Lucy was sitting at the window, drinking a cup of tea and pretending to read a lifestyle magazine when Steele returned. He swung in through the window, ignored her completely, and sat down on the end of the bed. Lucy set down her cup of tea.
"Well that wasn't at all melodramatic. Do you want to talk?"
"Not really." He seemed about to say something else, then lapsed into silence. Lucy sighed.
"And what happened to the door? You are allowed to use it occasionally."
"Avoiding the usual routes." He ran a hand through his hair, obviously tired. "The police will be looking for me all over the place by now. Slight snag."
She was immediately serious. "Are we pulling out?"
"No." His expression hardened. "No. And if I'm going down, I'm bloody well taking Brock with me. We're going to set her up."
"Are we indeed. Well isn't that nice." By the tone of her voice, it clearly wasn't. "Look at me, Danny."
"Huh?" He glanced up at her, surprised, and she came over to sit beside him.
"What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Nothing's wrong. Don't you want to get her?"
"She murdered my husband - not that either of us will ever be able to prove it. Of course I want to 'get her'. But that's beside the point. Danny, how long have I known you?"
"Long enough." He shot her a sidelong glance. "Probably too long. Why?"
"Because I know you. Look at you. Listen to you. You sound like you just left Dublin - by the hard route. You never sound that rough around the edges unless something is very wrong; or unless you're really at the end of your tether. What's happened?"
"Everything." For a second his head hung down, resting in his hands, then he sat up straight again, and regained control. "I saw her. Laura."
"Oh. So that's it." Lucy considered putting an arm around him, but held back. He had never been much of one for that sort of thing, and probably wouldn't appreciate it now. "Did you speak to her?"
"Yes." And how. They had talked for what seemed like hours, but all through her accusations and her anger, he wasn't sure that he had ever really argued his own point of view. Just told her what had happened, without the details. Without the things that he really wanted to tell her; that he still loved her, whatever she thought of him. That he had always loved her. That the last ten years, not to mention today's anniversary, were just as hard for him as they were for her. It felt as though he was, yet again, being clothed in the colours of the bad guy. But there was at least one thing that he could do to make amends.
"And?" asked Lucille. He looked away.
"And we're helping her to grab Brock. It'll be good for her agency. I guess I owe her that much, since I cost her her last business."
"That's not exactly what I mean, Danny. You're sitting there looking like a love-struck teenager, and sounding like your heart's been broken. Are you going to be okay?"
"Love-struck teenager? I don't think I ever felt like this when I was a teenager." He sounded terribly tired. "But we don't have time to talk now. We should get moving."
"Danny, there's always time if you need to talk." This time she did put a hand on his shoulder, and was immediately worried by how tense he felt. "You've spent the last ten years missing that woman, and now you've run into her again. You're allowed to be shaken up. You're allowed to take some time out."
"No." He stood up then. "I've just been to Charlie's. I told him that we're going to be at a café I know, later this afternoon. I made out that you wanted to talk to him somewhere neutral, about maybe selling some of Arthur's collection."
"You did what?" She was shocked. "I would never part with that collection. Not even the smallest piece. Danny--"
"It's not what you think." He sat down on the windowsill, facing her. "Brock wants us dead. We know that, right?"
"If you say so. I don't doubt that she wants you dead, but I can't think what she'd really want with me."
"She's Eleanor Brock. Who knows what motivates her? Anyway, that's not important. The important thing is that she'll have business with Charlie. She'll go to see him."
"So you're setting us up as targets?" She frowned. "I thought you said Charlie was a friend?"
"He is, after a fashion. There's no way he'll pass up the chance to sell me out for the kind of money that Eleanor can promise him, though."
"So we go to this café, and Brock comes trying to kill us, and your... friend... does some kind of citizen's arrest? What about the Honeymoon Diamonds?"
"We'll worry about them later. I'll get them, if not this time around then when Trovian gets them back to Europe. His security system can't be that good."
"Arthur couldn't crack it. And you, my boy, may be good, but you've never been as good as him. You really think that getting Brock under arrest is worth the risk of not getting the diamonds? If we could prove that she killed Arthur, I'd be the first in line to help, but you know that that's not going to happen. You're only doing this for Laura Holt, aren't you."
"I'll get the Honeymooners, Lucille."
"I don't doubt it. Right now I'm more worried about all of this." She sighed. "You really think she'll take the bait?"
"She'll take it. She killed Arthur; she killed Bob Ray in Berlin. Two days after she beat Samantha Galton to the Challis necklace, Samantha washed up on a beach with the back of her head blown off. And the list doesn't stop there."
"She killed Samantha Galton?" Lucy looked stunned. "I thought that was just a random thing. The police thought she went on some dates with the wrong sort of men?"
"The police would. What do they know about Brock? Only the people on our side of the law know about her, and most of them only find out when it's too late. She killed Rajesh Khan because they were both after the same antique watch."
"Time was that I knew the international scene. Now it seems that it's left me behind." She nodded. "Alright, I believe you. She's likely to come after us. But the Honeymoon Diam--"
"They're not worth your life. I'd rather get to the jewels before the police get hold of them, but we'll have to play that by ear."
"And you're sure that your plan is going to work?"
"Charlie won't let me down. Or rather he will, but that's rather the point. You shouldn't be in any danger. Not if I can help it."
"I can take care of myself." She sounded haughty. "You're the one that I'm worried about. This thing with your wife..."
"She's not my wife. Ten years without laying eyes on each other hardly qualifies us as man and wife. Right now she probably never wants to see me again."
"You have to deal with this, Danny. You can't wonder for ten years what would happen if you met again, and then sit here and mope about it when it does happen."
"Yes I can. I assure you that I can mope with the best of them. I have years of experience."
"Danny..."
"I know." He met her gaze with remarkable forthrightness. "I love her, and it's killing me. I've loved her for ten years without being able to see her; and now I've seen her again, and I've realised that however much I thought I loved her, it's really ten times worse. I want to take the last ten years back, and put it all right. I want to have been her husband the way I was supposed to be. I want her to look at me the way she used to, instead of the way she did today. All that's gone."
"I'm sorry." She meant it, but either he wasn't in the mood to be comforted, or he didn't find her terrible consoling. He just stood up and gestured to the window.
"This way, or the door? I don't think there's any chance of the police having tracked me down here yet. If Brock hasn't, I doubt they have."
"Danny." She was worried about him, and was trying to be sure that he knew it. He wasn't playing along.
"We should be going." He fetched her coat and held it for her, playing the rôle of gentleman as he had always loved to do. She let him have his way, but she pinned him with a sharp stare all the while.
"What are you going to say to her?" she asked. He sighed.
