Chapter 14

If Laura hadn't turned towards Remington in her sleep, and discovered his side of the bed was empty, she might never have wakened at all.

Her last thoughts as she drifted off had been of the case. She couldn't help herself. There was so much to sift through! Granted, some of her preliminary deductions were a bit of a stretch, as her husband had pointed out. But that was the nature of the beast. That was why imagination and flexibility were so important in detective work—the ability to envision a thousand what ifs, and simultaneously stand ready to jettison the faulty nine hundred ninety-nine without batting an eye the second a shred of proof turned up to invalidate them. It was as far removed from mathematics as she was likely to get, and the reason she relished it so much.

They'd definitely made some progress today. A glow of satisfaction had warmed her at the recollection. In addition to learning the circumstances of the Earl's death, she'd already compiled a list of subjects to hit with questions as soon as she and Remington arrived in London. Catherine Beverley, née Galt, the widowed countess. Arthur Draycott-Dawkins, MP, and as many of the attendees of his house party, the one where Lord Claridge had died, as the Steeles could convince to talk to them. Whichever of Draycott-Dawkins' staff usually cared for the horse The Earl was riding. The doctor or coroner who'd pronounced his death. Maxwell Beverley, his first cousin once removed and inheritor of the title, as well as Maxwell's wife, Portia.

And Roderick Smithers of Smithers, Smithers & Tennyson, solicitors.

There was no doubt in Laura's mind that the "Remington Steele" who'd contacted Smithers last month to spill the beans about the deed of gift to Ashford Castle's former servants was none other than Roselli. She wasn't quite as clear about his motive, not yet. But the incident did seem to prove he was intimately acquainted with the terms of Lord Claridge's bequest to Remington. Did that mean he'd actually, physically, seen the entire will? If he had, how had he managed it? By stealth, breaking into Smithers' office? Or was Smithers a co-conspirator, willing to betray his client the Earl for a share of whatever Roselli was really after?

In the meantime, assuming Roselli really had attempted to pass himself off to the Earl as Sean James, she'd revised her theory on the sequence of events. It didn't necessarily follow that Roselli had murdered the Earl as soon as His Lordship figured him for an impostor. He wasn't that rash. No, his standard m.o. was months and months of careful preparation, and then catching his target totally off guard, like he'd done with her and Remington. The Earl had died in April 1987. She didn't think she was off base in positing a date for his initial confrontation with Roselli as far back as six months prior, or even earlier.

She'd also begun to wonder whether there was a tie-in with Remington's search for his father that was worth exploring.

It wasn't easy, dredging up memories of that time. May to September, 1985: the most painful period of her life, when she'd gone without so much as a cable or phone call from the man she'd reluctantly grown to love, the electronic trail Mildred had tracked across the globe the sole reassurance he was still alive. Days of Laura putting on her game face, the one that said she was better off without him, and struggling to convince Mildred she believed it. Nights in which she wrestled with regrets over lost opportunities to make love to him and with too-vivid dreams that mocked the emptiness of her arms. She'd tortured herself endlessly with images of him cavorting with a series of interchangeable, busty, bubble-headed blondes on the sun-drenched beach of some Mediterranean playground. She'd been hurt and angry and conflicted. And all the while he was trying in his bumbling, fumbling way to solve the thirty-three-year-old mystery of the initials inscribed on an old pocket watch—a quest she might've helped him with, if only they'd had the guts in those days to be honest with each other.

Had his path ever crossed Roselli's during those weeks in London? Had hers, once she arrived to bring Remington home? She couldn't recall anything out of the ordinary. But the possibility had raised a cold prickle along her spine. Were they more fortunate than they realized to have returned unscathed to Los Angeles to pick up their romance where they'd left off? Or was that breathing space part of Roselli's plan, too?

One thing she was positive of. The errand Roselli had devised for Remington, sending him to Paddington Station a year ago to liaison with suspected turncoat Miles Helmsley? She'd pegged it correctly as an attempt at cold-blooded murder. Why Roselli had subsequently helped her and Remington fight off The Greek and his henchmen, she still couldn't explain. But the fact remained that he'd neatly engineered a repercussion-free method of disposing of his rival for Ashford Castle with no one the wiser. God knew, blinded as she was to Roselli's character, she would've swallowed it unquestioning.

