Epilogue

"Happy Valentine's Day, Mrs. Steele," said Remington into Laura's ear, releasing his grip on her shoulders so he could unwind the blindfold from around her eyes.

Frankly, Laura wasn't sure how he'd managed to put it there in the first place. The minute he'd produced it, she'd hastened to hold him at bay with a string of what she considered very rational, very solid objections. It was the beginning of the workday. They'd only just arrived at the office. There was no time for playing games. A new client was due within the hour. He should know by now how much she hated surprises.

He'd heard her out with a combination of amusement and exasperation. "You are the most ridiculous woman I've ever met in my life, bar none," he'd drawled when she was through. Even so, something about his expression said her ridiculousness was one of the things he loved about her.

And you're the most irresistible man on the planet, she was tempted to reply as she suffered him to fasten the blindfold—giving in, as he'd probably assumed she would from the start. But she kept her mouth shut. She'd been too prone to that sort of gush lately as it was. Any more of it, and it would serve her right if people started calling her "the little woman".

Was she falling in love with her husband all over again? She wouldn't have put it quite like that, since never for a second had she been out of love with him. But it was true that the two and a half weeks since Anna's death had borne more than a passing resemblance to a second honeymoon. Or third, if she counted the handful of golden days they'd spent in Menton in November while she recuperated from Ligurian poison.

Except there was one major difference between Menton and Thousand Oaks. Remington was to all intents and purposes recovered from heat exhaustion before she was allowed to take him home from the hospital. He hadn't the same restrictions on his physical activity that her French doctor had imposed on her. The only impediment to their reunion was the one posed by his injured ankle; neither of them was in the mood to allow a minor thing like a sprain stand in their way.

And she thought their weekend at Twin Pines had set the standard in terms of pure, uncomplicated enjoyment of each other! Little had she suspected how it would pale in comparison to the day he came home for good. In typical style, Remington had recalled all her suggestions as to how he could thank her for saving his life, and was full of roguish determination to carry out every single one. "And this, my love?" he would say, laughing down at her—or up, as the case might be—while his long fingers sought the softness of her curves and peaks and hollows, or his lips and tongue called forth an explosive response from sensitive flesh. "Is this what you had in mind?"

Yes, she heard herself answering over and over. Oh, yes. Until the power of coherent speech temporarily deserted them both, and all they could do was cry out in release, clasped in the perfect safety of one another's arms.

Still later there was in store for Laura the deeper, quieter joy of holding her sleeping husband, a deliberate antidote to the night Anna had interrupted them in his hotel room. Unobserved in the lamplight, she did what she never had before: slowly traced his features with one finger, her touch so delicate that he didn't by so much as a flicker of an eyelash signal that he felt it.

The old Laura would never have conceived of such a thing. Even the new Laura wasn't sure she could have done it if he were awake and able to comment. But that night it felt not only right, but necessary for reassurance that he was really here, and really fine.

Had she sufficiently repaid him for Pramagiorre?

The question came from out of nowhere. Startled, she lifted her head as if it had been spoken aloud. Honestly it was weeks since she'd thought of their relationship in those terms. She'd been too busy working out how to keep him alive to worry about fine degrees of obligation between them.

And maybe that was the answer. Score-keeping, payback: it was an outworn way of thinking that belonged to their old relationship. What mattered now was the two of them looking out for each other the best they knew how. He'd gotten the hang of it already. It had taken her longer to catch on.

He would go to hell and back for her if she needed him. She could count on him; he'd proven it. Could he say the same for her?

Yes, she decided, switching off the lamp and curling up beside him. He could. She would go to hell and back if he needed her.

She already had.

That was the start of the return to normal life for which she'd longed so fiercely during Anna's tenure. Only one unresolved issue remained to cast a shadow over it: the question of what had happened to the photographs and papers that incriminated Remington as a jewel thief.

Their whereabouts had been the farthest thing from Laura's mind the evening she'd set out to lay her trap for Anna. There was no point in second-guessing herself now, she thought; clearly she couldn't have taken steps to retrieve them and still involve Lieutenant Jarvis in her plan. Weighing the outcome in the balance, she was convinced she'd made the right decision. On the other hand, wondering if the proverbial axe were about to fall any minute didn't often make for a good night's sleep.

Remington was much more relaxed about it than she, thanks to his recollection of the moments after Anna had discovered him breaking and entering The English Rose. "I'd swear she put them back in their hiding place, Laura," he'd insisted. "In fact I'd stake my life on it. It'll take a far more creative bunch than Jarvis and his men to sniff them out, trust me."

