Chapter 10

"If I'm not careful, Miss Holt, you could make an honest man of me."

"I'm counting on it, Mr. Steele."

The words they'd exchanged on the streets of Las Vegas, some three dozen stories below, had been repeating in her mind since she'd closed herself behind the bedroom door of the Presidential suite she, Remington and Mildred were sharing.

Thank heavens for Mildred, she silently acknowledged.

Her unintended buffer. A welcome buffer.

She needed time to think and she certainly didn't do that very well when her Mr. Steele was around, at least lately.

Pressing up on an elbow, she punched her pillow, then lay down, trying to get comfortable.

No, logic, intelligence and rationale seemed to flee in favor of impulsivity, desire and emotion when he was near. And those three things made her do things that were wholly out of character.

Such as allowing him to devise the plan to catch Grogan and recover the stolen gems. She'd vowed, had promised… had sworn… after their nearly disastrous second attempt at guarding the Royal Lavulite that she would never again put her fate into someone else's hands. The plan, then, had been his inspiration, as well, and look where it gotten them: the Royal Lavulite, gone, the Agency on the hook; them in the sites of a murderer; a potentially lethal swim with sea snakes; nearly burned alive in a casket at the crematorium; and… and… let's not forget my five story fall off his balcony.

Yet, here they were again. And why? Because she'd wanted him to have some tangible proof of her trust in him; because she'd wanted to show him, through deed, that she valued his intelligence, his creativity, his commitment to the job… that she valued him.

She rolled to her other side, punching the pillow again for good measure.

She'd been foolish, impulsive, driven by her emotions, instead of reason, in making tht decision. She'd placed the Agency at risk… again. And this time, this time, that Remington Steele wasn't Remington Steele had come perilousy to being revealed. Then, if that weren't bad enough, she'd humiliated herself on the gaming floor, the thrill of the win appealing to that Laura. That same Laura who'd already cost her one relationship but could now cost her so much more.

She stared at the closet doors in front of her, a frown knitting her brows together.

"You know, that is one of the problems with us. It came to me one, lonely night. It wasn't exactly the burning bush, but still it got my attention. You're… uh… You're one of the things that I have to guard against. The part of me that I can't ever allow myself to be. Reckless, indulgent, frivolous . . ."

During the months after Cannes, when she'd ended their personal relationship, there had been many of those lonely nights. She'd missed him, them. But the off shoot of having night-after-night alone with one's self was it gave a person time to reflect on where their life now was, what had brough them there, and she'd done exactly that.

It hadn't exactly been a revelation, as she'd told him, but she'd stood up and taken notice. Her Mr. Steele had the ability to draw out of her all those parts of herself she did her utmost best to keep locked away. Dangerous parts of herself. He found them alluring, enticing… enchanting… and because he was so bedazzled by them, it made it far too easy to set a piece of herself free.

And for what?

A roll in the hay? To scratch that itch that had been plaguing her for three years?0000

An itch he's damned good at scratching, she mused, a smile quirking on her lips.

"If I'm not careful, Miss Holt, you could make an honest man of me."

She sobered instantly as the words pranced through her mind again.

While the comment had been casual, it gnawed at her, pricking at her every insecurity.

Was he trying to tell her he didn't wish to become an honest man?

And what precisely did he mean by 'honest man'? That while she'd come to believe he'd embraced the role of Remington Steele and all its demands, he enjoyed the charade, but nothing more? It was, after all, the con of a lifetime, convincing an entire city that a figment of her imagination was the living, breathing man before them.

That troublesome thought had plagued her for years.

And then, after Cannes, he had stayed. When the opportunity had presented itself for him to assume the identity of Reginald Whitewood, the Duke's long, lost grandson, then, too, he had stayed.

She'd come to believe Remington Steele was no longer a role to him, but who he saw himself to be.

Perhaps… she'd been wrong.

"If the press of other commitments wasn't so severe, I might relish the role on a permanent basis. After all, I'm a man who enjoys impossible challenges."

She flipped over to face the wall, crossing her arms in front of herself.

Had she been so vain then as to assume he'd been referring to her, not the role, as the impossibe challenge?

Had he been speaking of her, their relationship this evening, not the role?

"… you could make an honest man of me."

In truth, those words could hold two very different meanings to her Mr. Steele. Honest, as in 'trodding the straight and narrow' or honest, as in a commitment to some form of permanency, by him to her.

Had he been trying to tell her this evening, in that round-about, read-between-the-lines approach he oft utilized when speaking of uncomfortable matters – namely, his past, his future, or emotions – that he'd no intention of making a commitment of any kind, at least willingly? Had never intended to? That he felt pressured by her for a commitment? That while he was having a good time between the sheets, it was nothing more than an enjoyable tryst for him that would soon end in a wink and a goodbye?

"I'm not planning on cutting a fast tango through your life and I'm not going to stop wanting you, but those are the only guarantees I can give you."

