Chapter 12
She and Mr. Steele were dressed in burlap robes, kissing as though they'd just discovered the sweetest of fruits.
Who are you? Where did you come from?
She could feel his long, elegant fingers stroking her neck, diving into her hair, as they kissed.
Michael O'Leary, Ireland. Paul Fabrini, Italy. John Morrell, France. Richard Blaine, Australia. Douglas Quintane, England.
His lips devoured hers, and she allowed him to feast at will, while doing some sampling of her own.
Who are you?
She was opening the doors to the closets in his flat, found them barren.
Who are you?
She rushed to his dresser, opening drawer after drawer, all of them empty.
Who are you?
She sank down onto the end of his bed, shoving her clasped hands between her knees.
He was gone.
Laura woke with a gssp, lunging into a sitting position as she pried her eyes open while her alarm blared from beside her bed. Another nightmare, her mind registered as she dragged a hand through her sleep touseled hair. No, more memories of what I had and what I lost, she corrected herself, as she reached for the alarm and turned it off.
Bud and Norm's wake up show had gone by the wayside twelve days before, their cheery voices promising a beauiful day ahead feeling like a mockery. One day after he'd left, she'd already resolved herself to the reality that she'd wake each day alone, she'd work alone, she'd eat alone then go to bed, still alone. There was nothing, whatsoever, beautiful about that. It was dark, dismal, especially after living for so long in his warmth.
In a moment of blind panic, she'd driven him away.
In her bathroom, she unbuttoned Mr. Steele's pajama shirt that she'd slept in, and hung it on hook on the back of the door. Turning on the faucet of the shower, she stepped under its still too cold spray, oblivious to the temperature.
The only pieces of himself that he'd left behind were his posters, his bedding and the contents of his hamper: A pair of his pajamas, two dress shirts, a pair of socks and a pair of boxers. She'd gathered up his pillows and clothing, taking them with her to the loft. She'd slept wrapped in a piece of his clothing, with her head on his pillow, hugging the other to herself, each night since.
She hadn't meant to hurt him. She hadn't. She'd only meant to protect herself. There had been so many unanswered questions. How did he feel about her? In his eyes, was this a casual fling or something more? Would their differences drive them apart, until even their partnership lay in tatters at their feet? Would his dreaded past come back and sweep him away? There were the doubts, mostly about herself. Would she ever be able to trust that she wouldn't look up one day and find him simply gone? Could she be with him and keep her head about her? Could she be with him, and not lose herself in him?
The doubts, the questions had collided and she'd been buried by her fears, her insecurities.
What they'd found in one another had been too much… yet, not enough.
William.
His name flitted through her mind, as she stepped out of the shower. Patting herself down, she wrapped the towel around herself, then began her morning routine by rote
William had been another casualty. He was a good man, a kind man. She hadn't meant to lead him on, but she'd done exactly that, for no matter how decent and kind he was, he'd never stood a chance. Willingly or not, she'd given her heart to Remington a long time ago and she couldn't just choose to take it back.
Even though there were many a day she ferverently wished she could.
Like now.
She wrapped the elastic around the end of her french braid, then pressed her hands against the bathroom counter and dropped her head as the now familiar ache in the pit of her stomach made its presence known.
He left.
She tilted her head back and blinked her eyes rapidly while staring at the ceiling.
How could she have expected him to do anything else?
The last time, he'd stayed, she defended.
The last time was different, the devil on her shoulder countered.
When she'd ended them in Cannes, they hadn't yet crossed that line – although she had wanted them to the night she'd discovered his latest gambit run afoul. They hadn't been spending nearly every waking moment together – and every moment they slept – for weeks.
She wanted to do the thing her mother had always warned her it was impossible to do: turn back time to five weeks before.
She wanted to be stranded in that cabin in Aspen again. She wanted to spend long days and nights making love with him. She wanted to see him propped up on an elbow on the bed, holding out a fork, his eyes blue-hot, as he fed her a bite of dinner. She wanted to argue fiercely over a game of Monopoly. She wanted to spend two hours heating pot-after-pot of water so they could take a bath. She longed to be laying before the fire with him, laughing with him over the tale of his first, disastrous attempt at cherries jubilee. She wanted to feel him wrap his body around hers in the minutes before they fell to sleep, his rich, woodsy scent surrounding her as she snuggled closer to him and took his hand in hers.
She wanted to hear him say 'Laura' in the way only he could, just… one… more… time.
Five weeks ago, she'd been happier than she'd ever been before. With the walls between them gone an easy camraderie,a quiet intimacy had settled around them.
Then, she'd panicked and had thrown it all away.
Five weeks.
Her eyes widened, her lips parted, her back straightened.
Five weeks.
With no little dread, she picked up her pack of birth control pills, backed up, then sat down heavily on the toilet before popping open the case holding those pills. Two more peach pills, then on Sunday, the pack announced, twenty-four hours of misery to start her cycle.
But the pack was wrong.
She'd begun a new pack of pills the Sunday after she'd arrived in Aspen. She'd missed her pill on Wednesday and Thursday, had made up for it by doubling up on Friday and Saturday. But, when they'd returned to LA on Saturday evening, her pills had been no where to be found. She'd brushed the concern aside, simply retrieving a brand new pack from her bathroom drawer.
Her backup pack.
She dropped the packet of pills on the counter, forced herself to her feet. In the living room, she retrieved her date book from her purse, thumbed through it until she found what she was looking for.