And there she would've been: cheated out of the opportunity to tell Remington she was so in love with him she couldn't see straight, or mend the lingering rifts in their relationship, or take him to bed and explore every gorgeous inch of him at long, long last—a widow after barely a week of marriage, beguiled by her husband's murderer…

Outrage had burned in her, fresh as the day she'd first recognized the trap she'd almost fallen into. Earlier she'd told Remington that she was after justice for the Earl. It was the truth, but only part of it. The rest she'd admitted last October in an emotionally charged conversation he probably didn't remember. She'd never forgiven Roselli for Paddington Station, was what she'd said then; she never would. Everything he'd done since was just extra incentive. She'd win the satisfaction of putting him behind bars if it took the rest of her life.

Heartened and calmed in equal measure by that resolve, she'd fallen asleep.

When she woke four hours later, startled by Remington's absence, it never occurred to her to suspect he was up to something. Nor did it strike her as odd that Murphy didn't pick up when she called his room. The guys—her guys-were getting along so well, it wouldn't have surprised her if they'd met up in the bar downstairs for a nightcap. Maybe if she hurried she could join them. She wasn't so tired after all. Besides, she'd missed out on that rainy night in Indiana and the bottle of Maker's. And she was dying to tell Murphy the story of her and Remington stumbling across that office in San Diego, an perfect replica of their own, and the bizarre circumstances that had produced two Remington Steeles, two Laura Holts and a mad scramble for a package containing a pornographic videotape that could've brought down a popular TV evangelist's career if he hadn't turned to murder first.

She almost left Roselli's files behind, she was in such a rush to leave. But at the last second she turned back. She'd gone as far as she could with them for the time being, and tomorrow and the next day she'd be too occupied with the Marathon to work more than sporadically. Wouldn't it make sense to stow them somewhere secure? The hotel safe, for example? Swayed by her own irrefutable logic, she scooped up the papers and headed for the lobby.

The sharp-dressed twenty-something on duty at the front desk gave her some grief and even more lip about accessing the safe at that hour. It took her unshakable insistence on seeing the manager to get the service she wanted. He was a nice guy, personable and inclined to chat. "In town for the Marathon, Mrs. Steele?" he asked while he filled out the appropriate paperwork for her.

"As a matter of fact, I'm running in it. My husband signed me up behind my back. Christmas present," she added in response the manager's puzzled look.

"First time?"

She nodded. "I'm a little nervous."

"Nothing to it." He extended his hand. "Gary Danko. This'll be my fifth in a row."

"In that case, you wouldn't have a few tips you could share, would you?"

They segued into a discussion of the route, the pace and what she could expect from the competition, until at length Laura excused herself to peek into the half-empty bar. She didn't see Remington or Murphy anywhere. A quick conversation with the bartender confirmed that they hadn't been in that evening.

It was too soon to say she was worried; mystified was a better description for what she was feeling. Where could Remington have gone? She could rule out involvement in some risky escapade, thank goodness, since he was with Murphy. But it was totally out of character for him to take off without letting her know.

It was a silent testimony to how far they'd come in their relationship, that she could think the latter thought without a trace of irony.

Gary Danko hailed her as she passed the front desk en route to the elevator. "Mrs. Steele? I just had two calls complaining of a disturbance on the second floor. Loud noises coming from your room-"

Remington, she immediately thought. Trepidation gripped her. She checked her stride.

"—so would you like me to follow you up? Or if you could wait a minute-"

And open them up to official scrutiny, maybe a police investigation, if something really was wrong? Not on his life. She started walking again, unobtrusively picking up speed. "I appreciate the concern," she tossed breezily over her shoulder, "but it's probably my husband, looking for me. We'll let you know if there's a problem." And she stepped into the first car available, effectively quenching further comment.

One potential dicey situation avoided. She leaned back against the elevator wall, not so much in relief as to gear up for whatever lay in store for her on the second floor. Suddenly she wished the agency gun wasn't concealed in the locked cargo compartment of the Fleetwood, miles away in a Hamden garage. Of course the need for firepower would be moot if Remington had returned.

But if he hadn't? Where the hell was he?

The elevator opened on an empty corridor. Silence reigned. Still, keying her lock, she noticed from the corner of her eye that the door of the room across the hall and the one adjacent were cracked a few inches. "It's me, dear," she called, pitching her voice to ear-piercing sweetness. "I bet you had one of your fits while I was gone, didn't you? I know, I know-we're a few minutes late with your medication, and you probably got a little antsy. Well, you just leave it to Mama-I'll be with you in a jiffy-"

From behind her came the sound of two doors closing and the deadbolts sliding into place. She smiled. That ought to fix their nosy neighbors.

