As he made sure that the robe was secured, Harry discovered the initials "WSJ" monogrammed on the pocket. "WSJ," he mused. "Wall Street Journal?" he muttered under his breath.
Laura was at the stove, just lifting a pan from its surface to fill two soup bowls that were on the table. "It's only soup," she warned him.
"That will be fine," Harry assured her, watching her movements. "There was a time in my life when I might have been willing to sell my soul for a bowl of noodle soup," he confided. "And-, noodle soup was my idea," he reminded her as she sat in one of the chairs. He sat as well, picking up the spoon the lay beside the bowl. "Besides, it's been a long day. I'm not really very hungry."
"Neither am I," Laura replied, dipping her own spoon into the golden broth. "Harry, about earlier-"
"I really didn't intend to pry, Laura," Harry said quietly. I simply didn't want to put my clothes back on before they had a chance to-"
"Air out," Laura finished. "I know. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. I'm sorry."
"Well, I have to admit, it was a surprise to discover that you lived with a man. At least, I'm assuming that it's past tense-" When he saw her guarded expression, he continued. "Besides the men's clothing- including a *white* belt and shoes- in the closet, I happened upon some men's toiletries in your bath. Half used- so I'm rather certain that you didn't put them there in hope that I'd be needing them someday." He was rewarded with the ghost of a smile on her face. "You don't have to explain if you'd rather not. I don't have to know-"
"It is past tense," Laura said in a quiet voice. "Wilson's been gone for almost five years."
*Five years?* Harry thought. *And she still has his things about?* But aloud, he asked, "Wilson?"
"Wilson Jeffries. He's a- junior vice president for a bank, now, I think."
"Ah," Harry nodded, understanding the meaning of the dollar signs on the robe. "WSJ?" he asked.
"Wilson Stewart Jeffries," Laura supplied, smiling again. "I used to tease him that his initials were appropriate for his line of work. The robe-" she studied her rapidly cooling soup before continuing. "The robe was supposed to be a joke. I got it for him on the day that he-"
"That he-?"
Laura rose, carrying her barely eaten soup to the sink, where she dumped it into the disposal. "That he left," she finished, not looking at Harry. Flipping the wall switch, she activated the disposal, then wiped her hands on a dishtowel. "I came home from work one evening,- I was working at Havenhurst then, apprenticing- with that robe in a sack, planning to surprise him. But he was gone."
"Gone?"
"He left," Laura said, turning to put the bowl into the dishwasher. "Without any warning, no note- no anything."
"Which explains your-dismay over my having walked out on Felicia in London the way I did," Harry realized.
"I was dismayed, as you put it, at first," Laura admitted. "But once I knew the full story, I understood why you did it."
"You know, I've been told that I'm a good listener," Harry told her, bringing his empty bowl over to put it beside hers in the machine. "Perhaps- if you have a bottle of wine about, we might- adjourn to the other room?"
Laura shrugged. "I wouldn't want to bore you," she said.
"How could I possibly be bored with such charming company?" Harry asked, going to the cabinet where she usually kept the wine and opening it. "Ah. Here we go," he said upon finding a bottle. "Why don't you go have a shower," he suggested, "and-"
"Slip into something more comfortable?" Laura finished with a look that told Harry that she was onto him. "But a shower does sound like a good idea," she agreed, turning toward the door. "I won't be long."
Harry located two glasses and opened the wine, filling one of the glasses as he moved toward the living room. "White belts," he mused, shaking his head and smiling. "Bankers do it with interest." He chuckled and dimmed the light beside the sofa before sitting down to wait for her.
True to her word, Laura returned quickly- wearing a heavy terry cloth bathrobe tied in a double knot at the waist. "Feel better?" Harry questioned, letting her attire pass unmentioned. He hadn't really expected satin and lace, had he?
Laura took the glass of wine that he held out for her and curled up on the sofa. "Much."
"Good. I'd like to thank for you for- letting me stay here tonight. I wasn't looking forward to going to a hotel."
"Would you really have gone to a hotel?" Laura asked him.
"Of course I would have."
"Why? You don't know that Felicia is still at your condo. She's probably already caught the first flight back to London."
Harry shook his head doubtfully. "You don't know her as well as I do. I'd still like to know what the bloody hell Daniel was thinking when he told her about you."
"You could call him," Laura suggested.
"I might- if I knew where he was. Daniel tends to- drift quite a bit. City to city, country to country- name to name." He watched her sip the wine. "Now, about this- banker that you lived with- Wilson, wasn't it?"
