Part III: Steele Interrupted

By Remington's estimation, thus far it had been the perfect start to what he'd planned as the perfect weekend. Tonight, dinner made by his own hand: A spinach salad followed by Dijon and focaccia crusted Rack of Lamb, herbed potatoes and steamed broccoli, then for desert a raspberry tart dribbled with white and dark chocolate. Tomorrow morning, breakfast in bed for his lady fair, a round of golf at the club afterwards at which time he'd present her with tickets to the circus for that afternoon. To close out the evening and weekend, he'd leased a sailboat. A dinner catered by Chez Rives would await them there. A dessert of succulent strawberries, freshly whipped cream, and a bottle of chilled Dom. They'd dance then make love beneath the stars before retiring to the stateroom below for a night's sleep... or, if she preferred, on the bow, wrapped up together in a down comforter to ward off the evening chill. In the morning, breakfast once more made by him, an afternoon sail home, then when they arrived at the loft? Dozens of roses perched on nearly every flat surface, dinner catered by L'Ornate, and at last her gift.

But to start this evening: a cheese and cracker plate laid out on the coffee table and la piece de resistance: a 1969 champagne from the Krug Collection. The bottle had been a gift from a friend back in '73. A thank you, if you will, for help rendered in a time of need. The priceless bottle of bubbly was worth ten times a decent bottle of Dom, and he'd kept it carefully tucked away for nearly thirteen years, waiting until a worthy occasion presented itself.

Was there any occasion more worthy than the thirtieth birthday of the woman who simultaneously soothed his heart and made it sing?

Even so, as he now held the bottle in his hand, he stroked it with a bit of regret, as it was rather like saying goodbye to an old, dear friend.

Laura swung a crossed leg impatiently. It had been a long day. She'd arrived at the office much earlier than normal to assure her desk would be cleared by end of day, given the weekend lay ahead. The cup of yogurt she'd scarfed down before leaving the loft that morning hadn't been nearly enough to tide her over, especially in light of having worked through lunch. She'd gone home to shower, change and dress for this evening knowing her Mr. Steele would have something planned. Her hair had turned out far, far… poofier… than she'd prefer, but trying to rectify it would have meant being late for dinner. She was tired, grumpy and the very idea she was turning thirty – thirty! – in a few days had her bordering on positively cross. Now, here she sat, starving, while he paid homage to a bottle of champagne. Unable to wait another second to get food on her stomach, she reached for a cracker, only to find it being taken from her hand and tossed back on the table as she'd prepared to sink her teeth into it.

"Uh, uh, uh, careful, Laura," he scolded lightly. "Clouds the palate." She leveled a frustrated… and confused, look upon him.

"What is so special about this bottle of champagne?" she asked, impatiently. He chuckled softly and stroked the bottle as though it were a lover, earning an impatient roll of her eyes, heavenward.

"Ah, this was given to me by a dear friend in Cypress, 1973." He paused, a ponderous look on his face, then continued, "Or was it '74? Ah, well, at any rate, I had to leave rather unexpectedly because the Cypriots decided to stage this coup. However, this precious bottle of champagne here survived, and was later recovered by-" She'd had enough.

"Mr. Steele," Laura told him, while tapping the top of the bottle with her hand, "pop the cork." Disappointed by her lack of interest in the wine's origin, he never the less nodded his head in agreement. He reached for the cork, as a knock sounded at the door. He turned to look at it, as she again reached for a cracker.

"Return of the Cypriots?" she asked, drolly, earning a glare at her lack of appreciation for not attempting to understand the meaning behind his decision to use this particular bottle of wine.

"Who is it?" he called, not even rising.

"Help me! Please! Let me in," came the simpering voice of a man. "Someone's trying to kill me!"

There was no need to ask Laura if he truly needed to answer that door, he already knew the answer: the champagne would have to wait.

The man was a menace. It was only one of the words that could be used to describe Bing Perrett. Obnoxious. Whiny. Irritating. Spoiled. Insufferable. Malignant. A pox. There were a few more apt descriptions. Unfortunately for Remington, listing the man's shortcomings did nothing, whatsoever, to improve his mood. Neither did racking up the damages to his flat to date: broken window, shattered end table, collapsed bed. The dinner he'd so carefully prepared ruined and tossed in the refuse bin. And his champers! Thirteen years of coveting that first sip but forcing himself to wait until the time was right – all for naught.

