Chapter 14

Remington walked down to the beach, the moonlight off the water guiding him through the inky night. Bending down, he rolled up the legs to his white, linen pants, then began his nightly walk along the water's edge.

A month. It was a full month today. A full month since last he'd seen Laura, had heard the lilting refrain of her voice, had breathed in her intoxicating scent… even longer since he'd held her, made love with her, had fallen to sleep with her body against his.

A full month, yet still only the thought of her brought the razor sharp plunge of a knife in his gut, the blade not having dulled at all with the passage of time.

And he thought of her all the time, leaving that knife cutting, twisting, from the time he woke until sleep stole him away at night. Sleep where his bittersweet memories became dreams of when she'd been his, for all too brief a time.

The vision of her wickedly slim frame stretched atop his, her chin cushioned on her crossed arms, that lay resting against his chest pranced through his mind. He could feel the heat generated by their bare forms pressed together from chest to toe. He could see the thin sheen of perspriation on her forehead, the contentment in her eyes. Could hear the little tune she'd often hum when happiest. Could smell honeysuckle, grass and what he'd always imagined to be sunshine... a pure, sweet scent that dazzled his senses. His entire being ached from the mixture of memory and longing.

He'd known for years that he was in love with her. During that first year, attraction had turned to yearning; and an appreciation for her intelligence and creativity had formed the basis for an abiding friendship. By the time she'd fallen from that beam above the Federal Reserve, he known…

He was in love with her.

What a terrifying thought that had been.

He'd known he was in love with her. But it had taken losing her in Cannes to make him realize his feelings for her went far beyond a mere infatuation.

His feelings for her had taken root, had become deep, abiding. He was no longer just in love with her…

He simply wholly and completely… loved her.

Enough so that he'd stayed, had endured her brazen flirtations with other men, had waited her out, until, at last, she'd let down her walls, offering them another chance.

Enough so, that thoughts of some form of permanency had bounced about in his thoughts.

Enough so, that in recent weeks he'd come realize only the ultimate form of permanency with her would suffice: Marriage, home, family, future.

He'd wanted it all with her. He'd wanted to go to the Agency with her each day, to see what kind of trouble they could get into, to steal heated kisses behind closed doors, to argue with her over the salient points of the case. He'd wanted endless nights of laughter and teasing as they made love. He'd wanted to watch her eyes glimmering with amusement, to see that dimple flash, in the moment before she leaned over from where she straddled him to kiss him. He'd wanted to feel his fingers tangled in her silken tresses, as he sampled the sweetness of her mouth. He'd wanted long nights of feeling her gentle breath against his chest as she slept nestled beneath his shoulder. He'd wanted to dance the night away in his living room with her… to light a fire and lay before it as they talked deep into the night…

He'd wanted to watch one day as she grew rotund with their child, and dreamt of the moment when his little girl would look at him with the loveliest brown eyes he'd ever seen, save one pair.

Then had come the crushing blow that she wished for none of it with him.

Had instead chosen another man. One she hadn't even known a week before she'd given herself to him.

If thoughts of her were akin to a the blade of a knife slicing him apart, piece-by-piece, then thoughts of another man touching her, kissing her… loving her… was nothing short of torture. A torture he'd lived with from minute-to-minute, from hour-to-hour… day-in-day-out since the evening she'd ended them.

His only respite was those blessed… cursed… dreams where she was his again, if only for a little while.

He sat down heavily upon the sand, drawing a leg up so he could rest an arm across it. He sat there, for hours, reminding himself time and again, she'd never made any promises, had only asked for them. And when that thought offered him no measure of comfort, he turned to the memories of their good days to keep him company until sleep seemed even a possibility.

Daniel leaned against the railing of the terrace, his eyes upon the young man who prowled the shoreline, despite the fact midnight had long ago passed.

Harry had been in residence for sixteen days, and still remained in the state in which he'd arrived: Melancholy and completely closed off. The only words he'd spoken about what had brought him to France were those he'd said that first evening. Any attempts to draw him out since had but met with a glacial warning of…

"Leave it alone, Daniel."

But what thought provoking words he had shared.

"Sometimes… just sometimes… a man is fortunate enough to discover something so rare… so infinitely appealing… that he is willing to go all in…"

Had Harry actually been entertaining the thought of shackling himself to the imperious Miss Holt? He'd dismissed the idea as preposterous a hundred times, only to revisit it again.

"…should the other player not quit the table."

Even more tantalizing, that clue: infinitely easier to solve, yet far more perplexing. Miss Holt had quit the table, clearly. The possessive, territorial Miss Holt? The woman who'd once proclaimed…

"His days with you are over, Chalmers. He's with me now."

Frankly, Daniel was unable to imagine a single scenario in which the woman would willingly release her vise-like grip on Harry. Her hand may have slipped, but he simply could not believe she was prepared to set Harry free.

No, not her. And the shock of it all was that Harry had always seemed to enjoy being bound to her side. Of course, Daniel had known instantly after meeting Laura why that was: Despite the woman's prickly nature and her infallible knack for upsetting his plans over the years, she was the type of girl who made a man think of hearth and home… if a man liked independent sort and was prepared to take on all the difficulties that came with women of such a mind.

Harry never could resist a good challenge.

Daniel chuckled aloud.

He'd never known anyone – man or woman – who understood exactly how to handle Harry… other than himself, of course. It was a craft, understanding Harry and his moods, for he was the amalgamation of all his past lives: The hopeful child who still believed there was goodness in this world, that one day he'd find a home where the people would wish to keep him. The angry, disillusioned teenager that Daniel had pulled from the streets, who'd learned to survive by never allowing anyone to get too close. The man who'd been taught to charm, but to never show himself to the world.

Harry's Miss Holt, however, handled him with an aplomb it had taken three times as long as she for Daniel to learn. She knew when a gentle hand was needed, and when a sound tongue lashing was called for. She was amused by his sulks, more than she was annoyed, but equally capable of either cajoling or brow beating him out of them. She let him get away with the little things he tried to sneak past her, and ripped the carpet out from beneath his feet for the big ones.

Most surprising, however, had been the way the woman had so easily seen through all Harry's personas to the man beneath. He was, after all, a man who craved acceptance, aspired to be respected, appreciated justice, loathed those who took advantge of the weak and longed for what it seemed to him everyone but he was entitled to: A home to call his own. The woman had offered it all to him on the proverbial platter with only one demand should he wish it to be his: Accountability. He, and he alone, would determine his fate. Rise to the challenge and it was his.

It was all Harry had ever wished for: To be fully in charge of his own destiny. His actions, his deeds, his decisions alone would decide the course of his future.

Providence had, for once, been kind to his boy, setting Harry in Linda's path as it had – not that he'd ever admit so much to either of them.

So, what obstacle had providence now thrown in Harry's way that the lad saw as so insurmountble he'd just accepted it as his due?

Daniel didn't know.

Yet, he had a sneaking suspicion the woman he'd come to respect and admire, wouldn't be quite so ready to toss in the towel, as Harry was.

So, he'd formulated a little plan. A damned fine plan, if he did say so himself. It would take precision and quite a bit of daring to pull it off. But should it work..

Daniel glanced at his watch and nodded his head in silent recognition that the time had come to implement that plan. With a final look at Remington, who still sat upon the shore unaware of anything around him, Daniel returned to the house.