"Couldn't we sneak aboard and check it out? Just to be on the safe side?"

His eyes had narrowed in thought. "We could, I suppose. It all depends on how they've disposed of it. The police may have seized it as evidence, which means we won't be able to get near it."

"Now there's a comforting prospect."

"We won't know where we are until I've made some discreet inquiries." He began to limp towards his office. "Icy calm, my love, eh? If by some miracle the police have found the papers, let alone connected them with me, we'd have heard by now."

Subsequent events seemed to prove him right. Not only had the Pattons' yacht been signed over by the police to Anna's estate, it was already in the hands of a broker. If the threat to Remington hadn't altogether died with Anna, it was at far enough of a remove that Laura could breathe again.

And even indulge him in a little Valentine's revelry, which not only entailed the blindfold, but also his hands closed firmly on her shoulders, both to steer her out of the reception area and to support his limping steps. What the hell, she thought; why not get as fully into the spirit as he was? Obedient to his whispered instructions, she waited until he'd given her permission before opening her eyes.

He'd guided her into his office, she found; she was facing his gallery of publicity photos, what Murphy had long ago dubbed "Steele's Wall of Shame". She blinked. Then she turned her bafflement on her husband. "This is my surprise?"

Probably more to relieve the weight on his ankle than anything else, he'd retreated to his desk and was lounging on its edge, hands in pockets. A funny glint of expectancy—eagerness?—danced in his eyes. "And you call yourself a detective," he chided her. "Look again."

She did, this time giving the display more than a cursory glance. And gasped in equal parts pleasure and disbelief. For intermingled with the great Remington Steele's expertly staged PR were shots of a real private investigator taking her bows.

The man of deeds had struck again.

He'd left nothing out as far as she could see. There was Laura Holt, PI, with boxer Kenny Hodges after she'd unraveled the mystery of who was fixing his fights, and Laura Holt with the FBI who'd arrested Hodges' brother-in-law on a racketeering charge. The pilot whose career was being sabotaged by a jealous colleague, was here, too. So was Colin Ferrick's Preakness-bound foal, Idle Fancy, saved from a clever horse-napping plot; the five-star chef, his purloined recipes restored from the competition; the chemist with the secret formula for a new, highly flexible plastic. As well as Laura Holt being congratulated by the press, thanked by the police, feted by the mayor, on behalf of Remington Steele Investigations.

In the center was an arrangement of a different kind, composed of five images that were smaller than the others. Four were ranged like the points of the compass around a fifth. Leaning in for a closer look, she realized the compass-points were snaps taken by the house photographer at the Fire and Ice Ball on New Year's Eve. This was the first she'd seen them.

She drank them in. It was amazing how the photographer had managed to infuse a single pose with so much variety. He'd caught the Steeles in profile from the waist up, arms around each other, but with a subtle change in their expressions each time. And those ran the gamut from Remington's playful kiss on the tip of her nose to the fond pride with which he watched her smiling into the camera.

The hub, the fifth photo, was a mutual favorite from their wedding day: the instant after she'd pinned his boutonniere to the lapel of his navy suit coat, captured for all time.

The light in Remington's eyes was brighter than ever as she turned back to him, spreading her hands wide. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. Or if you do, ask me why I didn't get around to it sooner."

"Where on earth did you find them all?"

"Miss Wolfe—er—Mrs. Wolfe-Gioberti--"

"—Mrs. Foxe-Giacomo--"

"--She may be highly disorganized when it comes to her personal life, but her photo archive system was impeccable. And what she didn't have on file, Mildred was able to winkle out of other sources. Impressive, isn't it, what that woman can do?"

"Very," she agreed.

"I'd have liked to bring us even more up to date. Think of the cases you've solved over the past five years! But none of the photographs the press could supply were worth a damn. You were out of focus, or hidden behind someone else, or your head had been cropped clean off. And the captions! 'Unidentified woman', 'unnamed associate'…"

What appeared to be a new discovery to him was old news to Laura. But she found the indignation it stirred up in him absolutely endearing. " 'The woman behind the man', in other words?" she suggested, amused.

"Not if I have any choice in the matter. Didn't I say it the night of the ball? About time you were represented here."

She didn't need an invitation to move into his embrace. Dimpling up at him, she said, "Have I ever told how sexy you are when you're fighting my battles? Even if it's a little after the fact?"

