"You're not sure it's going to work between us, so you're setting up an out for yourself, just in case."

"Oh, I get it. It's easier to question my motives than admit I'm right, is that it?"

"You're not right. You're so astoundingly wrong, I'm speechless with it. Always the pessimist where we're concerned! Never willing to give us—me--the benefit of the doubt!"

He sprang up to make a furious circuit of the patio. "I knew it was too good to be true, when you said you'd marry me on the spot, without taking time to think it over. It must've been eating you alive ever since. You didn't plan it. You hadn't worked out every contingency beforehand. 'What if he leaves me?' 'What if he decides commitment isn't for him, after all?' It's what's been going through your mind the entire time we've been married, isn't it? Isn't it?"

It was as if he'd read her earlier thoughts. Immediately the blood mounted from her neck to forehead, as vivid a confirmation of his suspicions as any he could have asked. She could only pray he wasn't paying enough attention to spot it.

He wasn't. "And now it's fallen into your lap. Your back-up strategy, readymade for you, thanks to Daniel. Turn me into a Chalmers, though Lord only knows how you intend to explain that to everyone. Take Remington Steele back into your hands, where he properly belongs. Then you're safe. Then you're in control again. Laura Holt, calling the shots, in the agency, in our relationship, the only way you can stand for it to be!"

She had jumped up as well, and now advanced on him, hands balled into fists. "Hold it right there, champ. Forgetting everything you just said, since it's the stupidest thing I've ever heard--I'm doing this for you! For you, damn it! And yes, I'm thinking about worst case scenarios! Who wouldn't? Bad things happen. Marriages fail. Look at your parents—look at mine! Or what if somebody figures out I invented Remington Steele, that he's not real? Keyes came close—so did Gladys Lynch—so did Roselli. If it all blows up in our faces one day, I don't want you left with nothing when it ends!"

"I'll tell you what it is." He came to a halt and faced her squarely. "You pick a poor sod up out of the moral gutter, as it were. Take him in hand, make a credible detective of him…even marry him. But his past isn't forgotten, is it? The low class upbringing, the bad deeds. You're still better than he is. You've still got that edge over him. Only you haven't anymore, have you? I've a mother, a father, a family history. I'm as respectable as you are, and you're scared to death of it!"

"That's just great!" she shouted. "That's just like you, acting like I'm the controlling witch, jealous of every good thing that happens to you! I guess it's escaped your notice that I'm the one who's dragging you kicking and screaming to claim what's rightfully yours. Oh, and by the way? Interesting way to put it, 'scared to death'. It's how I would've described you. All these years, this perpetual quest you've been on for your real name. And now you've found it; all you have to do is reach out and grab it. What's the matter? The prospect of total commitment too scary for you?"

"I guess it's escaped your notice that I've already made a commitment as Remington Steele. It's called wedding vows. The words, Laura!" He was red-faced, roaring. "The words! What you've always wanted from me, and by God, I meant them! And now you're asking me to betray every promise I made you that day. Not to mention everything Remington Steele is in the first place!"

She had never seen him so angry. For herself, she could have pounded her head against the patio's stone flags from a combination of rage and frustration. Instead she smacked her fist into the palm of the other hand. "How many times do I have to say it? What does it take to get through to you--a movie annotation? What? You're my husband first, Remington Steele second! You don't have to be Steele for my sake! I don't want you to be Steele, not like this!"

For an interval—just how long was hard to say—they stood motionless, breathing hard, implacable as a pair of enemies.

He pinned her with a furious blue stare and crossed his arms. "Are you through?"

"Give me a minute, and I'll let you know."

"No, you listen to me, and listen well, because I won't say it twice. I'm done devising exit strategies for when life gets too uncomfortable for me. Pity I can't say the same for you, seeing how you've already forgotten the inscription you had engraved on my wedding ring."

She waited, but he went no further. "That's it?" she demanded.

"That's it."

The statement made no sense to her. But had any of it made sense? Could any two people speaking the same language have understood each other less than they had just now? More, had she recently, in all sincerity, actually complimented this man on his mental acuity? He was an idiot! Unable to stand another minute of it—of him—she dodged abruptly around him and dashed for the house.

Once behind the closed door of the third bedroom, however, the reaction began to set in. Her nerves jangled with it; her ears rang with it. How peculiar that she couldn't recall a single thing she'd said or that he had. But the expression on his face, the raw fury in his voice: those were burned, impressed indelibly, into every faculty. There was no remedy on earth that could possibly erase them.

They would never repair it. They would never repair the damage now. Her earlier presentiment had been correct. This was her final chance to make the case for the name change. No matter what transpired between them in the future, 'John Chalmers' would be inextricably linked to this argument, and all the ugliness it had called forth from them both. There was no way she would ever get him to hear her again, let alone understand what she was driving at.

She sank down on the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands.

A door slammed in another part of the house. Hurried footsteps sounded on the living area's tile floor. In response she braced herself for what she was sure was coming, her own door bursting open, a second round of the quarrel about to ensue.

But the footsteps neither drew nearer nor paused. Instead there was only the reverberation as the door was slammed again.