"Lucy..."
"Well doing nothing is hardly an answer!"
"I can't stay with her. I can't stop her thinking the worst of me. Anyway, it's all irrelevant now. Business first."
"Business? Is that what you call it?" Lucy climbed out of the window. "I'm getting too old for this."
"Like hell you are." Steele followed her out. "And not a word to Laura."
"You don't want me matchmaking?"
"Well let me think... No."
"I can tell her some charming stories about you. Maybe change her mind that way?"
"You could, yes." He shot her a deeply disparaging look. "But we're several floors up just at the moment, you know. And this is a fairly rickety fire escape."
"Point taken." She flashed him a sad look, but his attention was already elsewhere. Whatever he had been living with for the last ten years, it seemed to be a part of him now. Her perseverance wasn't going to have the slightest effect.
"Where are we going?" she asked, as they reached the roof, and he struck out in what seemed to be a westerly direction. He stopped to help her onto the roof of the next building along.
"Laura's house."
"Well that's good. If she's inviting you home, it can't be absolutely terminal, can it."
"Did you take lessons in hopeless optimism, or is it some natural design fault?"
"I should have an extremely rude answer to that." She snatched at his hand for support clambering over a skylight. "And I'm definitely getting too old for this."
"Well try not to get any older for the next few hours." The sound of a police siren floated up from the street below them, and he slowed to a halt, looking over the edge of the roof. "I hate that noise."
"I've done a good job of avoiding it all of my life." She joined him in staring down, watching the police car drive away. "I've been in this job forty years, and I've never had the police after me. So that you'd notice, anyway. I don't know how you do it."
"Neither do I." He began to lead the way onward again. "Maybe it's genetic."
"Maybe." They clambered over onto another roof. "How far have we got to go? And how far before we have a big jump over onto the next roof?"
"We won't go the whole way up here." He pulled Laura's address from his pocket. "She's living in a fairly upmarket part of town by the look of this. We'll have to take a taxi."
"What a shame." She looked at the address over his shoulder. "Upmarket part of town, hey? Looks like she's doing well for herself then?"
"We're not stealing from her. Or are you suggesting that I try to claim alimony?"
"No, I'm suggesting you swallow your pride, behave impeccably, and see if you can't move in. A nice house and a fixed address would do you the world of good, Danny. You could be respectable again."
"Another lifetime." If he was thinking about her suggestion, he did not allow himself to do so for long. He had long ago learnt how not to think of Laura Holt.
He lapsed into silence for the rest of the journey, speaking only when it was time to descend into the street, and in order to communicate briefly with the driver of the cab that they hailed. It was not a long ride, but long enough for the buildings to change into newer, brighter ones than before, with better tended, cleaner streets and larger, more showy cars parked in front of the houses. Laura's address proved to be a tall building with a long flight of steps leading up to the door, and an array of hanging baskets and neatly shaped bushes decorating the front. Steele had the driver go on past the building, but the wink of a small light in one of the windows reassured him. He paid the man without a word, offered Lucy a hand out of the car, and led the way up to the front door. Laura let them in, and gave the impression that she had been waiting anxiously for some time.
"Lucille, Laura. Laura, Lucille." Steele performed the introductions without great ceremony, finishing just as Murphy appeared out of one of the adjacent rooms. "And that's Murphy. But don't hold it against him."
"Very funny." Murphy shook Lucy's hand, offering her a smile that neatly masked his faint disapproval of all things Steele-related. "Murphy Michaels, ma'am. Glad to meet you."
"Yes, it is good to meet you." Laura had wondered at the idea of a woman for whom Steele was prepared to do anything - the notion that she and her husband must at some time have meant a very great deal to him. Somehow she had found herself expecting all kinds of things - old, bent, white-haired; big, strong, powerful; sylph-like, to aid her in her days as a thief. Instead Lucy was very ordinary looking, at least in height and build. Her hair, half blonde, half silvery white, suggested age, but her face not unduly so. Her eyes were extremely vigorous, and they scanned both Laura and Murphy very carefully.
"Danny trusts you," she said, with a note of marked suspicion in her voice. Her accent was English; well-spoken, but with a hint of the north still remaining. "I don't tend to be so accepting. Just so you know."
"That's okay." Murphy's smile was disarming. "I've never trusted Steele. So we can all distrust each other quite happily." He looked over at Steele. "Danny?"
"Daniel O'Doyle. It's the name he was using when I met him, and it's the one he's been stuck with ever since." Lucy looked shrewdly at Murphy. "Well you've certainly got the history together, haven't you. Tell me, is it just macho one-upmanship, or are you both jealous of the other's relationship with Miss Holt here?"
"Huh?" Rather taken aback, Murphy reddened slightly. "I don't--"
"Ignore her, Murphy." Steele glared daggers at his travelling companion. "You have to make allowances for dementia at her age."
"Ha. You always know when you're getting close to the truth with Danny." Lucy sounded satisfied. "He gets insulting."
"If we can just drag ourselves away from the finger pointing and the annoying introductions..." Steele looked over at Laura. "We have a thief to round up. I told Charlie that Lucy and I would be at Walter's Café this afternoon. I made it late afternoon. We've got to give Brock enough time to get in touch with him."
"And you're sure that she will?" Laura led the way into the living room, and they all sat down. Only Steele remained on his feet, pacing restlessly beside the window where the smugglers' lamp burned.
"She will. Today."
"You that certain that it's this Charlie she'll go to with the jewels?" asked Murphy. Steele shrugged.
"Sure enough. We've got to try, though, right? The alternative is to leave her to the police - who don't have a chance - and besides, Laura wants this."
"I don't want to miss the chance of at least trying." Laura gave him a sharp look. "Anyway, if we don't get her, you'll go after her alone, won't you."
"Not her, no. Just the jewels. Lucy and I can disappear if we have to. She wants us dead, but she doesn't have to succeed. I'd just leave her alone."
"It would be nice to think that we'd see justice done." Lucy spoke up very quietly. Steele nodded.
"I'm sorry that we can't. And I wish I could tell you that this is the next best thing. Even if it isn't."
"I know." Lucy smiled at him sadly. "And you're a good boy for caring." She looked over at Laura. "So. We're the bait, and you and Mr Michaels here are the trap? When do we get started?"
Laura glanced at her watch. "We have some kind of timetable, Steele?"
"I told Charlie we'd be there at five." Steele checked his watch. "We've still got time to spare."
"I'll make us some coffee." Laura disappeared off to the kitchen, and Lucy shot Steele a sharp glance. He frowned.
"What?"
"What! She might appreciate some help."