The eyebrow went up, as she'd expected it would. "Sexy, is it?"

"In the extreme." And with her linked hands behind his neck, she brought his face to hers, letting the ardor of her kiss speak for itself.

But instead of intensifying, he put her away from him a little, looking almost shy. "Wait. I've one more surprise in store."

The painting he laid on his desk was on the small side, maybe three feet by two, mounted in an unadorned frame of polished mahogany. An oil on canvas, it was boldly executed, if not quite perfect in composition. But even she could tell there was something special about its confident brushwork, the energy and immediacy it exuded, its clear colors. They reminded her of something; she needed a few seconds to figure out what.

The Defeat of Bois-Guilbert. The painting by Remington's great-great uncle, Ralph Chalmers, that hung in the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, England.

More than that: it was…her. It was her to the very life. Cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, hair a little mussed; poised in arabesque, yet engaged with the viewer; smiling, her outward-focused gaze warm and direct. It was as different from the last portrait they'd examined here—icy, distant, blonde perfection—as it was possible to be.

The signature in the lower right hand corner read R. Chalmers Steele.

"You did it!" she breathed. "You finished your first oil!"

In counterpoint to the thumb and finger twisting his right ear lobe, he shrugged, elaborately casual. "It's a beginning."

"I can't believe you did it so soon!"

"I was…motivated." He slipped his arms around her waist. "At least I have a little something to show for them, all those solitary evenings in Gabrieli's studio. Eh?"

There was a lot of subtext to be translated from what he'd said, but that would come later. Now she cupped a hand on either side of his face and kissed him again. "It's incredible. I'm proud to have been your first model, Mr. Steele."

"My first…my second…my third…" Recovered from the initial anxiety, encouraged by her praise, he was starting to relax.

"Is that your way of telling me you're planning a whole series of portraits?"

"Why not? I'd be following in the footsteps of genius if I did. Think of Monet with his poplars…his haystack…the façade of the cathedral at Rouen. You'll be my 'one perfect thing', Laura."

"Whatever that may be."

"It's why he painted the same subjects over and over again. 'When you find one perfect thing, you ought to stick to it', is how he put it." He frowned. "Or it might have been the nameless second Mrs. DeWinter in Rebecca who said it. Joan Fontaine, Laurence Olivier, United Artists, 1940--"

"Mr. Steele?"

"Hm?"

"Whoever it was? They were right."

It took Mildred's voice and bustling entrance to break their kiss. "Mr. and Mrs Steele, there's a—Oh." Halting in mid-stride, she winced in dismay. "I knew I should've buzzed."

Reluctantly Laura detached herself from her husband's arms. "It's all right Mildred. What's up?"

"Your ten fifteen's here, and a little on the antsy side, if you get my drift."

"He's early," Remington objected.

"He's not the kind of guy who takes no for an answer."

"Give us five minutes and send him in," said Laura.

Even as the door closed behind Mildred, they were feverishly repairing the damages wrought by their embrace, straightening disheveled clothing and ruffled hair, rubbing away lipstick stains. "Tell me again who it is we're seeing?" said Remington.

"Edmund Hogarth. Executive director of the West Coast Society for the Preservation of Shakespeare."

"Ah, yes. Popularly know as The Hambeth Festival. Southern California's only year-round, permanent Shakesperian troupe."

"They've been experiencing a series of suspicious accidents. A fire in the costume department when no one was supposed to be in the building. A round of live ammo in a prop musket. Electrical wiring suddenly short-circuiting. Sound like a familiar scenario?"

"Indeed. The Golden Dugout and the Freidlich Spa come to mind."

With only seconds left before the client entered, she rose on tiptoe and kissed him again, a light brush of her lips. "Happy Valentine's Day, Mr. Steele," she whispered. "Thank you for my presents."

"It was more than my pleasure, Mrs. Steele," he said softly.

Their new client was an imposing man, as tall as Remington but more massive through the shoulders and chest, with a carefully styled, salt-and-pepper mane and strongly marked features. His size and presence could've been intimidating to Laura, but wasn't. She'd seen--and dealt with--his type before.

Her hand gripped his with comparable strength as she greeted him in the center of the office. "Mr. Hogarth? Laura Steele. My partner and husband, Remington Steele."

"Sorry not to greet you properly, Mr. Hogarth," said Remington from behind his desk. "Ankle injury. Must stay off it. Doctor's orders."

