In a little Chinese restaurant in the capital of Mexico, Laura sat and idly toyed with her noodles.
"Do you need a fork?" Westfield asked.
"What? No. Oh, no," she answered, sitting up straighter and readjusting her chopsticks. "I’m just — not very hungry, I guess."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Yes." But she continued to sit, silently working the noodles around the plate.
"Now?"
So she told him, some of it, at least, that she was right the first time, that her previous relationship — as if anyone could call it that — was all over, and she’d been stupid to think otherwise. She should have stayed on that plane; she wished the man sitting across from her right now could forget everything she’d ever said except the part about him being very special. She wished she could turn the clock back twenty four hours, because if she’d known Remington Steele was capable of something like this …
Except of course she’d known. She didn’t tell Westfield it’s what she’d been afraid of all along.
He listened patiently, interrupting now and then for clarification.
"Has he ever done anything like this before?"
"Yes. No. I mean, not lately. Not since I’ve known him."
He shrugged, putting the best face on things. "Maybe he just needed some space."
"The apartment is empty," she replied. "Every stitch of clothes, every personal item gone, vanished — except some pictures on the wall that I guess were just too big to carry."
"A lot of space?" he suggested.
"All the space he needs," she agreed. "The whole world. Los Angeles just wasn’t big enough for a man like Remington Steele."
* * *
Laura arrived at the office a little after her usual time — she awoke full of energy, and a disinclination to rush off to work had given both Westfields a pleasant start to the day — to learn that Gary was still in San Diego on a case, and that Mr. Steele and Mildred had started packing up. In Gary’s office she found Steele’s jacket draped over a chair, and Steele himself on his hands and knees, labeling a file box.
"Good morning," she said.
He glanced back over his shoulder. "Ah, Mrs. Westfield," he replied. "Good morning to you."
Instead of getting up, he shoved the box aside, put another one together, and pulled out the bottom drawer of the file cabinet.
"Everything okay at your place?"
He arranged a stack of folders at the back of the box. "Marvelous."
"I left the power on," she explained. "And the water and the gas, in case … "
"In case I needed them."
"Yes."
"Well, they’re much appreciated. A hot shower after a long flight. Nothing like it."
"Your mail — "
"Mildred’s given it to me."
She nodded at this. Then, "The Auburn’s okay?"
"Just needed a jump start. Runs like a top."
"Great." She watched him work a moment, then repeated, "Great," and went into her office.
* * *
William drove her home in the Rabbit and carried her one bag up the stairs. His he left in the lobby; he’d call a cab after he made sure she was all right.
Laura was thanking him again, profusely, for his kindness and understanding and friendship when she noticed the light on her machine was blinking. In mid-sentence, she darted towards it, then stopped.
"Go ahead," William told her. "Maybe he called."
The first message was not from Mr. Steele; it was from the police, asking her to phone as soon as possible. Laura sank down on the couch, listening to the officer’s voice.
"Oh, my God," she whispered. "Do you think he’s dead? They’re calling me because they found him somewhere … "
He took down the number; she couldn’t move, couldn’t even think about what she would do if —
Then Mildred’s voice came on. "Miss Holt! Detective Jarvis called. You know that bum with the Board of Investigative Licensing? He’d been paid off! He turned himself in! It was all a set up! We’re back in business! Oh, and I got your message. Have fun — see you Monday."
There weren’t any more messages after that.
"That’s probably why the police were calling," William suggested. "To tell you you’d been set up, that the business is okay."
"You’re right. Of course, you’re right."
"Good news," he went on. "I mean, you still have your job. At least, for now."
"Yes."
"You okay?"
"No."
"Want me to stay?"
She shook her head.
William smoothed her hair and picked up the phone.
Finally, Laura looked up. She put her hand on his arm, let it trail down to his wrist; then it fell into her lap again, almost of its own accord. "I’m sorry, William."
He ordered the cab and turned back to her. "Actually, I like roller coasters. If you need somebody to ride this one with you, let me know."
* * *
"All right," Remington announced, dusting off his hands. "That’s three file cabinets packed up and accounted for."
Laura glanced up from a report she was writing and leaned back in her chair. "That’s great," she replied. "The prep guys should be done by tomorrow; we can go up and take a look around, see how we want to arrange things."