"I'll go." Murphy started to rise to his feet, but Lucy caught his hand.
"No. You stay here, Mr Michaels. Talk me through this trap business. I'm not quite sure what's expected of me."
"You're not, huh." Murphy sat back down. "Looks to me like you know exactly what to do."
"Matters of the heart are very different to matters of law enforcement." She shot another sharp glance at Steele. "Well go on then!"
"I'm..." He sighed. "I'm going. Keep one hand on your valuables and the other on your sanity, Murphy. She'll have both off you given the chance." With this parting shot he went after Laura, hunting out her kitchen. She looked up at him as he came in.
"I was expecting Murphy."
"He got waylaid." He looked about. "Nice. You've done well for yourself, Laura. I'm glad."
"I was always good at my job." Her tone turned sharp. "Even if somebody else did keep taking all the credit."
"Yeah." He had the grace to look abashed. "Well I'm glad that your business is doing so well, anyway." He fell in beside her, hovering, trying to help but hampered by the fact that he didn't know where anything was. "So, er... you ever hear anything from Mildred?"
"You care?" She sighed, regretting the ice in her voice. "Yes, occasionally. She wound up in Oregon, back in the accountancy business. Retired now."
"And Miss Wolf?"
"Ten years without a word, and now suddenly you're so eager to catch up?" She pointed him at the fridge, and he fetched her some milk. "Yes, of course she's still in touch. And 'Miss Wolf', believe it or not, really is now Bernice Wolfe."
"She is?" He grinned, then frowned. "I thought her cellist's name was Montgomery?"
"He was a saxophonist, and his name was Eaves. He's not the one she married. She has two kids now and she lives in San Francisco. We try to get together once a month. Friends usually like to stay in touch."
"Yeah." He manned the sugar bowl, eager to prove that he remembered how both she and Murphy liked their coffee. ""Laura..."
"If you're going to say that you're sorry, don't bother. The time for that was ten years ago, when you disappeared. I think we've gone a little further than that by now, don't you?"
"Yeah." He laid down the sugar spoon, very quietly and precisely, then gave a rueful smile. "Not very smooth and Steele-like today, am I. All I seem to be saying is 'yeah'."
"Yeah." She smiled in spite of herself. "There's a tray just over there. Make yourself useful."
"Delighted, Miss Holt." He fetched the tray, and held it steady whilst she loaded it up with cups and milk. "Um... just as a point of reference..."
"Actions, Steele." She opened the door for him, but he didn't go through it.
"Pardon?"
"You were going to ask what you could do, if apologies - words - weren't enough. Actions. Prove to me that you're somebody I can trust."
"Ah." He winced. "Oh dear." She rolled her eyes.
"Just come on." They took the coffee through, wordless now and awkward, and spent the next ninety minutes largely listening to the others making small talk. Everybody was relieved when it was time to go. Lucy shook her head in exaggerated disapproval at Steele as they left the building, but he just glared. He was still glaring when they sat down at their table in Walter's Café nearly an hour later.
"I don't think I could face any more coffee," she said, glancing over the menu. He smiled briefly, the glare at last dissipating.
"No, nor me. Coffee and awkward conversation. That was murder."
"Yes, well at least some of us were actually making conversation. Not just sitting miserably and staring at the carpet. Is it imprinted on your brain yet?"
"Red diamonds. Blue fleck." He looked rueful. "Maybe I'll get lucky, and Eleanor will shoot me."
"If it'll save me from more of your moping, I'll start hoping for that as well." She signalled to a harassed looking waitress, and ordered orange juice. "Love-sick doesn't suit you, Danny. Green never was your colour."
"Maybe I'll get really lucky, and Brock will shoot you too." He leaned back in his chair. "I hate this. It's too exposed."
"And that's not your fault how?"
"Hey, I was going to follow her, take the jewels, and then send her a rude postcard a few weeks later. This is all for Laura. She thinks she can get rosettes for her detective agency this way. I was hardly going to refuse."
"Your way would probably have got you killed."
"True. Or heavily bruised at the very least. Better than sitting here like this." He smiled suddenly. "Not that I don't appreciate the company. Really."
"You might want to try saying that to Laura." The orange juice arrived, and Lucy sipped at hers. "So what do we do? Sit here and wait for a drive by shooting? I've never really done this sort of thing before."
"We wait, yes. Beyond that I don't know. Depends on Eleanor. I'd rather she didn't try the drive by method. There'd be police all over the place, and we'd end up in custody. If we weren't dead."
"Not the greatest of outcomes."
"Not my favourite, no." He stole a glance out of the front of the café, to where Laura's car was parked, just visible beside a delivery truck. Laura looked as if she was alone, which was some consolation. "Of course she might wait outside and try to get us on the way out. That's not my favourite scenario either."
"She won't try to take us somewhere quieter? Shooting two people in broad daylight is hardly subtle."
"She's hardly a subtle woman. She goes in for decisive action and quick getaways. Besides, with all these witnesses, the police will get half a dozen different descriptions. They'll never know who they're looking for. She's a professional."
"She might be hidden in one of the other buildings. Do you suppose she's a good enough shot to get us with a rifle?" Lucy tried to twist about in order to see through some of the windows of the buildings opposite, but it was impossible to see past their glass. "Shouldn't we have bullet-proof vests? Isn't that the sort of thing we're supposed to wear in this kind of situation?"
"Not when the person trying to kill you is fond of head shots, no. I don't think they make bullet-proof baseball caps." He shrugged. "Although I'm sure they'd sell."
"So bascially we just sit here and wait to get shot? And this is a good plan? Were there any bad ones that you discarded, or did you just leap right in with this one?"
"If I move, there'll be nothing between you and the front of the building. You'll be a sitting duck for anybody out there with a gun."
"Well that's nice. Try to make a constructive comment, and you get threatened with death." She looked around the room. "Why choose somewhere so crowded? Any of these people could get hurt."
"No choice. It had to look genuine. Anyway, Brock is a good shot. She won't hit the wrong person." He scowled and looked at his watch. "I wish she'd do something. She must have something planned, or Charlie would have been here waiting for us. He's always early for business like I promised him."
"Maybe she's hiding in the kitchen, and she poisoned the orange juice." Lucy frowned at her glass, then held it up to the light, apparently trying to spot likely toxins. "I don't feel especially poisoned. How about you?"
" I haven't drunk anything yet." He regarded his glass without great enthusiasm. "Why orange juice?"
"You have something against it?"
"Not when it's freshly squeezed and served on a tropical beach by beautiful waitresses in grass skirts, no. It loses something in a grimy café when you're awaiting your possible death." He toasted her with the glass. "Cheers."
