CHAPTER 9

Remington groaned aloud, from where his head was buried beneath the pillow. He lay on his stomach, starkers, he guessed, based on how the sheets felt against his flesh. Blindly, he reached across the bed seeking Laura, another groan ripped from his throat at the reminder of how sore his arms were. A wide grin split his face, unseen.

Laura had ambushed him last night, several times. First in the bath then later in the kitchen, before he'd taken the lead, seducing her in the living room. They'd ended up back in their bed, where they'd made love a final time, spooned together, her leg slung over his hip and he taking her from behind. Her final orgasm has rocked her, and she'd cried out her bliss, something she rarely did. The sound of her pleasure had been enough to send him over the edge with her. Their bodies had barely separated before she was lightly dozing, mumbling before giving in fully to sleep…

"That's one way to christen a house…"

He was fairly certain he'd fallen asleep laughing.

Not finding Laura in their bed, he swiped the pillow off his face and sat up to look around and discovered the room was nearly pitch black. A check of the alarm clock showed it was after ten, and he damned well knew it wasn't at night, as they hadn't gone to bed until after two. He raised his brows. Laura had promised him the black, gray and white room darkening curtains would block out the sun until he wished to allow it in, but he hadn't believed it…

Until now.

Giving his belly a good morning scratch, he got to his feet and made his way to his dresser. There he tugged a pair of briefs on followed by flannel lounge pants. After pulling on a gray tshirt and running his fingers through his hair, he yanked open the first set of drapes, then wished he hadn't when the bright sun blinded him. He made a note to himself to remember in the future that the back of their bedroom was east facing.

He padded out of the master bedroom to go in search of Laura. He'd had to traipse the entirety of the house before he'd found her putting her office in order. Leaning against the doorframe, he waited for her to take notice of him.

"Wasn't it you who vowed to spend today relaxing and napping or was that another Laura Holt?" She smiled at him.

"I happen to find organizing very relaxing."

"Imagine that: Laura Holt enjoying manual labor," he teased.

"Thank God I do, or else nothing would ever get done."

"Speaking of work," he brought his hands together and rubbed them lightly, "I was thinking about whipping up a bit of brunch. Does anything particularly suit your fancy this morning?" She lifted her eyes ceilingward and considered the question.

"Yes, actually," she looked at him, "French toast with blueberry syrup, an everything omelet, sausage and those breakfast potatoes you make." He chuckled aloud. Since the morning sickness had run its course, she wasn't at all shy about voicing her preferences.

"Is that all?" he joked.

"Actually, now that you mention it, I really want some raisin toast with butter and cinnamon sugar."

"Done," he pronounced. "I'll have to make a quick trip to the market." He glanced down at his attire. "I've just got to change then I'll be on my way." She grinned at him.

"I could get used to having a live in chef."

"Any chef?" he teased.

"Well, one particular chef." Approaching her, he dropped a kiss on her lips.

"Better. Much better."

With that he left the room and made the trip across the house for a second time. He was still steps from the bedroom when the phone began to trill.

"I've got it," he shouted in Laura's direction, then double-timed it to the bedside table where the phone sat. Snatching up the handset, he greeted the caller, "Steele, here."

"Harry, my boy," Daniel greeted effusively from the other side of the line, "Just the man I with whom I wished to speak."

"Well, I'd hope you wouldn't be calling here looking for another man," Remington joked.

"You're in remarkably fine spirits," Daniel observed from afar.

"What's not to be happy about? Mmmmm? Laura and I are well and truly together, sharing a home and…" he puffed up with pride "…We're having a boy, Daniel, a son."

"I know," Daniel drew out the word in warning, "As does half of Los Angeles this morning, I'd wager."

"How did you…? Wait, what did you say? Half of Los Angeles?"

"Have you not looked at the paper at all this weekend, my boy?"

"We haven't set up delivery here yet."

"Well, you and your Linda have been making quite the splash on the society pages… The gossip portion, of course." Remington sat down heavily on the bed and swiped at his mouth with a hand.