"Oh, I think things are pretty much arranged already." He traced the blueprints lying open on her desk. "The head of the agency here. The two associates here. The indispensable secretary here." After studying them a moment longer, he remarked, "I hope my seniority is enough to get me the north facing office. It’s a little smaller, but the view — "
"This is your office," she told him, indicating a somewhat larger area marked "conference room."
"This one?"
"Yes. Next door to mine. Gary will be here, and Mildred, here."
Mildred’s space was the smaller office with the better view.
"Then who — "
"We’ll hire an office manager. Now that you’re back, we can increase our usual caseload. Expand, even. Grow."
"Now that I’m back." He twisted the blueprints around so he could study them more carefully. "Now that I’m back, it’s business as usual. Don’t consult me. Just assign me some space and expect me to be happy."
"What?"
"There’s the Laura Holt I used to know! I thought Mrs. Westfield had taken over completely, but no. Miss Holt’s still in there somewhere. Still giving orders, still making decisions without — "
"Look," she said, fed up. "I’m the head of this agency. I always have been. And yes, I make decisions without consulting anybody. Is that any surprise to you? That used to be your biggest complaint. Well, live with it. Or don’t. I don’t care."
"You don’t, do you?"
Laura looked away. "Of course I do. God." She tapped a pencil nervously on her desk. "I thought you’d like it."
"Perhaps I do. I’d just like to be consulted, instead of being assigned a desk like a school boy."
"Fine! Choose your own office!"
"All right. That one!" He pointed to the corner office.
"It’s taken."
"Ah, of course. The charade is over. And why not? Everyone knows I’m just a figure head."
"It’s really hard to keep the illusion going when nobody knows where you are."
"You’re a detective. You could’ve found me."
"That’s what William said."
"Did he?"
"Look, if you don’t want to be Remington Steele any more, I’ll understand."
He paced the room a moment. Then, coming up behind her, he took hold of her chair and swung it around. "That’s just it, Laura," he said. "I tried not being Remington Steele. I spent weeks with people who have a vested interest in my not being Remington Steele!"
Laura gazed at him, waiting.
He knocked the blueprints off the desk. "I didn’t like it," he admitted sullenly. "It’s who I am, now. I can’t be anyone else. I wanted to come home."
"I’m glad you did."
"Yes, I can see that."
"Really. I am."
He just looked at her, and for some reason she looked away.
Finally, to break a terrible silence, she whispered, "I’m sorry."
"Are you?"
She looked up, looked him straight in the eye. "I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way we wanted. But it’s for the best."
"For the best? Easy for you to say, with your lawyer husband, and your house in Brentwood … "
"I’m just saying I’ve realized that — well — If we had to work that hard at our relationship to get it as far as we did, then it probably would never have worked, anyway."
"Is that so?" A harsh laugh escaped him. "You mean to say you were working hard at our relationship?"
"Yes."
"Working hard at staying out of a relationship, is more like it."
"That’s not true."
"Isn’t it? It’s always on your terms, Laura. Everything about our relationship was on your terms. Any time I tried to move it forward, you had a million excuses — "
"Because for you, it was always about one thing."
"And why not? It was the only thing missing from our relationship!"
"What about trust? What about — "
"What about Westfield?" he exclaimed. "You’ve been married nearly two months now. Are you sleeping with him, yet?"
She hit him across the face. Then she covered her eyes with the same hand and turned away. "Sorry," she said. "I’m sorry."
Rubbing his jaw, he admitted, "So am I, I suppose. It’s just — My God, Laura. Did I mean so little to you? That in a matter of a few weeks, you could forget me completely and turn to someone else?"
Laura looked back at him out of her clear, brown eyes. "You meant everything to me," she whispered. "Until one night, in just about a minute, maybe even thirty seconds, I realized how little I meant to you."
"How little? Laura — "
"No note," she said. "No fax or telegram. Not even a collect call. Believe me, I was waiting."
"Not for long. Mildred told me you went straight down to Mexico — to him!"
"I was waiting, Mr. Steele. In my heart, I was waiting. And then I realized I couldn’t wait anymore. My life couldn’t stop for you. After awhile, all I prayed for was that you were safe, and happy. You weren’t happy with me."
How had she convinced herself of that? "You never gave it a chance."
"There were plenty of chances. There must have been a reason we didn’t take them." She said again, "It’s for the best."
"You keep saying that."
