Stranded Steele Part 4

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Stranded Steele
Part Four
Rated "R"

Remington laid the canvas tarp down on the sand, aware that Laura was watching him across the glowing embers of the fire as he worked. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"We have to sleep somewhere," he reminded her. "And I don’t particularly relish the idea of sleeping on bare sand. The canvas is large enough that we should be able to sleep comfortably on it and still have enough to pull across as a cover."

"You’re suggesting that we – share the bed?"

He sighed. "Laura, it’s not as if it’s the first time we’ve slept together, is it?"

"No," she admitted. "I suppose it’s not, Mr. Steele –," she said, then frowned as he turned to look at her.

"Harry. Or Michael. Or – Or anything other than Mr. Steele." When she didn’t respond, Remington
sat down on the log again. "Why is it so bloody impossible for you to call me anything other than
‘Mr. Steele’?" he asked in that deceptively soft voice.

Laura’s eyes fell to the sand to survey her bare feet. "I don’t know. I guess- I guess I would just prefer a name that you gave yourself- not a name that someone else gave you just so they would have a name to call you by. Or a name that you picked because it might help in a con – or . . ."

"I don’t KNOW my real name, Laura," he reminded her, tossing small pieces of wood into the fire.
"I’ll probably never know it." He looked at her again. "So unless you intend to spend the rest of our lives calling me ‘Mr. Steele’, I’d settle on something else. Even Remington."

"The rest of our lives?" Laura questioned, leaning back to rest on her elbows. "That sounds awfully permanent, doesn’t it?"

"Maybe I’ve come to the conclusion that a little permanence might not be such a bad thing."

Laura looked at him for a long time. "You still look like a Harry," she decided.

Remington smiled, scratching behind his ear. "I seem to recall your saying that once before."

"Only you were upset about your friend Wallace."

He nodded. "If I hadn’t been, I probably would have been surprised at your choice. I suppose it was because of Daniel, but that’s the name most of my old friends called me."

"Not Felicia," she pointed out. "She calls you Michael."

"That’s the name I was using when I first met her. I was setting up a –," he stopped, looking at her.
"You’re sure you want to hear this?"

"Oh, please. Don’t stop now, Harry," she urged. "I’m all ears."

"I’d been casing a museum in Rome for about a week when I realized that someone else was doing the same thing. Felicia approached me at dinner one evening, we talked –," he looked a bit uncomfortable. "You’re SURE?" Laura smiled. "Anyway, I was staying at the hotel using the name Michael O’Leary, and that’s the name I gave her. When I went in to steal the painting I was after, I found someone else already there. I had no idea it was Felicia until we’d gotten safely away from the museum with our prize and she removed her mask."

"And so began a profitable – partnership?" Laura suggested.

"No. Felicia and I were never really partners. Not in the sense you mean. And we didn’t work together that often. She usually found me- not the other way around."

"Ah."

"Your turn," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tit for tat, Laura," he said. "I told you something about my elusive past – now you tell me something."

Laura sat up, spreading her hands. "My life is an open book, Mr. - Harry."

"Tell me about Wilson."

"Not much to tell," she said. "We met, spent some time together, he moved on."

"How did you meet him?"

"I’d been at Havenhurst for almost a year when Wilson’s bank hired the agency to quietly investigate one of its vice presidents that they suspected of embezzlement. I went to work as a teller- undercover, for almost a week. Wilson was a VERY junior vice president in those days. But he always said he had a big future." She sat back again. "I don’t want to bore you with this," she said.

"On the contrary," he assured her. "I’m all ears," he said, borrowing her phrase, which caused her to smile again. "Do continue."

Laura rose to her feet, shaking the sand from her hands and arms. "I’d always wanted to be a private detective. But when I met Wilson, I just- I don’t know. It didn’t seem important anymore," she admitted, moving away a bit to brace her arm against a palm tree. Turning, she leaned against the narrow trunk. "He asked me to marry him, but I told him wasn’t sure I was ready to take that step – I used my career as an excuse, and he suggested that we move in together – get to know each other. It was a mistake – we were such- opposites."

"Opposites?"

"Wilson was a neatness freak. Hospital corners on the beds, laying out his clothes for the next day before he went to bed – he lived by a VERY strict schedule. Wake up at seven, shower, and dress, have breakfast at seven forty five, go to work, get home at six, and have dinner at six thirty. Back then, the best I managed to do was get to work on time. I hated time tables, and schedules - I can’t tell you how many times we argued because I got caught up on a case and couldn’t get home in time for dinner. And heaven help me if the house wasn’t neat as a pin. ‘Image, Laura’, he used to say. ‘You HAVE to remember that I have an image to maintain.’" She shook her head. "I almost quit Havenhurst so I could stay at home and be the perfect little woman."