"Cheers." She watched him throw back the contents of the glass. "Now do you feel poisoned? Ill? Slightly wobbly?"
"Will you stop sounding so damn hopeful? I know this is boring, but there's no need to hope for death."
"Just yours, honey. Saves me from listening to the 'Oh dearest Laura' routine again. I really could--"
"Really could what?" He frowned, for she was clearly distracted. "What's wrong?"
"I don't think she's hiding outside, Danny." Lucy reached across the table, and put one of her hands on top of one of his. "Behind you and to your left. About two tables back."
"She's here? You're sure?" He refrained from looking. Lucy nodded.
"She's here. What do you suppose she's going to do?"
"Wait her moment. Shoot us both and get away. Damn. I was sure she'd be outside. Less chance of being remembered."
"Nobody looks at each other in these places. It's hardly the local pub, is it." She frowned, trying to stare without staring too much. "What now?"
"When I give the word, get up and go over to the counter. Then get undercover as quickly as you can."
"She won't shoot me if I get up?"
"No. She wants the moment to be right for her. She won't open fire if she just thinks you're going to talk to the people at the till. Just make sure that you get undercover quickly."
"And what about the rest of these people?"
"If I shout: 'Duck, there's a killer in here!' she'll probably panic and open fire. Then I'll be dead and half the customers too. This way she'll probably just fire at me. There are tables. They provide pretty good cover when somebody is shooting at you."
"People must shoot at you at lot for you to be so good at this sort of thing. I can't decide if that makes you very exciting, or just a really bad thief." She have his hand a brief squeeze. "Good luck."
"You too." He did his best to look casual, unconcerned, and not to watch her as she got up and headed over to the counter. She managed it well; not too fast, not too jerky, or awkward with worry. Now if only Laura and Murphy were watching, and realised quickly from the events of the next few minutes that he could do with some help. Taking a deep breath, he pushed back his chair and stood up.
Everything happened fast after that. As Lucy dropped behind the cover of an empty table, Steele crossed the floor to Brock's booth, reaching it just as she came to her feet and went for her gun. He grabbed her arm before she could drag the weapon out, but a man at the next table let out a bellow of rage and launched himself at Steele, tackling him like a wildly over-enthusiastic sportsman anxious to impress.
"Gotcha!" He had Steele pinned on the floor, one arm gripped in a hand the size of a ham, the other feverishly trying to search Steele. "He after your purse, ma'am? Maybe there's something here he--"
"Get out the bloody way!" Fighting back with real fury, Steele lashed out at the have a go hero. Just his luck. When the man had jumped him, his first thought had been that it must be one of Brock's people, but the shout about purses pointed him out to be an ordinary civilian incensed at what he thought he was seeing. With a violent heave, Steele pushed the man off him, and started to get back to his feet.
"She's got a gun!" A shrill female voice put extra speed in his actions as he rose - he tried to look for room to manoeuvre but there were feet and legs, and the legs of tables and chairs, all getting in the way. The man who had attacked him was still making feverish attempts to regain a hold of his intended quarry; and above them, rising up out of her booth with the most expression Steele had ever seen upon her usually blank countenance, Eleanor Brock was bringing her gun to bear. The man fighting Steele saw the gun and blanched.
"Get down!" Steele could see that the man was trying to make a break for it - trying to get away from the gun as all his courage of earlier abandoned him. For all his attempts at flight, he was just getting himself into the line of fire. Brock, meanwhile, finding that rather more attention had been brought to herself than she had ever intended, clearly just wanted to shoot and be done.
"Get out the way!" With a tremendous effort, Steele pushed the man down to the ground, in the process opening up Brock's line of fire. He stared down at the gun, breath catching for one moment, and winced inwardly. Great move. Save the berk, take the consequences. He was just thinking about possibly trying some highly impressive - and very quick - manoeuvring, when the door burst open and Murphy Michaels came into view, agency gun in hand. Steele grinned.
"Excellent timing, old chap."
"Yes. Excellent." With a sardonic smirk, Brock turned away from Steele, the gun finding a new target in Murphy. Her finger tightened on the trigger, but Steele reacted in an instant, throwing himself forward so that her shot instead glanced off the door frame, and buried itself in a chair. Several people dived out of the way, screaming and shouting, as Steele and Brock overbalance, and fell in a heap. Knocked off balance, Steele found himself underneath, wrestling against a disproportionately strong madwoman intent upon killing him. The gun went off again, several times, before Murphy was suddenly hauling the icy blonde maelstrom away. Her gun clattered to the floor.
"Give it up, Eleanor." Steele pushed the hair away from his eyes and straightened up uncomfortably. She laughed shortly.
"You're a dead man yet, Fairbanks."
"Put your hands up." Murphy waved his gun at her in illustration, and she gave him a flash of her icy smile. It was enough to make his blood run cold.
"My pleasure," she told him, the voice unctuously polite, the eyes still bitterly cold. Slowly she raised her arms into the air, and the lights shining so uniformly in the ceiling flashed on something held in her right hand. Steele shouted out a warning, but it was already too late. A sugar shaker spun through the air; a small but precise missile that struck Murphy's gun on the end of the barrel, and spoiled his aim just long enough. Brock made a dash for the door straight away, and with Steele at her heels, raced out into the street.
"What the-?" Caught by surprise, Laura made a hopeless grab at the woman, then had to move aside to avoid being bowled over by Steele and Murphy. "What happened! It looked like you had her dead to rights!"
"Not that simple." Murphy didn't stop to explain, dodging by her and hurtling after Steele. "Where'd she go!"
"That car." Steele was already backtracking, heading for Laura's car, parked by the kerb. Even as he was running for it, a blue hired car roared away from its parking place, and headed off down the street.
"Not so fast, Steele!" With a burst of speed, Murphy caught up with the other man, sliding into the driver's seat before Steele could do so. The con-man glared, but dashed round and got into the passenger side instead.
"Bloody hurry up if you're driving!" he shouted. Murphy gunned the engine.
"Hold on tight." He saw Laura running towards them, but knew that he couldn't waste time by waiting for her. The best that he could manage was an apologetic shrug as he sent her car racing past her, and hurtling off down the road. "She's going to kill me for this. If I scratch this car..."
"Forget the bloody car!" Steele was staring fixedly out of the windscreen. "There she is! Get the car closer!"
"What are you planning to do? Jump in through the window! Just keep your hair on, Steele. We'll get her."
"We'd have had her back at the café if somebody had had his eyes open."
"We'd have had her a damn sight sooner if somebody hadn't got himself jumped on by a member of the public. We were supposed to be apprehending the woman, Steele. Not molesting her."
