Chapter 13: Harry Chalmers?

"We might all be better off if I were," Daniel replied somberly, "But I'm afraid, for better or worse, it is true: Harry is my son." Laura's brow twitched. She didn't believe the man, not for a second, but she needed to know what he was up to.

"I don't understand," she replied, forcing compassion into her voice while sitting down heavily. "How is that even possible?" Irritation flashed across his face.

"You can't leave anything alone, can you, Linda? Even in this, you have to have all the dirty little details," he accused with some bitterness tracing his words. "You, of all people I would think, should be thrilled Harry'll finally have the answer to the questions that have plagued him."

"I want him to know the truth, that's what I want," she replied quietly.

"This is a discussion I should be having with Ha… my son, don't you think?" he hedged. Concerned she'd see through his ruse… or had a suddenly developed a conscience? She wasn't sure.

"You won't have the opportunity to have this discussion with Mr. Steele at all, unless you can convince me you're telling the truth," she retorted, tossing aside the whole notion of the soft touch. She lifted her eyes ceilingward and tapped her lips with an index finger. "Remington and I were planning to spend my next visit in Italy," she mused aloud. "A couple of well-forged passports, and a thousand miles between us and whoever wishes to kill him could be just the ticket, actually." She leveled a pair of steely eyes on him that defied him to test the validity of her threat.

He took measure of her, then walked to the buffet across the room. Tugging open a solid door, he revealed a selection of spirits and glassware. Removing a decanter of fine scotch, he splashed a couple of fingers into a glass, enjoying a swallow before turning back to her.

"I've never told Harry about the most exquisite lady ever to grace my life," he began. Laura settled back in her chair, arms crossed and leg swinging. "What she saw in me, I'll never know. Unfortunately, I was too young to… seize… what might so easily have been mine." Sauntering along the windowed wall, he took another sip of his scotch a though to fortify himself. "Instead, I tried to pull off the most… wildly ambitious caper… and went to prison instead." Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Remington had never mentioned Daniel doing a stint in prison. Of course, it wouldn't beyond him to keep that information to himself out of loyalty, if nothing else. Daniel surreptitiously looked her way to be certain she was still watching and listening. "While I was incarcerated, I learned she was with child. My child. She died giving birth." Another drink followed, before he continued on. "The baby was… put up for adoption. By the time I was released, I had no idea where he was. I wandered around, several years. Aimlessly, really. Then one day, I suddenly realized I desperately wanted to find my son."

"And you just happened to bump into him on the streets of London," Laura offered with no little cynicism. He pretended not to hear it.

"No one was more surprised that I," he forced a laugh. "Providence, it would seem, has a wicked sense of humor. I searched the continent for years and then a street urchin picks my pocket and in doing so, I found my son." She crossed her arms.

"And just by looking at him you knew," she fed him, drily. Another drink of his scotch and he turned to face her.

"He's the spitting image of his mother," he informed her.

"Convenient, given he doesn't resemble you in the least," she noted.

"Much to his better," he joked, then grew more solemn. "I questioned it as well, for years in fact. But as the time moved on and I learned more of his story, nary a doubt remained."

"Yet, you've had twenty years to tell him and never did. Why?" she questioned.

"I wanted to," he assured. "Believe me. A hundred times over. But… by the time I had found him, he'd built up so much hatred against his father… that… I thought it best to be his mentor instead." She swung her foot more vigorously. She'd heard enough.

"There's a glaring flaw in this fairy tale of yours, Mr. Chalmers," her chin tipped up and her eyes narrowed on him before announcing, "We both know who Mr-… Remington's father is, and it's not you…"

A sliver of light spilled into the darkened room as Felicia slipped through the bedroom door. Silently closing it behind her, she paused to allow her eyes time to adjust to the dimness, then crossed the room to the bed on cat-like feet. She hummed low in her throat, appreciatively. There had never been a man quite like Michael to her: That body, his touch… his considerable skills between the sheets…

And as a thief.

They could have taken Europe by storm together, relieving the rich and idle of their ill-gotten gains by evening and mussing the sheets by dawn's light.