Laura took a larger sip of the wine. "There's nothing to tell, really. He and I lived together for a year- and then he was gone. Just like-" she stopped, holding out her glass. "More, please."
Harry refilled the glass, his eyes watching her expression. "Just like-?" he prompted gently.
She shook her head, and the highlights in her chestnut hair glinted in the dim light, making her almost glow. "Never mind. It's not important."
"It hurt, didn't it?" Harry questioned. No answer. "A lot, I think. Are you over him, Laura?"
She looked up then, meeting his concerned look. "Of course I am. Why would you ask?"
"You still have some of his clothes in your closet, his toiletries in your bath-"
"I'm a pack rat," she confessed. "I don't throw things out. You never know when they might come in handy. For instance, if I'd thrown that robe out when Wilson took off, you'd be running around here nothing but a towel."
Harry smiled at her. "That mightn't be so horrible," he said, lifting his brows lecherously.
Laura laughed softly in response. "Hmm. You would say that."
"Well, we'd both be wearing terrycloth," he commented, reaching out to touch her robe. Those dark eyes grew huge and Harry could have sworn that he heard her gasp softly at the slight contact of his fingertips on the bare skin of her neck.. Pressing his advantage,
Harry placed his hand against her neck under the heavy curtain of her hair and pulled her closer. His lips hovering near hers, he heard her say his name. He closed in for the kiss and was pressing her inexorably back against the cushions when the door bell rang.
Laura froze, sanity returning as Harry murmured, "Ignore it."
"I can't," she told him, pushing against his chest. She felt Harry's deep sigh of frustration before he sat up, releasing her. He remained on the sofa as she rose to answer the door.
Murphy's familiar face greeted. "Murphy!" she said, trying to keep her partner out of the house. The last thing she needed was for him to find Harry there, at this time of night and wearing that robe. "What a surprise!"
"I didn't wake you up, did I?" Murphy asked, trying to push past her. "I just finished at the coroner's office and I thought you needed to know what he found-" He looked past her and his eyes widened in shocked surprise. "What are *you* doing here?" he asked.
With a feeling of impending doom, Laura stepped back, looking behind her to see Harry standing there, his hair tousled as if someone had run their fingers through it - had she done that? Laura wondered. "Hello, Murphy," Harry said, as if he was well used to greeting the other man at the front door of Laura's house, wearing nothing more than a bathrobe "Won't you come in?"
"Laura," Murphy asked, turning to look at her. "What's he *doing* here?"
"Laura asked me to stay the night," Harry informed Murphy with a triumphant grin as Laura gave him a furious glare.
"In the spare bedroom," Laura said. "Harry had an - unwelcome visitor at his place," Laura clarified. "I'd do the same for any client of the Agency, Murphy," she insisted, seeing his look of disbelief.
"Uh, yeah," Murphy said, clearly not convinced by her words. "And pigs can fly." He turned toward the living room and saw the wine bottle and two glasses. "Cozy little set up. Sorry if I interrupted something -"
"As a matter of fact," Harry began, but Laura jumped in to cut him off.
"You didn't," she said quickly, bringing her bare foot down on Harry's, causing him to wince in pain. "What did you find out?" she asked, ignoring Harry and looking at Murphy.
"It can wait til tomorrow morning," Murphy decided, starting for the door again. "I'm sure that you have other things to-"
"Murphy!" Laura said, stopping him with a tone of voice that revealed her frustration. "What was so important that couldn't wait until tomorrow at the office?"
"The coroner finished the autopsy," he told her, his gaze locked on Harry.
"*And*?!" Laura prompted, on the verge of losing her temper because of the macho-challenge stare Murphy and Harry were exchanging. "Neutral corners, okay, guys?" She turned Harry toward the sofa, then pointed toward chair across the room. "Sit," she ordered Murphy. She stood between them, hands on her hips, looking from one to the other in disgust. Harry lounged comfortably on the sofa, looking as if he belonged there. Murphy, on the other hand was frowning, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Harry. "Okay, I've had enough of this already," she declared. "If we're going to work together-"
"Work together?" Murphy questioned, finally looking at Laura in surprise. "Laura, the guy is *not* Remington Steele!" he insisted.
"He proved tonight that he can carry it off," Laura reminded her partner. "I think he did rather well at the police station."
