Three weeks later
Laura let out a whoosh of relief when she sat down, even if it was on the floor. If anyone had told her what moving to a new home was like when one was five months along in their pregnancy, she would have begun looking much sooner. As it was, her petite frame could not longer hide her pregnancy, her stomach having rounded the last month into a true baby bump that even her baggiest of suit jackets now struggled to disguise. The high heels she normally favored left her feet aching at the end of the day. But worst of all? From lunchtime on every day, she struggled to keep her eyes open.
And in the midst of this were working at the Agency by day and moving by night.
Packing up Remington's flat had been a breeze. In the four years the man had lived there, he had required little 'stuff': His movie posters, a jewelry box and his kitchen wares, accounting for it all. They'd donated both bedroom and living room sets to the Lost Souls Mission to sell, Laura tossing frugality out the window and declaring they'd buy new. She didn't know what was wrong with her, she'd been overly emotional bordering on sappy the last couple of weeks as she'd packed away belongings to move and set aside those to donate. The impulse to buy all new was the perfect example of the latter. There was nothing wrong with their furniture after all, other than it had been his furniture and her furniture. She needed it to be theirs. Not wanted, but needed, and she couldn't have said why other than that burning need was accompanied by the constant refrain in her head of 'new house, new life.'
Their life.
Gerard had done at extraordinary job at negotiating the price and contract, finally concluding the sale at seventy-two thousand below asking, contingent upon inspection and appraisal, with an immediate possession clause to boot.
It wasn't often that Remington Steele totally shocked her. Made her angry, feel resigned, disappointed, and, on occasion, even feel betrayed, but totally shocked her in a good way? No, that wasn't common.
He'd done exactly that as they'd sat at the table during closing, when he'd whipped his checkbook out with a flourish had handed over a check out of his personal account for the full amount of the downpayment and closing costs. Never in a million years would she have given up his surprise before an audience, so she waited until they were on their way back to the office to grill him.
"Would you mind telling me where in the hell you came up with sixty-three thousand dollars?" He grinned at her.
"Well, it's not from ill-gotten gains, if that's what you're asking." And she was. "I've been reinvesting my share of the profits from the electronics stores and trying my hand a bit in the market." He shrugged. "I've had a decent run." Her eyes narrowed.
"How decent?" she asked. Again, that shrug.
"Decent." She ground her teeth together in frustration.
"Care to share?" she asked through those clenched teeth. He scratched at his chin and pretended to ponder the idea."
"In due time…" he'd finally answered.
In due time. Two weeks later and that due time hadn't come, but more purchases had: A professional grill for the patio, surround sound in the screening room, a child security gate around the pool, security on the house and the all new carpeting. She'd had Mildred sitting on the credit card charges and nary a one had come through, just as not a single payment had been removed from the Agency accounts. Her curiosity was raging and he wouldn't satisfy it, not even a little bit.
"Bloody hell," she mumbled beneath her breath, her head jerking up when Remington laughed behind her, finding a great deal of amusement in her use of the British phrase. He didn't need to ask what was wrong – it was the same thing that had been stuck in her craw for the last two weeks: Just how decent was decent.
The truth was, while he was having a little fun with her now – you can't hardly blame a man for wanting to have a bit of fun – he was worried how she might react to the answer to that question. He hadn't lied: The funds for the house had come from his investments, as had payment for all the rest of it. He'd underplayed how well he'd been doing by use of the word 'decent' when, in fact, the sizeable profits he'd been collecting for the multiple electronics stores he and Monroe were partnered in meant he was doing bet than 'decent', far better. In the last year, he'd more than tripled his profits, and if current success was any indication, more blunt would flow to his bank account in short order. Who knew an honest day's work could be so profitable.
Underplayed his recent earnings, he had, but she'd either be amused or irritated, either of the emotions fleeting given the lack of severity of his transgression. No, it wasn't that which had him worried.
It was those other accounts, the ones scattered in banks across the globe, under a variety of pseudonyms. Those he'd hidden for years, allowing her to believe he'd arrived on her doorstep a pauper. Her pride would have never allowed for anything less. After all, as long as he was dependent upon her for a paycheck and his lifestyle, he'd stick around, at least that's how she saw it. He'd known within days of meeting her, that's how it would have to be.
Yet, he'd left her clues, plenty of them, across the years: His penchant for custom suits and fine Italian leather shoes; a piano gifted; his attempts to invest in a race horse and to buy a sailboat – all of these part of the life he'd grown accustomed to in the years before he'd met her.