A veteran of numerous uncensored crime scenes, she wasn't a woman who rattled easily. But the sight that greeted her as she crossed the threshold of room 212 had the power to elicit a gasp from her. For a moment she stood rooted to the spot, hand clapped over her mouth.

It wasn't the mess. That she could've coped with. It was the palpable malevolence with which their belongings, hers and Remington's, had been ransacked. Their clothing wasn't only tumbled from drawers and suitcases; it looked like it had been torn at by a pair of frenzied hands, and then flung to the floor and stomped upon. A deliberate statement of the treatment she and Remington might have received, were they within reach of those hands? She didn't know how it could be interpreted otherwise.

Breaking her paralysis—it hadn't lasted longer than five seconds-she advanced farther into the room. Her right foot slipped on something, and she recognized pages from the two novels she'd left on the dresser, ripped from their bindings and tossed to the floor. In the bathroom she found toiletries emptied into the sink, tubes twisted, bottles and jars smashed. Thick smears of lipstick and clots of toothpaste soiled the countertop. In comparison the bedroom's upended furniture and strewn bedclothes seemed almost a benign prank.

What sickened her most was the condition of Remington's sketchbook. With hands atremble she retrieved it from the corner where it lay. A third of it had been reduced to confetti that dotted the carpet between the bed and window. Intact sheets were defaced by heavy black scrawls. Torn leaves were scattered here and there, abandoned and forlorn; stooping to retrieve a couple, she saw they were part of the drawing Remington had done of her at the Hamlet Motel several weeks before.

Roselli. From the first she'd feared this was his handiwork, and now she was sure: a random vandal or thief wouldn't have given a damn about the sketchbook. She'd lured him to Boston through Elaine Casselas, exactly as she'd planned. Except that he'd arrived a day and a half too soon, and manifested his presence with a violence that shouldn't have shocked her nearly as deeply as it had.

Thank God, thank God, Remington had left his portfolio behind in the Fleetwood, or who knew what that monster would've done to the body of work they were both so proud of? Thank God she'd had the smarts to hide the Claridge files! She and Remington had had a close call, a narrow shave, and they had a hell of a mess to clean up, but for this round of the game the score was Steeles: all; Roselli: nothing.

So what was she doing here, cowering in a corner, when she should be hunting for clues that would tell her how he'd perpetrated this brazen example of breaking and entering?

Not by the door; its lock proved impervious to the trial-by-pick to which she subjected it. Unless Roselli had somehow stolen a key, she couldn't see how he'd managed it. The window was hardly more feasible, given the two-story drop. Purely for the sake of argument she opened the casement and leaned over the sill to measure the distance.

That was when her gaze met that of the masculine figure standing in the shadows on the opposite side of the street.

Instantly her instincts were firing on all cylinders. Witness? Accomplice? Or a cleverly disguised Roselli? Whatever he was, she was damned if she was going to lose him.

It was a good decision. The problem was in the follow-through. For though she bypassed the elevator in favor of the stairs, and was on the street within five minutes of first spotting him, the mystery man had disappeared.

But he couldn't have gone far. Swiftly she set off east on Commonwealth, the street she was most familiar with. Despite the late hour, there was a lot of foot traffic-whether due to the upcoming race, or just typical of a Friday night in Boston, she couldn't say. Head up, posture alert, air of competence sheathing her like armor, she scanned the face of each passerby while still keeping tabs on pedestrians traveling in the same direction as she. In the brief glimpse she'd had of her quarry, her practiced eye had registered that he was tall, over six feet, and wearing a dark overcoat and a cap. But ten minutes of determined stalking failed to yield a sign of him.

She slowed. It was too late now to backtrack and try picking up the scent at the point of origin, she had to admit. And what if Remington finally turned up? He'd be worried sick, frantic, when he was confronted by the mess in their room and found her missing…

As fast as an eyeblink, the wife of Steele supplanted the sleuth. The thought of his distress blotted out all other concerns. Whirling abruptly, she broke into a run.

They collided on the Eliot's second floor as she exited the elevator.

