Chapter 10

Author's note: Enjoying this story? If you've stuck with it so far, I hope you are. And, if you are, won't you drop me a line and let me know? Of course I'm writing from the sheer love of storytelling and for these characters, as well as to hone my craft (yeah, I realize how pompous that sounds). But feedback, I have to say, is a nice reward.

While I'm on the subject, I'd be awfully remiss if I didn't mention the debt of thanks I owe to gilmoradict, Gentle Reader and monica88 for their continued support, both praise and constructive criticism. I'm grateful, my friends.

Thank you, valued readers, for your continued interest! ~ MG

She's Having a Baby (Kevin Bacon, Elizabeth McGovern, Alec Baldwin, Paramount, 1988) was released in the U.S. on February 5 of that year.

Mildred's statement, delivered in that near-monotone, banished the last vestiges of the romantic mood in the Steeles' motel room. Laura straightened her spine and anchored the sheet more securely around herself. "What do you mean, he's headed this way?" she said.

"What?" A sharp movement from Remington as he glanced up from his sketch. "Who's headed this way?"

"Our phony Remington Steele," replied Laura. To Mildred she said: "What makes you think that?"

"I'm tracking him, just like I did the chief. Places he's been spotted and the dates he was there."

"But how? As of yesterday morning, you only had two confirmed sightings."

"Classified ads. I took 'em out Monday in USA Today, The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times. Nothing fancy, just a paragraph saying he was needed in connection with an urgent legal matter and if anyone had information, they should call our number. Oh, and I promised a little financial reward to sweeten the deal if the tip is solid."

"How much of a reward?"

"A hundred bucks."

Under the circumstances it was a negligible amount. The idea as a whole showed tremendous ingenuity and initiative on Mildred's part; Laura didn't stint on complimenting her on it. "It's working, I take it?" she added.

"I had seven messages waiting for me when I got to work this morning, and I got another twenty-two calls today."

"Twenty-two-?" The rising note of disbelief in Laura's voice caused Remington to put his drawing materials aside and move to the bed, where he paced back and forth, monitoring her side of the conversation.

"Yup," said Mildred. "A few of 'em were duplicates, like you might expect. But I've been able to place him for sure in twenty cities between now and last September."

She ran down the list. There were the three New England locales they already knew about, plus New York and Trenton. The others were Boston, Philadelphia, Annapolis, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., Richmond, Louisville, New Orleans, Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, Chicago, St. Louis, Wichita, Dallas and Houston. The sheer variety was a little dizzying, and to have them shot off in rapid-fire sequence made it worse. Laura began to rub her forehead without consciously intending to do so.

More to the point: if there was a pattern, it wasn't immediately plain to her. Even after she'd asked Mildred to recite the list again while she fed the names to Remington, and he'd jotted them on a sheet torn from his sketch pad, it wasn't. Finally she admitted it to Mildred. "Is this the reason you think he's coming to Los Angeles? Because if it is, I don't get it."

"Maybe it would help if you saw it charted out side by side. It's a timeline, just like I did for the chief. He's on his way, all right. Every time this guy hits a new town, it's a little farther west than the one before."

Her voice trembled on the last words. Suddenly Laura understood that what she'd sensed from Mildred at the beginning of the conversation wasn't fatigue at all. "He's really got you rattled," she said.

"Yeah, he does. Mrs. Steele, he isn't only booking face time at conventions and sparking pretty girls. He's taking cases. And from what I'm hearing, he's solving 'em."

"As Remington Steele."

"Every time."

There was no denying it was a chilling development, but Laura resisted the prevailing trend towards panic. Instead she offered brisk reassurances, along with a promise that she and Remington would spend Friday afternoon and part of Saturday morning in the office. Then, by way of distraction, she added, "How would you like to meet Oliver Arundel?"

Mildred gasped. "Are you serious? You bet I would!"

"We need to find out what he was up to between seven and ten Wednesday night. Mr. Steele or I could call him, but the personal touch seems more appropriate. That leaves you."

"He isn't a suspect, is he?"

"A long shot. But it's a loose end we can't leave dangling. Think you can handle it?"

Excitement had replaced the fear in Mildred's voice. Pleased with the success of her ploy, Laura spent a few minutes discussing the best tack to take with Arundel before ending the call and summarizing the gist for her husband. She wrapped it up with, "She's pretty scared."