You'd think as often as he'd brought up finder fees, she would have eventually figured it out quite on her own. He hadn't been a petty thief after all. Take the Marchesa Collection as an example. A finder's fee of ten percent for a set that was priceless was…
A whole lot of blunt.
With a bit of budgeting, he could have bought himself a nice little place on a tropical island somewhere, living out the rest of his life without working a day.
But it hadn't been just those recovery fees that had kept him active long after he was financially secure. It had been the thrill of it, that adrenaline rush that had kept him going… The very same reason he enjoyed the work he did with Laura.
"Something on your mind, Laura?" he asked, casually, while sitting down across from her and taking one of her feet in his lap. The way she winced at his first contact with a knot spoke of just how sore her feet were.
She didn't answer, just glared, as he'd expected. He blithely ignored the look.
"You might want to consider forgoing those heels of yours soon," he recommended. How, she wondered, could she tell him those heels she favored were the only thing that prevented him – and male clients – from towering over her? Even with those extra few inches added to her height, most men looked down on her, making it all the easier to dismiss her. Lose them? Not until the second she had to. "Perhaps a pair of nice flats to accompany your maternity wear, eh?" With that remark, she turned downright cranky.
"Are you trying to say something, Mr. Steele?" she asked, snarkily. He wisely decided it was best to say no more. "Because if that your way of hinting my clothes are getting too tight, I'm well aware of that fact." He held up both hands in self-defense.
"Merely thinking of your comfort, Laura. You've spent this last week paying more attention to the fall of your jacket than the client."
"Maybe that's because they dismiss me the moment I walk into the room! It was bad enough when I was a 'mere woman', now I'm 'that pregnant woman!" she vented her frustration. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then looked at him accusingly. "This," she indicated stomach and feet with a singular swipe of her hand, "is all your fault."
"My fault?" he barked a laugh. "Last I checked, it takes two to cause your state."
"You could have said no," she sniffed.
"And not have this?" he questioned, indicating her and the rapidly emptying loft with the wave of a hand. He gave her a cheeky grin. "Not in a million years." It had been exactly what she'd needed to hear and the words coaxed a smile from her.
"Then you should have to wear heels and get fat," she pretended to pout.
"You're not fat," he disagreed with her self-assessment, "You're growing gloriously rotund with our child and I, for one, have never found you more lovely than I do at this very moment."
"I don't feel that way," she shared, resignedly. "I feel awkward and clumsy."
"Laura, you don't have an awkward or clumsy bone in your body." Her effortless grace was one of her most attractive features in his eyes.
"Yeah, well you try wearing a pair of heels all day when you're five months pregnant and you'll feel awkward and clumsy too," she groused.
"I'm fairly certain if the future of the species depended on men wearing heels and having children, humankind would cease to exist." In spite of herself, a laugh bubbled past her lips.
"You're right, though. I'm going to have to break down and invest in some maternity clothes," she crinkled her nose, "And more sensible shoes."
"If we wait until the weekend, we could combine that with a bit of shopping for the babe," he suggested. Her five month (and a week) appointment was scheduled for the following morning.
"You're sure?" she asked for the dozenth time that week.
"I am. Are you?"
"As appealing as the idea of waiting is, I just don't think in our particular circumstance that it's very practical. We're going to be learning how to be parents on our feet and the more prepared we are with everything we need, the better."
"I couldn't agree more."
"You really don't care?" Another daily conversation.
"Not one bit," he replied.
"Not even a preference?"
"None whatsoever, unlike yourself," he teased. She raised a hand and placed it over her heart, vowing…
"I don't have a preference."
"Your acts would say otherwise," he countered. She dropped her hand, along with her jaw.
"What acts!?" she demanded to know, affronted.
"One, when you speak of the babe," he began to tick off, holding up a single digit, "You inevitably settle into calling the babe 'he' or 'him'…"
"I just find the pronoun preferable to 'it'," she rationalized away, "It has nothing to do with preference." He held up a second digit.
"Two, I found that baseball mitten—"
"Glove," she corrected.
"—That you tucked away into a box."
"That could just as easily be for a girl. I played baseball, if you recall," she rationalized away. Another finger appeared.
"Three, you're forever ooh'ing and aah'ing over boy clothes you see in those magazines—"
"Catalogs," she corrected again.
"—you have your nose buried in of late."
"Even you liked those little knickers with the suspenders," she reminded.
"Ahh, so now we're overlooking the sleepers, booties and hats you admired, eh?" She shrugged.