"I already regret asking, but what exactly does that gossip portion say?"

"That you and Linda were spotted at several stores this weekend, particularly those geared towards infants and maternity, and seemed to take a particular interest in clothes for a lad." Oh, God.

"Laura's going to be furious," he predicted. "Which paper?"

"The Times, of course," Daniel provided.

"Thanks, Daniel. I've got to go now. Bye-bye." Without adieu, he hung up the handset then raced to his closet.

He had to get his hands on a copy of those papers and see just how bad it was….

Remington had easily put his hand on that day's LA Times, but the day prior's edition had proved far more elusive with not a copy to be found at every store and stand he'd stopped at. His frustration had been steadily mounting. He still needed to get to the market and back to the house within a reasonable enough time period that Laura wouldn't question where he'd been. It was only after his ninth stop that he recalled Laura hadn't cancelled the paper at the loft yet, as they'd stayed there the last week after closing up his flat.

He took the stairs two at a time, skidded to a stop in front of the loft door, then patting down his pockets realized he didn't have a key. He went down those stairs two at a time, out the front doors to the building, jogged around it, then took the fire escape stairs two at a time. Puffing for air, he opened her kitchen window with ease and slipped inside.

His relief was immediate, if brief, when he spied the rubber band bound paper just inside Laura's door. Yanking off the rubber band, he tossed aside all except the society section and quickly leafed through it looking for something, anything... No, that can't be… He gave his head a shake, but nothing changed: The article in yesterday's paper was the same as today, word for word. Glancing at the date, he tossed the paper onto the couch with disgust. Today's paper. Where in the hell had Saturday's paper gotten off to?

Then it came to him. His eyes traveled from the kitchen where he'd been packing up everything to send to the Lost Souls Mission to the box in which he'd packed those items. Crossing the room quickly, he dropped to his knees. Opening the box, he began unwrapping pots, and pans, and lids skimming each piece of newspaper as he did so. At last, three quarters of the way through the box… Eureka. He quickly scanned the article…

And groaned aloud.

Laura was bloody well going to lose her mind…

Remington spied Laura on the patio, repotting plants when he returned. Looking up when the door closed behind you, she looked over her shoulder at him through the open French doors.

"That took longer than I expected," she commented, as he passed by on the way to the kitchen.

"I had to go to more than one store to find what I needed," he called.

It wasn't a lie. He had, in fact, had to go to different stores, just not for food.

By the time the meal was served, he was doing his very best to keep it together. This had always been the most difficult part of keeping things from her, the way the moment built and swelled, leaving him a nervous wreck before she'd even spoken a single word. By the end of the meal, he was positively fidgeting drawing her attention on more than one occasion. Only when her plate was clear, did he clear his throat.

"Laura, we need to talk."

"I know," she agreed. She did?

"You do?"

"We agreed you'd tell me everything on Sunday," she reminded.

"Oh, that," he dismissed. His finances were the least of his worries at the moment.

"Oh, that? What else is there?" she questioned, curiosity fully piqued now.

"Well, now that you mention it…" he cleared his throat again. "Daniel called right before I left, to, ummm, congratulate us."

"Congratulate us on what?" she asked suspiciously. "We just saw him on Thursday night." Her jaw dropped. "You told him? You told him before we even discussed who we were going to tell and when?"

"Not exactly."

"What kind of answer is that? You either did or you didn't," she accused. He reached into his pocket and removed the two articles, siding them across the table to her, then lifted his hand and began nervously worrying his thumbnail.

"What are these?"

"Daniel thought we might wish to know…" He left the thought hanging. She looked at the folded clippings to him then back to the clippings again and slowly peeled open the first…

And he watched as all the blood drained from her face.