"So I gathered." He searched her face. "You, on the other hand, look like you've an ace up your sleeve."

"I do. The game's not even started, and already he's tipped his hand."

This puzzled Remington, and it showed.

"It's against the law to operate as a private investigator without a license, Mr. Steele. Punishable by a jail term."

"We don't know he doesn't have a license."

"If he's posing as Remington Steele, there's no way he could. That's how we'll nail him, once we've tracked him down."

"Ah. Irrefutable logic, as always. One of the things I love about you."

"And here I thought it was my skill as a model." She slid off the bed. "So? Where do you want me next?"

For answer he caught hold of the sheet by its edges and peeled it away from her body. With a quick tug he used it to pull her closer, but not quite against him. "The same place as always—in my arms."

"What about the drawing?"

"I've lost the mood for capturing the image, lovely as it is. What I'm hankering after now is the real thing." The glowing blue eyes traveled her appreciatively from head to toe and back again.

Every inch of her skin was tingling under his gaze. "How real?" she breathed.

"As real as the real Remington Steele?" he suggested.

It was her turn to respond with actions, not words, freeing the sheet from his grasp and letting it drift to the floor. On tiptoe she curved her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. Beneath his robe his chest was bare; its silky dark hair tickled her breasts and stomach. That was why she was laughing as she coaxed his mouth to open to hers.

Not that it took much persuasion. He teased her with his kiss, and tantalized and tasted her, until their legs no longer wanted to hold them upright and the bed beckoned irresistibly. He lifted his head then with his little trademark hum of pleasure.

"That ought to cover it," he said.

"I suppose the two of you think I'm a slimy bastard," muttered Hogarth the following morning.

From the other side of his desk, the Steeles exchanged a glance. As a matter of fact, and for their own individual reasons, moral and personal, they did deplore his adultery. But Laura had long ago perfected the art of maintaining emotional neutrality for the sake of a case, and Remington had picked it up from her.

"It's not our place to judge you, Mr. Hogarth," he said. "Your personal life's your business. Besides, your…relationship…with Miss Lyons doesn't come entirely as a surprise."

"You knew?"

"Suspected. It's the price you pay for hiring Remington Steele Investigations."

Still wearing that chastened expression, Hogarth nodded. "That's what I was afraid of. So afraid I had second thoughts about hiring you. But I couldn't see a better way out of the mess."

That explained his seeming reluctance to cooperate in the beginning, his failures to communicate, his foot-dragging when he should've been supplying key pieces of information. Laura had correctly guessed the effect but not the cause. It was guilt, all right—but not guilt over actions he'd taken to undermine Hambeth. It meant they could erase him permanently from their list of suspects.

Objective she might have to be on the surface, but inside she was indecently gratified to witness the amount of squirming he was doing. "What gave me away?" he asked.

"Truthfully?" she replied. "Your promotion of Miss Lyons at Miss Pascoe's expense. Considering their relative talent and experience, there didn't seem to be a reason for it, other than favoritism."

"You're accusing me of being unfair."

"As Mr. Steele said, we're not here to pass judgment. We thought a status report on our inquiry into the actors' alibis was in order. And then we'll fill you in on our next steps."

She and Remington had determined in advance to say nothing about the conclusions she'd drawn from St. Mark's behavior the previous morning, as well as his potential lack of an alibi. Given that they hadn't yet uncovered positive proof that he was engineering the sabotage, it would've been counter-productive. No reason to add fuel to fire before it was absolutely necessary, Remington had said.

They were both old hands at avoiding specifics when dealing with clients, painting a picture with big, broad strokes, so that was how they handled Hogarth. It soon became obvious that it didn't make much difference. He was maybe hearing two words out of ten. Probably planning how to face his company in the wake of last night's humiliation. Or else he was brooding over the effect on his wife and father, whom the Steeles surmised had found out about his affair with Lyons prior to St. Mark's nasty announcement. Whatever his problem was, the Steeles couldn't help him. At the end of half an hour they left him to his demons.

The remainder of the morning was spent verifying the actors' alleged whereabouts the night the props department was broken into. Within a few hours they began to rack up results. The conclusion they came to: the cast members had been honest with Laura. One by one the stories were checking out.