"You weren't there when Halloran turned the station upside down after you two took off. He's determined to have a little 'chat' with the great Remington Steele," he said with a sneer in Harry's direction. "I was lucky to get out of the precinct house without being interrogated by the guy. When he gets his hands on Lord Harry- he won't stop til he gets the whole, sordid story." Murphy took a deep breath. "Is keeping him around worth risking the Agency's reputation- possibly your license for letting him pretend to be a P.I. and working on cases?"
"That's easily resolved," Harry commented, drawing Murphy and Laura's eyes to him. "I could- become a private detective, couldn't I?" he asked, ignoring Murphy's derisive snort to look at Laura. "You could teach me what I need to know, couldn't you?" he asked her.
"It's not something that happens overnight, Harry," Laura told him. "It takes years- training, serving as an apprentice with a licensed agency- "
"But it *is* possible, isn't it?" he prodded.
"I- suppose," Laura agreed, "But it would be a long term commitment," she told him.
"I don't have a problem with that," Harry assured her in a quiet voice that left Laura wondering why the room seemed so stuffy all of a sudden.
"Come on, Laura!" Murphy said. "You can't be serious about-"
"He has a good idea, Murphy," she told him. "It would explain why he's been with me on cases- he's in training."
Harry gave Murphy a victorious grin. "Then it's settled."
"No, it's not settled," Murphy insisted. "Laura, you're not thinking clearly. He's -done something to you-"
"So now I'm Svengali?" Harry questioned, "Able to force Laura to do things that she doesn't want to do?" He sighed. "Tsk, tsk, Murphy. Doesn't give Laura much credit for having a mind of her own, does it, now?"
"Don't twist my words," Murphy warned.
"Stop it!" Laura ordered, putting a hand to her head. "I don't think we're accomplishing anything by discussing this right now. Besides, I have a headache."
"I'll go and get you some aspirin," Harry offered, sitting forward as if to get up.
"No," Laura said, causing him to stop. "It's just the result of all the free floating testosterone in the room. Murphy- what happened at the coroner's?"
"The murder victim- wasn't Maria Santera," Murphy told her.
"What?"
"You're joking."
Murphy curled his lip at Harry's response. "No joke. The woman was at least ten years older than Santera would have been- and she wasn't Hispanic."
"Did they ID her?" Laura asked. "Who is she?"
"You're not gonna believe it."
"Try us," Harry said, growing tired of the other man's attempt to keep his knowledge to himself.
"She was identified by her daughter- Eileen Markham."
"Her- daughter?" Harry asked as Laura's jaw dropped. "Then the woman that Elliot Markham is accused of having killed was-"
"His wife- the same wife he was suspected of having murdered over thirty years ago," Murphy confirmed. "Helen Markham."
"Good Lord," Harry exclaimed.
"Wait a minute," Laura said. "Almost thirty five years ago, while under the influence of alcohol, Elliot Markham looses control of his car and it crashes over a cliff in the Canyon- and apparently his wife was killed. ON that same night, their daughter's Mexican nanny disappears without a trace. Now, flash forward those thirty odd years and suddenly a woman who was declared *dead* in 1949 turns up dead *again* in her husband's motel room? Who made the ID on Helen Markham in 1949?" she asked Murphy.
"Not sure. I'll have to do some more digging."
"Dig," Laura told him. "I need to know everything you can find out about what happened before and after Elliot Markham's accident in 1949."
"I'll have it tomorrow morning," Murphy assured her, standing up and moving toward the door with seeming reluctance.
"Do drop in again," Harry said. "But it might be a good idea to call first-"
"Be quiet, Harry," Laura ordered, her look promising silent retribution for his jibes. Harry simply grinned and remained on the sofa as she followed Murphy to the door.
"You're sure you know what you're doing, Laura?"
"Things will work out, Murphy. He's got very good instincts, really. With the proper training-"
"I'm sure he's thinking the same thing about you," Murphy replied. "Just- be careful, okay. With that guy's background, I just don't know if he can be trusted."
"His background?" Laura questioned, frowning.
"Ask him about it. If you're lucky, you *might* get the truth. Or some version of it. Listen, it's late," Murphy said, glancing at his watch- which he couldn't see. "I'd better get going. See you tomorrow morning."
Laura watched until he started the brown Ford that was parked on the curb, and waved as he pulled away. Then, closing the door, she returned to the living room, where Harry was still sitting, holding the two glasses of wine again. "Where were we before being so rudely interrupted?" he asked. She stood there, looking at him for a long time, until Harry was forced to speak. "What's wrong?"
"Is there something in your past that you need to tell me about?" she asked. "Something that might cause Murphy to remain so distrustful of you?"