Grunting, he flipped again to his back on the couch where he lay, crossing his arms and frowning up at the ceiling. If he were honest with himself, he admitted, his current state of dysphoria was far less about the damages visited upon his belongings and far more about his plans for Laura's birthday laying in tatters about his feet. He'd spent near on a month devising a plan, discarding one after another as not befitting such a milestone as her thirtieth birthday, and finally settling on what he'd felt was an apt tribute. It had been his fervent hope that the care and attention with which he'd planned the weekend of festivities, all in salute to her, would reflect how much he cared for her, how often he thought of her, how very much the relationship they were nurturing meant to him. Right now, had all gone according to plan, she'd be snugly held in his arms as they danced, lights dimmed, fire burning low, and soft music serenading them.

She'd played him, he knew. He'd been fully prepared to refuse the bellicose Bing housing for the evening... had tried to, in fact. But the tilt of her head, the earnest brown eyes, the soft voice, the gentle hand fingering first his tie, then the lapel of his jacket... he'd been powerless to refuse her, as well she knew he'd be. A no win situation that had been. Refusing meant disappointing her, which was certainly not the way to salvage his carefully laid plans. Agreeing meant keeping her happy, and the evening still a loss.

He turned onto his side, and let out a frustrated breath. Even now, Laura was likely standing before her refrigerator, having settled for a couple of questionable pieces of cheese slapped between two slices of iffy bread for her dinner. The woman never ate worth a damn unless a decent meal was set before her, after all. After, she'd change into some perfectly frumpy night wear then cuddle up with a case file instead of him, none the wiser to the evening he'd designed with her in mind. It was enough to make a man positively nutters.

Remington was correct, at least for the most part. She had, indeed, made herself that cheese sandwich after cutting away a few suspect parts with a shrug. Her mother had grown up during the Depression and disposing of a few spotty white and/or blue parts of the cheese would do her no harm... after all her mother had survived just fine. She hadn't donned one of her chaste nightgowns, instead wrapping herself in one of his pajama shirts, as she was accustomed to on weekend nights, but she had taken files to bed with her, as predicted. They'd failed, however, to keep her attention, her mind wandering often to what might have been. Remington had been dressed to perfection. Between that and the obviously treasured bottle of champagne, it was clear he'd orchestrated a carefully planned evening for them.

Lamb, she lamented. She'd smelled lamb cooking. What else had he whipped up in that kitchen of his? She'd bet her last dollar that something on the evening had involved chocolate. A mousse? Pots de crème? A cheesecake or tart dribbled in chocolate? Dark chocolate or white? He used food as a tool for seduction, as much as he did for sustenance. Yes, there had been chocolate involved.

No Remington.

No seduction.

No chocolate.

Damn it.

"He's disappointed in us?!" Laura drew out each word in irritation. "He fired us?! That... that..." At a loss for words, she crossed her arms and scowled fiercely.

"One man wrecking crew? Toddler in long pants? Pestiferous parasite?" Remington offered up from where he sat next to her in the back of the limo, equally vexed. She gave a sharp nod of agreement.

"Then he has the unmitigated gall to blame us for the property he destroyed?" she continued to vent. "I'm of a mind to take him to court if he doesn't pay up!"

"Better yet, call 'Daddy'," he suggested, saying the last word with disdain.

"There was chocolate, wasn't there?" she asked a bit dolefully. He did a double take before her question clicked.

"Merely one of many delights that awaited you," he answered, crossing his arms now as well.

"What else?" she demanded to know.

"Spinach salad followed by Dijon and focaccia crusted Rack of Lamb. The herbed potatoes you enjoy. Raspberry tart drizzled with both white and dark chocolate. A bit a dancing. Breakfast in bed this morning, a round of golf at the club." He reached into his jacket and pulled out two tickets, flicking them in front of her nose. Taking them in hand, her temper heated further.

"The circus?!" she asked, dismayed. "You got us tickets for the circus?"

"I did. Followed by a sail this evening... a night, perhaps morning of romance," he added.

