- Scorched Steele
- Author's note: This
story takes place sometime during the last season of the series
- the FOURTH season, I should point out. After a grueling week
chasing bad guys, Laura and Steele agree to spend the evening
together. - - -
Laura stirred the hollandaise sauce again, praying under her
breath that it wouldn't scorch - or clump. Sauces usually did
when she fixed them. The door buzzer drew her attention, and
she reached down to touch the burner control before smoothing
her dress and hair, then sliding the door to the loft open.
Remington Steele- or, rather, the man she'd come to know by that
name- stood on the threshold, taking in the pans on the stove
and perfectly set table with an air of surprise. "I thought
we were going out?" he asked, moving into the room.
"I thought we might- stay in," Laura told him uncertainly,
taking his coat, then pouring him a glass of wine. "There's
a recipe that Frances gave me that I decided to try-"
"I - see." He didn't, of course, and his eyes watched
her as he might watch a someone whose sanity was in question.
"Would you like some help?'' he asked, turning toward the
kitchen, only to stop as Laura stepped in front of him.
"No!" she insisted. "No. Thank you. Why don't
you go put on some music? I've got everything under control -"
Remington nodded, then sniffed at the air. "Perhaps, but
I think your sauce is trying to burn."
Laura turned and ran to grab the pan, lightly burning her fingers
as she forgot a hot pad. "Ouch!" she yelped. When Remington
paused and turned to look at her, she met his eyes with a look
of warning that sent him on to the stereo across the room. She
grabbed a mitt and lifted the offending pan from the burner.
"Damn. I thought I turned it DOWN!" she moaned, stirring
the golden sauce. It didn't LOOK burned, she decided. Maybe she'd
been lucky and caught it in time. Placing a lid on the pan, she
turned the burner under the asparagus down to low- double checking
the setting. Soft music filled the room, and Remington handed
her a glass of wine.
"You didn't have to go through all of this- trouble, you
know," he said, taking her injured hand in his, bringing
the reddened fingers to his lips. "I really didn't expect
you to-"
"I know," Laura said. "I guess that's why I wanted
to do it. You've fixed so many wonderful meals for me, I just
wanted to-" her eyes widened as she smelled something. "Oh,
HELL!" she burst out, turning so quickly that she spilled
her wine on her dress before opening the oven door. A cloud of
smoke greeted her, causing her to cough. "My roast,"
she said.
Remington grabbed two mitts and thrust them into her hands to
avoid a repeat of her earlier injury. "Here."
Laura put on the mitts and lifted the pan, which contain what
appeared to be a blackened, shrivelled lump of meat, onto the
counter. "It's ruined," she moaned, sounding disappointed.
Eyeing the entree, Remington said, "I'm sure it will be
fine, Laura," he assured her. He wasn't sure why he was
so willing to accept Laura's gastronomic disaster so obligingly-
but he could sense that it was important to Laura that the evening
go well- and he had long ago realized that making Laura happy
was important to HIM.
She looked up at him. "You're sure? We could still go out-"
"Do you need any help getting dinner on the table?"
he asked gently.
Taking a deep breath, Laura said, "You could light the candles
- and pour some more wine, if you don't mind."
"I'm at your service," he told her, picking up the
bottle of wine and both glasses to carry them to the table. If
nothing else, Laura knew how to set a table, he thought. Everything
was perfectly laid out. He set down the wine and glasses, bringing
out his lighter as he tried to ignore Laura's attempts to carve
the remains of her roast. The twin white tapers flickered to
life, and Remington poured Laura another glass of wine, refreshed
his own.
Laura managed to get some of the meat cut, and carried it and
Frances' special gravy over to the table. The gravy was the new
recipe. Then she drained the asparagus, pouring the sauce over
the top of it. When she lifted the lid of the pan containing
the glazed baby carrots, Laura barely bit back a groan. They
had stuck- and once removed from the pan, looked more like orange
mush than carrots. But Remington merely smiled, and pulled out
her chair. "There we go," he said, moving around to
his own seat, unfolding his napkin. "Looks delicious,"
he announced.