There wasn't a moment to think. A flash of his face, dead white against the darkness of hair and beard, and of Murphy on his left, and then Remington had her in his arms and was crushing her to his chest. "Oh, my God," he rasped. "Laura—thank God-"

Those were the last intelligible words she was to get out of him for a while, beyond a muffled "baby" or "angel" or two. That was because he'd tipped her face up and was covering it with kisses. And he was shaking hard, as hard as the night she'd proposed the plan that had brought them here in the first place, and his anger had burst the bonds of self-control, bringing to light the poison that had been festering in him since their aborted showdown with Roselli in Pico Union.

Just as she had then, she held him tight. "I'm fine," she whispered over and over through the lump in her throat, stroking the back of his neck. "It's okay, sweetheart. I'm all right."

Goodness knows how long they might've stood clinging together, if Murphy hadn't shuffled his feet and coughed discreetly. "Uh, guys? Don't let me interrupt. But your room's kind of a disaster area—and if you were hoping to get some sleep tonight…"

It was an excellent wake-up call. After a final squeeze she gently disengaged herself from her husband's arms. "Okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, and grasped her outstretched hand.

During the walk to their room, he quickly recovered the use of his voice. "I thought he'd taken you, Laura," he said. "Roselli."

"I know."

"I should've known he'd come looking for those files, so I should. I thought he'd taken them…and you with them…"

"Well, I'm happy to report he never laid a hand on either one of us." She explained how she'd disposed of the files, and why. "Where were you guys, anyway? I've been looking all over for you."

"Oh…out and about."

The vagueness of his reply wasn't only dissatisfying; it pricked her attention, and not in a pleasant way. The whole time they were surveying the damage Roselli had done and launching the clean-up, her subconscious kept returning to it, like a fingernail to a persistent itch. Gathering their scattered clothing and putting it back into a semblance of order while the men righted the furniture, she felt the disquiet transforming into something else. Something speculative…something distrustful.

His and Murphy's prolonged, unexplained absence. Remington hanging back in the lobby this afternoon to buy a paper, but entering their room empty-handed. His restlessness and inattention at the library.

Go on, she prompted herself silently.

He'd answered a phone call that morning. That she was convinced of, though he'd denied it. Could the caller have been—she flinched at completing the thought-Roselli?

Yes. It could. And that meant Remington had lied to her. Bold as brass, without an ounce of shame, as slickly as he ever had.

What had he said a few minutes ago? 'I should've known he'd come looking for those files.' Like it was a foregone conclusion, the rational choice for Roselli to make under the circumstances, instead of a stroke of purest coincidence.

Like someone had tipped Roselli off.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this furious with her husband. No wonder he looked dazed and horrified as he took her in his arms by the elevator. Never mind why he'd done it; he was wracked by the guilty knowledge that he was indirectly responsible for the vandalism of their room and her supposed abduction.

Speaking slowly—it was the only way to keep a lid on her anger—she said: "Mr. Steele? What made Roselli come here for the files?"

Head partly turned away, he didn't answer immediately, attention riveted by something he held in his hands. His sketchbook. A rush of mingled grief and sympathy assailed her at the unhappy twist of his mouth, the tension in his jaw.

This was no time to turn into sentimental mush on his account, she admonished herself. "Mr. Steele?"

"Hm? Miss Cassleas, no doubt. Your plan worked just the way you meant it to."

"I'm not asking how he knew where to look. I'm asking why he knew what to look for."

He glanced up and into her eyes. His own narrowed for a moment. Then they flew wide in comprehension.

She had him. And he knew it.

"Laura," he said. "It's not what you're thinking."

"It's not?"

"No. And I can explain—"

"That would be a start. The sooner, the better."

"All right." He sucked in a deep breath. "This morning? When you thought you heard me on the phone? It was Antony at his finest. Not at all happy we've spilled the beans about Windsor and Gladys Lynch to Miss Casselas, threatening to kill us both…"

He paused, giving her space to respond, but she didn't take him up on it, so he plowed resolutely on. "You were still wavering about running in the Marathon, or so it appeared to me. And I needed a ploy to lure him here. So I…hinted…that we'd found potentially damning information in his Claridge files…something we were on the verge of revealing to the local constabulary."

Here Remington shot a glance at Murphy. Their friend was looking extremely uncomfortable, Laura noted, as if he would've preferred any spot on the planet to the one he was currently occupying. The expression intensified as Remington went on: "We'd—Murphy and I—had already turned up a local address for him-"

"When was this?"