"The fact that you could just walk away like that, walk away from me, from me!" she insisted, "proves that it never would have worked."
"I wanted to prove to you — "
"What? That you were like my father, like Wilson? Hey, you did a great job. I’m convinced."
He licked his lips nervously, glanced around, focused again on Laura. "That’s not what I meant."
"No? Then why no note? Why not a few lines, explaining what you were doing, whatever you were doing, when you sent my license back to me? Why not leave a message on my machine? Why just clear out and go?"
He looked back at her, desperate, infuriated, angry, at her, at himself, at the world. Why, indeed?
"You said — "
"What? Go away, I never want to see you again? Is that what you think I said?"
"Laura — "
"Get out of my life?" she suggested. "Is that what I said? Is that what you heard?"
When he turned away, she caught at his sleeve.
"You can still be Remington Steele," she told him. "I’m glad you’re back. I missed you. I missed working with you. I missed the fun we used to have."
He shook himself out of her grasp. "Westfield will love to hear this."
"He knows. He knows I had to hire Gary to keep the agency going, and he knows how much I wished you’d come back."
"How can we work together? How can I work with you? You’re married to him."
"So? I’m married. We can still be partners. We can still be friends."
Remington looked at her. Her eyes were wide and soft, her expression open and pleading. Her blouse swelled and slackened as she breathed; her pulse beat hard in her throat.
Here was his chance, his chance to — what? Grab her and carry her to the sofa and show her that she would never taste true ecstasy unless it was in his arms? Throw himself at her feet and confess how long and how desperately he had loved her? Convince her to come away with him, right now, this minute, and let him prove ...
He scowled and swore and went out, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
All afternoon, all day really, he’d thought of nothing else but getting her home, stripping her of every stitch of clothing, and running his hands up and down her dancer’s form. And now, as he was close to achieving his goal, he found he couldn’t even wait until they were behind closed doors. She stood so close, he couldn’t help himself. He turned toward her suddenly. Pressing his body against hers, he pushed forward until Laura was pinned against the elevator buttons. She responded at first, almost automatically, clutching at his neck and opening her mouth under his insistent pressure. But just as quickly she stopped, and with a vehemence all too reminiscent of their start-and-stop will-they-or-won’t-they tango, she shoved him. He staggered back, the anger enveloping him. The buzzer rang, the doors opened, and Laura marched toward the apartment door without a backward glance.
"I see marriage hasn’t changed that much around here, has it?" Steele followed her into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.
Laura’s sharp intake of breath told him he’d drawn first blood. Her eyes narrowed as she faced him. "How dare you?"
"How dare I what, exactly? Initiate intimate congress with my wife? How thoughtless of me. What was I thinking?" He was livid now.
She turned on her heel and went into the bedroom, with Steele shadowing her.
"It isn’t that, and you know it." Slamming drawers and shedding clothes, Laura was working herself into quite a lather.
"What is it, then?" How had this escalated so swiftly, he fleetingly thought. And why?
"After what happened today, if you think I’m just going to come home and jump in bed with you, you can forget it!" Nervous energy expended, Laura sat on the edge of the bed in her bra and panties, pulling on leggings and an oversized sweatshirt.
"Oh, so now we’re getting to the heart of the matter!" Steele stopped in front of her. "Which ‘T’ did I not cross? Which ‘I’ did I not dot? What exactly was my transgression?"
She stopped and looked up at him. "Since when is it acceptable for you to mark your territory like that? You think I can’t take care of myself?"
He stared at her. So that’s what this was about? They’d stopped at Musso and Frank’s, with its aged waiters and its unparalleled bartenders and its Hollywood history, for a drink after work to celebrate this their first day back since their honeymoon. After working his way from the bar to the table Laura had commandeered, cocktails in hand, he’d found some cur making a crude pass at Laura. He’d dispensed with the interloper handily, he’d assumed.
"How could you be angry about that?" he said dismissively.
But she could be, and she was. They had such a long way to go. If indeed they’d ever get there.
* * *
"Oh, God," William groaned as she related the conversation that night at dinner. "You didn’t tell him you could still be friends?"
Laura swallowed and put her fork down. "Of course I did."
Her husband rolled his eyes. "Laura, please. Just cut the man’s heart out and stomp on it. It’ll be kinder."
* * *
Suddenly, out of the blue, Steele said, "What if the shoe were on the proverbial other foot?"