"I just happened to be in the boys' section is all," she brushed aside. He dropped his hand but pursued his argument.
"Tell me, have you given any thought to names for the babe?" She nodded her head.
"Some. Have you?" This time it was he who nodded.
"More than some, if I'm honest. What have you come up with for a girl, hmmm?" She tipped her head and gave it some consideration.
"I rather like Nicole, Kathleen and Stephanie. Do you have a name in mind?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. Grace."
"No." Just that. A firm and emphatic no.
"But Laura, the name has nothing whatsoever to do with Grace Kelly, I give you my word," he beseeched. It was a complete lie, of course.
"Yet, that was the first thing that came to mind. No, to Grace. Move on." Well, he didn't care for being dismissed as such, but he'd a point to prove. "And a boy?"
"I have a name in mind," she admitted. "You?"
"I do. I believe I recall a distant cousin, or so I was told, named Nathaniel who was a year or two older than myself. I think was kind to me for the short time—"
"No." There it was again. That emphatic, there'll be no argument, no. "You 'believe you recall,' 'so you were told,' 'you think' he was kind? Those aren't reasons to name a child after someone! You're not even sure they're real!"
"And you? What name do you have in mind?" he demanded to know, irritated. Here he'd searched his mind for a name, any name, that he could recall from a child he'd spent a lifetime trying to forget and she'd dismissed it straight out of hand.
"Benjamin," she answered, firmly. It took a second for it to register with him, then his eyes filled with warmth, his momentary pique forgotten.
"You remembered."
"How could I forget the day you barged into my life?" she smiled.
"Benjamin. Benjamin Steele," he tried the name on for size. "A good name, a solid one. One with a rather stately feel about it. A name that gives a boy something to aspire—"
"Can't you just be like normal people and say you like it?" she joked.
"I do. Like it that is. Would you perhaps consider Humphrey—"
"No."
"—As a middle name," he petered off then brightened when another avenue opened up. "John."
"Nice try. Do you really want me to think of Cannes every time I say or hear our child's name?" He swallowed hard. As a matter of fact, he'd prefer she didn't. He'd posed then as John Roby to steal the Hapsburg Dagger. His failure to include Laura in his plan had led to their first big rift in their relationship. No, no. He'd prefer she forget Cannes altogether.
"Peter. A good Irish name if ever I've heard one," he tried again.
"Joshua. Charades. Audrey Hepburn, Cary Grant, 1963."
"Very good, Laura," he praised, then frowned, realizing she'd foiled another plan. "If we eliminate the names of actors and actresses, as well as names of the roles they played, we may never find a middle name for this child," he pointed out.
"By all means, if you can slip one past me, be my guest. But if I can name the actor, role or movie, the name's out." He paused to ponder the suggestion.
"You're on," he agreed. "However, there's one small detail I'd like to point out…"
"And that is?" He held up four fingers.
"Four, you've settled on a name for a son but not a daughter."
With a grin, he patted the bottom of her foot, then setting it down, stood and went downstairs to the kitchen to pack, leaving her there wondering if he was right.
Did she have a preference?
Did he? If Laura didn't believe she had a preference when she most certainly did, did he have a preference of which he wasn't aware?
He didn't know.
The only time he'd thought of himself in the same sentence as 'father' was 'I will never risk fathering a child'. He'd been a dedicated bachelor and had every intention of remaining that way until he took his last breath. There had been no daydreams of kicking about a ball with his son or pushing his daughter upon the swing. There had been no pangs of wistfulness when he saw a happy couple tending their child. There had, in fact, been a complete aversion to every being tied down, in every way.
Carefully extracting himself from around Laura's slim frame, he rolled to his back and folded his hands beneath his head. Closing his eyes, he allowed his imagination to roam. Girl or boy? Boy or girl? At first, all he saw was the darkness of his lids.
His mind meandered to the house.
They'd be completely moved in by the end of the weekend, all the heavy lifting already done. By the time they'd gone through their places, the only pieces of furniture to make the move to the new house was her piano and his dining set which was transported by Monroe's workers with the company delivery truck. That had only left incidentals to be packed into boxes, taken to the new place and put away. With his flat completely emptied, all that remained to do at Laura's loft was to pack up the kitchen and the pictures and knick-knacks she had scattered about.
The carpeting had been laid the day prior, a thick, luscious pile of charcoal gray that pulled the coloring out of the marble in the kitchen and bathrooms. Tomorrow, their new furniture would arrive. Upon hearing of that, in addition to Laura's prenatal appointment in the morning, he'd informed Mildred to clear their mutual calendars: Friday would be about them, their new home, their new life… nothing more. Laura would want her time with the furniture, carefully laying out where each piece of furniture would go. And once she's completed that? It seemed they'd be taking a trip to the store for 'soft goods,' whatever those are.
