Chapter 11

Three weeks later

Laura sat curled up in the corner of her couch, eyes closed, as she sipped at her cup of tea.

Morning sickness had heralded its official arrival at ten-weeks-and-one-day. For a little more than two weeks, the moment she opened her eyes in the morning the room swam and her stomach churned. Rationally, she knew she should feel fortunate the seasick feeling only clung for a couple of hours. The numerous books she and Remington had already read on pregnancy had all noted that many women experienced morning sickness the entire day.

But, as she leaned over the toilet emptying the contents of her stomach - and often it seemed like well more than that – wishing desperately that someone was there to hold her hair, rub her back, to offer her a cool cloth to press against her face after each round, she felt neither rational nor thankful. As far as she was concerned the morning sickness put a blight upon the entire day. After the second consecutive day of arriving late to the office, earning her a knowing – and incorrect – smirk from Mildred, she'd altered her schedule, setting her alarm clock for five-thirty instead of seven.

Which, of course, meant by ten-thirty in the evening she was beyond tired. On many an evening by the time ten o'clock arrived she'd shoved Remington towards the front door or, when at his flat, had made her excuses then departed.

There were evenings when those early partings were a blessing, especially the first nights after his return when she'd been alternately jumpy or angry. Her decision to leave him, her decision to return to him, his decision to leave, her decision to find him, his decisions in Cannes served to confuse her all the more.

In the months after returning from Cannes and the Glee Club Alumni tour, she'd discovered the true meaning of loneliness. It had surprised her to realize how much time they'd truly spent with one another since his arrival in her life: Exhilarating weekdays spent chasing down mysteries, quiet weekday evenings in front of the fire or walking along the shore, and weekends of golf dates, the ballet, dinners at Chez Rives. When she'd ended their personal relationship, she'd discovered there were reminders everywhere of just how thoroughly he'd woven himself into the fabric of her life. She'd sit down to play, and there he was beneath her hands in the form of the piano he'd given her. She'd walk into her kitchen and remember how many comfortable evenings he'd spent cooking a meal. She'd lie in her bed to sleep, and although they'd never experienced that 'ultimate moment' in it together, there were the memories of her lying prone, eyes closed, while he massaged her tired feet. Even driving the Rabbit evoked warm reflections on the unspoken agreement they'd come to in regards to driving: He'd cede the decision on who drove to her when they were working, meaning it was she at the wheel in more cases than not, while during personal hours they slipped naturally into the more traditional roles of the man driving. He was such a… gentleman… opening and closing doors, holding out chairs, escorting her with the touch of his fingers at the small of her back, that it had never occurred her to mind. It was simply a part of who he was.

She'd never been lonely after Wilson's departure. Blindsided? Yes. Crushed? Absolutely. Disillusioned in the staying power of men? Oh, yeah. But lonely? Not that. They'd been a couple, certainly. Had lived together, obviously. They'd been lovers, but never friends. They'd shared the same bed, they'd had sex and she'd loved him, but they'd lived lives separate and apart from one another. She'd been then, as she was now, a workaholic. He'd been equally devoted to his job at the bank. It was a rarity that they sat down for a meal together. They'd vacationed together exactly once, and that had been not only an unmitigated disaster, but the catalyst for him leaving.

The night she'd left Remington she'd posed the question:

"Do we really have anything else in common besides this agency?"

She had to wonder now if her history with Wilson had been the impetus for the question. After all, what had she and Wilson had in common other than their devotion to their jobs? He was hospital corners on the bed, she was 'the bed'll get made when and if I think about it." He was 'supper on the table at six, she was 'make it yourself.' He was caution, she was throw caution to the wind. He was staid propriety, she was impulsive. He was a sensible single finger of scotch straight up, she was too much tequila and doing a fan dance on the bar.

And where had that gotten her? Their irreconcilable differences had ended with him walking out without a word and her heart broken.