"But you didn’t."

"No, I took a couple of weeks leave, just to try it. We wound up arguing all time- and then the trip to Acapulco came up."

"Ah, Pepe’s," Remington recalled. "The infamous fan dance." He smiled in reply to hers. "Was that what sent him running?" he asked.

She nodded. "I think so. He was so embarrassed by it, was terrified that all of his bosses at the bank would think I was flighty and too much of a free spirit. I reminded him that everyone had been VERY drunk that night, that they probably wouldn’t even remember it. I spent that first day back out
shopping for something to make it up to him – only when I got home-," her voice fell silent.

"He was gone. Leaving only a pair of trousers, a white belt and a tee shirt behind," Remington said.
"What did you do?"

She shrugged. "I didn’t leave the house for a week- until Murphy came by to see me – find out how I was doing. He convinced me to come back to Havenhurst- to pick up where I’d left off and get my license." Her gaze focused on the dark waters that stretched into forever. "I swore that I wasn’t going to let ANY man close enough ever again to hurt me that way. I concentrated on my career – and everything else just wasn’t important."

"Must have been lonely for you," he said. "Wilson was a fool," he told her, rising to slowly approach her, placing a hand on either side of her. "He let the best thing that ever happened to him slip out of his hands."

"His loss," Laura commented.

"And my gain," Remington agreed, lowering his head to press his lips to hers. Laura’s arms went around his neck, pressing herself closer to him. When he lifted his head again, he smiled. "You know, you STILL haven’t shown me that fan dance," he reminded her.

Laura’s smile was filled with something that Remington had seen far too infrequently- a playfulness that he’d seen once before in a winery, when she’d done an impromptu strip tease to keep Wilson Jeffries’ banker friends from finding a dead body they were trying to hide. "I think we MIGHT be able to arrange something, Harry," she told him, then looked around, grabbing to wilted palm leaves.
"These will do," she decided.

"Ah, Laura, umm- you don’t have to-," he began, but she raised up to plant another kiss on his lips.

"I want to," she told him. "If I were you, I’d find a place to sit," she said, moving behind the bushes. Remington sat down on the log, and was stunned when the fabric she’d been wearing as a sarong was tossed in his direction. "Hold on to that," she told him.

"Laura," he said, trying again to stop her before she did something that he KNEW she would regret if they were rescued. Anything else he might have said was forgotten as she came from behind the tree, humming, the palm leaves strategically positioned to cover her as she began an extremely "fanny" dance, as Remington would have once put it. He watched her in silence, amazed. There was nothing crass or "dirty" in Laura's movements. Her body seemed to flow from one sensual movement to another, the flickering firelight making her seem molten, almost ethereal. The palm leaves were somewhat larger than the fans she’d used in Acapulco, no doubt, but they still left little to the imagination. Remington found himself shaking his head, knowing that he had a silly grin on his face as he watched her glide across the sand. This woman had more passion, more zest for life, hidden in that petite body than any of the other women he’d known.

As her dance ended, Laura was stood directly before him, and without a word, she dropped the leaves into the fire, remaining there, naked, an island goddess demanding tribute from her solitary subject. Remington held up the sarong, only to have her take it from him and toss it toward the makeshift bed before sinking into his arms, her lips finding his as her hands moved across his chest.

Caught off guard, Remington nearly lost his balance, only managing to remain sitting on the log by pulling her more fully into his arms. "Oh, Laura," he said, "Do you have any idea what you’re doing?"

"I think so, Harry," she said teasingly. "It’s been awhile, but -."

Remington placed a hand on the back of her head to force her eyes to his. "Are you sure about this, Laura?"

"As sure as I’ve ever been of anything," she told him. "Now shut up and kiss me."

Remington obliged her demand, rising to his feet with her held securely in his arms to move to the canvas. Lowering her legs, she sank down onto the bed, unbuttoning his trousers and lowering the zipper, pushing the pants and his shorts to the sand, where he stepped from them and fell to his knees beside her, pulling her close to him once more as their lips met . . .

**********

Mildred hung up the telephone, putting her head into her hands. She'd have to call Miss Holt's mother- and her sister. And where did Mr. Steele keep Daniel Chalmers' number, she wondered. Probably in his personal phone book in his desk - she moved into the larger office and opened the drawer, then stopped. The last time this had happened, they hadn't been dead. And THIS time, there were no bodies to be identified. No sign of them.

She placed a hand on the leather of Mr. Steele's chair, then closed the desk drawer. She had to be sure before she contacted anyone except the DA about this. No need in worrying the others. She'd call the DA first thing tomorrow, hand over the report on the Maxwell case, and then -she was going to Hawaii.

To Be Continued - - -

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