Laura, who had just managed to fall asleep, muttered thickly, "What shoe?" But then their argument earlier this evening came back to her, and she opened her eyes to find him staring at her. "You don’t really want to go back to that, do you?"
Maybe he didn’t, but he couldn’t stop now. Which was a shame, because fiery disagreement had led to an armistice, capped swiftly by impassioned lovemaking. Then, after a raid of the refrigerator and some creative snacking in bed, the Steeles had just settled down for the night. That is, until he returned to a sore subject.
"What if some tart in a bar threw herself at me? And here I am, sporting a shiny new wedding ring. What would you do then, eh?"
"I’d trust you to handle the situation," she replied with a self-satisfied flourish. She turned away from him then, in an all-too-clear signal that he was in dangerous waters. In a conciliatory gesture, though, she inched toward him until her body was molded into his. Steele was still angry, but his body betrayed him. Arching her back to press insistently into his growing erection, Laura ensured his silence on the matter.
* * *
Westfield phoned on Sunday, just to see how she was doing. She was doing fine, she said, looking forward to getting back to work and seeing what kind of shambles the crooked Bureau of Investigative Licensing auditor had made of the agency. She didn’t tell him she’d been at Steele’s apartment, emptying the refrigerator and draping sheets over the furniture and trying to persuade herself he wasn’t worth the tears.
On Monday, she arrived at the office, appearing jubilant and full of energy. She and Mildred made short work of returning case files to their proper places.
"Where’s Mr. Steele?" Mildred asked, when they took a break. "He isn’t usually this late."
Laura’s head jerked up. "Oh," she said. "He had to go out of town. On a case."
"What kind of a case? The place has been locked up tight since Thursday."
"Oh, well, it’s some kind of case. He didn’t give me the details."
This was enough to satisfy Mildred, and they got back to work. The mail man arrived to provide a respite; Mildred got up off her aching knees and sat sorting bills from remittances from advertisements. When she slit open a large brown envelope, something fluttered out onto her desk.
"Miss Holt! Here’s our license back!"
Laura came out of her office to look. Sure enough, there was the license, properly issued and certified last Thursday. She picked up the envelope it came in. That was Steele’s handwriting. He was the one who’d wrung the confession out of the guy from Investigative Licensing; he was the one who’d sent it back to her. Maybe he … Maybe there was …
She held the envelope up and shook it; she blew into it; she pulled it apart.
"What’s the matter?" Mildred asked.
"Oh," said Laura. "I was just wondering if there was a receipt or something. A note. You know."
There wasn’t a note. There wasn’t anything in the envelope except the license.
* * *
Like Mrs. Westfield, Mildred was glad to have Mr. Steele back, but she wasn’t quite ready to let him off the hook. She hadn’t had the benefit of a new romance with a likable guy to take up the slack of Remington Steele’s absence from her life. And on top of everything else had been the shocking news that Remington Steele — her boss, her hero — wasn’t really Remington Steele at all. She’d been pretty hard on Miss Holt when this news had been forced upon her; she really thought that poor Laura was just angry and wounded and lashing out until finally it began to sink in that nobody could make up this kind of stuff, and actually, it explained a lot of things.
"If you liked being Remington Steele so much, if you were ready to settle down, then why take off like that?"
"Mildred, all I did was give Laura the time and space she said she wanted."
Mildred stared at him, slack jawed. "Run that by me again," she said finally.
"Laura said we needed to take some time to think about our relationship. I gave her that time. Look what happened."
Exasperated, Mildred blew out a heavy sigh. "You may think you’re a smooth operator with the broads, buster, but you’ve got another thing coming."
Perplexed, he stared back at her.
"Chief, when a woman says she needs a little space, that’s your cue to come across with the goods. Believe you me, if you’d told her, if you’d shown her, how much she meant to you, you would’ve blown Westfield out of the water."
"I didn’t even know there was a Westfield to be blown."
Taking pity on him at last, Mildred said, "Aw, chief. You broke her heart, and now she’s broken yours. I wouldn’t blame you if you went away again."
"She? Laura Holt? Broke my heart? Not by a long shot, Mildred. No. The only woman who could ever break my heart is you."
She patted his cheek and dusted off his shoulders and went back out to her desk.
* * *
"Ok, a little to the left. Yes, Laura, that’s it."