All except St. Mark's.

His neighbors at the condominium complex where he lived gave him away. St. Mark always held aloof from the general socializing, which meant they didn't know him well. That air of exclusivity, as well as his career and looks, made him an object of unfailing interest to them. He hadn't joined them for the informal barbecue that was held in the common courtyard on Tuesday night; no one had expected he would. But several of them stated independently of one another that they'd noticed him pulling into his garage well past eleven o'clock.

So much for dinner with a friend and an early bedtime. The Steeles' tiny but efficient dragnet was tightening.

In the meantime the lone part-time forensic analyst who comprised the Solvang police's crime lab called: the ballistics report on the shells they'd found was ready for pick up. As the Steeles headed towards Los Angeles with it shortly after one, Remington wrestled with the unfamiliar terminology. Finally he came across some phrases he recognized. "He says it was undoubtedly a revolver, a .357 magnum. A Beretta, Smith and Wesson or Ruger, he suspects."

Laura shot him a quick glance from the driver's seat. "Interesting."

"Why so?"

"Because all three of those companies make guns with ambidextrous controls."

"You don't mean it's the gun our intruders returned the other night, the one Yarborough used in Romeo and Juliet."

"I don't see how it could be. The shooter fired at me after the runner left the bag behind in the props room."

"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten. Well, then, is St. Mark left-handed?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Mrs. Steele, why is it I'm getting the feeling you're determined to shoot down my budding theories?" His smirk at his bad pun was totally at odds with the irritation in his tone. "So to speak."

Her answer would've been completely deadpan if not for the flash of her dimple. "I don't know. Maybe because you're missing the mark. I'm not sure what's triggering your imagination, but you've gone off half-cocked. My advice to you is, try and keep your powder dry. You'll probably need it later."

"Splendid parry," he congratulated her.

"Admirable thrust," she replied with a sideways glance that told him the double entendre was deliberate.

She'd beaten him in the little battle of wits, he had to admit. Since it was merely a single insignificant loss in a game he knew would last all their lives—a game he would no doubt dominate-he didn't begrudge her. It was part of the fun of being married to Laura.

Unfortunately the fun didn't last beyond their arrival at the agency in mid-afternoon. There the chart Mildred had constructed sobered them both immediately. Hearing the list of locations where Remington's apparent double had appeared was one thing. To see it in black and white was to comprehend fully the explicitness of the threat. To make matters worse, Mildred had added three more New England incidents, two near Boston and one near Darien, Connecticut. All were situations in which the impostor had passed himself off as a private investigator.

"And he chooses sleazy cases, if you ask me," commented Mildred.

Laura was in the process of studying the timeline, but swung around abruptly. "Sleazy? How?"

"Surveillance on a cheating rat of a husband…helping a strip joint put its competition out of business…oh, and there was the guy who wanted pictures of a city councilman taking a bribe, and the gal who was having an affair with…" She trailed off as she registered Laura's expression. "Mrs. Steele, you okay?"

Laura didn't answer. All at once an ominous silence settled over the outer office with her at its heart. She'd drawn herself up to her full height, her shoulders rising and falling with her quickened breathing. It was the only visible motion in her entire body. Her eyes were fixed on a point in the middle distance; her delicately sculpted nostrils were flared, her jaw pugnacious. She looked very much as she had the night he'd appropriated the identity of her fictitious boss before a crowd of hundreds, Remington suddenly thought.

It was easy to understand why. While she had a lot of reasons to be proud of Remington Steele Investigations, she was proudest of all of its reputation for class and discretion. She'd built that reputation with care, categorically nixing every case that verged on the sordid, the vulgar. No lurking around cheap hotel motels or fraternizing with hookers, low-level bookies and street snitches to pick up leads for Laura Holt, P.I., and her associates. They operated in the metaphorical daylight, their consciences as clean as their methods. That was the agency's ticket into the top echelon of society where she was bent on doing business.

And now here was the shadow Steele, not only illicitly trading on their name, but dragging it through the proverbial mud.

She was a beat or two away from an explosion; that much Remington could tell from experience. Though he'd no idea how to defuse it, he ventured to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Laura…"

His touch recalled her from whatever distances she was traveling without him. Disconcerting, her response was, for she regarded him as if she'd never seen him before. Shaking him off, she moved a step away from him.