And, after that, the unbroken stillness of the house, empty except for her.

At eight the next morning, Laura slipped out of the villa and ran down the steps that led to the rue Ferdinand Bac.

The day was fresh and clear around her, pervaded by the invigorating scents of pine, olive and lemon, by the golden sunshine spilling down. Immune to them, she gazed in both directions along the quiet, empty road. The BMW, parked in the cul-de-sac, was the only car in sight.

She frowned in impatience. She was expecting Gilbert Trottier and his ancient Peugeot any minute, the final element of her carefully considered arrangements. Everything else was ready. Her bags packed, waiting to be carried down and loaded into the Peugeot's trunk. Her good-bye note written. There only remained to wake Remington to tell him she was leaving and to hand him the envelope. If she timed it right, she would be off to l'Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur before he completely lost his temper, and could thus avoid a repetition of yesterday's disastrous fight.

Her initial idea had been to leave the letter in a prominent place, where he would be sure to see it, and simply to sneak away—or even to forego a letter at all. But when push came to shove, she'd realized that it wouldn't do. She'd made a decision, and she would have the guts to face up to the consequences, however painful they would be. Besides, she remembered all too vividly what it was like to be on the receiving end of such treatment. Angry as she was at Remington, she couldn't bear the thought of putting him through it. The rest would be bad enough.

She waited a moment more. Still no Gilbert. Nothing remarkable about that; she'd already noticed that punctuality wasn't one of his strong suits. He had a lot in common with her husband in that respect.

Inside the villa again, she retrieved the letter from the bedroom where she'd slept again last night and eased the door shut behind her. Her purse she'd left with the suitcases near the villa's entrance, but now it struck her that it was wiser to carry it with her. No telling how quick an exit she might need to make; no sense taking a chance she might forget it in her haste.

She had all but reached it when she heard a door open. Remington came into the room, clad only in pajama bottoms, toothbrush in hand.

There was no exit nearby. There was no hiding place to duck into. She could only square her shoulders, tilt her chin and inhale, exhale. She would get through this. She was expert at it. Concentration directed towards the outcome, the objective. Emotions blocked out until the goal was achieved.

He'd absorbed the scene in a single glance, luggage included. "What the bloody—? What is this?" His eyes fastened on her face, stunned, bewildered.

She returned his gaze long enough to see that much. Then she forced herself to look away before it could shake her. "I'm going back to Los Angeles."

"Is it your mother? Why didn't you wake me? What time's the flight?"

"…I'm going alone."

"So that's where we're at?"

"That's where we're at."

She'd almost forgotten how fast his reflexes were. Even before the words were out of her mouth, he'd crossed the room and had her by the wrist, pulling her along with him. It was interesting, she noted dispassionately, how little force he seemed to be exerting overall. Yet his grip was inexorable.

In the bathroom he rinsed his mouth, spat toothpaste, straightened. The letter was still in her hand; he snatched it up, brows drawing together as he read his name on the envelope. "I take it this is meant to put me in the picture?" Without waiting for her reply, he tore it in two, then in two again, and let the fragments drift to the floor. "Suppose you tell me to my face what it says."

"You wouldn't make the right choice. I'm making it for you."

"The translation of 'right choice' being, what you want me to do. And you think running home will convince me."

"I think you'll be able to think more clearly if I'm not around, especially in London."

"What about the Chalmers party?

"You're the one they're waiting to meet. No one will even miss me."

"Except me. I don't imagine that makes any difference to you." He regarded her with narrowed eyes. "You mean it, do you? You get on a plane to Los Angeles, I get on a plane to London, we go our separate ways?"

Girding herself for the storm she'd been praying fervently to avoid, she nodded.

But he surprised her. With another of those lightning movements, he gathered her into the circle of his arms and pulled her close against him. "You might at least give me a chance to tell you good-bye," he said softly, and brought his mouth down on hers.

It wasn't an eventuality she'd planned for. She had no defense ready against the potency of his kisses, or the feel of his hands caressing her. Struggling to maintain her composure, she pulled slightly away, her own arms at her sides. He sensed it, of course, and withdrew just enough to gaze down at her in reproach. "Ah, no," he whispered, his breath warm on her lips. "Two nights without you…far too long." His embrace tightened; he kissed her again, with all the unfulfilled longing, the thwarted desire, they'd stored up between them since Sunday night.

Instinct took over, irresistible. She gave herself up to it and to him. Her eyes closed; her arms looped around his neck. After all, she had missed him just as much as he'd missed her. And who knew how long it would be until they would kiss like this again?

When it ended, she stood quietly against him, head bowed. She had to fight to tune him out—his ragged breathing, his racing heartbeat--but she succeeded, and concentrated on her own breathing. At length, focus regained, she met his eyes. "You really have seen too many movies if you think overpowering me with romance will distract me."

"Have I?"

"Or get me to change my mind."

His hand came up to cup her breast. "You'd be far more convincing, Laura, if the proof that you want me weren't so plain to see."

"Oh, stop it." Impatiently she brushed his hand aside. "Of course I want you. That hasn't changed. You know perfectly well it's got nothing to do with why I'm going home."