"Looks like there may be some meat to the rumors one of LA's most eligible bachelors, Remington Steele, is off the market. For the second time in as many days, Steele was spotted with his assistant, Laura Holt, shopping in several stores geared towards maternity wear and what one would need for a new baby. If what is shown in our contributor's photo is to believed along with information from several tipsters, it would appear Steele and Holt will be welcoming a bouncy baby boy in the next few month."

Laura slumped down in her seat and covered her face with her hands, shaking her head.

"Nooooo," she moaned, "No, no, no, no, no. This can't be happening."

"You may wish to have a look at the other," he suggested with dread. With some dread of her own, she folded it open.

"Renowned private investigator – and one of LA's most eligible bachelors – Remington Steele was seen accompanying long-time secretary—"

"Secretary? Secretary!? It's not bad enough they announced our very private lives to all of Los Angeles but to top it all off they call me your secretary!" She threw the article down in disgust. "I suppose I should be grateful I'm not 'Nora Bolt' or 'unknown woman.'" A thought occurred to her, that left her moaning her upset. "Ohhhhhh, nooooooo, Motherrrrrrrr," she drew out each word.

"Thank the stars she'd in Connecticut, eh?" She looked with him in disbelief.

"She lived in LA for more than twenty years. She still talks to her friends from the Garden Club. If she finds out like this…" she picked up one of the articles and shook it in the air "…I'll never hear the end of it."

"I did suggest weeks ago—"

"You won't finish that sentence if you're wise," she warned, then leaned forwards and buried her face in her hands.

"If you're so worried she'll find out from one of her Garden Club ladies, maybe you should—" she waved him off.

"Not today," she shook her head, then threw it back and sighed loudly. "I'm not ready for this today. Maybe tomorrow…"

"Exactly how long do you plan putting off telling your mother and sister?"

"I was hoping eighteen years or so," she admitted, flashing him a quick, half-smile.

"Planning to stow away the tyke in the attic when your mother or sister comes to visit?"

"I didn't say it was a realistic plan," she replied, ruefully.

"You're going to have to tell her, Laura."

"I know," she drew out the words, then said more firmly. "I know. It's just… you know how Mother is. How could I humiliate her like this? How could I be so careless? Did I expect to trick you into marriage by getting pregnant? Do you intend to make an 'honest' woman out of me?" she sighed again. "She's not going to be happy."

"The sooner you get it over with—" he began.

"You're not the one who's going to have to field calls every day filled with unwelcomed advice. You're not the one she's going to be tsk-ing her tongue at. You're not the one who's going to have to hear day-in-and-day-out how I always seem to go out of my way to disappoint her. I'm not ready for that, any of it!"

"Still, the cat's out of the bag, it would seem," he pointed out with a nod towards the clips. Her head plopped into her hands again.

"I know," she drew out the words. When she looked up again, anger was simmering in her eyes. "I have half a mind to track down the writer of this… tripe… and give them a piece of my mind!"

"Just put them on the phone with Abigail. They'll never mention you again after that conversation, I'm sure." She snorted a laugh.

"I will. Tell her. Tomorrow," she said the last firmly. "My phone number has been disconnected and she'd look for me at the office before she tried to track me down here. I just want to spend the rest of the day alone with you, enjoying our new home. Is that too much to ask?" He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

"No, it's not. And if you want me there with you when you speak to Abigail, all you need do is ask."

"I may do that. For now, can we forget about her and these articles?"

"Have something in mind you'd like to do today?" Too late he realized what he'd done.

"As a matter of fact, there is. I'd like you to tell me the 'whole of it.'" The very conversation he'd brushed aside concern for only minutes before, now was the biggest potential crisis. He considered finding a way to distract her, to put of until tomorrow… much like she was doing with Abigail.

Damn, Remington Steele and being a man of his word. He stood, and explained when she lifted her brows. "I'll just… I need to get something. Be right back."