"Just stay on her tail." Steele glowered at the car up ahead. "I knew it was too good to be true. Blasted woman has the lives of three dozen cats."
"Go back a long way, do you?"
"Yeah, because high speed car chases are always the best places for complicated conversations." They careered around a corner, and left several motorists sounding their horns in irritation. Murphy spun the wheel again, as Brock's car shot up a narrow street.
"Maybe talking helps me to concentrate," he said, and promptly winced as the narrow sides of the street murdered one of the wing mirrors. "I'm a dead man."
"Just remind Laura that this was her idea." Steele pointed urgently. "Left. She went left."
"Yeah, I know. And I also know where that street leads."
"You do?" Steele was still good on much of his Los Angeles Geography, but he was drawing a blank right now. "Where?"
"Back of the Carrick Cinema. Don't tell me a film buff like you doesn't remember that place."
The name clicked, and Steele smiled. "That's a dead end."
"Sure is." Murphy spun the wheel again, and brought the car shooting round a corner, and into what had once been the tiny employees' car park outside the cinema. Instantly he slammed on the brakes. Realising that it was a dead end, Brock had turned her own car around, and was speeding back towards them.
"Hold on!" The car slewed to the left, and Murphy wrestled with the wheel. A metal rubbish bin crashed into one wheel, and he tried not to think about the damage it must have caused to the wheel hub. A wall flashed by one window; there was a squealing of brakes and a brief glimpse of Brock's icy expression as her car reached theirs - then with a nasty, prolonged scrunching sound that spelt the end of Laura's left fender, the cars collided with a glancing blow, and both spun out of control. Murphy was still fighting with the laws of Physics, trying to bring the car to a halt, when he realised that Steele had flung open his door.
"Are you nuts! Stay put!"
"She's a better driver than you are, Murph!" It seemed to be true - either that or her car was better, or it hadn't been quite so badly thrown off course. At any rate, Brock was regaining control. As Murphy finally slowed their vehicle to an almost halt, Steele jumped out, running full pelt for the blue car up ahead. Brock straightened it up at that moment, and with an expression of intense concentration upon her face, she pointed the car straight at him, gunned the engine, and allowed herself a small, chilly smile. And the car stalled. Steele, who hadn't for a moment thought that she would regain control so very quickly, breathed a brief, but extremely heartfelt, sigh of relief. That had been horribly close. He redoubled his efforts, dashing towards her, praying that she didn't have another gun, and grabbing for the handle of her door. In the same moment she threw the door open, hitting his hand with it, and catching it an agonising blow that would likely have cost him precious seconds ordinarily, when he wasn't quite so wound up. Ignoring the pain he grabbed her arm, just as she gunned the engine once again. The car roared with enthusiasm; Steele gripped a tight hold of his quarry, and silently thanked the god of seat-belts for being nowhere in attendance today. As the car tried to accelerate away, he tugged, felt the ground jerk away beneath his feet; then felt everything twist and blur. Brock fell; he lost his footing; the car rolled to a halt; the tarmac seemed to leap up and blindside him as he tried to regain his balance. In a confused mass of flailing arms and angry German shouting, he and Brock came to rest on the ground. Reality took several moments to right itself.
"Steele!" It was Murphy, running towards them. "Are you okay?"
"I didn't think you cared, Murph." Steele managed to sit up, and impressed himself with the discovery that he was still clinging to Brock with one hand. She struggled momentarily, but she looked as wobbly as did he, and for the time being the fight was gone. Murphy swooped in, handcuffs at the ready.
"That was some tackle, Steele." Murphy pulled the newly handcuffed Brock to her feet and pushed her up against her car. The con-man had vanished. "Where the-- Steele!"
"I'm here." Steele had been hunting around inside the car, and appeared looking decidedly flushed. "Look." There was a black case in his hand; a tough case, that could only have meant one thing. He struggled with the catch."
"Hey." Murphy shook his head. "No way, Steele. You saved my life back at the café. I'm grateful. Surprised, but grateful. But I'm not grateful enough to let you get your hands on any of those jewels. Just let them stay in that box until we get back to Laura."
"You're a hard man, Murphy." Steele's smile was pleasant enough though, and handing the case over to the other man, he took charge of Brock instead.
"You're both dead." The hellcat of before was gone, and the ice queen had returned for an encore. Murphy shot her a dubious look.
"She always like this?"
"Sweet little Sunny-Side-Up? Oh yes. Rumoured to be capable of freezing rivers at a single glance. You should see her on one of her really chilly days."
"No thanks." Murphy led the way back to Laura's car, wincing at the sight of it. "Although I might prefer our guest's company to Laura's when she gets a look at that fender."
"So long as it still moves." Steele pushed Brock into the back, and climbed in after her. "Not so sure I do. I feel like I've been wrestling a bull elephant."
"Yeah, well the police will be here in a matter of minutes, so let's get out of here before you're wrestling elephants in custody." Murphy switched on the engine. "Does that sound right to you?"
"If it makes the car move, then yes." They headed back to the main road, and hadn't been back on it for long before the unmistakable scream of police sirens all but drowned out the protesting engine. Nobody showed any sign of wanting to pull over the battered and limping car, so with a sigh of relief, Murphy pointed the unfortunate vehicle in the rough direction of its owner, and let it take them back. Laura and Lucy were waiting beside Murphy's car, some distance from the café, which was now full of police officers. Neither woman looked particularly happy.
"Murphy! Steele!" Laura ran to meet them, just as Lucy did the same with a cry of "Danny!" Steele flashed her a cheery grin, and endured a mauling hug.
"Hey Laura." Murphy did his best to stand between her and the damage to her car. "We got the jewels."
"All of them." Disentangling himself from the hug, Steele attempted to look virtuous.
"Or so we assume." Murphy handed his partner the case. "I wouldn't let him open that."
"I'll try to be diplomatic and pretend that I'm not relieved. I-- Murphy! What the hell happened to my car!"
"Several things." He backed away slightly. "There wasn't time to get to mine. It was a chase."
"Thanks, I noticed." She sighed. "Never mind now. I'll get a mechanic out to it in the morning. In the meantime, we have to get out of here before somebody in that café tells the police that we were mixed up in what went on over there."
"Out of here and off to the airport, right?" Steele looked sharply from one to the other of them. "Right?"
"Seriously?" Murphy had never been happy with that idea. "We're really going to let her go. Wait around overnight before we hand over Brock and the jewels? I don't know, Laura. I can't believe that there isn't something here we're not seeing. We shouldn't let either one of them out of our sight."
"We made a deal."
"Yeah. I know. I just don't like how it means we're letting a thief get away."