That he'd been wholly uninterested in a union of any kind – personal or professional – had been, well, vexing. She was used to a mere lift of a her brow bringing a man to heel, but not this one.

Mmmmm, but it had been amusing – feeling him out, trying to find what it would take to make the man commit… What weakness might he have that would willingly bring him to heel…

It had been even more amusing to see how far she might take things before he'd have enough and set her down.

Her black satin and lace robe fluttered to the ground before she slid into bed next to Remington wearing nothing more than a matching gown with floor length satin skirt and a lace bodice that left nothing to one's imagination.

Her tongue wetted her lips. What a delicious situation to find herself in: A dignified gentleman downstairs whose company she enjoyed (and who, incidentally, had encouraged her pursuit of Michael)… and the man who made her loins burn lying in bed beside her now. She skimmed her nails lightly down his bare chest then leaned in and kissed him.

Deep in his slumber, Remington's dreams seemed to skip like a record with a scratch on it… then disappeared altogether when, somewhere in his subconscious, his mind… and body… registered the soft caresses against his lips and flesh. As his mind roused from sleep, he hummed his approval, wrapping an arm around—

Two things registered at once: It wasn't Laura in his bed… and the sharp pain in his side from attempting to lift his arm in his sleep was a mere twinge compared to the weight pressed against his broken ribs.

Eyes flying open, he tugged his head away then reared it back to see…

Buggering hell, he silently cursed, Laura will filet me alive… although it might be preferable about now…

He drew in a sharp breath.

"Felicia, mind the ribs," he puffed. She rose on a bended arm, a feline smile lifting her lips, choosing to focus on the fact he hadn't tried to shoo her off rather than the glower on his face now that he could breathe. That bit of satisfaction was short-lived, for a breath later he scooted out of the bed. "Something on your mind, Felicia?" he asked as he reached for his robe lying across the end of the bed and shrugged it on.

"Well, I should think that would be obvious, darling," she purred, leaving the bed and slinking in his direction. As she reached for him, he bent over, neatly avoiding her embrace. Scooping up her robe from where she'd let it fall, he held it out to her.

"Dropped something," he noted, drily. As she relieved him of the robe, he flipped on a light… then watched as she tossed the robe aside.

"Do you recall that farmhouse in Bordeaux, darling?" She closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck and runs a finger along the back of his neck. He shivers at the sensual touch, in spite of himself. "You were quite the tiger then: Romantic, yet… savage." She slipped a hand inside of his robe to caress his chest while leading in to nibble on his ear lobe. "Make me growl for more," she urged in a sensual tone. He tipped his head away from her then looked down at her, pointedly.

"Bordeaux's a long way from here. I have a new life now," he reminded, not for the first time in their association. Undeterred, her hand left his chest, to move in a much more southerly direction. She palmed the burgeoning bulge in his pants and caressed it…

"The real owner of this watch," Laura stated emphatically while holding up the pocket watch, "Is Remington's father," Laura continued with confidence, until Daniel barked a laugh.

"The Earl of Claridge?" he asked with widened eyes and a disbelieving voice.

"You can't deny the resemblance," she stood now, taking the floor with confidence. "When I first met the Earl last year, I thought the physical similarities between he and Remington remarkable, as I do now." She sorted out what her intuition had been telling her since her last visit to England. "Even more so now, as a matter of fact," she ruminated aloud while she paced. "It's more than what you see at first glance: Their hair, their eyes or their jawline. They share the same hands, the same mannerisms."

"Now, who's weaving fairy tales, my dear?" Daniel challenged, with another chuckle. "What you're suggesting reminds me of one of those movies Harry's so fond of: The orphan, unwanted and unloved, who sets out on his own when he is still but a child, preferring to take his chances living on the streets rather than facing another rejection or heavy hand. Years later he is plucked off those very streets, his natural skills honed and refined until he becomes a master thief, only to one day discover he descends from the royal line." She frowned, then with a puff of breath waved him off.

