Chapter 22

Mentally, Laura paced the room, although in reality she still sat in the corner of the couch, her nearly empty mug of tea held between her hands. The moment they'd heard the front door close, Daniel had deftly changed topics from 'Harry's' youth to stories of his world travels… A topic he'd been devotedly married to ever since. With a downward cast of her eyes towards her wrist, she noted Remington had been back for nearly forty-minutes, yet still hadn't made an appearance.

She had no idea what to do. She'd already sacrificed a great deal of her pride by flying halfway around the world to find him, then had given up another healthy portion while he'd stood in this very room flirting with Felicia. She didn't know if she had it in her to give up yet more by going to him.

Especially knowing where he'd been, with whom and what they'd been doing all this time. Her stomach flip-flopped and she would swear her skin had a green tint to it, when the image of him… doing… with her… traipsed through her mind. Without a conscious decision, she set the now empty mug on a coaster then rose from the couch while reaching for her purse.

"I won't pretend to know precisely what's happened…" Daniel's voice broke through her daze "But, knowing Harry as I do, you won't get another chance should you leave." She sat back heavily, and lifted a pair of fingers to her brow.

"He talked to you?" she couldn't help asking, then silently berated herself for doing so. Of course, Rem… Mr… Har… he'd told his old mentor what had happened between them – the two were thick as thieves, after all. Only… if he had… why was Daniel going out of his way to keep her there?

"You know how Harry is when it comes to such things," he shrugged. "But enough to know that he believes he gambled and lost." He cocked his brows meaningfully at her as he stood and reached for her cup, every playing the gracious host. "Does he have reason to believe that to be so?" Clearly, he'd momentarily forgotten the woman he asked the question of was as cagey as his protégé when it came to discussing private matters.

"Sometimes people have every reason to believe something happened, even though it never actually came to pass," she replied. His lips quirked at the corners. Presenting her with a fresh cup of tea, he resumed his seat. Given she appeared to have relaxed enough to stay, he decided returning to the tales of his travel was the best course.

"There's a most stunning island by the name Tetiaroa in French Polynesia. While posing as a Duke, I became involved with a young woman, a wealthy descendent from Tahitian royalty. The island was a favored retreat of her—"

"Daniel, a moment if you don't mind," Remington requested as he strode through the room towards the bar, without so much as acknowledging Laura's presence.

"Of course, my boy. Anything you wish," Daniel replied jovially. He and Laura simultaneously stood.

"I'll just step out to give you privacy," she offered. He glanced towards Remington.

"I'm sure that would be most appreciated," he agreed. "Might I suggest the view from the balcony? The boats bobbing on the water under the light from the moon and the stars is quite… magnificent." With a nod of her head, she left the room, as Daniel crossed the room to where Remington stood. Picking up the decanter of brandy, he refreshed his snifter.

"You seem to have made a miraculous recovery," Remington noted, sarcasm lacing the words.

"I attribute it to the brandy, a cure my own mother once swore by." Daniel answered with a lift of his brows and the snifter simultaneously.

"Enough of the rubbish, Daniel," Remington demanded. "What exactly is it that you're up to?" Daniel gave him a look of feigned confusion.

"Up to, my boy?" Remington scowled.

"Cut it out. You've never cared for Laura, yet I find you first serving her dinner and now sitting about sipping tea and brandy as though the two of you are old mates catching up. What's your angle?"

"My angle?"

"Daniel…" Remington growled in warning.

"I just want what's best for you, Harry," Daniel told him, giving up the act. "You'll need a clear head for the job a—"

"I've already told you, Daniel, I've no interest in The Life any longer. In fact, I plan to be on my way tomorrow." Daniel let that announcement slide, for now.

"All the better that Linda is here, then. Once you've had it out, you can finally close the chapter on that part of your life, and begin anew without dragging old baggage with you."

Remington didn't believe the man for an instant, but understood pursuing whatever mischief Daniel was up to would be a moot point. Knocking back the remainder of the scotch in his glass, he splashed in two more fingers than stared at the open doorway to the balcony for several long ticks of the clock. Finally, after drawing in a deep breath and releasing it in a whoosh, he walked towards the doors.

What had she been thinking? What had ever compelled her to believe she was up to the imminent conversation she and Mr… Rem… Har… he were going to have? Setting the mug of tea down on the railing, she wrung her hands, nervously.