"This isn’t as easy as it looks." She grunted as she made her best effort thus far.
"Maybe not, but just think of the fun we’ll have when we perfect it."
"Easy for you to say. You’ve hardly worked up a sweat."
"Nonsense." To prove his point, Steele drove the next one home with ferocity.
Not to be outdone, Laura displayed remarkable flexibility with her own maneuver, achieving quite a follow-through. "Ahhh," she exhaled with satisfaction.
"Mmm. If we keep this up, I think we could switch professions."
"I doubt it. Who’s going to pay to see this performance?" Laura laughed. She leaned over to grasp a ball. "And whoever thought getting this just right would be so hard?"
Stopping in mid-stroke, Steele lifted his head to look at her. "Come now, you’ve made remarkable progress in such a short time."
Impishly grinning, Laura returned to her own efforts. "I was thinking more about you. Are you sure you can hold up your end?"
He grabbed his chest and feigned shock. "Laura, you cut me to the quick!"
Coming around behind her, he stroked her forearms gently as he inched down, until he was grasping the golf club with her. "Just for that I’m going to stick to you like glue until we get it right."
"Promises, promises." She turned her head slightly as she smiled up at him.
He leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Little did I know all these little fringe benefits of married life: a ready golf partner, just for the asking. . . ."
"And a ready partner for other things as well?"
"Indeed."
* * *
Without Mr. Steele, Laura relied on Mildred more and more to back her up on every case that came through the door. It wasn’t long before one of them was worn out with fourteen hour days.
"I don’t know, Miss Holt," Mildred told her. "If Mr. Steele doesn’t come back soon … "
"I know, Mildred. I know. We just have to keep going."
"What about a temp?"
"A what?"
"A temp. A temporary receptionist. At least that way, we could keep the office open, and there’d be somebody to do the filing. Besides me."
Laura sighed. "Of course you’re right, Mildred. What would I do without you?"
"It is hard, Mr. Steele being gone." Mildred eyed her speculatively. "Any word?"
"No."
"I thought maybe — I mean, the two of you — I thought he might have been in touch."
Shaking her head, Laura pulled open a drawer and took out the phone book. There were lots of listings under temporary employment.
* * *
Gary came back from San Diego to deliver a folder full of evidence just in time to avoid most of the packing and to meet, at last, Remington Steele.
"So you’re Mr. Steele," he said, shaking hands. "I’ve heard a whole lot about you."
"All good, I trust," Remington replied warily.
The kid grinned. "Oh, yeah. They used to talk about you over at Havenhurst. How you used to get all the big cases, and how you used to lure all the hotshot detectives away to work for you. Mrs. Westfield, like. And some guy who used to work here. And now me. Guess that’s a compliment."
So Gary didn’t know. Laura hadn’t told Gary. She was, at least, preserving some of the mystique, saving a tiny portion of his image for him.
He clapped his new associate on the shoulder. "Indeed it is, Gary. Indeed it is."
* * *
Westfield gave her some space at first. He called fairly often, to see how things were going; he stopped by the office with Chinese takeout and was conveniently available to do something masculine and helpful. Of course after a while, helpfulness gave way to a romantic invitation, but Laura knew she was in no condition to be going on a date — it wouldn’t be fair, not to William, not to herself, to try to focus on anything but the agency right now — so she declined.
"I have a lot of work to do," she explained. "Without Mr. Steele — I mean, while Mr. Steele’s away, Mildred and I have to do everything ourselves and — "
" — that means a lot of late nights at the office."
It didn’t mean she couldn’t spare a Sunday afternoon out at the park, and when Westfield turned up the next week with a pair of Dodger tickets, Laura couldn’t say no.
* * *
Laura awoke, cradled in his arms. He stirred but drifted easily back to sleep. She lay there, in the dim light, contemplating the ceiling. Lassitude was replaced by embarrassment. Had that really been her, screaming his name, urging him on, pulling him into her mouth? Yes, of course it was. She brought her hands to her flaming cheeks to quell the heat.
He was the kind of lover she knew he’d be: generous. Eager to make her come, and come, and come. Strong, but gentle. Bared wide open for her pleasure. And equally happy to receive pleasure at her hands.
"Peso for your thoughts?"
He was awake after all. She turned in his grasp and pressed herself full-length against him.
"William?"