"You're a terrible liar," she accused.
"Really?" he asked, putting food on his plate. The
asparagus was a trifle overcooked, he decided. And the carrots-
at least he assumed that was what they were supposed to be,-
well, the less said about them, the better. "Aren't you
going to eat?" he asked, noticing that Laura was sitting
there, just watching him.
She picked up the bowl of aparagus. "I suppose I should,
shouldn't I? I mean, if I'm going to cook, I should at least
be willing to eat it."
Remington picked up his fork. "Really, Laura. I don't know
why you sell yourself so short. I think you could be a very good
cook -" he paused, trying to cut a bite sized peice of meat.
"It's a little dry," Laura commented.
"That's easily solved with the gravy," he told her,
lifting the gravy boat and pouring a generous portion of liquid
over the meat. If nothing else, it would hide the burned taste,
he told himself. He cut for a moment more, then smiled as he
speared a piece of meat with his fork and popped it into his
mouth. The gravy was worse than scorched hollandaise could EVER
have been, Remington decided almost immediately. But he smiled
at Laura, forcing himself to try to chew on what tasted like
shoe leather mixed with raw flour. At last, he took a drink of
wine to wash it down. "See? Still alive."
Laura tasted the gravy and closed her eyes. She'd left SOMETHING
out. She always left something out. And she'd been so careful
this time to follow the recipe exactly as Francis had given it
to her. She opened her eyes to see Remington take another bite.
"You don't have to pretend it's edible, Mr. Steele,"
she said, putting her fork down. "I can taste for myself
that it's awful." The hollandaise was truly burned, Laura
realized, and the asparagus was almost mushy.
"Nonsense," he insisted, taking another bite. "It's
excellent exercise for the teeth -" he insisted.
"And horrible for you stomach," Laura insisted, getting
up and picking up her plate, then his.
Remington grabbed her wrist, taking the plate and returning it
to the table. "I'm not finished," he said.
"I don't want you getting sick because of my cooking,"
Laura said. "I'll dump this into the disposal and we can
go somewhere-"
"Suit yourself," Remington said, letting her go, but
keeping his plate. "But I'm going to eat my dinner. After
you went to all the trouble, it's the least I can do." He
took another drink of wine, pausing to refill his glass. "The
wine is excellent, by the way."
"At least something's good," Laura said, returning
to watch him finish every last bite of food on his plate. When
she would have picked up the dishes, Remington shook his head.
"You go sit down over there," he told her, turning
her toward the sofa. "I'll clean up. Put your feet up -
decide what movie we're going to watch this evening." When
she hesitated, he said, "Go on. Relax a little. You've been
on the go all week. You deserve some quiet time." She went
to the sofa and put her head back, closing her eyes. "That's
it. Just relax, and I'll be done here in no time." He scraped
the plates into the disposal, dumping the rest of the food into
the sink as well, then turned it on, wincing as the burned roast
made the devil's own noise. He opened a couple of cupboards,
and when found what he was looking for, smiled in relief. Some
bicarbinate of soda would just hit the spot. Hopefull the same
one that was protesting Laura's cooking.
"What are you doing?" Laura asked.
"Just finishing up," he told her, making a show of
putting the plates into the dishwasher. "Won't be a moment.
What movie should we watch?"
"You pick one," Laura said, watching as he tried to
hide the glass of water with bi-carb in it. How many men would
have suffered through that horrible meal and not complained,
she wondered. Wilson certainly wouldn't have. He would have insisted
they leave after the sauce had scorched. He was still such an
enigma to her, this Remington Steele. Her life wasn't easy with
him in it, but it wasn't dull- and he was there for her. She
closed her eyes again, head back. He'd been there for her for
four years. Putting up with her insecurities, her shreiking at
him, even her terrible cooking - and he was still here. Maybe
- just MAYBE - he really did care after all.
Remington turned on the dishwasher, and wiped everything down,
then picked up his glass of wine before moving toward Laura.
He paused, bending to press a kiss to her lips. "You're
tired," he said. "Why don't we just call it an early
evening-"
Laura opened her eyes and brought his head down again. "I'm
not that tired, Mr. Steele," she assured him, returning
his kiss. "Thank you."