"I can't say that I'm exactly thrilled with the idea myself," complained Lucy. Steele turned to her, taking both her hands and giving her a gentle smile.
"I'm not risking your life," he told her firmly. "Now indulge me." She frowned for a second, then smiled at him and nodded her head.
"Alright. I'll go quietly. But you're not to take any risks, Danny. Why not come with me?"
"Because this isn't finished yet." He shrugged, and for a second didn't meet her eyes. "Let's just get you to the airport. I'll see you soon."
"Soon, right. I know your definition of 'soon'. Eighteen months time, you'll turn up on my doorstep with half your ribs broken, expecting me to put you right." She sighed, then let go of his hand and climbed into Murphy's car. "Come on then. Take me to the airport. But don't go taking any risks, Danny. Whatever it is you're after, it's not worth going to prison for."
"It might be." Steele pushed Brock into the back of the car, and climbed in after her. His voice lowered then, and his eyes looked at things that only he could see. "That's something I have to find out."
They left Murphy and Brock at Laura's house, securing the icily silent thief to the cast iron bedstead. It would hardly do to take a prisoner to the airport, with the long wait for a plane, and the vast number of prying eyes and security cameras. Laura almost wished that she had stayed behind as well as she watched Steele say his farewells to his friend. She felt like an interloper, although somehow it seemed as if Steele had wanted her there. He wanted her to see this other side of him, she realised; the man who was kind and thoughtful to an old friend; the man who wasn't the feckless cheat she had accused him of being. He was silent on the return trip, several hours later, staring into space as Laura drove them back to her house. She thought about speaking to him, but she knew how unresponsive he could be when he sunk into that sort of state, and so left him alone. He seemed almost surprised when the car came to a halt, and he followed her to the front door of her house as though on auto-pilot.
"You look tired," she told him. He laughed briefly.
"So do you."
"True enough." She fumbled with her keys, momentarily clumsy. Something about his close presence could still do that to her. She wasn't sure whether it was infuriating or weirdly exciting. "It was a long day, and a long night last night. Something tells me this one is going to be longer."
"I'll spend the night with Brock. Keep an eye on her. You get some sleep."
"Not likely." Murphy met them at the door, gun in hand, as though he had suspected that they might be members of Brock's gang come to liberate her, and he hoped to stop them by hiding behind the front door. "Leave a thief to guard a thief? No way."
"I'm not going to spring her. If I take her cuffs off she'll break my neck."
"I'll guard Brock. She's not going anywhere. No reason why I shouldn't get some sleep as well." He frowned at Laura. "That's if you'll be alright alone with this joker? I can always dig out some handcuffs for him too."
"No. I think I can trust him." Besides which, it could be that we need the time alone. She led the way into the living room, putting the case of jewels down on the coffee table. "I'll get us some blankets and pillows. This room is comfortable enough."
"More than comfortable." Steele sat down on the arm of a chair, pointedly avoiding looking at the jewels, whilst Murphy even more pointedly looked at him. Laura almost laughed when she came back into the room.
"Murph, you have a real prisoner to guard," she reminded him. He nodded.
"I know. But only if--"
"I'll be fine. What's he going to do? Mug me?" She looked sharply at Steele. "He promised."
"I certainly did. The jewels are safe as long as they're in your possession. I won't take them."
"Good." She put a pile of blankets and pillows down on the settee. "Night Murph."
"Night." It was still early, but they were both tired enough after the previous night to be willing to settle down. "Be careful."
"I will." Her eyes dragged themselves away from Steele. "And you be careful too."
"Sure." He vanished off towards her bedroom, and Laura sat down on the nearest chair. For several minutes the silence reigned, and she almost blushed at the awkwardness of it all. This was stupid - they had known each other so well, once; and yet here they were acting like teenagers on a difficult first date. Try as she might, though, she couldn't think of something to say to begin the conversation.
"I keep trying to think of something to say," ventured Steele at last. Laura laughed softly.
"Me too."
"But there isn't anything, is there. We've both said it all. I've explained where I was. You've explained how you feel about it. There aren't any more words."
"No, I don't think there are."
"And I can't think of any actions that'll make you trust me. Quite the opposite."
"You saved Murphy's life today." She smiled at him. "That's a start."
"That was just instinct. Meaning no disrespect to Murphy, but I'd have done that if he was a complete stranger."
"I know. That's why it's a start." The silence grew around them again, and she found her frustration growing with it. This was stupid. If they couldn't be as they had been before, they could at least behave in something approaching a normal manner. Reaching out for the jewel case, she clicked it open. "Talk me through these," she suggested. "It's better than the silence, and it's not often you get the chance to play with expensive jewels." He smirked, and she glared. "It's not often I get the chance, then. You know this collection, right?"
He nodded. "Yes, I know it. Or I know about it, at any rate. There aren't many people who get to be as close to it these days as we are right now."
"Tempted?"
"Always." The glint in his eyes suggested that he hadn't necessarily been talking about the jewels. "Alright, Miss Holt. I'll show you the Trovian Miscellany. But wouldn't you rather get some sleep?"
"I'm not sure that I could sleep right now." Not with you so close by. She pushed the coffee table out of the way, and lit the fire that waited in the grate nearby. It flickered into life, its little flames bouncing merrily. "So tell me about them."
"My pleasure." He sprawled beside her on the floor by the firelight, the smugglers' lamp casting its friendly glow onto the case before them. Laura couldn't resist playing with the jewels, even though her original plan had been to lock them away until morning. She held one of the blue diamonds up to the lamp, and smiled at it.
"It's beautiful."
"They both are." Steele took out its twin, and titled it slightly so that it cast patterns onto the floor. "But both of them together aren't worth as much as the opal."
"I prefer the diamonds." They were a beautiful colour, and the cut was exquisite. Presumably they were flawless, though she had no jeweller's eyepiece, and couldn't check. Wasn't sure that she would know what to look for, anyway. Steele shrugged.
"I like the opal." He picked it up, showing it to her. "You see the iridescence? The colours? It looks black at first, but there's a lot more to it."
"I suppose it has a certain something." A mystery. A deceptive darkness. She could see why he liked it, even beyond its huge value in monetary terms. "What would you have done with it?"
"If I'd stolen it?" He turned it over in his hands. "I always wanted a ring with a black opal in it, but this is far too big. Be a shame to cut it down to size."
"So you'd have kept it?"
"Kept it?" he laughed. "No, I'd have sold it. Probably for a fraction of its value. I'm a thief, Laura. I steal things, and then I sell them."
"But you love it. I can see it in your eyes. That stone is special to you."