"This whole thing just got personal," she said. Pure fury underlay her low voice.

And then she was whirling and striding towards her office. "What are you waiting for, Mr. Steele?" she flung back at him. "We've got work to do."

Work they did until one a.m., which was when he propelled her homeward with a quiet sternness that allowed her no room to argue. She even consented to a few hours' sleep. But by six she was primed and ready to return to the office.

His artistic routine aside, he'd never be the sort of early bird she was, but he did his best to keep up with her. She was set on compiling as many details as they could on the cases the phony Steele had undertaken-no simple task, considering how many miles separated them from New England. Grimly she alternated between phone and computer, rapping out instructions every so often to him and Mildred. Both obeyed her without question. Laura on a mission to rescue her business was too formidable for them to do anything else.

Her intensity increased as the morning wore on; Remington shied away at first from reminding her they'd other obligations to fulfill. In the end he had no choice. "High time we stopped back home so we can get on the road to Solvang."

She barely glanced away from the computer screen. "You go on. Call me when you're ready and I'll have Fred bring me over."

An inefficient arrangement. It was unlike her to suggest it. But there was no use pointing it out to her, since she would probably thank him by taking his head off. Exchanging a sympathetic look with Mildred, he pressed a kiss on his wife's cool cheek and left the office alone.

Shortly thereafter he was glad he had, for it made it possible for him to stop by Evangelista's en route to Windsor Square. Nothing fancy, a picnic lunch they could enjoy somewhere within Solvang's picturesque environs, was his goal. In fact he knew just the spot.

Charming. Relaxed. And likely to be inhabited by a child, or two, or ten.

It was good to have that little secret to gloat over during the two-hour trip north. It blunted the edge of driving with a preoccupied Laura—in a less charitable mood he'd have called her sullen—who didn't speak two words once they'd departed L.A. He consoled himself by remembering he was an innocent bystander to her displeasure, instead of its cause.

On arrival at Hambeth they found the Garrick's offices and dressing rooms mostly deserted. That was surprising. To their mind the hours before an important performance should've been full of bustle, complete with panicking actors and various crew members rushing around. But everything was organized and in readiness for seven-thirty curtain.

As they headed along the corridor towards the rehearsal hall, they met Wycliffe coming from the opposite direction. He seemed delighted to see them. "I was afraid we'd frightened you off at last," he smiled, and invited them to his dressing room.

He could generally be counted on for a glimpse into the behind-the-scenes workings of Hambeth; today was no exception. His confidences centered on Aubrey St. Mark, who'd taken drastic steps to insure he wouldn't be shut out of tonight's Dress Circle gala by Hogarth. Specifically, he'd hired an attorney and threatened an injunction that would prevent the Garrick from opening at all if Hogarth replaced him with another actor. That left Hogarth with no resort but to cave in to his enemy's demands.

"What about the costume?" asked Laura.

"Oh, Aubrey will wear the one he designed. His lawyer's seen to that. He's hidden the other one somewhere in the cellars and all but dared Edmund to try and find it." Wycliffe sighed, shaking his head. "I've tried to counsel Edmund not to let Aubrey get to him, but he brushes me off every time."

It was obvious he was struggling to speak as cheerfully as he could for their benefit. The act didn't fool either Steele for a second. "I'm sorry," Remington said. "This can't be easy on you."

"It's not that I'm defending what he's done. It was reprehensible and I've told him so. But it doesn't mean I love him less. In fact, I'd give anything to help him…"

There was nothing Remington or Laura could say to that. All they could offer was murmurs of commiseration.

"How's Diana?" Laura asked, breaking a brief silence.

"A trouper. She's planning to go on tonight as if nothing is wrong. Shall I tell her you were asking after her? Or will you be here later?"

"Mr. Hogarth asked us to stand by in costume in case there's a need for extras," Remington replied.

"Good thing for me he drew the line at me substituting for Diana, even though I'm her understudy," added Laura. "There's no way I'd ever be ready in time."

"I'm sure you'd have done a lovely job," said Wycliffe. His smile was kind, but abstracted; he had other, more serious, matters engaging him. With a sideways nod towards the door, Remington signaled that he and Laura should go.