"I'll kill him," she declared vehemently. "Your plans. Your apartment." She saw the lamp on her desk crashing to the floor, shattering, again. "That was a Correa lamp."

"The lamp shade's replaceable, Laura,"" he countered, sulking. "A precious bottle of champagne's irreplaceable."

"The man's a spoiled, overgrown brat. He should be spanked," she bit out.

"Easier said than done," he clipped, then glanced down in annoyance at the car phone when it rang. With no little irritation, he picked up the handset. "Steele here." He yanked the phone away from his ear as gunshot retorted loudly in the background.

"They're trying to kill me!" Perret's voice came over the line.

"Where are you, Bing?" Remington asked, while Laura shot him a sour look upon hearing the man's name.

"The warehouse! Hurry!" Another couple of rounds sounded in the background. Glancing at the phone, he hung up... indifferent, almost, to come to the man's aid. "They're trying to kill him," he informed Laura. She was equally unimpressed.

"That's because it's easier than spanking him," she quipped, looking away from him, but then turning her head back to look at him. They both knew what they had to do, whether they wished to or not.

"Perret's warehouse, Fred," he ordered the driver, all the while knowing any hope of getting some time alone with his delightful partner that evening had disappeared as soon as the words were spoken.

Remington had been right, of course. He'd called first thing the next morning, cancelling flowers and dinner, so at least that expense would be spared, neither trusting Bing Perret to cover the expenses they'd incurred nor believing they'd wrap up the case in time to enjoy the evening. Still, on Sunday night and the case over, for only a moment they'd had a glimmer of hope they might salvage at least a small sliver of the evening for themselves. But that, of course, had ended when Mildred arrived with Ivan Strelnikov, the KGB agent who'd been giving chase to the rogue Commiczar of Caviar. By the time the man had departed for the airport and Mildred had taken her leave, Laura's witching hour was near. He'd been tempted to try to sway her into staying the night, since the whole weekend had gone afoul, but with a mental sigh, acknowledged it would be fruitless to do so. So, they'd said goodnight, sharing a fairly chaste kiss at his front door.

On Monday morning, Laura sailed into his office, and as though there were nothing unusual about it, announced:

"Frances and Donald are expecting us at six tomorrow evening for my..." she couldn't stop the grimace that followed, "... birthday dinner. Dress is casual, so you might want to bring a change of clothes to the office so we can leave from here." She'd managed to surprise him, bloody well stun him, actually, as she'd made no previous mention of him accompanying her. He swiftly stood up, rounding his desk, to stand in front of her.

"Do they know? About us?" he inquired, waving a hand back and forth between them. She shrugged.

"I'm fairly sure Donald figured out something was going on between us when they were here for the conference a couple of years back, although he's never asked for details."

"Oh, what gives you that impression?" he asked, leaning against the side of the desk.

"He makes it a point to ask how you're doing whenever we talk. But, then, after your little display of jealousy and 'pumping him for information'," she gesticulated with her hand, "followed by that kiss in the living room..." she held up a hand, and let him fill in the blanks.

"And Frances?"

"Given she's not badgered me across the years, asking when I plan to tell Mother, when we plan to make things more... official, I'd say it's safe to believe Donald's kept his suspicions close to the vest." He nodded, slowly.

"Mmmm hmmm, Mmmm hmmm," he hummed. "And tomorrow night?"

"We'll let her draw her own conclusions." It was the best answer she had, given they'd still not labeled what, exactly, they were. Friends who happened to be lovers? An enjoyable, but temporary diversion? Something... lasting? How do you attach a label to something when you, yourself, have no idea what it is? Shaking off the thoughts, she handed him the file in her hand. "Now, about out meeting with Peter Jernigan..."

He returned to sit in his chair, listening closely enough to respond appropriately, but his thoughts otherwise occupied with ideas on how to still give her a birthday to remember.