"It's a stone. Something worth money. It's food, and clothes and a roof. It's a car, maybe, or a case of fine wines, or bales of fine cotton for some perfectly tailored suits. Keep it, and it's evidence. And maybe a jail cell."
"I didn't think of it that way."
He grinned. "You're not a thief."
"No." She frowned, then. Thinking of him and his lifestyle; the life that she had always hoped he would live with her, in Los Angeles, being the man she had made up. "If I was..."
"If you were..." He looked over at her very intensely then, and the firelight, and the smugglers' lamp, made his eyes shine at her in an echo of the twin blue diamonds. "Laura, you are who you are. I tried to be someone that I wasn't, for you, and I could never get it right. There always seemed to be barriers somehow. It wouldn't work the other way, either. When I fell in love with you, I fell in love with who you are. You're Laura Holt. You don't break rules, you don't break laws, you don't park your car illegally. Your life is in perfect order, and your world is perfectly controlled. Planned. Ordered."
"It doesn't have to be."
"Yes it does. Because that's what makes you who you are. That's the woman I married. If you were a thief, wandering around the globe, going hungry sometimes, getting shot at sometimes, never knowing where you were going to be tomorrow... you'd be miserable."
"Maybe." He was right, of course, but it was a tempting thought for one brief moment. Going with him, staying with him, being with him. It sounded more tempting than him leaving without her again. He put the opal back into the box, and took her hand for a moment instead.
"We are who we are, Laura."
"And never the twain, I suppose."
"Well, not never, no." He kissed her fingers, then clearly thinking that he had gone too far, let go of her hand and picked up one of the pearls. "Now these are an oddity. Five pearls, each of them named for one of the daughters of Sir Humphrey Talbot, their first owner."
"You always were good at changing the subject."
"This one, the biggest, is Elizabeth." He dropped it into her palm, and smiled as he did so. "It's not about changing the subject, Laura. It's about damage limitation."
"Elizabeth, you say?" He had a point, and she could see it; and if he wanted to play it that way, that was fair enough. He nodded.
"She was a blonde, apparently. Married into the Church."
"Do you know the entire history of the family?"
"Mostly just the pearls." He took out the others, and handed them to her one by one. "Anne-Marie, Mathilda, Beatrice and Josephine. Josephine was the youngest. She was a bit of a rebel by all accounts."
"Shocked polite society, you mean?"
"Absolutely." He sounded as though he approved most highly. "She left home when she was eighteen. Eloped with an apprentice boy, and went overseas with him. They wound up living in Southern Italy."
"How do you know all this stuff?" She was amused and impressed in one. To her there was no difference between the pearls - no way of knowing if he could tell them apart, or if he was telling her the right names; even if Sir Humphrey Talbot had ever had a daughter named Josephine, runaway or not. As he himself had said earlier in the day, Steele was a born liar. It was just one of his many talents.
"What, you thought I only know about old films?" He flashed her one of his annoyingly charming grins, and she found herself returning it. Damn him, he had always known what that grin could do.
"You know about the emeralds too?" she asked. This time it was her wanting to change the subject. "I'd heard that they'd been stolen. Six times?"
"Seven now." They shared a brief laugh. "Yes, I know their history. The Spanish pirates who stole them from a merchant in the West Indies, the highwayman who stole them fifty years later, without even realising it. The last time they were taken, before now, was in 1979. Before Jacques Trovian got hold of them. They were stolen from a private collection in Malta, along with a ruby necklace, a gold locket..." He grinned. "And a copy of Gunga Din. Cary Grant, Douglas Fairbanks Jnr. 1939, RKO. On Beta Max."
"You stole them?"
"And sold them to Jacques Trovian. He displays them now, without ever making any secret of the fact that he always knew they were stolen. Mind you, the person I stole them from also acquired them illegally, which could be why he's never tried to claim them back." He shrugged. "All's fair in love and international thievery."
"And the ruby necklace and the gold locket?"
"I don't remember." He frowned. "I think the ruby necklace went to a fence in Liverpool. I used the locket as part of a scam in Rome that same year, but I don't remember the details. Only that I nearly got shot by an Italian army officer. I came out of it with a profit, though, so it was probably worth the trouble."
"1979." She had been a private detective then, of course. The early days, building the myth of Remington Steele, erecting the legend of the man she had tried to create. The perfect man; hijacked, improvised, twisted about and forever changed by the still nameless con-man now sprawled beside her. She smiled. "I was still toying with the idea of Remington Steele being a blond back then. Murphy thought he should be a redhead, but then he's biased that way. We were going to compromise on strawberry blond. And he was going to have brown eyes. I was quite insistent on that."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologise. I created a story. A two dimensional character who was an extension of me - and who was bound to get found out one day. Would have been, if you hadn't come along. Remington Steele isn't a brown-eyed blond. He's not a tough former CIA agent who loves to cross every 't' and dot every 'i'. That's me... except for the CIA bit. Remington Steele has black hair and blue eyes. He improvises, he doesn't obey the rules, and instead of being the perfect boss, he turned out to be a major annoyance. That's Steele. I'm sorry I tried to turn him back into my creation. I'm sorry that I was always so annoyed when he didn't conform. Somewhere along the line I forgot who it was I'd fallen in love with."
"You're not the one who should be apologising. I hijacked your life."
"I hijacked yours."
"Touché."
"And now we've both gone back to doing what we want." Lives back on track, as though those few years together had never happened. Always wondering if things could have been different. And after all this time, she was finally realising that they couldn't. She hadn't done anything wrong - she hadn't done anything to make him leave. He hadn't done anything wrong either. Whoever the man was who had stolen Steele away that night, and changed the course of their lives; it hadn't been his fault, either. Steele couldn't be happy living her life forever, just as she could never be happy living his. This was Steele. Jewels and car chases, and hiding from the police. Aliases and stories, and being shot at by Italian soldiers. That was who he was. She was neat paperwork in the office, figuring things out, following the rules and helping to put people like him in jail. That was who she was. It didn't stop her loving him, but it did make things rather more complicated.
"Not exactly what we want." He toyed with the emeralds on their black cushion. "If I was doing exactly what I want, I'd be sprawled on a Caribbean beach right now. I wouldn't have promised not to steal these things, and I wouldn't be facing the prospect of going home empty-handed."
"Sorry."
"Liar."
"Ha. I don't think that's a word you should be pointing at other people." She put the pearls and the blue diamonds back into the case. "Which leaves us with the last of the collection, I suppose. Where are they?"
"The Honeymoon Diamonds? They're here." He took a black box from the bottom of the case, and flipped it open. The famous brown diamonds were there, glinting in the flickering, warm light. Not especially large, not as immediately arresting as their blue cousins, but attractive nonetheless, in their own way. The last piece of the Arthur Webb puzzle. She took them.