Hogarth waved the apology away, glancing from Remington to Laura. "Married detectives?" His voice, a sonorous bass, matched the rest of him. "Isn't that a trifle unusual?" The words carried an undertone of criticism, even suspicion.

"It works for us," said Remington, his eyes holding Hogarth's in a steely gaze. Hogarth was the one to look away.

"Shall we get down to it?" put in Laura. She'd already perched on the outer edge of the desk in readiness for the interview. "What is it you hope we can do for you, Mr. Hogarth?"

And glancing over her shoulder at her husband, sent him the faintest, most fleeting of impish smiles.

The blue eyes twinkled at her in return.

It was back to business as usual at Remington Steele Investigations.

The man once known to the Steeles as Tony Roselli, and who called himself Mr. Niemand, catching sight of his reflection in a plate-glass shop window in Cambridge, Massachusetts' Harvard Square, paused to make final adjustments.

Navy blue Brioni suit and impeccable Hardy Amies shirt, paired with the tone-on-tone burgundy tie and its matching pocket square? Check.

Black Gucci wingtip oxfords polished to a mirror-like gloss? Check.

Curly, reddish-brown, modified mullet chemically straightened and darkened to blue-black? Check again.

Special colored contacts brightening gray blue eyes to sapphire? For the last time: check.

The gold wire-rims with the round frames were his own personal touch. While not exactly authentic, they weren't completely out of character, he felt. And they were more suitable for Boston, where Ray-Ban Wayfarers generally didn't make the same statement they did in Los Angeles.

He was ready.

His lunch companions were waiting for him in The Rialto at The Charles, just as they'd planned it over the phone. Nice. Of course he'd found an unobtrusive spot across the street from the hotel and watched a good half hour for their arrival. It was always good to make an entrance. It was even better if you'd stage-managed it yourself.

After waiting the requisite seven minutes—long enough for them to start wondering if he was going to stand them up, but not enough for them to resent his wasting their time—he strolled, rather than strode, across Bennett Street, and asked at the concierge's desk for Mr. and Mrs. Prescott.

Prescott rose, the missus didn't, when he materialized table-side. He didn't mind at all, having to introduce himself. It added to the drama. Besides, not only was he starting to enjoy that slippery bugger of an accent in spite of himself, he was getting damn good at it.

"Mr. and Mrs. Prescott?" he said, and extended his hand. "Delighted to meet you. Remington Steele. You needed my assistance?"

The papers that Remington had so very briefly had in his possession were secure in their new repository: the Patton file, "closed cases" category, basement, Homicide Division, LAPD.

Had they known of this stroke of good fortune, the Steeles would've had to thank Pete Dagonet, newly promoted from patrolman to detective, a guy who loathed his job, disliked his partner and hated Lieutenant Jarvis for assigning him to Homicide when what Dagonet really hankered for was Vice Squad or Narcotics.

Ordered by Jarvis to search the impounded yacht that had formerly belonged to Anna Patton with his partner, a ten-year vet, Dagonet had unearthed the papers completely by accident. It took him a good ten minutes to realize there was more to his find than really hot pictures of a blonde babe wearing a diamond-and-sapphire necklace with matching drop earrings, and nothing else.

The pages of carefully penned notes, the house plans that included multiple views of every elevation, didn't just puzzle him. They also pissed him off. Because what they represented was the possibility of a complicated case that would tie him that much longer to a rotation he loathed, a partner he disliked and a boss he hated.

So he did what any self-respecting shirker would do: concealed the papers in the inner pocket of his sport coat before his partner could see them.

And, at the station house after hours, slipped them into the back of the catalogued, ticketed case file when no one was looking.

Last, he promptly forgot about them.

When Dagonet's and Perez' search of the yacht turned up empty, the Patton case was officially closed. Jarvis, understaffed and overworked, moved it off his list of active investigations. Without reviewing the file again he approved its transfer to the basement.

There the papers that held such terrifying potential for blowing the Steeles' world sky high would remain, untouched, hidden.

For a while.

FINIS

Next installment: Steele Inseparable Part VII

"Something Wicked This Way Steeles"

Anticipated post date, March 2010

While Laura and Remington go undercover to search for the killer of a Shakespearian actor, Spotlight News reporter Windsor Thomas uncovers evidence that proves that Remington isn't Remington Steele.
Meanwhile Roselli puts into motion the next stage of his plan to destroy both Steeles.