In their bedroom he paced the room once, twice, three times trying to quell his nervousness. This, he assessed, was far worse than waiting for Sister Margaret Theresa's ruler to come crashing down upon his knuckles. Taking a breath, he pulled his suitcase off the rack at the top of the closet where he'd stowed it, opened it and pried up the liner. From behind the liner he extracted part of what he'd need to share with her, then returning the suitcase to the closet, he crossed the room to the dresser, opened his sock drawer and leaning down to look under it, removed the envelope secured there. With a deep breath, he returned to the dining room. Sitting down, he found the chutzpah to ask…

"So, how may I satisfy that insatiable curiosity of yours?"

"Let's start with this partnership of yours with Monroe. Is it all above level or do I need to worry about the FBI invading the Agency one day looking for stolen goods?"

"Completely legal," he answered, laying a hand against the table in emphasis.

"When did this start?"

"Monroe arrived on our fair shores at the end of September, looking to leave the life once and for all, ready to go legitimate and settle down with a wife and family – something the life doesn't lend to. He'd heard I was in LA and knew I was good for a place to kip for a spell and a hand-up if I were able."

"A hand-up?"

"Money to help one get back on one's feet when they leave the life with little to do so. He had a plan to start a discount electronics store. I went over his business plan, it was sound. I took the money I'd saved those months without a certain young lady to romance and invested it in him. Within three months, he'd come to me about partnering in a second store, then a third and so on. I, in turn, with time on my hands, decided to dabble in the market a bit, reinvesting the profits from the stores into stocks and a few commodities."

"You said you've done 'decent," but from what I've already seen, that may not be a generous enough word. Is it?"

Opening the manila envelope he'd retrieved from the dresser, he withdrew a stack of paper, selected three ledger sheets and handed them to her.

"My initial investment, profits from the store, my returns and losses in the market and overall monthly profit." The mathematician in her mentally balanced the ledger as she read through the figures, finding the math sound. When she saw the tally of the bottom line, she looked up at him shocked and wide-eyed.

"You've made just shy of four-hundred-thousand dollars this last year and you never said anything?" Her voice rose a little more with each word.

"As I explained before, we weren't in exactly the best of places at the time. You'd made it perfectly clear you no longer wished to mix business with the personal." How many times had she damned her decision in Cannes? A hundred? Two hundred? Well, this was two-hundred-and-one. He was right, she'd made it clear as they'd stood overlooking the water in Cannes that night as fireworks, ironically, exploded overhead.

"Do you intend to keep working at the Agency?" He gave her a queer look.

"Of course. Whyever wouldn't I?"

"Your success in the market, your partnership with Monroe. You're doing very well for yourself." His eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. "If things keep going the way they have been, you may never need to work a day in your life again."

"I haven't had to work in more than half a decade," he announced. "I do it, because I happen to enjoy partnering with you." Reaching up, she worried a brow with her fingertips, as perhaps more truth than she was prepared to know seemed to be on the horizon.

"What do you mean you haven't had to work? You were nearly broke, your chance at a good paycheck leaving with the Royal Lavulite."

"You assumed I was broke," he corrected, "I never said as much." Her lips opened then closed. Had she? She reran conversations through her mind and didn't find a one in which he claimed to be a pauper. In fact, after he'd stopped his pursuit of the Royal Lavulite and she'd found him sitting in the office of Remington Steele, he said "Seems I'm available for the foreseeable future." Available. Not needed a job.

She'd assumed. For a third time that morning she dropped her head into her hands and shook it. She took a few seconds to collect herself.

"Why? Why would you allow me to believe you had nothing?"

"Would you have allowed me to join the Agency if you'd known I had no need for a job… and why?"

She thought back to the man he once was. A smooth, charming Lothario who cared only about the next skirt he'd chase. If she hadn't believed he'd needed – how had he termed it, a hand up? – would she have even considered giving him the role of Remington Steele? If she was honest with herself, she wouldn't have. She would have been able to trust that he'd stick around if he weren't dependent upon the generous paycheck the Agency offered. It had been the only thing she'd had to hold over the man to try and keep him in line.

"No," she admitted. "I probably wouldn't have." She had to ask. "What else are you hiding?"