"His Lordship has gone out of his way to create common ground between the two of them, something that would require them to spend a good deal of time together," she continued putting the pieces of the puzzle together. "So why lie about who he is?" Her head swung around to regard Daniel. She needed to see his face when she speculated, "He's embarrassed by Mr. Steele's past." Not a flicker on his face, but it didn't matter, as logic made her shake off the idea. "No, that's not it. The Earl's own past isn't exactly squeaky clean and then why go out of his was to create reasons for them to spend time together?" She frowned. "No, I got the sense he genuinely cares for his son." The word 'son' rolled easily – and unconsciously – off her tongue. She spun and faced Daniel, to look him in the fully space. "I want to know what game you and His Lordship are playing," she demanded.

"You've a remarkable imagination, my dear" he praised instead. "I've always thought between the skills Harry and I possess and your creativity, should we team up we'd—"

"You have got to be kidding me!" she exclaimed, horrified. "I stand against everything you stand for! Team up." She snorted her disdain, then plopped her hands on her hips. "Now what the hell are you and the Earl of Claridge up to?"

"You're far too suspicious, Linda," he chastised.

"For good reason," she shot back. Looking down at the watch, she resolved she had only one course of action, for Daniel certainly wouldn't tell the truth. "Well, I guess I'll just have to ask His Lordship when I return the watch to him," she said with a casualness meant to irk.

"I don't see why. His Lordship will merely confirm what I've shared. In fact, he and I share a deep… bond, I suppose you could say, given we've both lost our sons." Determination written all over her face, she lifted a hand and dropped it.

"Then I suppose it's time for Mr. Steele and I to find out who he is, once and for all," She retorted sharply. Their eyes locked, each assessing the other, anger burning in each of their eyes, she furious that he would betray Remington's trust for whatever ruse he was perpetuating this time, and he filled with ire that the woman was always interfering in his plans. Many seconds ticked past before she acknowledged the futility of arguing with him further. "Good night, Mr. Chalmers," she told him in a staccato voice and curt nod of her head. She paused in the doorway leading to the hall, and spoke without looking back. "I can only think of two, maybe three people, whom Remington trusts implicitly. You happen to be one of those people. Don't take that away from him… for his sake."

With those words, she left the room while Daniel returned to the liquor cabinet for another drink. She walked in the direction of the stairway until she was certain he hadn't followed in pursuit, then ducked through a pair of rooms and sequestered herself in the library. Crossing the room, she took a seat at the desk and picked up the phone, rubbing at her brow as she took in the events of the evening.

Daniel was sick. How sick, she wasn't certain, but the number of amber vials attested his condition must be serious. Leaning the receiver of the phone against her shoulder, she tapped in a number, then while listening to the other side crackle before ringing, she pulled a slip of paper out of the pocket of her robe.

"Remington Steele Agency, Krebs speaking," Mildred answered with her crisp efficiency.

"Mildred, it's Laura," Laura announced, looking towards the door and hoping her voice didn't carry to prying ears if they were around.

"Miss Holt?" Mildred answered, her surprise clear. "I was just getting ready to close shop. It's gotta be almost three in the morning there and you know what they say about news in the middle of the night. What's happened? Is it the Boss?"

"He's fine. We're fine," Laura reassured before Mildred's imagination could get carried away. "I know it's the weekend, but first thing Monday morning I need you to do some research for me. I don't care how many strings you have to pull, how many people's palms you have to grease, just get me the information."

"You got it," Mildred agreed, her face alight with curiosity. "Lemme grab something to write with." Sliding open her desk drawer she grabbed her pen. "Shoot."

"I want to know the names of every Sean James – that's S-E-A-N – born in Ireland and England between…" she paused to consider. Remington assumed he was born in fifty-two, but given he didn't even know his actual birth month and year… "1951 and 1953. James is the middle name, not the last. Pull full backgrounds on each of them. I want the names, date of birth, birth place and parents' names of every Sean James whom cannot be accounted for."

"Sean James. Isn't that the name—"

"It is."

"But I thought the Earl said—"

"He did."

"Then why—"

"I don't believe him."

"You mean—"

"Mil-dred," Laura drew out the other woman's name impatiently, "Can these questions wait for another day? As you just pointed out, it's three in the morning."