"Hmm?"
"William. . . ." she breathed.
He pulled her on top of him. Outside the mariachi band played, but inside it was all hearts thumping.
* * *
Remington could hear a familiar voice greeting Mildred and Gary; he was torn between staying where he was — out of sight in the storeroom — and putting on a fine act of being delighted to see Laura’s husband. At the sound of her voice — how glad she was at the sight of that man! — he moved further into a corner.
Finally, Laura called out a goodbye, and Mildred picked up a ringing phone. When she hung up, he wandered into the reception area with his packing box of miscellaneous junk.
Evincing distaste at these teenaged antics, he stared after the departing Westfields. "Has he been doing this long?"
Mildred finished making a note in Laura’s appointment book. "What?"
Remington jerked his head in the direction of the corridor. "Picking her up after work."
"’Bout as long as I’ve known him."
"Hmmm." His expression souring even more, he leaned against her desk.
"Don’t torture yourself, Chief."
He jumped to his feet. "Torture?" he repeated. "Myself? Perish the thought, Mildred." Then he considered her advice. "I’ll admit," he told her confidentially, "there was a time when I hoped this was ‘The Philadelphia Story ...’"
"MGM. 1940," she guessed.
He nodded. "I thought possibly there was some way I could persuade Laura that young Jimmy Stewart there was not the man for her." He gazed at nothing for a long time. "But now I see that he is, I can only be happy for her."
* * *
Laura had a clear idea of what she needed from a temporary receptionist: Someone to answer the phones, take messages, show clients in to her office, and keep things open while she and Mildred were out on a case.
Unfortunately, Laura needed more than that, and while Mildred wouldn’t have described their staffing situation as a revolving door, she had a hard time thinking of another metaphor.
* * *
Eight o’clock in the morning rolls around fairly quickly when one spends so little of the previous night actually sleeping. Laura didn’t even risk the elevator, for fear that a passing guest of this posh Acapulco hotel would literally smell what she’d been up to for the last dozen hours. All she wanted was to crawl into bed, shut her eyes, and levitate to a deep slumber.
She pushed her door open, ignoring the do not disturb tag hung on the knob.
"Had a late night, Miss Holt? Or an early-morning rendezvous?" He was sitting in an arm chair, feet propped on the cocktail table. The shock of finding him in her room made up for the lack of sleep, and she snapped to full attention. But she couldn’t muster any anger at the moment, just embarrassment that he had found her like this, reeking of another man.
Steele was inscrutable. No familiar greeting passed his lips, no gentle smile helped Laura through her turbulent state. Then after a minute he spoke again.
"I’ll make it easy for you, Laura. If this is the man for you, if it’s he you want, say so, and I’ll clear out of your life for good." He stood and strode across the room.
She held her ground. "I thought you’d already done that." Touché! " And I don’t need to defend myself."
"Indeed you do not. One-hundred percent correct."
They’d been at crossed purposes for so long that Laura found she couldn’t act any other way. Even when this was clearly a turning point for them both. Had her whole life led to this place in time, she wondered?
"Why are you doing this?"
"This?" He looked genuinely puzzled, despite what Laura believed was a direct question.
"Yes, this." She gestured wildly with her hands. "Why are you here? Why aren’t you in some foreign country as John Roby, or Douglas Quintaine, or Richard Crane, or---"
"Blaine."
"Whatever. The point is, what’re you doing here? Miss your flight?"
Steele involuntarily winced as Laura hit on the reason he hadn’t left. But he quickly recovered. "I’m here to help you avoid a mistake." The condescension was unmistakable.
"Oh, really?" Her icy tone suggested otherwise. Laura raised her hand to her brow, as a searing pain began behind her left eye.
"Look, you and I—I mean three years---and here you are with a man you barely
know---?"
"Have you been" and she spat the word out "spying on me?" She walked quickly to the door and opened it wide. "You need to leave now."
"But I---"
"I don’t want to hear it."
His clenched jaw tipped his hand. "You bloody well are going to listen. If you think I came all this way---"
"Fine. If you won’t leave I will." And Laura slammed the door behind her for emphasis.
Steele didn’t follow her, not this time. He’d dogged her trail all the way to this hotel room, but he could go no farther. He sank to the bed and sat, head in hands.