He'd never been less than honest about his intentions. No guarantees. It was simple as that. Of all her fears, it was his own words that made her quake the hardest.

For while she spoke a good game, talking of being itchy or of hopping in the sack, much to her infinite irritation, at the end of the day, the lessons drilled into her from birth had planted firm roots within.

She'd lost her virginity during a bout of rebellion that was short lived after her father left. She'd regretted it, deeply, afterwards and hadn't liked herself much for it, but as her mother always said, you can't turn back time and do something all over again, simply because you didn't like the way it had turned out.

She'd proceeded with caution for years, then had tossed that caution to the wind in her college years. College had changed her, her friends had changed her. Out from beneath Abigail's oppressive thumb, she found herself immersed in the throes of the seventies. She stopped dressing like a choir girl: Bell bottoms, mini-skirts, gogo boots, flowing tunics, snug halters, and culottes were her clothes of choice. She attended demonstrations demanding equality for women, protests for environmental issues. She drank, enjoyed a joint now and then. Partied and danced the nights away.

But when it had come to sex? Her friends had all embraced the philosophy of free love, sampling the wares the college community served up whenever the whim struck. Those friends were happy… free… not mired down by the archaec double standards or an irrational belief that sex and love went hand-in-hand. In was the one convention tied to her former life that she hadn't fully rejected.

Then came the day that she did. She wouldn't, after all, be Laura Holt if she didn't want it all.

She'd set her eyes on her sexy calculus professor. Just watching the man as he lectured made her toes curl. Several times, he'd caught her admiring his ass, examining his crotch, wondering what might lay beneath the clothing. And when he'd seemed flattered by those looks? Well, she'd decided that he'd be her springboard into sexual liberation. Out had come the mini-skirts that barely covered the cheeks of her bottom, the low cut shirts and the tube tops that left ample portions of skin bare while concealing nothing… and those red glasses.

He'd been good. Really, really good. She'd experienced her first orgasm at a man's hand, then her first orgasm as a man moved within her. He'd rattled her teeth, pure and simple.

While it might have been enough for her friends, a good teeth rattling, it hadn't been for her. Like her first sexual experience, this too went on her list of regrets. She hadn't felt free, afterwards, but…used. Used by him, as much as he'd been used by her.

She'd wanted… more. Then she'd met Wilson. Good old dependable, fastidious, rule and propriety driven Wilson. She'd given him her body, much as her friends gave their bodies over to each new lover: Freely, without reservation. She'd discovered that sex with the man you were in love with might not mean multiple orgasms, and that was alright by her, for there was something to be said when each touch was a caress, not a grope; when each kiss was an emotion expressed, not simply a duel of the tongues; when a man uttered your name with reverence as he shuddered in your arms, instead of shouting a rousing round of "Oh, God, yeah, Oh, I'm coming".

It was okay to be left wanting more, when what she'd already had was… pretty good.

She'd given him her heart. Had pledged to him her future. Had believed him when he spoke of 'one days.'

When Wilson had left her, she'd learned, had embraced, three very important lessons. First, the Laura that had cost her their relationship had to go. Second, she could rely on no one but herself. And, lastly, that she was a woman where sex and emotion were irrevocably combined.

"If I'm not careful…"

Careful. She'd tried to be so careful with her Mr. Steele. How many times had she reminded herself of his shady past? His general untrustworthiness because of that past?

That, other than the Agency, they had absolutely nothing in common? He was a spendthrift, she was frugal. He was impulsive, she was logical. He liked to try his hand a the table, she liked to run, swim, bike and dance. He preferred five course meals with a fine wine, whereas there were nights she would happily kill for a hot, cheesy pizza with a good, cold beer. He appreciated film noire, while she enjoyed television. She needed to know she had a home to go to, while the world continaully beckoned him to move on to the next port.

Careful.

The thought played through her mind, as she stood up and drew on her robe, tightening the sash about her waist. She'd tried to be careful.

As careful as she was now, peeking out the doorway, checking to make certain the hall was clear. As she careful as she was slipping into the room two doors down.

She couldn't help the smile that lit her face, as her Mr. Steele dropped the arm he'd slung over his eyes, to look at her with surprised pleasure. She dropped her robe in response to the open arm that beckoned her to join him, then slid into bed and into the embrace of that waiting arm.

As she rested her head beneath his shoulder, listened to the steady thrum of his heart beneath her ear, felt the warmth of his body against the hand that lay on his chest, she resignedly admitted the truth to herself.

They might not have anything in common and he might disappear into the misty night at any time, but no matter how cautious she'd tried to be, she'd fallen irretrievably in love with the man destined to break her heart, destined to leave her life in shambles.

She'd be cautious tomorrow.

Tonight, she only wished to be here.

She pressed up on an elbow and leaned down to kiss his welcoming lips.