"Last night. So we thought we'd stake out his office, and then his condo, to try and nab him…under the radar, as it were…."

He was winding down, his voice faltering under the influence of her deepening frown. "…only he slipped through our fingers," he finished.

In the silence that followed, he offered a tentative, lopsided, placating grin. It was no good. Her fury had already risen to such towering proportions, she felt as if her physical stature had increased accordingly until her inches outstripped her husband's.

Apparently he recognized it. The smile faded; he stood braced for the onslaught. Meanwhile Murphy was eying him with what looked a hell of a lot like commiseration, which made her even madder.

She started quietly enough. "Let me get this straight. Our worst enemy-the one who didn't rest until he dug up our deepest, darkest secrets—who's using what he knows to take over our business, destroy our reputation and frame you for murder-contacts us directly for the first time in seven months? And your reaction is to clue him in that we're investigating maybe the biggest crime he's gotten away with to date?"

"Yes, well, if you want to put it like that, I suppose I-"

"You knew he was in town, and you didn't tell me?"

"Yes, but I-"

"You have his home address? And you didn't tell me?"

By now she was yelling. Murphy winced. "I know you're pissed, Laura, and you probably have a right to be, but could you keep it down? You're gonna wake up the whole hotel."

She glared at him—whose side was he on, anyway?—and then rounded on Remington again. "And just what were you hoping to accomplish, confronting him tonight?"

"I-"

"Let me guess. Making sure he never touches me again? Meanwhile you could've been arrested! You could've been killed!"

At least he didn't try to deny the charge. Instead his brows twitched together in the beginnings of irritation. "Granted, yes, I might, but would you mind letting me get a word in edgewise, please?"

The comment wasn't worth the breath she would've wasted on it. "And what did you think you were doing, helping him?" she asked Murphy. But he only hemmed and hawed and cut his eyes at Remington in a mute appeal.

And that was when it happened: they exchanged the kind of look she hated most, it was so infuriatingly masculine, composed of exasperation and exaggerated patience and a faint but definite vein of superiority.

Suddenly she'd had it up to there with both of them. She couldn't stand the sight of their stupid, smug, condescending, manly faces. Whipping around on her heel, she made for the only refuge available. The bathroom door slammed behind shut her with a satisfying crash.

She didn't come out until she heard the door to the corridor open and close, and she'd waited another twenty minutes by her watch after that.

But the bedroom's stillness didn't signify what she assumed it had. Remington wasn't asleep. Lounging in the armchair, arms folded, he sprang up as soon as she appeared. "Laura, we need to talk."

That was a switch. He could knock himself out as far as she was concerned, as long as he didn't expect any response from her. Pointedly she averted her eyes and swept past him towards her side of the newly made bed.

"You can't ignore me forever. And now's just as good a time as any."

Couldn't she? They'd see about that. She folded the spread down and draped it over the foot of the bed, brushing him aside when he hovered too near her elbow.

"At least give me a hearing, eh?"

She plumped up her pillow and prepared to hop into the sack; he took her by the arm. "Laura-"

"Don't."

The single fierce syllable was enough to persuade him to drop his hand. He even backed up a few steps. But it was a temporary concession, and not an admission of defeat; he made that clear with the last words he uttered. "We'll talk in the morning."

Probably he would've brought the conversation about by the sheer force of his charm if she hadn't been such an astute observer of his patterns of avoidance for past five years, and adopted them to her advantage the next day. Up and about before he stirred; a hasty breakfast in the hotel restaurant; solitary window shopping and sightseeing in the Back Bay; a jog up to Beacon Hill and through Boston Common. It was three in the afternoon when she decided to return to the Eliot. There she found an immaculate room, and in it a Remington Steele who was piecing his ruined sketches back together, and visibly fuming at having the tables turned on him so neatly.

Without sparing him a glance she dug out the new paperback she'd picked up during her shopping excursion and stretched out on the bed to read. The silence that fell practically simmered with the heat of their mutual hostility. But she was damned if she was going to save him from the punishment of sweating it out.

He was never one to shrink from a potential fight—not with her, anyway. Finally he said: "How long do you plan on keeping up the silent treatment, Laura? Hm?"

"It depends." She turned a page. "How long do you plan on going behind my back whenever you don't get your way?"