* * *
Like magic, the movers had done their work. Through the glass doors, Mildred could see the reception area — almost a copy of the one downstairs, except doors led off it on all three sides — pretty well set up. At least they’d be ready to get some work done if a client came along to interrupt their unpacking.
If? No sooner had she unlocked the door of the new office than a client presented himself in the box-strewn lobby.
"I have to see Mr. Steele!" he said.
Mildred kicked some bubble wrap out of the way and lifted a box off her chair. Somewhere in the box was her date book. "Do you have an appointment, Mr. — "
"Conyers. Bert Conyers. No, I don’t have an appointment."
"Would you mind — " asked Mildred, indicating an even bigger box.
Mr. Conyers obligingly moved the box onto the floor, and Mildred sat down at her desk. Then she stood up again. "Mr. Steele isn’t in yet, this morning," she explained. "Mrs. Westfield isn’t, either. You’re welcome to wait," she added. "If you can find a place to sit down."
Her eyes fell on another stack of boxes, under which something resembling upholstery peeked through. As she and Mr. Conyers cleared off a corner of the couch, Gary breezed in.
"Hey, Mildred!"
"Hey, yourself," she retorted. "We’ve got a client."
Gary swung around as if he thought he’d take care of it. "Great! I’ll just — "
"That’s Mr. Steele?" exclaimed Mr. Conyers.
"No, ho," Mildred chuckled. "That’s one of Mr. Steele’s associates."
"Because my case — "
" — is very important. Don’t I know it." She waved Gary back to his office. "Mrs. Westfield will be in shortly, Mr. Con — "
"I have to talk to Remington Steele," Mr. Conyers insisted.
Mildred smiled and turned away, rolling her eyes.
* * *
As if afraid of the dark, Laura continued to see William only during the day. Lunch several times a week, a ball game (they drove down to Anaheim once to see the Angels and decided it wasn’t worth it, considering William’s excellent season tickets at Dodger Stadium), golf, a ride up the coast — these friendly outings cheered Laura and gave Westfield hope.
Although not particularly close to any of them, William had a wide range of acquaintances, and Laura enjoyed meeting them. This happened fairly often at the country club; Laura didn’t waste any time on her shots, and they frequently found themselves coming up on the heels of a foursome that happened to include fellow lawyers, or fellow Yale alumni, or fellow Duke alumni, or clients. She told herself that this was good for business: High powered lawyers frequently had need of private detectives, and while she never quite handed out her card, she did make sure they remembered the name of her agency.
They were, of course, all delighted to meet Miss Holt, delighted to wink at William behind her back, delighted to let the couple play through, delighted to tell him later that the lady had a nice swing.
In time, of course, he began to express an interest in meeting her friends — or, acknowledging that Laura might be something of a loner, at least her best friend.
"You can’t," she replied. "He’s out of town."
* * *
Just like him to actually make her vacate her own room! Where to go? William was likely comatose, given the state she’d left him in. And besides, she needed some time alone, if only to attempt to control the pounding in her head. She ducked into the stairwell and walked the three flights to the lobby.
It was a perfect morning. The sun had begun its march across the sky, and the air had lost some of its sultry qualities from the night before. Laura was hardly alone as she paced the winding path through the gardens, but she was the only woman without a partner.
So like him! Just when she’d written him off, when she’d found someone else, he came roaring back into her life. But while she had been able to summon very little anger just a few minutes earlier, she was drowning in it now. It didn’t have to end up like this. How many missed opportunities, crossed purposes, hurt feelings, misunderstandings has led to this moment? Plenty. And even when he’d shown up, had it been to apologize for his own appalling behavior? Hardly. It had been to point a finger at her. Clenching and unclenching her fists, pulse quickening, Laura fumed. Her slow simmer was in danger of boiling over.
And what about the man she’d left sleeping in a room upstairs? Where did he fit in to the puzzle that was her life? William was sweet, and kind, and caring. He was sincerely interested in her. He was a passionate lover; Laura’s heart beat faster in reminiscence of last night, or was it in anticipation of an encore performance?
Laura waited until a decent hour to knock lightly on William’s door. The butterflies in her stomach were because of her encounter with Steele, she told herself, not because of any ambiguity over William.
The door swung open and a bleary Westfield peered out.
She cleared her throat. "Had a shower yet?"
"No," he answered, the question in his voice.
"I’ll wash your back if you wash mine."