She'd decided on a color pallet almost immediately – grays, blacks and stark whites with splashes of red, yellow and teal to give life to the monotones. To that end, white, buttery-soft leather sofas and chairs would arrive tomorrow, along with the white coffee and end tables featuring smoked glass. They'd hung the drapes only the night before with him questioning her choice of floor-to-ceiling black-and-white large patterned quatrefoil. Before they'd been hung, he'd felt them far too busy, most notably for a man drawn to the simple-yet-elegant philosophy of decorating. He'd been positively gobsmacked when he'd stepped down from the ladder after hanging the last panel and took in the full effect. The drapes were not busy, as he'd first thought. They were dramatic… and daring… yet somehow made the empty room already seem like home.
Yes, he'd leave the decorating to her, he'd decided. It was she, after all, who'd designed his flat before he was, well, him. He could already see her vision, he noted, as his memory took him on a tour of the room. He could see the fire burning, Laura curled up with a book, he lounging on the couch, while a chubby baby pulled themselves up on shaky legs with the aid of the couch opposite from him, pounding the couch with a chubby little fist gleefully when they'd accomplished the task. Laura beamed proudly at the child, while he chuckled with pride.
Halfway between sleep and wakefulness, he tried to get a better look at the tyke. Raven hair, bright blue eyes, a mop of curls – the babe could be either girl or boy, and the little yellow romper it was wearing certainly didn't provide any clues.
He chuckled aloud, in his semi-dream state, when watching the baby lose its balance and fall on its well-padded rump on the well-padded floor, a surprised look on its face, unsure how it had gotten there.
Boy or girl? He asked the child in his now dream.
Girl or boy?
As would happen were he awake, the child provided no answer.
Why? Was he afraid to discover he unknowingly did have a preference? Or did it mean the opposite? By not answering that question, had he, in essence confirmed he didn't have one?
That night his dreams were peppered with visions of children, and the constant question, girl boy… boy girl… which is it mate?
By the time he woke, he had no more idea than before he'd fallen asleep if he had a preference or not. He did, however, know one thing: He needed to know if the baby Laura was carrying was a girl or boy, before the question drove him stark, raving mad.
The hour had arrived. Laura, already gowned, and Remington, pacing the room nervously, watched the exam room door like a hawk watching its prey.
"Mr. Steele," Laura ground out, "Can you please sit down? You're making me nervous." He blinked a pair of times, then paused to digest what she said, automatically walking to the stool and taking a seat when he had.
He lasted for nine ticks of the second hand, then launched himself to his feet again. Perhaps they had inadvertently locked the room and the doctor assumed they wished for privacy. Crossing the room, he examined said door, unable to find a lock at all. Surely, there must be one given women were disrobing in the room throughout the day, right? He leaned a little closer…
And was nearly knocked off his feet when the door sailed open. He uttered a muffle curse when head met unyielding wood.
"Ooomp," he grunted, then groaned.
"Serves you right," came the unempathetic remark of his partner.
"Mr. Steele!" Lloyd exclaimed. "Are you alright? You'd better have a seat. Stacy!" he yelled out the door then led Remington towards a chair.
"No Stacy. No Stacy," he insisted. The girl already thought he was a buggering egit and he could only imagine how many she'd told about the 'great Remington Steele' after the last two vists. "No Stacy," he repeated for good measure.
The door swung open again.
"Never mind, Stacy."
"Oh, no! Did Mr. Steele faint again? Mr. Steele did you faint again?" she asked, coming nearer.
"No fainting today, Stacy. I have what I need. Thank you." She looked disappointed, but left the room as directed.
"Now, let's have a look at you," Lloyd began, removing the penlight from his pocket. Remington shoved the man's arm away.
"I'm fine. I'm fine."
"He's hard-headed," Laura chimed in.
"Funny, I'm not normally the one to which that particular adjected is ascribed," he shot back, earning a saucy grin.
"I have no idea what you mean."
"Mmmm-hmmm. Of course, you don't. Seeing all appeared fine, Lloydj moved towards Laura on the exam table and Remington followed suit, taking her hand in his.
"Now, Laura, we can either do the exam first then the ultrasound or the ultrasound—"
"Ultrasound," the couple said in unison, leading Lloyd to laugh.
