Chapter 18

Laura slipped her lock pick set back in her purse, then stepped into the house, closing the door behind her. She listened keenly for several long heartbeats and heard nothing stirring within the walls of the dwelling. On quiet feet, she stole through the foyer then down the hall, until she entered the great room.

With an attentive eye, she discerned nothing had changed in this room since her visit, including the slightest hint of Remington's cologne. Further exploration downstairs revealed a guest bathroom, laundry room, and what appeared to be the master suite. A thorough search of that room had uncovered nothing suspicious, although it did confirm Daniel's wardrobe was as extensive and expensive as Remington's own.

Doubling back through the house, she climbed the stairs to the second floor. The first room to the right was a guestroom that appeared not to have been used in some time, the room directly across the hall a near replica of the first. The third room, on the street side, offered up a surprise: A shockingly well-organized and tidy home office. She located a safe behind a painting, useless, of course, since unlike her partner, her safe-cracking skills were non-existent. A search of the desk had given up nothing, other than an eye-popping balance on a bank statement under the name of Leighton Sinclair. She didn't even want to think about what other accounts might exist, bearing the name upon his passports.

The fourth room upstairs had been recently occupied by a woman, given the few items left behind: A nauseatingly expensive perfume on the dresser, and a box of opened tampons in the medicine cabinet. A guest of Daniel's? Or Remington's? Her stomach clenched at the thought of the latter.

It was in the final bedroom where she found confirmation that Remington, indeed, had taken up residence in the large suite overlooking the sea. She closed her eyes and inhaled, breathing in both his rich scent and the woodsy cologne he favored. If that hadn't been enough proof, on the dresser lay the watch with black leather strap she'd given him in celebration of his first anniversary as Remington Steele. She slid open the closet doors, looking into each, the clothes hanging there assuaging any fear she might have had that he'd taken flight again.

She fingered one of his white dress shirts, The evening of their 'rescue' from the cabin in Aspen, they'd made love, then had fallen asleep, bothering to do little more than tug a sheet up over their bare forms. When the need for the bathroom and caffeine had dragged her from her dreams, less concerned with her nudity than the nip in the air, she'd picked up the first piece of clothing from the floor that she'd seen: a shirt much like the one she was touching now. She'd drawn it on, rolled up the sleeves and slipped a single button through its corresponding hole.

Remington had awakened while she was on the phone with room service, ordering them breakfast, coffee and tea. The look on his face, in his eyes, when she'd turned around had left her heart racing, her blood pulsing. The proprietary gleam in his eyes may have offended her in another time and place, but that morning it had been accompanied by a warmth and vulnerability that, if she'd dwelled too long on its meaning, might have sent her seeking the escape of her room.

Instead, she'd watched as he pushed himself to a sitting position, then held out a beckoning hand to her.

"Come here, Laura," he implored.

With a smile that was purely for him, she'd settled her bottom on his lap, burrowed her fingertips in his hair and had drawn his lips down to hers. Several times, as they'd made love, she'd tried to shed herself of the shirt, only for his hand to brush hers away. He'd made love to her as thoroughly as if she were bare, working around, under, on top of the shirt while she shivered when the silk shifted against her skin providing a sensual experience all of its own. It had been one of the more erotic experiences of her life and she'd inadvertently, lightly, scored the back of his shoulders, the cheek of a bum with her nails when she'd at times try squirm away from the sensual onslaught, while at others she'd clutched at his skin as a climax washed over her.

From that morning on, it wasn't uncommon to find her wandering the house by day in one of his shirts, with or without a pair of shorts beneath or garbed in one as she leaned over a cup of coffee in the morning. Each time when his eyes first alighted on her dressed thus, those blue eyes would fill with that same look which became less frightening and more… exhilarating… each time she saw it.

She forced herself to step back and close the closet door, then found herself drawn to an easel curiously perched facing toward the wall in front of a pair of French doors. She gasped, when she saw the sketch he'd been working on: Her, sitting on her knees before the fire, her back completely bare, as she looked back over her shoulder at the artist.

She'd seen a glimpse of his abilities, when, during the Wayne case, he'd casually hand drawn a day's edition of The Blaster comic strip, cleverly illustrated to convince their suspect his life was in danger. She'd been impressed, but still hadn't had any idea how truly talented he was.

How did I not know this about him?

She lifted the large sketch pad from the easel and turned through the pages, mesmerized by each image created by his hand.

"I've always said Harry could have been one of the great art forgers of our time," Daniel commented from the doorway, taking some pleasure at how she was startled by his presence. To her credit, she recovered quickly.

"We had a case, not long ago, when he illustrated a comic strip to catch a murderer," she shared, setting the sketchbook back down on the easel. "He mentioned then that he'd had a little bit of commercial training."

"Until he discovered my motive for sending him to school," Daniel chuckled. "Even then Harry had very passionate views on some matters, but one could never anticipate when those mores would rear their ugly heads."