Westfield’s jaw may have dropped perceptibly, but he recovered enough to brace the door open, as Laura grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back into his room.
* * *
Gary had wasted no time thinking up his cover; his over-powered old Skylark was already roaring up the ramp of the underground garage as Remington guided the Auburn down it.
"Ah, Mrs. Westfield," he said. "Morning, Mildred. What’s on the agenda for today?"
"Ergonomics," Laura replied.
"Eh?"
"Ergonomics," she repeated, grabbing his arm and steering him back towards the door. "We’re ergonomic experts. We’re going to examine every desk at Conyers’ office to be sure that every employee has the most up-to-date equipment and the most comfortable and efficient way of working."
"Battle of the sexes," he said, pulling out onto Olympic.
Laura blinked at him. "What?"
"‘Battle of the Sexes’," he repeated. "Peter Sellers, Robert Morley, Constance Cummings. British Lion Films, 1959. An efficiency expert turns the Scottish tweed industry on its ear."
"We’re not turning Mr. Conyers’ empire on its ear," Laura reminded him. "We’re just going to see if there’s anything obvious going on."
"If there’s anything obvious going on," Mr. Conyers retorted, "I would know about it."
"Not obvious, Mr. Conyers. Perhaps that wasn’t the best choice of words. Mr. Steele and I did mention that we’d stop by to have a look around. As trained detectives, we may be able to see something that you might not happen to notice."
Placated, Mr. Conyers relaxed back into his big leather chair.
"A fine office you have here, Mr. Conyers," Steele observed. "Lovely view."
"You can see Catalina," said Mr. Conyers, standard response for anyone up high enough and facing in the right direction. "When it’s clear."
Steele ran his hand over the window frame and tested the latch. It turned easily, and he pushed the window out. Cool, fresh air pushed into the room.
Laura joined him at the window. He pointed up at the ledge overhead.
"Someone with the right equipment," he said, "would have no trouble getting in here."
"It’s twelve stories."
"Laura." He eyed her patiently. "It would be the work of a moment to drop down from there, jimmy this window and slip right in."
"There’ve been no signs of a break in," Conyers protested. "That’s why we think it’s an inside — "
"A true professional would leave no sign." He shooed some pigeons off the ledge. "This would be a very stable platform for second story work. Rappel down, or work one’s way up from a lower floor, if that’s more convenient."
"It’s still a long way down."
With a shrug, he pulled the window shut, picked up his clipboard and put on the face of an efficiency — rather, an ergonomics — expert.
* * *
Somehow discussion of the business always led into a tale of woe. Even when she guarded against it, there would be a silence, waiting to be filled with some remark about Mr. Steele. Laura tried to be careful, tried to keep things light, but somehow that man, even when he was gone, cast a long shadow …
She caught herself, frowned and shook her head. "Here I go again, laying all this stuff on you … "
William put his arm around her shoulders. "Who better?"
With a bitter laugh, she replied, "That’s a sad commentary on my life, isn’t it?"
They walked on a little. "Should I be offended by that remark?"
"No. It’s just — you’re right. Who else could I tell? Not my sister, certainly not my mother. I don’t have any friends to speak of, except the one that’s missing. And I’m certainly not going to discuss my abortive love life with Mildred."
"So you see? There’s me. In the right place at the right time. And about that love life…."
* * *
It was a strain, but not altogether unpleasant. Or not unpleasant at all, to be with William, all the while knowing that she’d made her choice, that she’d finally gotten past him. Gotten past him to be with someone who wasn’t afraid to let her in, to truly be with her.
"…Laura?"
Guiltily, she looked up and met William’s eyes across the dinner table. After a perfectly enjoyable day together, doing what tourists are supposed to do in Acapulco, they’d chosen to order room service, and Laura made certain it was in Westfield’s room and not hers. Never know who might show up. . . .
"Where are you tonight, Laura Holt?" He smiled gently, tentatively, and reached across the gulf to brush her hair from her eyes. She leaned away from his touch at first, then caught herself. She echoed his smile, but it was more of a challenge than she thought it would be.
"I’m so sorry, William. I’m---it’s not that I’m not happy, but I just have some things to sort through, is all."
He was smart enough to let it go at that. Who said anything about her not being happy? In his heart, Westfield knew that being with Laura made him happier than he’d ever been. Now to go about ensuring that she felt the same.