"There are certain things I may never be able to tell you about my past," he reminded, "Either because I don't know or because there are things just too painful to talk about."

"I can understand that."

"But I've never hidden my life on the shady side of the street from you, and when asked, I've been as honest as I can be."

"Well that's not very comforting," she complained.

"Maybe not, but I'd rather you not involved with the likes of the Palermo Brothers or the Dublin Crusher if it can be avoided. When you spend your life relieving others of precious jewels and priceless, it's inevitable that at least a few would have a bounty on your head. The less you know, the more you can deny, should it come down to it."

"Do I need to worry about someone showing up on our front doorstep looking for revenge?" There wasn't just herself to think about any longer.

"If I were at all concerned, I wouldn't be here. The role of Remington Steele has provided me certain… protection. I'm too visible, too well known. Should anything happen to me, it would raise questions they wouldn't wish to answer." She nodded her head, then fell silent, long enough for him to prompt..

"Ask the question you wish to know the answer to, Laura."

"Do I even want to know?"

"You won't know the answer to that question until you know the answer to the first," he noted. Another nod.

"Alright, exactly how… comfortable… are you?" He slid his passports across the table to her. She took them and held them up in question.

"I don't understand. Your passports?" He slid another stack of small books towards her. Setting the passports down, she picked up the first and flipped open the page.

"John Murrell," she read aloud, then thumbed to the next page, that contained a singular entry with many zero's. She swallowed hard and looked at him. He nodded towards the others. One at a time she went through them "Richard Blaine… Douglas Quintain… Michael O'Leary… Paul Fabrini…" reading off the names as she went. By the time she'd gone through each of those books, her freckles stood out against pale skin. He wasn't just comfortable, he was wealthy.

She felt like a fool.

"You had all this and yet you didn't offer to help when we were in Vegas and the Agency was on the line?!" She grabbed at the first thing she could think to take exception to. Remington took to his feet and drew a hand through his hair.

"How? How was I to do that?" he demanded to know. "We'd barely made it past that blasted agreement in Cannes, and you would have understood, even a little, if I'd volunteered the money? The very first thing you would have asked was if I were dabbling in the life again!" She really hated it when he was right, but there it was: Yes, she would have assumed any funds he came up with would be dirty, in one way or another.

"Look, Laura," he began, sitting down again and taking her hands. "If anything, the fact that I have money should be good news. I didn't need the role of Remington Steele, I took it because of you. I could have walked away at any time, but I stayed, because of you." She softened. He'd never needed her paycheck after all, it had been because of her that he'd stayed. Knowing that, her fears she'd wake one day and find him gone diminished considerably.

"What do you intend to do with the money?" She wondered.

"That's up to you." He removed the rest of the papers from the envelope and slid them across the table. "A complete detail of where the funds in those accounts came from, the job, and whom I did the job for." She looked at him, then picked up the papers. She read through them, surprised to discover she already knew about most of the jobs… even more surprised to discover he'd done those jobs under only three of the names on his passport. "You never posed as John Murrell or Paul Fabrini when doing a job?"

"Those are the names I'd depart under after a job was done. Linking them to jobs, would have made it far more… challenging… to be on my way."

"I can see that." He reached across the table for the passports, then set aside the passports for Murrell and Fabrini. He opened one and slid it back across the table. "Richard Blaine… jewel thief." He opened it another, then set it before her, "Michael O'Leary… art thief." He slid the final one in front of her. "Douglas Quintain, a petty thief by comparison."

"By comparison?"

"Mmmm, mostly early jobs: Nicking baubles, cracking safes and the like. It didn't hold the same… thrill… as the jobs I'd go on to take."

"What are the asterisks for?"

"Those are the jobs in which I either retrieved the item for the rightful owner or the insurance company." She thumbed through the paperwork again, noting the bulk of Blaine and O'Leary's jobs fit that criteria. "What do you want to do, Laura?" She sat back in her chair, amazed by the question.