"Sorry," Mildred apologized meekly, then assuming her stern persona once more, informed Laura, "I'll get right on it."

"Call Murphy. He has some invaluable contacts that may be of help…" She thought on that for a second. "All he needs to know is it is part of rooting out who I trying to kill Mr. Steele, understood?"

"My lips are sealed," Mildred vowed.

"Good. Next, I want to you to research all of Daniel Chalmer's identities. I don't recall seeing he'd done time in prison when I first investigated him. I need you to confirm whether or not he has."

"What is Chalmers up to now?" Mildred asked in a hardened voice.

"I don't know but I intend to find out," Laura replied with determination. "I also need you to find out what this list of medications is used to treat." She rattled the names of the five different medications. Her ears picked up what sounded like movement outside the study door. Leaning over as though that would quiet her voice further, she spoke softly, "I gotta go. Call as soon as you have anything. Bye."

Dropping the receiver silently into the phone's cradle, Laura stood and walked across the room. Pressing her ear to the door, she listened for sounds from beyond. Nearly a minute had passed and there was not a sound to be heard. Easing open the door, she peeked out. Seeing no one, she slipped out of the room and silently closed the room behind her.

Daniel watched from where he was secreted near an alcove as Laura strolled down the hallway towards to the stairs.

What was the damnable woman about now?

"It seems someone has missed me," Felicia gloated, as her hand caressed. Grasping both of her wrists, Remington put space between them.

"Felicia, I've no doubt given your commendable skills that you could make a dead man rise and salute. I'm human, but nonetheless, uninterested," he informed her, firmly. "I'm with Laura." She exhaled her loathing.

"Lisa," she sniffed.

"Laura," he immediately corrected. "You were always so good with names. Why is it you have such difficulty remembering that one?"

"Perhaps because it's the only one you ever remembered for more than one night," she replied, a note of sadness tinging her cool reply. "How is it she could draw a commitment from you when none of us could?" He gave her a wry look.

"I don't think you're interested in my espousing Laura's numerous virtues," he replied, "Let's just say…" A crooked grin lit his face. "…she's an unending challenge and leave it at that, hmmm?" Undaunted, she moved in again, slithering her arms around his neck and diving a hand into his hair.

"Then I suppose I'll have to find a way to tempt—"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Laura spat out. She'd been shocked when she'd opened the door to find the lights on, had anticipated some quip from Remington along the line of 'skulking about in the night'. Instead, she'd walked into the room to find the voluptuous blonde all over him. The steady twitch in his jaw attested to his annoyance despite his passive expression.

An expression that was quickly replaced with panic, his eyes darting first to her, then Felicia, when she spoke. He tried to shrug away from the woman, but her arms tightened around his neck, as she looked over shoulder at Laura.

"Lisa. Do you mind? Michael and I were just getting… reacquainted." Laura scooped up the robe off the floor, then stepped to the pair swiping Felicia's arms off Remington.

"I hate to break up your little… reunion," Laura replied grabbing the other woman by the wrist and hauling her, stumbling, towards the door.

"Why, Lisa, I've never known you to be so assertive," Felicia mocked. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"Then this should shock the hell out of you," Laura forewarned. With a palm to the center of the woman's back, she shoved her through the doorway. "Goodnight." She tossed the robe at Felicia then slammed the door and locked it.

With a huff, she stomped back to the bed, took off her robe and dropped it on the end of the bed. Climbing under the sheets, she pressed up on an elbow and turned off the light, then flopped back down.

Remington stood rooted where he'd been in the now dim room, unsure what to do.

He dragged a hand through his hair.

Exactly how hot was the water he'd found himself in? Merely uncomfortably warm or scalding? He silently damned Felicia to purgatory. He and Laura had been in a remarkably good place for some time now – deportation included – and he didn't need Felicia to do what she'd done unfailingly in the past: Gotten into Laura's psyche, shoring up all those walls he'd been trying to tear down. The last time they'd been in London Felicia's interference and inferences had come bloody close to convincing Laura to be done with him once and for all. What had made her change her—

"Give me credit enough to know when you're angry, not aroused," Laura chastised from the bed, her back still turned to the side of the room where he stood. He licked his lips a pair of times, nervously, and swallowed hard. Then, stripping off his robe, he lay his aching body back in bed.