In the parking lot they were hailed by a group that included Andy Treacher, Lachlan Ford and Cledwyn Rhys. "We're going to lunch and a movie, if you want to hang out with us," said Treacher.

Well-versed in the subtle signs that told him the last thing Laura wanted was to socialize with a gang of semi-strangers, Remington declined the invitation. Besides, there was the picnic from Evagenlista's he'd hidden in the Rabbit's trunk, crying out to be shared. But he couldn't resist asking what film was on the agenda.

"She's Having a Baby," replied Ford.

It took everything he had not to chuckle at the remarkable coincidence with his own plans, but Remington managed it. Rather neatly, in his opinion. "Indeed. Splendid choice. Enjoy, mates. Enjoy."

The actors had barely moved out of earshot before Laura said darkly, "This is just great."

Uncertain what she was referring to—was she on to him at last?—he threw her a narrow-eyed glance.

"We chased all the way up here, and for what?" she went on. "To sit and twiddle our thumbs all afternoon? We could've stayed at the office til three and still made it with hours to spare!"

"You wanted to see if Max Yarborough had a list of the actors who played the Montagues last year, so we could determine who was using the left-hander's gun," he reminded her.

"Well, we should've called ahead to find out if Max was going to be here!" Without waiting for him to hand her in as was his custom, she clambered into the Rabbit's passenger seat and slammed the door behind her.

As he rounded the hood towards the driver's side he vented his own feelings by blowing out a long, noisy, exasperated breath. She was in the beginning stages of working herself into a fine rage. They'd never get to their picnic if he didn't nip it in the bud straightaway.

If there was a pat on the back he could award himself as a husband, it would be that he knew his wife inside out. At the Hamlet he had the devil of a time convincing her that their bogus Steele wasn't going anywhere for the moment, and no, his suggesting they steal away for a bite to eat and some relaxation didn't mean he wasn't according the threat the seriousness it deserved. Finally he was driven by near-desperation to unpack the contents of the picnic hamper and display them one by one. She considered the cold roast chicken marinated in white wine, French bread, cheese, grapes and chocolate truffles without speaking, her head on one side.

"It reminds me of the lunch you picked up in Èze last summer," she said. And dimpled up at him.

Hand in hand they strolled the few blocks to Hans Christian Anderson Park. This was the first they'd taken notice, really, of the town per se, apart from Remington's pre-dawn exploration of it almost two weeks ago. Fancying itself a taste of Denmark, it was tidy and pretty, as American towns centered on the tourist trade tended to be. The cobbled streets farther to the west were lined with shops devoted to enticing visitors to part with their spare cash. Here it was more residential; they passed a row of houses, an elementary school, a Lutheran church.

The park had its own Disney-ish elements—the entrance gate in the shape of a castle, complete with crenellated tower was an example—but the little valley ahead lured them on. And it was having the effect on Laura that Remington had hoped for. She'd unbent amazingly over the few minutes since they'd left the motel. Who knew what further wonders a nice glass of wine and a chocolate kiss might work?

By now they were coming opposite with the playground. It held a fair-sized crowd of children who in their bright clothing and untroubled laughter struck Remington as especially appealing. They, too, were precisely what he'd hoped they'd be. He maintained a steady pace past them, though, meaning them to serve as a backdrop for his and Laura's afternoon, not a focal point.

But Laura stopped suddenly in her tracks. For a handful of seconds she merely stood and looked. Then she said, "Mr. Steele? I believe you're busted."

Slowly she turned. He braced himself to meet her gaze with as much directness as he could summon up.

"You never change, do you?" she demanded.

"Who? Me?"

"You. Just when I think you've really, truly reformed, you always revert to type. Same old story. The shortest distance between two points? An angle."

There she paused. A man who didn't know her so well might've thought she'd done. He, on the other hand, had no doubt she was just warming up.

She was-and with the declaration that was always guaranteed to make him fume. "I can read you like a book, you know. All these shenanigans you've been up to the last two weeks, trying to beguile me-"

"Shenanigans?"

"Inviting Laurie Beth to stay? Penny Serenade?"—she loaded the next two words with withering sarcasm—"Parent Magazine? You're breaking down my resistance to having a baby. You think."

Was there a worse disappointment than having your cherished plan not only exposed but ridiculed? Remington asked himself. Probably, but right now nothing sprang to mind. Neither did an appropriate comeback. He could only seethe in silence and wait for an opening.

