Chapter 11: San Francisco
Remington reached across the table for Laura's hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. With a smile, she lifted her eyes from the menu, and peering over the top of it, a questioning look was reflected in her eyes.
"In case I haven't said it already," his eyes met hers and held, "You're absolutely remarkable, Laura." Her attention to each detail of this little getaway, thus far, had been astounding, from their first-class accommodations on the flight up from LA to the opulent San Francisco Suite at the Ritz-Carlton.
"I might be insane for doing this," she brushed off the compliment, smiling as mischief dance in her eyes, "But we all go a little mad sometimes." The corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. Does she really believe she'll slip that past me?
"Psycho, Anthony Perkins, Vera Miles, Janet Leigh, Paramount, 1960," he recited automatically.
His eyes wandered over her partially bared shoulders and the freckles sprinkled there as he recalled the moment she'd stepped out of the bedroom in their suite. He'd been… gobsmacked… when she'd appeared wearing her version of the little black dress. The red, long sleeved dress was off-the shoulder and positively clung to her every curve, leaving nothing, whatsoever to the imagination. It was provocative, daring and completely out of Laura's norm. His pulse instantly picked up pace and his entire body hummed.
It didn't occur to him that perhaps that should be a concern until they'd stepped into the lobby and she'd immediately drawn the attention of several pairs of admiring eyes. For a split second, he'd been torn: Should he cover her from what he considered to be most unwelcome gazes or should he preen like a peacock that it was he accompanying her?
At times the impulse to lay claim to her, through body language and look should one be needed, was still confounding, even years after he'd first felt the compulsion. But, mystifying or not, it had become familiar feeling and one which had reared up again after they'd left their coats with the coat-check in the restaurant. The instant the first pair of eyes lingered too long upon her, he'd laid a hand on her back and had bent down his head to have a quiet word with her. The act conveyed an intimacy that would warn off any hopeful admirers, as would the way he'd bussed her cheek after paying attendance to her as she sat.
He often wondered if she realized the air positively crackled around them when they were in one another's company, whether for a professional endeavor or a personal one. He often imagined those sparks, that electricity, the attention they drew, was due to the genuine fondness they felt for one another. The simple fact was they truly enjoyed one another's company, which was why they'd virtually lived in one another's pockets over the last years, excepting for those difficult days after Cannes and when he'd left the summer prior. At the mere idea of returning to those days he'd borne in London with great difficulty, days when he'd neither seen nor spoken to her daily, sent his mood spiraling downward and led him to grip the hand held in his harder than he'd intended.
"Have you decided?" the waiter inquired, interrupting his thoughts. He gave his head a mental shake and looked up at the server as the words computed, never noticing Laura's eyes on him, assessing him. She'd noted the sudden change in his mood. He glanced at her, seeking her go ahead to order for both of them, receiving the minutest of nods in answer.
"Mozzarella marinara to start, followed by some veal picatta, light on the lemon butter, linguine in white clam sauce and a bottle of Dom Perignon '76," he rattled off, then offered his menu to the waiter.
"Very good, sir," the server acknowledged. Gathering their menus, he discretely departed. Tugging her hand free of his, she laid it back on top of his, and stroked the back of his hand with her fingertips.
"Do you know what I think would be wonderful?" she posed the quiet question.
"What's that?"
"If for the next twenty-four hours, we could set aside the matter of the INS and focus on what's right before us." She peered around the restaurant. "A romantic city, an elegant setting, good food, great bubbly…" She shifted the position of her hand so she could tangle her fingers with his, "…wonderful company." His lips lifted, and a tender smile lit his eyes.
"That it is," he agreed, softly. Clearing his throat he forcibly put aside his worries for now. "And this time without a fictitious case—"
"Which turned into a real one," she interjected, a glint in her eyes. He laughed low in his throat as he finished.
"To distract us from what truly…" He changed position of their hands against, so he could lift her hand and buss the back "…matters."
Oh, how different this evening was from the last time they'd visited his city, when he'd watched as one romantic venture after another had been hijacked by a case suddenly turned very real. The food was been excellent, the champagne outstanding, the conversation quiet and the company exquisite.
"You know, in America we refer to these as cheese sticks or fried mozzarella," she observed, rolling the end through the marinara sauce on her plate, then taking a bite.
"Ah, but mozzarella marina has a certain… je ne sais quoi," he answered with a bit of a superior tone, earning a roll of the eyes from her.
"I can never decide if you favor Italian or French cuisine," she mused. He pursed his lips, considering the thought. Then, with a lazy shrug of his shoulder, he took another bite of the appetizer.
"I suppose it would depend on the situation. If my mind is set for romance, French cuisine has no comparison with its innovative spices, rich sauces and elegant presentation," he elaborated.
"And Italian?"
"A comfortable evening at home," he answered without hesitation. "Think of it, Laura. Generation-after-generation, recipes for veal scaloppini, manicotti… tiramisu being handed down from one family member to the next. Maybe one generation adds a bit more garlic, the next less, but the essence of the dish remains comforting in its familiarity." He raised a single brow, knowing the next would pique her insatiable curiosity. "It's also the first dish I tried my hand at." She made it a point to look down at her plate, to conceal the smile that twitched at her lips. Plastering her most innocent of looks upon her face she let the cheese stick hover near her lips as she spoke.
"Lemme guess. Spaghetti," she ventured, hoping fervently that the comment was casual enough to keep the details flowing.
