Chapter 21

"…Hair worn on the long side. Oh, I knew he shaved, else wise his beard would have been much thicker than he ever wore it—"

"Beard?" Laura questioned, from where she was curled up in the corner of the sofa, a mug of steaming tea in hand. "Wasn't he only fourteen?" Daniel shrugged a shoulder from where he sat in a nearby chair, an ankle lying across a knee, as he sipped at a brandy.

"As best he could recall," he confirmed. "The boy came into his own early. Oh, he never wore his beard long, just scraggly, and it wasn't near as thick as it is now, but that he had one at all only helped his cause."

"His cause?" She peered at him over the rim of the mug as she took a sip of the tea.

"The most dangerous of the degenerates fancy the young," he bluntly explained. "He lost their interest, and instead caught the eye of the fairer sex. When nights were particularly brutal, he could always find a warm bed to take shelter in, perhaps a fresh meal."

"That's horrible!" she proclaimed. "He was just a child!"

"He wasn't selling himself, my dear, if that's what you're thinking," he clarified. "He merely did what he needed to survive, while enjoying himself along the way."

"The point is, he shouldn't have had to do anything to survive!" He hummed in answer.

"On that point, we agree. Now, where were we?" he tried to recall. "Ah, yes. Harry was – shall we say, reluctant – to reinvent himself," he waved a hand in the air. "Oh, he was more than willing to take advantage of a bed of his own, regular meals, instruction, even, on the finer aspects of picking but—"

He stayed his words when he heard the front door close. Across from him, Laura straightened where she sat, and with concerted effort, blanked her face.

Remington had known before coming through the door, of course, that Laura was still there. After all, it didn't take a detective to figure it out, given the rental car still parked in the drive. As he closed the door, he looked left to the stairs that would take him his to his room, then down the short hall which would open into main living area.

She'd have to wait, whether she liked it or not.

Not that he gave a damn either way.

Right now, he wanted a hot shower and a cold, stiff drink… in that order.

When he reached his room, he engaged the lock upon his door, an action that was utterly laughable once he thought about it. Laura was a gifted lock-picker, and the knob on the door was more of a courtesy than anything else.

Stripped down, he turned on the shower, then examined himself in the bathroom mirror. Felicia had been enthusiastic, bordering on aggressive and territorial at times, as the hickey on his neck and line of scratches on his shoulders and lower back attested. Rough sex was not his cup of tea. He felt no need to dominate or to be dominated and he certainly wasn't into pain. He wondered when sex had traipsed into that territory Felicia. Not that it particularly mattered, as he had no intention of sampling those hard edged wares again.

He had, after all, accomplished what he'd set out to do and Felicia didn't give a damn what his motives had been, so long as he'd pleasured her.

He drew in a sharp breath when the spray of water hit his shoulders, confirming the skin had been broken a place or two. He swore beneath his breath, conceding it had probably been his due – karma's expedient response to his impulsive, priggish behavior.

Still, there was a certain satisfaction to be had. Since she'd left him, the images of that Westfield bloke kissing Laura, touching her, feeling her legs wrapped around him as she…

He raked his fingers through his wet hair, forcing his breathing to slow.

The images ripped at his heart, cut at his very soul, each time they came to him… and they had come countless times each day.

There was not a doubt in his mind Laura knew what he was about with Felicia that evening. He'd intended for her to know. He hoped when she thought of him, she was plagued by the same images as he.

If she thought of him, at all.

But if she did, by God he hoped each image cut at her just a tenth as much as his own thoughts did at him.

Only then would she know a touch of the hell he'd been living in these last weeks.

It was all he had.

"…you've been a naughty, naughty boy and haven't been as faithful to Lisa as she demands."

The memory, when it came, earned a sharp bark of sardonic laughter.

Hadn't that always been everyone's opinion? He'd spent a lifetime avoiding commitment like the proverbial plague. Felicia, the occasional playmate and Anna, who'd meant far, far more to him, were the exceptions, not the rules. One evening, never to be repeated, after which he would be gone by the time the sun rose. Of course, Felicia had assumed it was he who had strayed. Hadn't Daniel predicted for years that it would be he who left? Who'd assumed exactly that when he'd arrived here in Cannes, his life in LA left behind?

"…little Linda finally allowed you to soil her pristine linens, satisfying your curiosity…"

But, as he'd told Daniel, it had been he that had gone all in, while it was Laura who'd quit the table.

Turning off the water, he stepped from the shower and reached for a towel.

The irony was not lost on him.

"You want guarantees."

"And you can't give them."

"It seems we have an awfully long way to go."

It hadn't even occurred to him, until it was over, that she'd always required some type of guarantee from him to move forward, yet she'd never given one to him.

He'd just assumed.

Another dry laugh escaped past his lips, as he examined his face and decided to leave his whiskers grow. Tomorrow, he'd acquire a new passport, and a different look might benefit him. After pulling a comb through his hair, he hung the towel on the rack to dry, then stepped into his room to find something to wear.