"Why you're leaving me, you mean." His arms dropped from around her. "I thought you loved me."

He didn't bother to conceal the anguish in his voice. There was a catch in her own when she replied. "I do. I do love you."

"Then--wait for me. Give me an hour. I'll come with you."

She shook her head.

"Why not?"

"Because if you're coming back as Remington Steele, I'd rather you didn't come at all."

Silence, long and terrible. Instructive in the meantime to observe the transformation that occurred in his face. Up until then, it had been confused, wounded. What took its place was a bitter mask—the same one he'd adopted the other night, as soon as it hit home that his father had dashed his hopes one more time, for the last time.

Bitter was one thing. Impassive was quite another, and apparently beyond him. His eyes were blazing, his teeth showing in what was almost a growl. "Is this what you really want?" he said harshly. "Think carefully before you answer, because you may not like the consequences."

"It's what I really want."

"Well, then, what if I said I'd do it? Take you at your word, eh? Serve you bloody well right, too." His voice was rising in volume. "You go home; I go to London. Take the money, change my name to John Chalmers, and be damned for good to your precious agency, your stupid Remington Steele!"

"I'd say you were finally talking sense." Her own impassivity intact, she pushed past him out of the bathroom.

"Laura, wait!" he shouted. He overtook her, passed her, then turned to bar her way, hands closing around her upper arms. "What about this? You come to London with me, and I'll tell them at the party. But we make a clean break with Los Angeles at the same time. No more of this ridiculous dodging and hiding, juggling alias upon alias upon alias. Remington Steele retires; we close the agency. And we'll see what we can make of ourselves in London as John and Laura Chalmers."

At first she wasn't quite sure she'd heard him right. But no: he must have said what she thought he had. It was the only explanation for the way he was looking at her, half desperate, half expectant, balanced on the edge between either sweeping her into his arms in delighted relief, or storming off in unforgiveness and rejection.

She opened her mouth to reply. Of course, that's what they would do! It was the perfect compromise; she didn't understand why she hadn't thought of it herself. No need to put him, or herself, through the wrench of separation. No need to experience the personal hell of inflicting hurt on this man she loved so much, and seeing it etched on his face. And he would be safely ensconced within his family, exactly what she'd been fighting him for, the point of the entire exercise.

Then reality flooded in, cold and pitiless. Hadn't she had enough of making snap decisions? Especially in light of the fact that they still dealing with the fallout from the first and worst? Not that closing the agency could ever compare with marrying Remington along the spectrum of easy choices to make. There was so much more to consider, not just their livelihood, but Mildred's, the disposition of their assets, the effect it would have on her initial investment. She needed time to ponder the ramifications, weigh the consequences, before she could tell him yes or no…

Too late. For Remington had read the answer for himself, first in her silence, then in her hesitation. She knew it was so because he abruptly let go of her shoulders and retreated a step, a grim smile twisting his mouth.

It was the smile he'd worn yesterday while describing the moment when he'd finally understood Anna had betrayed him.

"Good to know some things never change," he said.

Behind him the villa's entrance door flew open, and Gilbert Trottier hustled into the room, thickly accented apologies for his tardiness preceding him. "…All is in readiness, if M'dame wishes to leave…"

"Wait---wait." Torn, Laura turned from him to Remington, stretching out her hand to her husband. "If we could just--"

But Remington cut her off. "Come now, mustn't drag our feet, must we, Mrs. Steele?" he chided her. "After all, you've a plane to catch." And with a hand at the small of her back, he steered her toward the suitcases. Two of them he handed off to Gilbert; the last one, the carry-on bag, he held out to Laura. When she didn't accept it immediately, he smiled that joyless smile again. "Well?"

There was nothing else to do but allow him to settle the strap over her shoulder, to pull her hair free and then smooth it into place. He performed the little services with the same faint air of proprietorship, the same thinly veiled tenderness, with which he'd handled her from the very beginning. But when she lifted her eyes to his face, it was hard as stone.

He held the door for her and ushered her through. On the threshold, she paused, composed on the outside, aching for him on the inside. He would never have guessed that she was searching frantically for a final word or gesture that would preserve the connection between them, however fragile and tattered it might be. But nothing came to mind except to tell him she was sorry, and that would never do, with the achievement of her goal within reach.

He was staring back at her. Were they really his, that white, set face, those glittering eyes? "Never fear, Laura," he said. "I'll be in touch from wherever I end up so you'll know your new last name--presuming you intend to keep my name. Ah, but no—I'd forgotten. Yours'll always be Steele, won't it. Since you're married to the agency first and to me second."

He gave her no opportunity to respond. As soon as he had finished speaking, he turned away from her and went back into the house, pushing the door shut behind him as he went.

There was no further sight or sound of him. All that was left for her was to follow the path she'd marked out for herself, toward the Peugeot parked on the rue Ferdinand Bac, and, beyond it, to the airport in Nice.

And, beyond that, to a Los Angeles where the agency named for Remington Steele awaited her. But where the man called Remington Steele did not.

TO BE CONTINUED