Dinner with the Piper's had gone off without so much as a hiccup and Frances hadn't even seemed to question why Laura would bring her 'boss' as her guest to a birthday dinner in her honor. That had been a relief, as Laura was still not up to answering questions about them, not to mention as soon as Frances knew so would their mother. What still had her head swimming, however, as Remington and she walked up to the door of the loft, was her nieces and nephew's reaction to Remington and his to them. She'd known since little Caruso had passed through their lives that he had a natural affinity for children, but hadn't realized until tonight that he truly enjoyed them. Her thoughts were still preoccupied by this revelation when she removed the padlock from her door and Remington reached in front of her to tug it open, then extended a hand indicating she should enter first.

She took two steps then stopped in her tracks to take in the room in front of her. With a shake of her head, she resumed entry into the living room, walking directly to the piano to finger the arrangement of yellow, white and red roses there. She spun around to take in the rest of the room, finding an identical arrangement on her secretary's desk, kitchen counter, end tables, the kitchen table, and a glance up to her room showed even more on the bedside table and dresser.

"What's all this?" she asked, clearly awed, watching with amusement as he flicked on the heater to the circus style popcorn cart, and filled the tub with oil and kernels. She joined him next to the machine, tapping her fingernails on the glass.

"A nod, perhaps, to the weekend that could have been," he answered, smiling when her eyes lit upon the second cart, parked in the small dining area.

"A cotton candy maker? You're going to make me cotton candy?" His grin widened when he stood and she stepped to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"That I am," he confirmed, his arms automatically encircling her waist. She pressed up on her toes and with her eyes still open, holding his, touched her lips to his. When she withdrew her lips, their eyes continued to hold for long seconds, before he bent his head down and settled his lips over hers, caressing them with gentle ardor. The sound of corn beginning to pop drew his attention and reminded him there was more to the night ahead. With no little reluctance, he ended the kiss, and with a couple of pats on her hip, stepped away. "Ah, yes, well, let's see to that cotton candy, eh?" he suggested, the thought that he seemed a bit scatterbrained lifting her lips.

"By all means," she agreed.

The cotton candy was made amid much laughter, although he seemed as skilled in its making as he was anything else that involved food preparation. His days with the carny? she wondered to herself. Once he had a half dozen sticks made and a heaping bowl of popcorn sitting on the coffee table, he squatted down before her TV and slipped a VHS tape into the player. Her brows knitted together as she watched.

"Should I ask how your VCR ended up in my living room?" He glanced over his shoulder at her, lifting a brow in her direction.

"Need you ask?" She laughed and shook her head. Monroe.

"I don't know why people even bother locking their doors. If I've learned anything at all from you and your friends over the years it's that where there's a will..."

"There's a way?" He flashed her a smile, then said a quick prayer all was functioning before sitting down next to her on the couch and pushing the play button. He'd recorded the movie while Laura was visiting her mother at Christmas, thinking she might enjoy it... and that it might come in handy should he find himself on her bad side. When the movie's name flashed on the screen, she sat up a bit straighter, smiling wide.

"A circus movie?"

"The Big Circus, Victor Mature, Red Buttons, Vincent Price and Peter Lorre, Allied Artists, 1949. The owner of a circus in dire straits tries to keep the show on the road, despite the efforts otherwise by a murderous saboteur," he summarized. "It's by no means Casablanca, but given it combines murder, mystery, mayhem and the circus, I imagine you'll find it enjoyable fare."

And she had. She'd laughed often, commenting on how the dancers in the parade were horribly out of sync and wondering what would possess anyone to paint elephants orange, yellow, red and purple. Watching the big top burn had left her quiet, and the train derailment which killed several members of the troupe had made her gasp. Throughout it all, she pinched off fingers full of fairy floss, offering him bites, which he declined... although he gladly accepted the lips she offered up to him often, savoring the taste of the colorful confection and her combined. When the closing credits of the movie rolled, he was loathe to get up and leave her, but one last surprise still awaited.

He retrieved the box from the underside cabinets in her kitchen, where Monroe's man had stashed it according to direction. Carrying it into the living room, he placed the large, but deceptively light box, on her lap. He'd already had a gift for her that he'd intended to present on Sunday evening, had the weekend gone as plan, but it seemed fate had designed that gift be designated for another time and place, yet unknown. The inspiration for what sat before her now had come to him the prior morning. A well-placed call, not to mention a reminder of debt owed, and he'd had it in his hands last evening.