When she'd set out to find him, she hadn't fooled herself into believing that he'd welcome her with open arms, proclaiming all had been forgiven. No, she'd inadvertently wounded him enough times over the years to know his self-preservation skills were as healthy as her own. It would take a gentle touch, the right words, to find a chink in the self-protective armor he'd have shielded himself with. But once she had, forgiveness for her moment of panic would come, as it had for all her other missteps and wrong turns in the past.

What she hadn't anticipated was the white hot fury swirling around him and the icy looks of utter disdain that accompanied it. This was a side of him with which she had little familiarity. Oh, she seen brief flashes of the anger he was capable of – his interactions with both the morgue attendant after Wallace's death and Stuart Thorpe after a bomb had been set in her house readily came to mind. But that anger had never been directed at her. And now that it was?

She had no idea how she'd get through to him. If he couldn't stand to be in the same room as her, it was a relative certainty that he wouldn't allow her to get close enough to touch him. Hell, the man wouldn't even deign to look at her.

"You have two minutes," a hard voice announced behind her. Unseen, she closed her eyes and scrunched her face, then turned to face him.

"We need to talk. To clear the air between us, to—" His brittle laugh, had her encircling herself with her arms.

"Oh, I think you were crystal clear the last time we spoke." He lifted his watch, made a display at looking at its face. "Time's ticking." She scrambled for something, anything, to say while she gathered her thoughts.

"It didn't take you long to return to the life," she noted quietly, then dropped her eyes, when he leveled a thunderous look upon her.

"Ah, of course. How foolish of me not to have known what it was you wish to speak of," he noted with derision. The muscle in his cheek twitched and his chest rose and fell, as he fought to keep hold of his temper. "Well, rest your pretty little mind, Miss Holt. I've no intention of doing anything that might impugn the reputation of your mythical Remington Steele. After all, he may have been your creation, but he was my masterpiece." He raised his scotch in a mock toast, then drank down the amber liquid, slamming the empty glass upon a nearby table. "You can see yourself out." With that, he descended the stairs to the beach, as Laura's own temper flared. With a growl of frustration, she threw up her hands and followed on his heels.

"Oh, for God's sake! I didn't come here because of the mythical Remington Steele," she shouted at his back. "I came for you."

"Tired of your senatorial candidate already, have you?" he shouted over his shoulder at her, as she picked up her pace until she kept stride next to him. "I suppose I should take some comfort in knowing no one can live up to your rigid standards. What egregious act was it he committed? Dozed off at an inopportune time? Jaywalked? Fudged his tax return? Failed to satisfy you between the sheets?"

"You seriously can't believe you stand on morally higher ground than I after tonight!" she shot back.

"You're damned right I do. You bloody well left my bed to climb into another man's!" he bellowed. Spinning on his heel he walked in the direction of the house. She had to scramble to turn around and keep up with him.

"And you screwed Felicia tonight to spite me! So even if I had, it would seem to me that the playing field's been leveled." She cut a hand across her body in emphasis. He lifted his arm and looked at his watch.

"You've a minute left, Miss Holt. I'd suggest…"

She didn't hear the rest of whatever he was saying. Her head roared with white noise, drowning out everything but her thoughts. The reminder that she was on a timer had left her aghast with insult… but it was catching a glimpse of the hickey on his neck that had left her breathing shallowly, her hands flinching at her sides. It had been one thing to think of Felicia and him in bed together in the abstract, but the visible proof of the act had sent images running through her mind… and left her feeling as though she'd been punched in the gut.

It was an all too familiar sensation. How many times over the years had she felt as though the breath had been knocked right out of her, because of something he'd either said, or had, more likely, done? How many times had she forgiven him with little to no impunity? And here she was, after having flown halfway around the world, for…

"I can't do this," she said, quietly, unaware she'd even spoken.

"What? Leave? Last I saw, as you were walking out my flat's door, you were well versed—"

"I can't do this anymore," she said again, interrupting him. "What am I doing?" she asked no one in particular, her voice rising, as she threw up her hands in frustration. "How many times, Mr.-… Reming-… Har-…" she growled, vexed, "Whatever name it is you want to be called?"

"How many times what?" he snapped.

