A/N: Alright, alright, you win, readers, friends. After requests, expressions of disappointment, a little begging and one prediction as to my health should I not write the 'ending'… here it is.

Chapter 8

Remington stood in front of the door to Laura's loft, shifting from foot-to-foot. Although he'd become well-versed at apologies over the last years when it came to his Miss Holt – and, if he did say so himself, fairly adept at unruffling her feathers when the occasion called, as well – one could never predict how those apologies would be received. With a cool edge, accepting it, but letting him know all was not forgotten. With a wary look, the effort appreciated, but his sincerity a question in her mind. With a warm, somewhat shy, smile that meant she, herself, had possibly gotten carried away. He'd yet to take a door in the face, but one could never rule out that possibility.

Thus, feeling a bit foolish, he'd prepared for this apology with the thoroughness of an art thief planning a heist. The thought had raised a low chuckle from his throat, for what was he, if not a thief trying to steal this particular woman's heart, so he might call it all his own? Standing before his closet, he considered donning his butler's uniform again, for that had certainly stirred the woman's imagination, but quickly discarded the idea as it would muddy the waters on whose fantasy might be played out, should she come round. A suit? No, he rarely worse suits of an evening, unless they were going out. He'd finally settled on the obvious: a pair of jeans that fit a bit on the snug side, a long sleeved chambray shirt left untucked, and a simple pair of white tennis shoes.

Whether the woman would admit it or not – and God above knew she wouldn't – she had a 'thing' for him in jeans. She tended to stand just the slightest step behind him, when he was so clad, and he'd always be left squelching a smile, knowing she was checking out his assets.

He considered the chocolates he held in hand, questioning for the half dozenth time his decision not to bring the champagne for fear that bottle might become a projectile. No use abusing a good bottle of bubbly, now was there? The same could be said for being concussed by one. Uncertainty aside, he wasn't about to return to his flat to get it now. Drawing in a long pull of air, and plastering a smile on his face, he reached up depressed the buzzer to her loft.

Inside, Laura looked towards the door, from where she sat on the couch, wrapped in a thick robe while sipping a cup of tea, still stewing. The man had some nerve, taking what was supposed to be an erotically charged fantasy, perverting it, instead, to force her into a subservient position to him. Vacuuming and dusting, while he watched, criticized, smirked. Well, she'd wiped that smug superiority right off his face when she'd stormed out, hadn't she?

She'd felt a bit smug herself, seeing the look of panic on his face as the elevator doors had closed. It had taken the edge off her temper, in fact…

Until she'd realized halfway home she was still in that skimpy little outfit with not a thing in the Rabbit that she could use to cover herself with when she got to her building. Then? Her temper had flared again. She'd made a mad dash into her building hoping no one would see her before she could escape to the sanctuary of her loft. Almost had. Almost. Until she'd run, almost literally, into her often surly neighbor, Mr. Bartholomew, as he was going down the third flight of stairs while she was racing up them. But it was when the man had stalled at the bottom of the stairs to turn and look up, eyes agog, at her barely clad fanny…

Well, it was a good thing her Mr. Steele wasn't nearby, for she may well have put her hands around his neck and squeezed.

The door buzzed again, tearing her from her thoughts. There was no need to guess who was on the other side of that door. She considered letting him stay out there, depressing the bell, his panic building as he wondered if he'd taken things too far this time.

"Laura."

His voice penetrated the heavy door. With a sigh, she set her cup of tea on the coffee table, then stood up, tightened the sash of her robe more snuggly around her waist. Carefully blanking all emotion from her face, she gave the door a firm yank and slid it open.

His own nerves, however, were written all over him. Good. She suppressed the smile tickling at her lips and lifted a pair of imperious brows at him.

"Did I forget something?" she inquired coolly. "Need a window washed? The silver polished? A spot scrubbed out of a shirt?" A glint of humor flashed through his eyes at her acerbic greeting.

"Well, I do have a few shirts that could do with a bit of ironing," he retorted, a teasing smile on his face. She gave him an acerbic smile.

"I'm sure there's any number of women who would be willing to endlessly dust, darn and iron for the opportunity to be with the great Remington Steele," she answered drolly, the last three words dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe you should give one of them a call."

"Can't do that, I'm afraid," he instantly replied, "As there's only one woman with whom I'm inclined to share domesticity." The intense, sincere look he leveled her with set loose a bevy of butterflies in her tummy, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of allowing him to know that.

"I didn't realize you were dating," she deadpanned. She barely suppressed the laugh that wanted to bubble past her lips at his stalled expression. She widened her eyes in feigned innocence. "Surely you can't mean myself," she continued, pressing a palm against her chest, "Given how clear I've made it over the years that I'm not in the least bit interested in being 'domesticated.'" He swallowed hard. Somehow, he'd hopped from the pan into the fire and he wasn't quite certain how. He let out a short, frustrated puff of air.