"But did it occur to you for even a second that maybe we could talk about it?" she was saying. "Nooooooo. Instead you have to stage these stupid scenarios—play transparent games-"

Ah, he had her now! Setting the basket on the ground, he squared his stance to hers. "Yes, and why was that, Laura? Hm?"

"I don't know. Once a con man, always a con man?"

"It was because of you!" he shouted. "Talk about reverting to type? You're the queen of it!"

"Me!"

"You! I did try and talk to you about having a baby. Remember? Open and honest and above-board, just the way you claim to want it. And what did you do? Clammed up as tight as the Sphinx. Not to mention taking advantage of me!"

She laughed a scornful little laugh. "I took advantage of you?"

"The night Wycliffe dropped by the motel. How're you going to defend that, eh? I suppose it hardly matters, because you're right. It's the same bloody story between us, only you're the one who never changes!"

They'd lingered in the spot where Laura had come to a halt, and now recognized that they were attracting a lot of attention from the parents who were supervising the kids on the playground. With a groan of frustration, Laura began to storm off towards the park gates. "At least I know when to stop making a spectacle of myself, which is more than I can say for you," she hissed as she passed him.

He turned to watch her departure. "Excellent!" he called. "Thank you! Drop your bombshell and run away, Mrs. Steele. That's your specialty, isn't it? But don't imagine for a moment I don't know why you won't talk about having a baby!"

Did she falter for an instant, slowing her furious pace? He couldn't be sure, so he hustled after her. "Nothing's ever enough for you, is it? No proof of loyalty…no test of devotion. You won't be honest? All right, then, I will. The reason you won't have our baby is you don't trust me to stay and be her father!"

There it was: the anxiety he hadn't expressed, even to himself. Fighting words, they were. He'd realized it as soon as they left his mouth. Despite his anger, part of him wouldn't have blamed her for ducking them altogether.

But Laura—ridiculous, infuriating, magnificent woman that she was—wasted no time in rising to the challenge.

She'd stopped again and was taking his measure. Her head was high, her cheeks flushed and her eyes brilliant, either from physical exertion or passionate emotion, he couldn't figure out which.

What she said was: "You know, you might want to check that ego of yours sometime. It's getting a little out of hand, even for you. Maybe then you'll be able to wrap your head around the idea that when I seem to have a…problem…you're not necessarily it."

She left him in her dust, as it were, left him staring stupidly after her. "Laura, wait," he said, a useless entreaty, and then scrambled to catch up to her. "Laura, Laura, Laura—wait-"

The chase was an awkward one. Unequal, too, given the extent to which he'd already overtaxed his weak ankle, and hampered—nice irony, that—by the added weight of the picnic basket. It was a foregone conclusion that she'd reach the motel well before he did. What he hadn't anticipated was that he'd meet her on her way out.

Her attire was a clue to her purpose, but not her state of mind. In shorts, tank top and running shoes she waved good-bye. "I'll be back," she said. Her neutral voice gave away nothing at all.

He couldn't help it: entirely careless of his sore ankle, he paced up and down the motel room for the duration of her run, checking the window frequently to see if she'd returned. Simultaneously he replayed the past twelve days in his head. How had he contrived to misunderstand her so badly? Was he fighting a battle for her confidence that he'd already won?

And—a thrill of joy went through him at the idea—was it true that he no longer factored as a negative in the trust equation? That other obstacles aside, she could picture him as the father of her child as clearly as he could picture himself?

It was almost an hour before she jogged back up the drive. She was at the cool-down stage, her gait easy and graceful. On the motel's front lawn she walked for a few minutes, shaking out her legs, blotting the perspiration from her face with the sweatband she'd removed. Now and then she cast an uncomfortable glance towards their room.

In a moment she'd be with him, he decided, and decided also that a display of nonchalance was in order. Flinging himself hastily in a chair, he picked up his drawing pad and assumed a pose that hinted he was so engrossed in his art, he wasn't aware she was gone.

Five minutes crept by. Eight. Ten. No Laura.

The suspense was killing him. What in blazes could be keeping her?

Nothing, as it happened. She was still on the lawn, yes, but sitting beneath a tree, back against the trunk, hands folded around an upraised knee, head bowed low.