"It's not my money," she replied, pressing a hand to her chest. "It's not up to me what happens to it."

"I disagree. If this…" he waved an arm towards the bankbooks, "…Makes you wonder if I might abscond every day—"

"Even if you gave all of it away, you'd still have the funds to do that," she pointed out logically, stacking the paperwork and booklets and shoving them across the table. "Call it my pride, but I'd rather us 'make it on our own,' so to speak. The Agency's doing well enough that we may have to consider taking on additional staff. Between that, your partnership with Monroe and your investments, I don't see any need for us to ever touch those funds and, frankly, although you're free to do what you wish with your savings, I'd rather not know when or if you use them." He'd thought as much. Setting aside his passports, he packed all the remainder into the manila envelope. "I am curious, though, where you've concealed the bankbooks all these years." It was a question he hadn't been expecting and his hands paused briefly, then he finished packing the envelope.

"I had a safe installed in the flat at the Rossmore shortly after I moved in." Well, that was news to her.

"I never saw any evidence of a safe."

"Rather the point, don't you think?" he chuckled.

"So where was this hidden safe?" she questioned. He leaned back in his chair, a cheeky grin playing on his lips.

"It's tempting to see if you can find it, now that you know it exists." She gave the suggestion some thought. She couldn't resist a challenge no more than he.

"You're on," she agreed. "Now, is there a safe somewhere in this house?"

"Not yet, although there will be by week's end."

"Oh. Dare I ask where you plan to have it installed?" He smiled at her.

"The same place as the Rossmore." She crossed her arms but couldn't quell her smile in return. "Believe me, Laura, you'll know where it is and the combination. We'll be the only ones who know."

"Alright. What do you intend to keep in the safe?" He held up the papers, bankbooks and passports he'd just shown her.

"These, some cash should we need to make a quick getaway, a couple of passports for you in case the need arises, and anything else you wish…" He waggled his brows at her "Perhaps a bauble or two in the future."

"There is something I think should be in there…" She made a scene of studying her nails to arouse his curiosity.

"And that would be?"

"Another passport for you." He squinted his eyes at her.

"Whatever for? I already had five and two of those are clean as a whistle." She looked up at him.

"I think it's about time Remington Steele has a passport, don't you?" In disbelief, he drew his hand over his mouth and through his hair, not sure if she was jesting.

"Laura, do you mean that?" She met his eyes, matching the intensity she found there.

"If that's who you are, I mean who you really feel you are, then, yes. You have a birth certificate, driver's license, a bank account – or more than one, given today's revelations – and even credit cards. If this is who you legitimately are…" He swallowed hard, and she found herself suddenly unnerved. "I mean, if that's what you want…" she trailed off.

"There's only one thing I want more," he vowed.

"Here I thought I held what you wanted most," she teased, trying to lighten the mood. The intensity of the expression on his face and the fire in his eyes didn't change, if anything, it grew even stronger. "Alright, I'll bite. What is that?"

She watched, stunned, as he stood then dropped to a knee before her.

"To wake to you every morning for the rest of my life. Marry me, Laura…"

Nervously, Remington's tongue flicked out to wet his lips and he shifted on his knee. Laura's eyes had initially widened to the size of saucers, but she hadn't said a word. Just stared blankly, as she was doing now.

Laura was certain she'd heard wrong. Maybe she'd had a stroke due to the pregnancy… Maybe she was hallucinating… Maybe she was hearing things because she was tired… Maybe this was all just a dream and she'd wake at any moment…

Maybe it was a nightmare and the moment she said yes someone would pop out and say "Smile you're on candid camera" then a curtain would raise revealing an entire audience laughing raucously at her foolishness.

Whatever it was he'd said it couldn't have been what she'd heard, right?

How do you even answer a question you're not sure you heard?

Still wide-eyed, he watched as her eyes cleared and waited with held breath. Whatever she said now could alter their desti—

"I think we should buy a hammock…"