"Perhaps we could begin again?" he suggested, holding out the box of chocolates. "A peace offering to accompany an apology. May I come in?" Her mouth watered as she eyed the decadent treat. She stepped back and held out an arm offering him entry, plucking the box of chocolates from his hand as he came inside. She retreated to the couch, curling her legs up under her, while he closed the loft door then took a seat opposite from her on the couch. Leaning forward, he grasped a foot and gently straightened her leg, as she considered the chocolates on her lap.

"An apology you were saying?" she reminded him, as she bit into a chocolate truffle. She hummed quietly, unknowingly, due more to the fingers massaging her instep than the sweet treat melting in her mouth. Good start, Mr. Steele, she commended him in her head. In her opinion, his foot massages were one of his greatest talents.

"I believe you know…" he pursed his lips in a part smile and bobbled his head, "…despite recent events which may have been interpreted otherwise…" his smiled faded and his eyes met hers, "…That I neither see you as subservient to me, nor would I ever wish you to be. I was doing nothing more than having a bit of fun." He gave her a conciliatory look. "At your expense, granted…" he shrugged a shoulder, them added with a raised brow "…Much as you had a bit of fun at my expense as well, if you're to be honest." She mulled the indictment and couldn't deny the truth of the accusation.

"I suppose," she drew out the words, conceding his point. "But, if we're going to act out these… little fantasies… of ours, they're not the time to settle a grievance, to get in a little tit-for-tat. You may be an old hand at these… games… but frankly, I'm not." She dropped her eyes to the box of chocolate on her lap, brows furrowing. "There's a certain level of trust, vulnerability even – at least for me - in just admitting to having the fantasy, let alone acting it out." She lifted her eyes to look at him. "When you do something like you did tonight—" She heaved a sigh, and shaking her head, looked away from him.

Dropping her foot, he leaned forward and clasped her hand in his, giving it an encouraging tug. Dropping the box of chocolates on the coffee table, she turned around and settled between his legs. When she made to lean back against him, his hands on her shoulders stilled her. Nimble fingers loosened the sash of her thick robe, and he slid it back off her shoulders. With only a t-shirt between his hands and her skin, he began locating the knots in her shoulders and massaging them loose, one at a time.

"I'm sorry," he told her, sincerely. "Admittedly, I do enjoying tweaking that glorious temper of yours from time-to-time, but truth be told, while I expected you to demand an end to my antics, it never crossed my mind you'd storm out as you did." His hands shifted lower on her back. "And for the record, contrary to what you seem to believe, I've not made a habit of these games, as you call them, with other women."

"Ha!" she barked, then snickered. "You seem to forget I have a passing acquaintance with some of those women, and I can think of several that would have jumped at the opportunity to play Scarlett to your Rhett, Karen to your Milton, Holly to your Paul—"

"All of which imply an intimacy I neither felt nor wished to convey," he dismissed. "Have you indulged in such with each of your past lovers?" She snorted a soft, short laugh.

"Some might argue my affair with the professor was the very rendition of the naughty school girl and the dirty teacher," she mused. With peace seemingly restored between them he slipped an arm around her waist and eased her back to lay against his chest. Two fingers at her chin urged her to turn her head and look at him.

"Do you think we might start fresh, so that delectable little outfit you were wearing might be given the appreciation it deserves? Hmmmm?" Peace, or no peace, she couldn't resist the opening he'd unwittingly offered her.

"Oh, I think it's already received its fair share of appreciation this evening," she informed him with a lift of her brows. "Mr. Bartholomew was quite taken with it." He had the decency to grimace, but then couldn't help the chuckle that escaped from deep in his throat.

"And here I'd believed he and Albert – What's that quaint American phrase? – Ah, batted for the same team."

"His ogling would suggest otherwise," she noted, drily. Sitting up she pulled her robe back over her shoulders than stood. The look of disappointment on his face was almost comical. "I guess since we indulged my fantasy, it's only fair that we do yours as well." A wide smile graced his face as he sat up, his eyes sparkling with unconcealed glee that he managed to set things right. Her eyes narrowed on him, causing his smile to falter. "But I'm warning you, Mr. Steele… One suggestion that I clean or 'tidy up' anything, and not only will this be the last of the fantasies we indulge in, but I'll need a cleaning crew to mop you off this floor." Standing, he gave her a cocky smile.

"Don' be ridiculous, Laura. A man hardly employs a maid to clean her own home. Now, should you wish to return to my flat,-"

"Remington…" she growled his name. He held up his hands in self-defense.

"Just kidding, Laura. Just kidding."

With a roll of her eyes, she climbed the stairs up into her bedroom to change.