He didn't care for that at all, that passionate, hot-headed man of hers. She heard the soft rustle as he donned his leather jacket and zipped it up. And then it was his turn to communicate his displeasure by a means of a door-slam and a precipitous retreat down the hall.

Weirdly, as the afternoon waned, it was Murphy who undertook the role of peacemaker.

Unlike with Remington, Laura was already half inclined to forgive him his share in yesterday's fiasco as soon as she answered his knock at the door. He seemed to sense it, too. "Hey, partner," he said. "You speaking to me?"

His attitude was such a comical mix of sly and sheepish, it coaxed a laugh from her. "I suppose I could be convinced."

She snagged a couple of cans of Coke from the in-room fridge and handed him one. "Where's Steele?" he asked, popping the top.

"Out sulking somewhere. Don't tell me he sent you up here."

"What? No. I haven't seen him all day."

"Not such close conspirators after all, huh?"

He winced at the sarcasm the same way he had last night at her anger. "Ouch."

"You know you deserved it."

"I guess I do, at that."

They sipped at their cokes, for a few minutes relishing the warmth of restored companionship.

"What happened, Murph? You were supposed to looking out for him, not aiding and abetting him." A reproachful note crept into her voice. "You promised me."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's the last thing I expected, seeing his side of the story. It's just…" Murphy hesitated.

"What?"

She could've sworn that the tide of red seeping upwards from his collar was due to embarrassment, and not shame. He was having trouble maintaining eye contact, too. "Spit it out," she said.

"He told me the truth. About that time Roselli broke into your office. What Roselli did to you."

Had Murphy confided he was turning to fraud and theft to earn a living, he couldn't have surprised her more. Considering Remington's previous insistence on total secrecy, the implications of his confession to Murphy were huge. All she could say was: "Oh."

"That's one sick, twisted bastard, Laura."

No argument there, she told him.

"I don't blame Steele for feeling like he does. If it were me…I think I would've done the same thing."

"You'd take the law into your own hands?"

"No. But I'd do what I could to stop Roselli." Murphy regarded her over his soda can for a moment. "You're still pretty mad at him, aren't you? Steele?"

"It isn't just what he planned to do, or the way you two snuck off. It's the lies. That's what gets to me." It really was the crux of the issue; realizing it, she put her head in her hands. "Every time I start to think he's changed-really changed-we're back to square one. I'm beginning to wonder if it isn't a lost cause."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"What do you mean?"

"That's what I came to tell you. I didn't see it at first…maybe he didn't want me to, I don't know. We never were each other's biggest fans-"

"You can say that again."

"That guy—you were right about him. He has changed."

It wasn't only what he said, but the way he said it, that convinced her that he wasn't just defending Remington out of some notion of masculine solidarity. He really believed it. And, yesterday aside, she knew she could trust Murphy not to lie to her.

She said: "You think so?"

"Yeah, I do." He held up a warning hand. "That doesn't mean I totally buy into his act. Or that I'm not gonna call him on his crap when he gets out of line. But when it comes to you, he's not scamming. So cut him some slack. He deserves it, Laura."

They were the most positive remarks Murphy had made over the course of his acquaintance with Remington, and what she'd hoped would develop after that ugly scene in Denver. At last Remington had earned respect from the quarter from which he'd always yearned for it! She wondered if he suspected, and how he would react when he heard.

But she'd forgotten Murphy's talent for reading her, borne of their long friendship. "Ugh, I can't believe I said that," he groaned. "You're not going to tell him, are you?"

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

There wasn't a lot left to discuss after that; soon she was walking him to the door. "So are you running tomorrow, or what?" he wanted to know.

"I'm not sure. Now that we've seen for ourselves that Roselli's in town…we haven't had time to prepare."

"Well, when you know what the game plan is, give me a call. I'd kind of like to be there, you know? Me and Steele, cheering you on. And, partner? Think about what I said?"

He leaned down to kiss her cheek. And then he was off, whistling jauntily, down the hall.

Leaving her to do as he'd asked: to think it over.

There was an entire long, lonely, Remington-less evening to do it in.

It was past midnight, and Laura was still awake.

So was Remington, she knew.

They were turned on their sides away from each other, each as close to his or her edge of the bed as they could possibly be without falling off. Between them stretched a no-man's land of empty mattress, the greatest amount of distance to divide them since they'd begun sharing a bed. So far neither had attempted to breach it.