No.
God, no.
Nonononononono.
She took a deep breath, forced the emotions back, approached the matter logically, analytically.
She been on the pill a dozen years. At each annual appointment, her doctor reminded her: Miss one pill, take it as soon as you remember. Miss two pills, double up for two days. The risk of pregnancy would be minimal, given her pill was of the combined estrogen and progestin variety. Miss a third, use back up contraception for the remainder of the month.
She'd missed her pill Wednesday and Thursday mornings while they were taking refuge in the small cabin, then on Friday, after their rescue and on Saturday, she'd doubled up, exactly as instructed.
She began to relax.
She'd been a few days late before in the past, had even skipped her cycle altogether, during particularly stressful periods of her life: after her father had left, during finals in college, after Wilson had left.
She tried to recall the few things Frances had shared with her about the early days of pregnancy. She pressed a hand against each of her breasts. No, no more tender than they normally were during her cycle. True, she hadn't had an appetite, but she hadn't been nauseous either. Yes, she was tired, but she also hadn't slept worth a damn for more than two weeks.
Her heartbeat slowed its rampant pace, setted into a normal rhythm.
I'm fine. I'm fine, she told herself, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead as she tilted her head back to look at the ceiling. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
She returned to the bathroom where she fished out a new pack of pills from a drawer. She carefully punched out the first five pills, then tossed them and the almost empty pack in the garbage. Sixteen days from now, she'd again reach those cursed green pills, only this time she'd look forward to their announcement of what was to come.
Three weeks later
Laura sat curled up on the couch in Remington's flat, wrapped in a blanket and staring out the terrace doors. She'd come here directly after work, some four hours before. It has seemed… right… somehow, to be here.
Those little green pills had heralded it was time for her cycle to begin… three days ago… and it hadn't.
For two weeks she'd dilligently ignored her aching breasts.
For nearly a week, she'd ignored the twinges of nausea hovering on the outskirts of her mind when she woke each morning.
But she'd been unable ignore those little green pills and how they seemed to mock her.
She couldn't put off taking the test any longer. There were decisions to be made, and the clock was ticking on at least one option. Here, where his presence surrounded her, she felt as though they were sharing the news together… to some small degree, at least.
She needed him to be here when she looked at that little plastic wand, which lay abandoned on the coffee table where she'd tossed it hours before. When the test came up negative, they could share relieved laughter, pop open a bottle of good champagne, and celebrate. And if that test were positive?
Then they could make the decision on what to do, together. As it should be. Should have been.
Thirty-two days. Her Mr. Steele had disappeared into the night thirty-two days ago. She'd concocted a story for Mildred: Mr. Steele's away on a case. It's all very hush-hush, need to know only… even she didn't know all the details. Mildred had bought it, hook, line and sinker, enamoured with the cloak and dagger of it all. For the first two weeks. Then, over the last two, their sargeant-at-arms had become increasingly more agitated. Only that morning, she'd cornered Laura.
"Where is he, Miss Holt? Why has he abandoned us," Mildred had demanded to know, in a tone akin to a wail.
"Mildred, get a grip on yourself. I told you that… he's away on a case."
"What case? Why didn't he tell me? It's not like him to take off like that. I mean, without a word, a note… a collect call," the older woman argued.
"It's all very hush-hush. I don't even know all the details myself."
Her assurances had soothed Mildred, as much as they'd comforted herself: Not at all.
She snorted a silent laugh from her position on the couch. Two weeks before, she'd presented Mildred with a list of five names, the Agency's trusted secretary having no idea of the man behind the names.
"Mr. Steele needs you to locate these five men, so he can speak with them." She held up a hand, making it clear no further questions were invited. "That's all I know. Give it the full work up. Flights, worldwide. If one of them shows up, check hotels, boarding houses, B&B's, even hostels in that area. He needs to know where to find them."
Mildred had agreed, eagerly, if for no reason other than the fact the directive had come from the Boss.
He was making it difficult for her to trace him, as she'd known, instinctively, that he would. Richard Blaine had departed Los Angeles on a flight to Perth, Australia. He'd stayed at the Westin Perth for six days before Paul Fabrini hopped a flight from Perth to Genoa, Italy. Fabrini had stayed at the five-star Bentley Hotel for nine days, before John Morrell flew from Genoa to Saint Tropez. Mildred had never been able to ascertain Morrell's hotel of residence while in Saint Tropez, but it had mattered little given only four days after Morrell's arrival, Michael O'Leary had flown the blue skies towards Dublin.
It was only a matter of time before Douglas Quintaine made his appearance and once he did…
Then what?
She sighed heavily. She didn't know. She wanted him home, but given the trouble he was taking to disappear, it was clear he was doing whatever he could to shake her off his trail, likely lamenting he'd no recourse but to use the passports he had at hand.
She blinked her eyes rapidly. She couldn't cry… wouldn't cry. She hadn't shed a tear since he'd left and wouldn't now, as in her mind, those tears would be a concession, an admission that he was gone for good. And that she couldn't accept. She'd crumbled when her father had left. She'd fallen apart when Wilson had walked out. But for her Mr. Steele, she'd fight.
She sighed again. In the meantime, there was another battle to conquer and it was the one she was fighting with herself. She turned her head and stared at the little white wand lying on the coffee table. Digging deep, she found the chutzpah to reach for it, as she closed her eyes.
She said a little prayer, then opened her eyes and peered at the little window which would announce how much her life might change, if at all.