"For what? Cleaning the kitchen? It was nothing-"
"For eating that awful mean without a complaint. I promise
I'll never force you to eat my cooking ever again, Mr. Steele."
"I think," he said, between kisses as he moved to join
her on the sofa, " that with the proper -" another
kiss, "instruction, you could be a very good-cook,"
he said again.
"Care to teach me, Mr. Steele?" Laura asked, smiling
at him as she slid across his lap and into his arms.
"With pleasure, Miss Holt," he assured her, his lips
millimeters from hers. "With pleasure." He looked down
at her. "What about the movie?" he asked.
"I'm much prefer real life at the moment," Laura said,
closing the gap, linking her arms around his neck. "But
if you'd rather watch a movie," she sighed, making a half
hearted attempt to move away.
"I'd rather stay right were we are," Remington said,
holding her close. "It IS Friday night, after all. No reason
to be up early tomorrow - I might even begin your cooking lessons
with breakfast tomorrow morning." As he spoke, he looked
at her, watching her reaction. Good. No ice forming yet.
"Breakfast?" Laura repeated. Oops. He'd gone too far.
Laura grinned. "Sounds WONDERFUL, Mr. Steele," she
said, pressing her lips to is again. Remington kissed her long
and deeply, hopeful that he'd finally reached the top of the
mountain. But her next words sent him sliding back to the bottom
again. "What time will you be here?" she asked.
Remington took a deep breath. "We'll talk about it later,"
he told her. After all, he was still here, in Laura's loft, with
her in his arms. There was still a possibility that he'd STILL
be here when the morning came. And if pigs had wings, his mind
replied sarcastically. He pushed the thought aside as Laura's
hands moved to loosen his tie and his collar. Remington pushed
her back on the sofa, bracing himself over her, placing light,
teasing kisses along her brow, down her nose, pausing for a moment
at her mouth before tracing a path down the curve of her neck
and sliding the thin strap of her dress off her shoulder. He
slipped between her and the back of the sofa, one hand sliding
from her side to cup a fabric covered breast. "Oh, Laura.
You are so lovely. The day I met you was the luckiest day of
my life. I don't think I've ever really told you that."
"No. Not in those words," she admitted in a breathless
voice, torn between wanting him to stop caressing her and wanting
to pull him closer to her.
"Well it was. And what you did tonight- "
"I didn't do anything-"
"You did more than you know," he told her, his hand
moving to the other breast, then tracing the top of her dress
as it lay across her chest. "For you to attempt to cook
dinner for me- knowing how you feel about such things - it meant
a lot." Laura smiled, then caught her breath as his finger
slipped inside the fabric to touch her flesh.
He felt her withdrawal immediately, but remained where he was
for a moment before levering himself to his feet and holding
out his hand to help her sit up. "It's late," he said.
"Been a long week. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
She looked up at him. "You don't have to go yet. It's not
that late.-"
Remington reached out to gently lay a finger on her cheek. "Yes,
I do. Because if I don't go now, I might not be able to go later.
Tomorrow. Breakfast?"
"I'm- sorry-" she said.
He gave her a quick kiss. "I'm getting used to it,"
he said. "I'll call you and let you know when I'll be here."
Laura watched as he retrieved his coat and put it on, then walked
with him to the door. "It's not you," she said. "It's
me. Something in me just-"
"Shhh," he admonished gently. "Get some sleep.
We've both had a long, trying week. Morning will bring a fresh
perspective to everything." Another brush of the lips- only
this one was lengthened when Laura threw her arms around him.
"Good night, Laura." He sighed, feeling as if he'd
come too close to a flame and been burned by its heat.
"Good night," she whispered in return, then watched
him start downstairs before sliding the door closed and locking
it for the night. "Good night," she said again, closing
her eyes to block out the sight of her lonely loft. She stumbled
to the sofa, and lay down, smelling his cologne on the cushions.
Grabbing one in her arms, she held it close to her, keeping it
there as she drifted off to sleep.
The End
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