He wavered on the knife edge of making a complete jackass of himself, leaving her to stew, if that was what she was playing at, until she'd got sick of it. Thank heaven he recollected the pressures she was under: the screwy Hambeth case, the mysterious impostor making a mockery of their good name. He, Remington, fancied himself her bulwark, did he? This was an occasion when he could prove it.

The glass of water he carried out to her wasn't intended as a peace offering, but it served well enough. She hitched to the side as if to make room for him, a tacit invitation to join her. And after she'd finished the water, she twined her fingers with his.

"You really want this, don't you?" she said softly. "For us to have a baby."

He confessed that he did. More than anything on earth, except for her, he said.

"Why?"

He explained, or tried to. It took him some while. In the end he was conscious of not having said nearly what he wanted to and mucking up what he had said. But then he rallied. Laura would understand. She always did.

So he sat back to hear what he'd waited to for over a week: her delighted "yes".

She spent a long time mulling over a reply. Her face was averted, her profile hard to read. "I don't know if I can give you what you want," she said at last. She spoke slowly, weighing her words, the way she had last night in talking about her relationship with her father.

It was a bit of a shock, the depth of the pain that stabbed him, stabbed his heart. Had he asked himself whether there was something worse than Laura making sport of his misguided little scheme? Here, sooner than he'd have liked, was the answer.

But he was an expert from of old in controlling his feelings—or, at least, not betraying them. "Why can't you?" he asked. And then, saving her the anguish, supplied a response. "Your father."

"Yes. And…no."

"Yes? And no?"

"Yes, it's my father. And no, not for the reason you think." She tipped her cheek onto her knee and gave him a wry smile. "See, Remington…you thought I was worried about you, and whether you'd leave me and our baby? Unh-unh. The one I'm worried about is me."

It must've written itself on his face, his utter disbelief, because she laughed. "Not what you were expecting?"

"To put it mildly."

"Yeah, it surprised me, too." The momentary humor faded; in the dark eyes fastened on his was something he would've called apprehensiveness, if that weren't so absurd. "He couldn't handle a life-long commitment to a family," she whispered. "What if I can't, either?"

How many times over the years had he reassured her that she wasn't, would never be, Abigail Holt? Enough that he couldn't recall them all. To find the situation flip-flopped—reassuring her she wasn't Jack Holt—was frankly unsettling.

"You're nothing like your father, Laura," he said.

"I'm everything like him. Partly because he wanted me to be…partly because I wanted to be…and part of it's just who I am. Do you know how long my longest relationship lasted?"

He didn't.

"Five years. Guess who with."

He couldn't.

"You, Remington. You're it. The longest relationship I've ever had. What does that say about me, do you think?"

He was tempted to lighten the mood with a leer and a witty allusion to her incredible good taste in men. But then he refrained. "That I'm the lucky chap who won you when the others couldn't."

"Or maybe…I'm not very good at this…At any of it."

He laid a hand on her hair and felt it between his fingers and remembered how a month ago, with all sorts of evidence piling up against him, she'd ignored her doubts and embarked on a search that had saved him from a miserable death in a hot, airless, tin-roofed shed.

He said: "Are you telling me what I think you are?"

"What do you think I'm telling you?"

"No children. You don't want them."

"I don't-" she said, and paused. Her hand went to her forehead, a gesture of distress. "Now's not the time to discuss it. I can't think straight. Not with this fraud on the loose, destroying the agency piece by piece. Give me time to get used to the idea. And…be patient with me."

A compromise, then. It was both better and worse than he'd feared. Disappointment was threatening to engulf him, and it was exceedingly bitter, perhaps the bitterest he'd experienced in a life that had been full of it.

In an effort to fight it off he rose and stretched down to grab her hand. "Lunch, Mrs. Steele. Come along."

And that was when it came to his rescue, his old talent for acting a part. The mask slipped down. He felt it happen. Behind it he would hide the hurt, as he'd schooled himself to do scores of times, hundreds, when life had kicked him in the teeth for no good reason. He would swallow it, put a smiling face on it, as if it didn't really matter, his desire for a child, he hadn't wanted it that badly to begin with.

Just when he thought he'd never have to resort to lying to Laura ever again.

That, without question, was the bitterest disappointment of all.

TO BE CONTINUED