"What you ever saw in the woman, I'll never know," she commented, grumpily. "Beyond the voluptuous breasts, Amazonian height and bleached blonde hair that is."

He winced. Clearly he was still in that water.

Well, now he was in a pickle.

What to do… what to do.

Any attempt at a bit of charm would fall flat at the moment, so that wasn't an option.

That left honesty, a lie or humor. Honesty risked placing either another blackmark upon his character in her eyes or, even more distasteful, her disappointment, even if unspoken. Neither possible outcome was of particular appeal to him. A lie? Four years ago he wouldn't have hesitated but the truth was, not only was he rarely capable of getting a lie past her but when caught, the price was often far more than he'd have been willing to pay.

Humor it was, then. But one look at her stiffened back convinced him he'd be frozen out for a week, should he dare

He drew in a breath and blew it out slowly.

"I won't deny I found her appealing for a time," he admitted with remarkable candor for him, "And I don't just mean physically. She's a poised, bright, quick witted woman and, perhaps most attractive of all, we were in agreement on a very important point: Neither of us had any interest in being tied down to anyone or any place. We went where the wind took us and should our paths cross, if we shared a night of passion we knew it would be an enjoyable one but if our interests lay elsewhere at the time, that was fine as well." He laughed softly. "She wasn't a half bad thief either." She rolled over to face him, tucking her hands under a cheek.

"Well, one of you forgot that agreement," she grumbled, half-heartedly, followed with a puff of frustrated breath. He carefully shifted slightly to his side and turned his head to see her better.

"Don't confuse arrogance with feelings, Laura," he warned, quietly. "She's an attractive woman, and not only knows it, but knows how to use it to gain nearly any man's devotion that she sets her sites upon. Felicia doesn't love me, her pride's been pricked." His mind wandered to the words she'd uttered to him as they'd walked alongside a serene lake.

"That's the one thing none of the rest of us could ever squeeze out of you, no matter how persuasive we were."

"I was willing to give to you what I'd been unwilling to give to anyone before," he finished softly, while gingerly turning further to tuck her hair behind an ear. She gave him a teasing yet dubious look.

"Your word to stick around for more than a day?" she quipped, drily. He wasn't playing along, and peered intently at her in the muted light.

"All that I have and all that I am," he corrected, somberly. Her eyes blinked several times. Remarks such as those still thrilled… and terrified… her. She palmed his cheek with a hand and caressed it but left the statement unremarked upon, instead choosing to lean in and touch her lips to his.

"How would you feel about getting out of here once your sutures are removed?" she proposed, hand moving from cheek to arm to absently stroke it. His brows furrowed slightly.

"Have somewhere in mind?"

"I believe you promised me time in Italy the next time I visited," she smiled. "I was thinking somewhere near the ocean—"

"Sea," he corrected with a smile.

"Alright, the sea. A little sun, time spent relaxing on the beach. It could be just the ticket."

"I know the perfect place," he mulled, "But what of my would be assassins? Hmmm?"

"I think," she drew out the words, "That with the right passports you'd be safe until you're healed." She shrugged a shoulder. "As much as I hate to say it, we'll have to leave the investigation to Lombard for now. Is two days enough time to secure those passports?" She had not a clue how the black market for passports worked. He considered the question.

"Just enough, with a little bit of persuasion. We'd have to leave out early."

"Then I'd suggest we get some sleep."

"Come closer, then." She worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

"I don't know if that's wise."

"We managed well enough at the pond today," he countered.

"Ah," she held up a pointed finger, "But I was awake then."

"I'll risk it," he retorted. She pondered the suggestion, then scooted closer as he rolled to his back. At his outstretched arms, she wriggled closer until her head was pillowed on his shoulder and her arm lay across his abdomen.

"Better?" He closed his eyes and nodded.

"It will do… for now." With a gentle pat of her hand against his stomach, she closed her eyes.