Laura wanted to. She really did. She just didn't know how to make the gesture without leaving it open to misinterpretation. Remington might construe it as a call for a truce, or an apology. He might jump to the conclusion that he was off the hook for his supreme stupidity. And there he would've been dead wrong.

No, she couldn't excuse what he'd done. It was foolhardy, reckless and self-indulgent. But she could understand why he'd done it—and, perversely, though it violated all her liberated feminine principles, love him for his chivalry.

But how could she convey it without compromising her position?

She was still weighing and analyzing the question when there was movement beside her. It was Remington turning over to face her. His right hand reached across the gap and began to travel over her shoulder and down.

Quiescent beneath his palm, she lay with held breath. The caress wasn't a prelude to sex, she didn't think; it was more like he was simply savoring the contours of her body, the texture of hair and skin, through his fingertips. Finally he hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. There was the soft prickle of his beard and the warmth of his mouth as he nuzzled her ear.

And then he murmured into it: "You mean everything to me."

She sighed. It was the declaration of a man who would never express his inmost feelings easily, no matter how much intimacy they achieved in their relationship. Months ago she'd made her peace with it. By now she was learning to appreciate the inversion of his glibness. The less forthcoming he was on the subject, the more truly his emotions were invested, was how she looked at it.

He was a complicated man. Theirs was a complicated love affair. But she wouldn't have traded it—or him-for any amount of peace or security or cheap, superficial adoration.

So she rolled over so that they were nose to nose. "I know."

The blue eyes searched hers, diffident now, no longer defiant. "I never dreamt it would happen the way it did. I swear I didn't. Though if I had it to do over-"

"Stop right there." She laid her forefinger on his lips. "We'll talk about it later. No, scratch that. I'll do the talking, you're going to listen. Later." As a form of punctuation she jabbed his breastbone with the same finger. "I'm serious, Mr. Steele."

He grabbed the offending finger and took it gently between his teeth. "Of course you are." The words were solemn, but the familiar cheeky smile was tugging at his lips.

How could she resist? She had to kiss him. And if that meant abdicating her principles for the time being, well, those didn't do much to keep a woman warm on a cool Boston night.

But there was one omission she needed to rectify. "I'm sorry about your drawings," she said softly as they surfaced from the kiss.

"Mm-hm." His hands were wandering again, and oh, yes, their intent was sexual, if their work on the buttons of her pajama top were any indication. "Paper and ink, Laura. They can be replaced. But the original—ah, she's a different story." He pushed her onto her back and bent down to her, bearded mouth whispering against her throat. "Mine to hold…" He was kissing his way down to her breast; she shivered in anticipation of the sensations he would awaken once he'd reached his destination. "Mine to touch…mine to love…"

He'd arrived. He was there. And then he began to speak to her in that other language, the one in which he was completely fluent, telling her with his eyes and hands and lips and all the rest of him that no woman on earth could compare to her, he loved her with his whole heart, and there was nothing he wouldn't do for her if she needed him…

And if they'd provoked Roselli to desperation by their inquiry into Lord Claridge's death, and were ever more firmly fixed in his sights, and the whole complicated investigation loomed ahead of them, and they hadn't remotely begun to tackle the weight of suspicion that hung over Remington, let alone rehabilitate their reputation, those considerations could be set aside until morning.

Tonight they had each other. And that was enough.

To paraphrase Remington: it was everything.

END PART I

TO BE CONTINUED

A/N: I hope the resolution to chapter 13's cliffhanger didn't disappoint. What I was referring to with my cryptic comment about "the fan fic path less taken" was the kidnapping trope, i.e. Laura in Roselli's clutches, waiting for Remington to save her. One of the reasons I loved the series so much was that the writers for the most part avoided that plot device; I've tried to do the same in my fiction, except in cases where it served to illuminate an advance in the Laura-Steele relationship. In this story it seemed to me that more character growth—and seeds for future complications—would result from keeping Laura free and safe.

There are more twists and turns to come as the Steeles embark for England. Please stay tuned for them. And, as always, thank you for continuing to read.

A/N2: Something about Laura's and Murphy's conversation has been bugging me. Murphy's side felt incomplete, somehow. I've tweaked it a little since first posting, nothing major, but adding a little more depth before he takes his (for the moment) final bow on my little stage, and we bid him au revoir (because with any luck, he'll turn up again.)
~MG