"Such as forging the painstaking works of someone else," she theorized.

"Walked away and wouldn't entertain a single notion of returning," he confirmed, then gave her an assessing look. "Now that my little secret is out, I'd wager it's safe to assume you've no intention of departing before you speak with Harry." Her chin tipped up a notch.

"It is."

"Then we may as well make the best of it," he suggested in an unexpectedly cordial tone that set Laura on edge.

What is he up to now? her instincts screamed at her.

"We'll see about that," she muttered beneath her breath. Much like Remington would, Daniel puckered his lips in amusement and laughed silently at her remark. At each encounter with the woman, he understood a little better what it was that drew Harry to her. She'd always be a challenge, that much was certain, and his boy certainly enjoyed the impossible. "What are you doing here?" she asked, as he took her hand and laid it on his forearm, escorting her downstairs. He raised a comical brow.

"Shouldn't it be I, my dear, asking that particular question of you?" Her eyes flickered away from his profile, uncomfortable, when a soft blush infused her cheeks at his valid point. But never one to back down, she squared her shoulders.

"And I would think that was self-explanatory," she retorted. He patted the hand against his arm.

"I decided I'd prefer a quiet dinner in over the cacophony of the casino this evening," he offered, as a peace token. She studied his expression out of the corner of her eye. Had he known she'd return after he left?

He held out a hand towards the barstools at the counter, in offer of a seat, as he stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes followed him as he worked proficiently in the kitchen, removing the ingredients for the salad from the refrigerator. By the time the eggs were halved and the bacon was crushed, the leftover bacon dripping from earlier were sizzling in a pan. A few dashes of red wine vinegar were added to the pan, a tablespoon of olive oil, then he was tossing the salads in the warm concoction. In a flash, the salads were garnished with egg halves and bacon crumbs, and a bowl was set before her, along with a goblet of ice water. He opted to take his salad at the island, as he turned his attention to a platter of asparagus that he removed from the refrigerator.

"Did Mr. St-… Harry, learn how to cook from you?" If he was caught off guard by the question, he didn't show it.

"Learned from one another, might be more accurate," he mused, as he added the asparagus and olive oil into a mixing bowl. "When I first plucked Harry from the streets, I'd been long accustomed to taking my meals out." Into the bowl was added a drizzle of parmesan, a pinch of garlic and a dash of salt and pepper. "In those early days, Harry was hardly… presentable enough… to take to the establishments I favored. It seemed if we were to eat, the appliances in the kitchen would have to be put to work. I bought a couple of recipe books, filled the larder and…" He shrugged a shoulder, as he placed the cookie sheet of marinated asparagus into the oven. "It became a favored game of ours, seeing how one might outdo the other the next night. Eventually, we found more enjoyment by working in tandem, while discussing our day."

"French cuisine didn't seem a… daunting… task for a teenager to undertake?" she wondered, as he placed a cast iron skillet on the now lit burner.

"In the early days we were particularly enamored by Italian cuisine, or simpler fare that required more time invested, than any truly measurable skill," he waved a hand carelessly around the kitchen, indicating the meal he was cooking that evening. "Harry, as in most things, was far more skilled than I, expanding his horizons to include French cuisine, then Indian and eventually, on a visit, he'd added Greek to the list of his creations. Soon, he became the chef, while I was rendered to the status of 'prep cook.'" He chuckled. "I've many a fond memory of those evenings."

Laura pushed away the salad bowl and leaned back on the bar stool, taking a refreshing sip of cool water from the goblet in her hand. The salad had been tasty, but the dressing far too rich for her that evening. She continued to watch as Daniel moved fluidly through the kitchen, searing the steaks in a pan lightly coated with olive oil. The silence between them lingered as the steaks were removed from the pan and placed on plate, where the roasted asparagus joined the succulent slices of meat. Beef broth was added to the skillet, then cognac. The concoction boiled for a minute, maybe two, before he removed the skillet from the burner. Once butter was added to the liquid it was whisked until the butter fully melted, the sauce was poured over the steaks, and she found another plate set before her.

There was an ebb and flow to conversation during the meal, Daniel remaining in the kitchen, she on her stool as awkward silences were interrupted by brief periods of casual conversation. A hand over the top of the glass set before her was a signal she wouldn't be partaking of the wine that evening, but her glass of water refreshed was accepted with gratitude. She'd attacked the asparagus with relish while nibbling at the tender, juicy steak. He was nearing completion of his meal when the sound of the front door closing was followed by a woman's screeching laugh, and the rich, familiar timber of a man's answering one.

Nervously, Laura slipped off the barstool, smoothing her hands over blouse and skirt as she stood waiting for him to appear.

Then he was there.

Stunned blue eyes met hopeful brown ones.

Then, anger ignited in both pairs of eyes, as her eyes landed on Felicia and he accepted the woman standing before him wasn't a mirage.

"What is she doing here!?" they demanded in unison.