Conversation ebbed as their waiter arrived with the main course.
"Veal marsala, actually," he corrected, pointing his fork towards his plate. "Daniel and I spent six months in Vinci, a small… village, I suppose you'd call it… outside of Florence, in order to further my…" he gave her a sheepish smile, "…tutoring and training. Lucia Anna Maria Bianchi," he laughed, fondly. "I spent days on end watching as she prepared one traditional meal after the next, marveling as she made pasta, created her sauces, wondering how she so effortlessly recalled exactly what ingredients were needed without so much as a glance at a recipe card. Weeks passed before she asked if I wished to give my hand a try in the kitchen." He laughed again and flashed her a crooked smile. "She hadn't needed to ask twice." Laura's eyes had narrowed slightly, attention rapt, as he'd spoken. Days? Weeks? For some reason, she'd come to believe over the years that his longest relationship… or one of any consequence… had been with Anna. Did this mean there was a danger of another sociopathic ex-lover of his appearing on their doorstep?
"Devoted yourself to your lessons, did you?" His lips twitched with a suppressed smile. He relished her brief piques of jealousy, as rare as they were – not that she'd admit she was feeling any such thing.
"How could I not?" His smiled the soft smile of a man lost in his reminiscing, as his eyes glazed over. "Those months were the first time I'd ever experienced something remotely similar to a home, from our cottage in the rolling countryside to the woman who allowed me to know what it might have been like to have a grandmother ." He laughed quietly, dropping his eyes to his plate. "And she was that, be it when she was scolding or smothering me." Her heart melted, as it always did when he told tales such as these.
"How old were you?" she dared to ask. He blinked several times, then looked up at her.
"Sixteen or thereabouts," he answered, dismissively. "What did your mother want?" Her face contorted in discomfort and he watched, fascinated as she squirmed in her seat. What's brought this about? "Lau-ra." She picked up her fork and shoved an unladylike portion of her veal marsala into her mouth.
"She's coming to visit in two-weeks," she mumbled around her mouthful of food. Ah, yes. That news alone was enough to set the woman across from him into a dither, but the way she was eating while avoiding his eyes, prompted an…
"And?" Her eyes flitted to him then away, as she stuffed another piled fork of food into her mouth.
"And she knows about us," she reminded him. Ah, that would do it. He couldn't help it, he laughed. "It's not funny," she ground out, swallowing the food. "You're not going to be the one subjected to endless questions about whether or not I've 'hooked you' and if so why am I not 'reeling you in.'"
"Why do I feel I've suddenly been relegated to the status of a fish?" he pondered aloud with a frown.
"Exactly my point." She pointed her fork at him in emphasis.
After dinner, they'd taken a streetcar to the Mark Hopkins hotel where the Top of the Mark was located. Once again he was reminded of how much had changed in a little more than a year. She'd leaned up against him then seeking his warmth in the cool air, and while he'd been bloody well cheesed by her actions, he hadn't dared to envelope her in his arms, for fear she'd step away. And now? He freely drew her close, and nuzzled his chin against the top of her head when she snuggled closer.
Remington wasn't the only one wrapped up in old memories. As he led her to the dance floor the melody to While We're Young drifted through her mind, as it was the song that had been playing when they'd stepped onto the dance floor the year before. The recent renewal of their personal life, as well as the fact they were being chased by killer cops, had her off balance. One minute she'd been reminding them both of the problems that still stood between them and moving forward…
"You know, that is one of the problems with us… You're uh- You're one of the things that I have to guard against…The part of me that I can't ever allow myself to be. Reckless, indulgent, frivolous . . ."
And the next? She was kissing him, unconcerned about who might be watching. Not just a simple glancing kiss, before she tucked her head against his shoulder. For a long minute they'd stood on this floor, feet barely moving, as they savored each touch of their lips to one another's. The entire experience had been simultaneously one of the most romantic moments of her life – how could it not be given the surroundings and the backdrop of San Francisco lit up in the darkened sky – and one of the most confusing. Their barriers had come down and that quiescent desire that always existed for him had roared to life. If Rita del Rio hadn't made her appearance when she had, Laura had been prepared to forget the case, forget the SFPD who wished to extract a piece of their hides, and drag Remington back to the hotel. How, exactly, does one go from lecturing the man one moment, to drowning in him the next? That was a question she'd never figured out the answer to… until he'd left.
Then she'd realized no matter her fears, no matter her concerns, no matter the numerous differences between them, he was it. The One. He was that person who made her life richer, more fulfilling. To lose him now, especially after the past eight months? Goosebumps peppered her skin as a chill raced down her spine.
A shiver that he took notice of. He'd been watching as they'd danced, trying to divine what had spirited her away. So lost in her thoughts was she, he doubted she realized she'd been alternately stroking his back, shoulder and chest, and caressing his neck, toying with the hair at his collar. The effect on his body had been instantaneous and he'd pressed slightly closer to her. Thus, he'd felt every nuance of the soft tremor as it coursed through her.
Bending his head down, he whispered his lips over hers. She stirred in his arms, and her eyes lifted to meet his in the heartbeats before she palmed the back of his head and drew his lips back to hers. They danced, swaying softly for long minutes, exchanging glancing touches, supple kisses. At last, she leaned her head back and blinked up at him.
"Let's go back to the hotel," she suggested, palming his cheek in her hand.
Much like Lucia Anna Maria Bianchi hadn't had to ask twice, neither had Laura.