"For me?" Laura asked now, as she looked up at him, a smile upon her face.

"Unless someone else in this room has a birthday today, I should think so," he confirmed, as he sat back down next to her. She examined the box, picking it up and judging its weight, speculating as to what it might be. Across the years, his gifts to her had almost inevitably focused on the kitchen: cookware, bakeware, various utensils required for paring, slicing, crushing and pounding; a 'decent' set of wine glasses. A kettle, she finally decided, with a mental nod to herself. Countless times, since he'd begun spending nights at her place, he threatened to buy her a kettle in which a 'proper pot of tea might be brewed.' Although it is a rather larger box, her mind chirped in for a final time.

Determined to preserve the large sheet of lovely paper enfolding the box, she patiently worked each piece of tape free, while Remington watched on with a bemused look upon his face. Finally, the fully intact piece of paper was placed on the coffee table and she tackled pulling back the tape securing the box. He imagined he'd treasure for a long time to come her quick inhale, and the glimmering eyes, wide with pleasure, that she lay upon him after seeing the box's content.

"But how? When I called, I was told it would take weeks, if not months, before they produced this color and style again." She lifted the Correa lamp almost reverently from the box.

"Ah, yes, but there happened to be an exact replica of the lamp on your desk in a certain San Diego office if you recall," he smiled.

"I hadn't even occurred to me," she admitted. Carefully sitting the lamp on the coffee table, she turned to him, and lay a hand against his cheek. "Thank you," she told him softly, brushing lips to cheek.

Reaching up, he lifted her hair over her shoulder, then cupped her neck, drawing her lips to his. His lips caressing hers, his elegant fingers stroking her neck, sent shocks across her body and goosebumps dancing along her skin, as pure, unadulterated need for the man coursed through her. She'd missed him this weekend, enough so that she'd chastised herself a time or two. But there it was. She'd missed making love to him, certainly, but even more so, had missed falling to sleep with him, waking next to him, the warmth of his body pressed against hers, their hands clasped, his soft breath against her neck, her ear. She'd missed watching him wake, those blue eyes seeming all the brighter first thing in the morning when he first opened them, his hair askew, and that look of simple happiness when he woke to find her next to him. She'd missed that first morning kiss, when he'd shift her hair off her shoulder, then lean down and touch his lips to hers.

"Stay," she half-requested, half-hoped aloud. Her brown eyes widened, as shocked as he by the unplanned invitation, but she let it stand.

"Under one condition," he answered, leaning in for another taste of her lips.

"Oh? And what might that be?" She brushed her lips to his again.

"That I've the same option on my birthday." The smile that lit her face was answer enough, but still she gave him the words.

"I think that can be arranged." He landed another quick kiss on her lips before standing and drawing her up by her hands. Smiling, she threaded her fingers through his hair, pressing his lips to hers when he leaned down again. Her laughter trickled through the room when he swung her up to his arms, before it was smothered by a searing kiss.

She'd wanted him hard and fast, her body aching for him, for release but he had other ideas in mind: a slow seduction in which the body was lathed with kisses, nips, the tip of a tongue trailing across it, as each part was revealed, piece-by-piece. When, at last, the final article of clothing had been tossed aside, and she still quivered from her second climax at his hands, she straddled his lap, taking him inside. A shuddering sigh passed her lips at finding him filling her, but when she began to move over him, hips gyrating, trying to race to that finish line, he'd grasped her hips in his hands and lifted her from him. A moan of both complaint and frustration bubbled up from her throat quelled only when he swung his legs over the side of the bed and drew her onto his lap where he had more access to her body, finessing and teasing another orgasm from her as she thrust against him. He rolled with her then, until she was beneath him, and he at last gave her what she'd been seeking, pumping hard and fast into her body until her legs wrapped tightly around his thighs and her body arched, and she cried out as her body shuddered. Only then did he bury himself fully within her, murmuring her name as he came apart inside of her.

After, she splayed partway over his body, the fingers of one hand tangling with his, while his other hand soothed her. Her last thought, before sleep stole her away, was the memory of how he'd spoken of them earlier as though eight months from now, they'd still be together. Perhaps, she smiled, he didn't see this as a fleeting moment after all.