Just as the differences between her father and mother had seen him leaving as well.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she admitted to herself now, she'd always wondered if the differences between she and Remington would see them coming to the same end. From her own experiences, after all, opposites didn't attract, as the old adage insisted. They repelled.

Why had it taken losing him to understand that they were not remotely similar to her mother and father, Wilson and her?

Their differences complemented one another. He was instinct, she was logic combined with experience and training. He was devil may care, she was pragmatic. He was a gourmet cook who truly enjoyed the task, she couldn't boil water and had no interest in learning how. She insisted on him becoming a better man, while he urged her to be who she truly was at heart. He was live life to the fullest, she was work until you run out of fuel and then begin again.

The truly big differences, they appreciated in one another. As for the insignificant ones? Well, compromise had come easily. He was Dom Perignon and caviar, while she was pizza and cotton candy. She savored their dinner dates at Chez Rives, L'Ornate and other restaurants he discerned worthy, while he relished afternoons on the pier watching her take her pleasure in all the confections offered. He was old movies, she was old television series. She'd learned to appreciate a quiet night in watching one of his beloved flicks, while he sat through afternoon marathons of Twilight Zone and Atomic Man while limiting his sarcasm as best he could. He was tailored suits and Italian shoes, she was off-the-rack business suits and sensible pumps. He'd come to appreciate a pair of comfortable sweatpants and t-shirt on weekend afternoons, and she'd spiced up her wardrobe with a designer piece or two.

For that matter, why hadn't she given due weight to how similar they were? They'd both been abandoned as children by a parent, although he much more catastrophically than she. They both believed in justice. They were steadfast in their loyalty to the people in their lives. They loved adventure, the adrenaline rush that followed a particularly daunting feat. They were intelligent, with a quick wit and occasionally acerbic tongues. They loved water, enjoyed a quiet night at home and would lay down their lives for one another.

Was it any wonder that after he'd left, a yawing chasm of emptiness had opened in her heart?

So what was she doing?

She sighed over her cup of tea.

He'd come home on nothing more than a suspicion. He was fighting for her, for them. He'd been a committed partner since returning. He'd been patient, as he'd promised he would be. He'd been honest… blatantly, stomach-clenching honest at times. As he'd always done, he followed her lead, never pressured, allowed her to determine the pace and path.

In short, he'd done everything she'd asked of him. But she was having a hard time forgetting.

It had taken days for that hickey on his neck to fade, each glimpse of it leaving her with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as images of him…

...with Felicia, of all people...

...Flooded her mind...

Would it have mattered if it had been any woman but her? Long ago she'd resolved not to think about the fact he was likely discretely getting his needs assuaged elsewhere. He was, after all, a grown man with a healthy libido – a libido she wasn't satisfying. She snorted a laugh. Nor he mine. Discretion had been the key word, a play on a pearl of wisdom her grandmother had bestowed upon her regularly during her childhood: what you don't know can't hurt you.

And the women she'd known about – or had suspected she'd known about – had certainly left their sting. Anna. Felicia. Two women so similar in both appearance and character, that they were nearly identical: Both tall, curvy, cool blondes who didn't give a damn about anything accept what they wanted. Oh they'd left their mark on her, alright.

She'd come to realize she was having a hard time forgetting not because of the woman involved but because, in order to forget, first she'd have to forgive herself. Her actions had been, after all, the catalyst for all that had come after.

In the back of her head she'd known, without him ever saying those three words, that he'd been hers for the taking. For three years, he'd partnered her, had become friends with her, had romanced her... for three years he had stayed. And, only a blind woman would have missed the look in his eyes since they'd crossed that line. A look that said 'I'm lying my heart in the palm of your hand. Please, take care of it.' She wasn't, after all, the only one who bore scars from life's lessons. He had more than his share, as well. And instead of taking that heart and keeping it safe, she'd first trampled upon it and then thrown it away. She'd have to find a way to forgive herself for that.