"You've decided you want to know the gender of the baby then," he accurately assessed.
"How did you know?" Laura asked, flabbergasted.
"The time-and-true test. If new parents have decided they don't want to know, they favor getting the worst part out of the way - the exam. If, however, they have decided they want to know, they don't wish to wait another moment."
"Which we don't," Remington hinted.
"Remington!" Laura hissed, surprised by his rudeness.
"What? What did I do?" he asked, confused.
"Here we go," Lloyed announced. The pair fell silent and glued their eyes to the ultrasound screen. "This is going to be a little cold," the doctor reminded, then dispensed a fair portion of gel onto Laura's stomach. Soon, the little wand was moving, and he was making notations on the computer. The second hand on the clock of the room seemed to tick louder… and louder… and louder… as Lloyd moved the wand here, then there, then back to here, then over there. Remington was about to ask what was taking so bloody long when Lloyd's face broke out in a smile.
"You have a shy little guy there. It took me a little to find an angle that would provide what we needed."
"Li… li.. little.. guy? Little guy?" Remington stammered the question. Lloyd nodded and Laura's face positively glowed with happiness. "A boy? We're having a son?" the dazed Remington sought to clarify.
"Yes, it's a boy," Lloyd confirmed with another laugh. Remington turned to regard Laura.
"Did you hear that, Laura? We're having a son." She smiled quietly at him.
"I heard," she replied, with a lift of her brows, amused that once again he'd been thrown for a loop whereas she… Well, she was fairly certain some part of her already knew, and that was why she'd been so drawn to the boy's sections in the catalogs.
"Are you happy, Laura?"
"I'm on cloud nine," she replied. They were having a son, a boy she hoped would not just look like his father, but share his father's intelligence, instincts, crea—
"Just think, Laura, you could have two of me on your hands." He'd meant it as a joke, she knew, but her smile slowly faded.
Getting into trouble and having to be hauled out of it, getting into everything, pulling pranks…
"Oh, God," she mumbled, not realizing she'd said it out loud until Lloyd burst out into laughter…
"Oh, God?" Remington shouted the question over the wind, then repeated with a little more indignation in his tone. "Oh, God?! How exactly am I to take that?" It hadn't occurred to him until they'd gotten to the car after the appointment that he should be insulted by her reaction.
"Oh, for God's sake," she groused, "You're the one who said I could have two on my hands. How was I to take that other than exactly as I did? If you're honest, you're impulsive…"
"Spontaneous," he corrected.
"Irresponsible…"
"Carefree."
"Prone to getting into trouble…"
"Adventurous."
"Did you climb a lot as a child?" she called the question to him.
"What?"
"Did you climb a lot as a child?"
"I've no idea."
"Were you accident prone, like you are now?" His jaw dropped open.
"Accident prone?! I hardly think being knocked out or shoved down stairs breaking my leg qualifies as accident prone," he disapproved.
"How old were you when you walked?"
"I wouldn't know." He was growing increasingly uncomfortable with her questions about his childhood.
"Were you well-behaved?"
"I was a street urchin by ten, Laura," he reminded, hoping to end the questions there.
"That doesn't necessarily mean you were poorly behaved. It could just mean you were surrounded by self-absorbed, evil creeps!" He couldn't argue with that given the handful of memories he hadn't been able to block out attested to the truth in her assessment. "Did you get hurt a lot? I don't mean scrapes, I mean big things like a broken arm or needing stitches or—"
"I was a scrawny, ten year old lad on the streets of Brixton, fighting for food and shelter, so yes, I got hurt more than the average child." The bitter undertone of his voice drew Laura's eye to him. She kicked herself, noting the strain around his eyes. She sought a way to make amends for digging at his painful childhood, and decided to offer him a piece of her own.
"When I was a child, I used to jump off the roof of the all-season room."
"You could have broken a limb!" She shrugged and gave him a dimpled smile.
"That was the point. It seemed like everyone had a cast but me and I wanted one so people could sign it. If I had crutches, all the better."
"That's completely illogical." And so unlike the Laura he knew.
"The point, Remington, is that if you were a climber and I was a daredevil and this kid takes after us…" She let him finish the rest of the thought for himself.
"On the other hand, maybe he'll have your analytical mind and my creativity," he countered.
"Great," she commented drily, "He'll zipline off the roof instead of jumping."
"Good thing we've a one-story, eh?" She couldn't help it, laughing at his quip.
"You're incorrigible," she accused, lightly.
Perhaps he was, but she'd forgotten her worries, at least for now…