"Why are they called that?"
"The Honeymoon Diamonds? It's because they're such a pair. Not identical but complimentary, so that they go together quite naturally. Like a married couple. Like newly weds, who haven't found anything to fall out over yet. Honeymooners."
"Why did Arthur Webb want them so much?"
"Because they were they only ones that he didn't have. The original collection of coloured diamonds was irresistible to him. He couldn't not steal them. These were the last ones."
"And you seem to think that they belong to him."
"They do, in a sense. He bought them from Jacques Trovian several years ago, but Trovian gave him fakes - paste replicas. Arthur's eyesight was failing, or he'd never have fallen for a trick like that. I don't know the whole story, but I'd guess that he decided to take advantage of the fact that Arthur couldn't go to the authorities. Poor guy only tried to buy them because he thought he was getting too old to do the job properly anymore. He didn't want to leave his collection incomplete."
"He kept the rest of the collection then? He didn't sell them?"
"Not a single one, no. Only Lucy knows where they are now. The great Kettering Collection. Must be quite a sight."
"Worth dying for?"
"To Arthur? I don't know. Dying is a risk every thief takes, in a sense." He took the diamonds from her, weighing them in his hand. "Poor old Arthur. Brock obviously thought they were worth killing for. She loves brown diamonds, and these are a notorious pair. Any collector would love to have them." He slipped them back into their box. "But they were never going to be hers."
"You really would have taken them back from her, wouldn't you. Whatever it took. For Arthur Webb?"
"Laura, I'd steal them out of Fort Knox for Arthur Webb. If they were worth peanuts, I'd still steal them out of Fort Knox for Arthur Webb. Although if they were worth peanuts, I might want to know what they were doing in Fort Knox to begin with."
"Regretting your promise?"
"No." He pulled a soft cloth from his pocket and carefully wiped the jewels, returning the Honeymoon Diamonds to their box. He wiped that as well, then put it carefully back into the case, amongst the trays of emeralds and pearls. "The jewels are safe while they're in your possession. Now you'd better put them away. I might not be planning to take them, but there are still plenty of other thieves in this city."
"True." She let him finish removing any trace of his fingerprints, then closed up the case, sealing the jewels in their segregated little compartments. "Sure it's clean?"
"I'm fairly well practiced at removing fingerprints." He smiled without a hint of apology, and she gave him a half-hearted glare in response, before going to stow the case away in the safe. He wasn't watching her when she dialled up the combination to open it, and she knew that it was a nod to her sense of security. Not that it mattered. She had no doubt that he could open the blasted thing easily enough if he wanted to.
"Alright?" he asked as she came back, settling herself down on the sofa. She nodded, pausing to arrange one of the blankets over herself. It was beautifully warm, and beautifully relaxing.
"I do feel better now that they're locked away, yes. It's not that I don't trust you."
"You don't have to explain yourself." He lay down on his back in front of the fire, staring up at the ceiling. "Brings to mind certain other evenings, doesn't it, Miss Holt."
"Many evenings. In many places."
"Beside many fires." He folded his hands behind his head, and she threw one of the pillows at him.
"There are plenty of spare blankets. There's probably room on the sofa here too, if you want it."
He laughed softly. "I want it rather too much. That's why I'm staying on the floor. I have to leave tomorrow, Laura. For your sake as well as mine."
"I know."
"If things had been different..."
"Don't say it." She didn't want to hear about what might have been. She had lived for ten years with that. Tomorrow he would be gone, and it would be just her and Murphy again. Steele would be a simple memory. This time she knew that it would be wrong to wish he would stay.
"It's awfully quiet." Whether just to dispel the sudden, strange silence, or because he was genuinely concerned, Steele frowned towards the door. "You don't suppose she's throttled Murphy with a pillow case and run off?"
"I doubt it. Murphy isn't the type to take a throttling quietly."
"Murphy doesn't do anything quietly." He smiled, and she threw one of the sofa cushions at him, scoring a neat bull's eye, right on his head.
"What is it between you two! You fight like a pair of schoolboys."
"He doesn't approve of my career choice." He threw the cushion back at her. "He's the wholesome type."
"I don't approve of your career choice," she reminded him. He nodded.
"True. And if Murphy looked a little more like you, I might fight with him less." He grinned suddenly. "Or more. Rather depends on the fighting."
She threw the cushion back at him again, scoring another direct hit. "It's still childish."
"Well don't blame Murphy." He sounded serious now. "He just cares about you. He doesn't want to see you get hurt. I suppose he's rather better at making sure that that doesn't happen than I am."
"True." Somewhere, in some other, parallel universe, there was a Laura that had been happily married to Murphy for years. There had to be. They were contented, and their world was well. She, however, was living in a rather more complicated universe. She settled herself back down, and turned her own eyes to the ceiling, trying to refrain from staring at Steele any longer. It wasn't easy.
"There something on your mind, Miss Holt?" He kept switching between the old voice and the new one - or, rather, between his 'real' voice and the one he had always used to use in her presence. What was new to her was presumably old to him. She smiled at this return to the old accent; the old, clipped tones; the use of her title rather than her name.
"Yes. Can you promise me something, Steele?"
"Of course. Anything." He sounded remarkably sincere. She had always thought of that as reason enough to distrust him in the past.
"Promise that it won't be ten years before I see you again."
"Ah." He looked away. "Anything but that. I can't make promises with my life, Laura. It won't let me."
"You said you'd promise anything," she reminded him. He sighed.
"Anything but that. What if I promised you that I'd return in twelve months? And I was in prison then? Or caught up in something else that I couldn't get out of? You'd feel let down again, and you'd hate me even more than you have for the past ten years. It may be pure selfishness on my part, but I don't want that. So I won't make that kind of promise."
"That's a shame." She understood in a sense, but she still felt sad. He had a point. She just didn't want to think about not seeing him again. Strange how so much could change in so short a time. Or perhaps how firelight could put such a different perspective on a situation. She closed her eyes, trying to remove the temptation of watching him there, so near and so far, highlighted by that treacherously romantic light. "Goodnight, Mr Steele."
"Goodnight, Miss Holt." He sounded troubled, but he didn't let the feeling last. There was no point. Instead he turned his head, watching her on the verge of sleep, and found himself smiling at the sight. He had missed her. He would go on missing her. But he wouldn't stay, and he wouldn't promise to return. Life didn't play by the rules any more than he did, and he wouldn't risk hurting her again. Leaning back against the pillow, he closed his eyes and let sleep slowly take him. It was a hard floor, but the company was perfect. That night he slept better than he had for ten years.