First, however, she had to forgive herself for the mere act of allowing herself to need someone else. She'd vowed to stand on her own two feet, to answer to no one, to take on the world on her own terms. If life had taught her anything, it had taught her the only person you could trust to stay, to stand and fight, was yourself. Yet, she'd gone and thrown all her resolve away by falling in love with, allowing herself to need, the one man guaranteed to break her heart.

She was frowning as she set aside her cup of tea, then stood and retreated to her bedroom to get dressed for the day.

So, what had she done? She'd broken both their hearts, and in doing so had set into motion the chain of events that brought them to where they were right now: mired down in hurt and regrets. All for being human, as Remington had once said to her.

Reaching into the closet, she selected a navy suit with pencil skirt and white silk blouse to wear to the office on the day. Stripping off her robe, she dropped it onto the bed.

Her mind wandered back to her thoughts as she drew on her blouse, and her fingers slid deftly down the front, buttoning it. The first step towards moving forward, towards forgiving herself, she realized, was admitting she was just that: human. She'd made a mistake. A critical one, but a mistake nonetheless. Yet, he'd made his share of mistakes as well. Perhaps, they were even on that front.

Removing a pair of hose from her top dresser drawer, she sat down on the side of the bed to put them on.

Remington had sensed her reticence, how could he not - especially in those first few days when the bruise remained prominently on his neck, leaving her skittering away? In the two weeks since, a great deal of the light, teasing camaraderie characteristic of their friendship had returned. Once the wounded accusation had stopped appearing on her face, he'd begun looking at her less warily. His smile had come more easily, as had her own. His touch had grown more frequent. Many of the habits from their – what? Dating days? – had returned: Quiet talks before the fire, dancing in the living room, dinner at Chez Rives and L'Ornate, a trip to the pier, a round of golf, a few sets of tennis.

Standing, she pulled her skirt off the hanger then leaned over to step into it.

On the eighth night after his return, they'd kissed for the first time. Hesitant at first, the kiss had quickly taken on a life of its own. Memories of sharing a bed with him, of making love with him, had been enough to send desire coursing through her blood. And for a moment, she'd forgotten everything that had happened between them. She'd parted her lips, humming in anticipation of tasting him, while pressing closer and drawing a hand through his hair, down his neck. His arm snaked around her shoulder, his hand buried itself in her hair, and he issued an answering hum of his own when his tongue slipped past those lips to caress hers. And when her tongue had had tangled with his not only willingly, but eagerly? He'd pressed her back into the pillows of her couch, and kissed her with deep longing.

"Laura," he murmured, when their lips briefly parted, in that breathy way of his when he was infinitely aroused.

She'd immediately tensed in his arms, as reality and the strain between them had gone crashing through her mind. Automatically, his arm around her had loosened and he'd leaned back to examine her face, her eyes and whatever he'd found there had made him draw away. And since? While the wariness had left his eyes, fear of rejection and a quiet plea that she forgive him had taken its place. She hated to see that look in his eyes, wished fervently for the warmth that had been there before her fateful decision.

Tugging up her skirt, she reached behind her back to zipper it. When the zipper got stuck, she gave it a tug. Then a jerk. Only after she muttered an oath under her breath did it occur to her this issue did not lay with the zipper but her body. Letting the skirt drop to the floor, she tugged off her pantyhose then, lifting her shirt, she examined herself in the mirror while stroking a hand of her stomach. Was she imagining the slight swell she thought she found there? She wasn't sure. But she knew with an absolute certainly that she'd worn this particular suit not even a month before. Smile widening further, she happily began to plow through her wardrobe, finally selecting a pair of black dress pants that offered a bit more room and a taupe blazer.

Time was marching forward, she recognized. And she wanted her and her Mr. Steele to move forward as well. She desperately missed—

Her brows raised in surprise when a knock sounded at her door. With purposeful steps, she descended the stairs to her bedroom and walked to the front door. Unlatching it, she gave the door a firm tug. She didn't even bother hiding her shock when she saw the tall, burly figure standing there.

"Mr. Veenhoff, what are you doing here?"