"How many times have I fought for you? How many times have I put everything I have on the line for you? How many times have I compromised who and what I am, in order to keep you safe?" She drew in a shuddering breath as a drop of wetness slipped, unnoticed, down her cheek. "And here I am, again, halfway around the world, fighting for you. I have spent weeks beating myself up for being what you've always encouraged me to be: human." She wrapped one arm around herself while she swiped at her eyes with the fingertips of her other hand. "I don't know what I thought it would be like... I don't know that I ever thought about it at all, as a matter of fact, given…" She shook her head and drew in a strained breath, began to babble around her sobs. "Whatever I thought, I hadn't expected… We were spending all our time together… you were saying things like… that…but still hadn't told… I didn't know… I was so… happy… out of control… terrified…"

She wiped viciously at her face, as he fought the impulse to reach for her. He'd never seen her have a go at it like this, not even the night Veckmer had seen her house leveled. It wrenched his heart, but he couldn't get past his own pain to find a way to ease hers. Tugging one hand through his hair, he shifted uncomfortably as he shoved his other hand in his pocket. She forced herself to calm, to speak coherently, as her tears continued to well and fall, unwelcomed.

"You left," she accused. "I came back and you were gone!"

"I had no reason to stay."

"And that's my point," she sniffed, raising and dropping her hand. "When have you ever fought for me? You could have come after me that night, any number of times: At your flat, at my loft, at the airport. But you didn't. Because whatever it was I'd thought we had together was not meaningful enough to you to sacrifice your pride for." She pressed her fingers to her eyes, and while shaking her head, laughed sadly. "Yet, here I am, just as I was that night," her voice cracked, as another sob pushed its way past her lips, "Sacrificing my pride, by coming here, where you brush me off, humiliate me by making me wait as you screw Felicia just so that I can apologize to you and beg you to come home because I lo—" She shook her head, refusing to finish that thought. He'd had enough and reached out a hand towards her.

"Laura—"

"Don't!" she bit out, jerking a step backwards to avoid his touch. Drawing a deep breath, with a will of steel she forced the tears to stop, and she pulled herself up to her full height as she began to back towards the stairs of Daniel's house.

"I can't do this anymore. I won't keep fighting for someone who can't be bothered to fight for me," she informed him, resolutely. She turned and began ascending the steps, stopping midway up. "In a way, this is better," she said, thoughtfully. "Had this gone the way I'd hope, I don't know if I'd really ever have known the truth." She drew in a breath and nodded to herself. "I'm pregnant."

He stumbled as though he'd taken a physical blow and his head roared has he grabbed for the balustrade of the stairs to prevent himself from falling.

"What did you say?" he asked, hoarsely. He may as well not have bothered, because he couldn't make sense of what she was saying through the buzzing in his head.

"I told you we needed to talk," she reminded him quietly. "I'm pregnant. Whether I like it or not, whether or not it's the 'it' thing to think or do, I thought you should have the right to weigh-in on…" she shuddered, and forced the words past her lips, "…the options. If you even want to weigh-in, that is, because abstaining would be an option as well."

"Get out," he ground out, so quietly she barely heard it.

It all suddenly made sense, why she was here. What a buggering egit he'd been to allow some small part of himself to believe, if only for an instant, that perhaps he'd truly meant enough to her – him, not the mythical Remington Steele – that she'd come to bring him home. Oh, she'd put on a convincing act with that sob show of hers, but she'd overplayed her hand. She hadn't come for him at all. She'd found herself pregnant by the man she'd left him for and bloke had left her high-and-dry. The bloody woman knew him better than anyone else upon the planet, and could be assured he'd never abandon a child of his, no matter the circumstances of its birth. Pawn the kid off as his, problem solved.

"Get out," he roared, when she didn't move. With a regal nod of her head, she began climbing upwards again, as she spoke.

"There's only ten more days before a decision has to be made. If I don't hear from you by the end of the week, I'll conclude you don't wish to be involved in the decision." She walked across the balcony to the doors to the living room, then turned to look down towards him, where he still stood with his feet in the sand and his hand on the balustrade.

Somewhere in the back of her head, she recognized that this might be the last time she ever saw him. Now, when he gave her such a cold look of loathing and derision, it sent a shiver down her spine.

"Get out," he rasped again.

Her brow crinkled, her lips trembled and she felt the moisture forming in her eyes again. Nevertheless, she managed one, final nod, before she turned and disappeared into the house. She didn't even pause as she swept her purse off the end table, and strode through the house to the front door, closing it quietly behind herself when she left.

Daniel's head swiveled back and forth between the front door and the balcony from where he stood by the kitchen. He'd been drawn from his room when he'd heard Harry shout 'Get out!' Given Harry and Linda hadn't strolled out the door, arm-in-arm, it was a safe bet his plan had gone awry.

And until he knew exactly how it had gone wrong, he wouldn't be able to put in place the next step in his plan.

With a put upon sigh, he reached for a snifter and the brandy, then, with drink in hand, sat on the sofa facing the balcony and waited for Harry to return.