He sucked in his lower lip and bit it slightly, studying her before answering. "Nothing that's not easily explained," Harry responded, skirting the issue. "Certainly nothing for you to be concerned about. Just- standard juvenile pranks, really-"
"Such as?"
Harry took a deep breath, silently cursing Murphy Michaels for setting up this impasse. There was no way that he could get around this. He'd simply have to tell her the truth. He just hoped she could handle it and wouldn't toss him out on his ear once she knew after.
***
Murphy pulled up before the condos on Rossmore, his gaze finding the fifth floor penthouse. He didn't believe that there was an "unwelcome guest" in Lord Harry's apartment at all, that it was simply a story that the former con-man had made up to take advantage of Laura's good nature.
There was a doorman on duty, and Murphy, seeing that it was a different one than his last visit, sat there a moment trying to come up with a plan to get past him. Spotting a manila envelope and clipboard on the seat beside him, Murphy snapped his finger and grinned as he picked it up and took out a pen to write Lord Harry's name and address on the envelope. From the back seat, he located a wrinkled blazer, which he put on before getting out of the car to approach the door, carrying the envelope and a clipboard.
"Evening," he said to the uniformed, middle aged man.
"Can I help you?"
"Donaldson Courier Service," Murphy said, flashing his ID quickly at the man. "I've got something here that I have to deliver to Lord Bryce-Davies ASAP."
"He's not here," the doorman explained.
"Really? My supervisor spoke to him on the telephone a few minutes ago and he assured her that he was going to be in to receive this. She got the impression that he's waiting for it and that it's pretty important. Maybe he returned when you were on a break?" Murphy suggested.
"Possibly," the man said, but he sounded uncertain.
"Look, it's no skin off my nose if I can't deliver this tonight like he wanted," Murphy said, starting to turn away. "I'd just hate to be in your shoes when he finds out that you wouldn't let me in-"
The man picked up his own clipboard. "Okay, pal. What's your name?"
"James Redding," he said easily, watching the doorman write the name. "That's with two 'd's," he explained.
"And what was the name of company again?"
"Donaldson Courier Service."
"Okay. Sign here- at the 'x'," he instructed.
Murphy managed a scribbled signature, then sketched a vague salute to the man as he crossed to the elevators. No way anyone could get past that guy. Laura must have given the doormen one of her little speeches about tightening things up around the building.
He knocked a couple of times on the door to Apt. 5B, and was taking the lock picks from his pocket when it was opened by a striking blonde wearing a dark silk robe that obviously belonged to Lord Harry. "Hello," Murphy said.
"Hello yourself," the woman responded in a husky, sexy British accented voice. "May I help you?"
"Oh, I'm- looking for Lord Harry," he explained, forcing himself to stop smiling at the enticing picture the woman presented. He craned his neck, looking past her. "But if I'm interrupting something-"
"No. *Lord* Harry isn't here at the moment," she told him. "Are you a business associate?"
"In a way," Murphy confirmed. "He hasn't mentioned you."
"I'm not sure how to take that. Would you care to come in?"
"No. I'll catch up with him later, Miss-?"
"My friends call me Felicia," she told him.
"And I guess you and - Harry are- friends?" Murphy asked, imbuing deep meaning to the word.
"Oh, Harry and I are *much* more than *friends*," Felicia insisted. "Such a tepid description for a relationship, don't you agree?"
"What?"
"Friends," she said, shuddering.
"I guess it would depend on the nature of the relationship, wouldn't it?"
"I have some wine- are you certain you wouldn't care to join me for a glass? I've no idea what time Harry will return- I'm afraid he was a bit- surprised when I arrived."
"He wasn't expecting you, then?"
"No. He thought I'd be a good girl and stay in London as he told me to do until he returned. But I missed him so- and I heard a perfectly awful rumor that he might have found somebody else-"
"And that bothered you?"
"Well, after all I've invested in Harry and my relationship over the last few years, I'm not ready to let it go just yet."
"And is- Harry ready to- let go?" Murphy asked.
"He says he is, but, he's said that before," Felicia informed him, moving - no, gliding - across the room to pour two glasses of wine. "I don't think the poor darling knows *what* he wants." She reminded Murphy of a panther he'd seen in a zoo. Sleek, graceful, and dangerous. "Are you certain that I can't- tempt you to join me?"
Murphy, sensing that he might be about to find out something that would help him get Harry Bryce-Davies out of Laura's - and his- life, told her, "I guess I have time for one glass," and stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him.
To Be Continued ---