Steely Beauty

I should be analyzing the reign of Peter the Great; instead, I bring you this. At the very least, it shines by comparison. A moment in License to Steele.

I do not own Remington Steele, but I'm coping nicely.

"Ladies and gentlemen…Remington Steele!"

The look on her face is utterly priceless. If he'd ever had training in art besides stealing it, he would have been sorely tempted to capture the moment on canvass. Livid, he would call it, but no one would notice. They'd be staring at her eyes—the way he was now—her fiery, gleaming eyes—white hot and scalding. She would never be a cold woman, his Laura. And yes, she's already his Laura. He knows he should run—he knows any sane man would—his? After two days, his? It'd be terrifying; it really would, if he wasn't so transfixed by those eyes. She's irate—fuming—totally and irrevocably pissed. And he should be running; he should be dreading the hell to come—the fire in her eyes—only he can't help but bask in their warmth.

No one's ever cared enough to be pissed at him. They've been disappointed with him; they've been put out by him; they been irritated when he refused to let them have their way, but they've never glared at him the way she is now—with righteous indignation and personal affront. He's made a career out of not offending on the personal level. People are so much more dangerous on the personal level. Steal a man's jewels, he'll sick the police on you; steal his wife, and you'll get Vito, Danny, and the rottweilers.

Not to say he hasn't crossed that boundary once or twice, but it's never been this fun. He's never seen a woman more beautiful than Laura Holt in this moment—cheeks flushed, eyes glinting...teeth clenched. There isn't a masterpiece in the world he'd rather steal.

He's always been a devotee of beauty—his life has been something of a quest in its pursuit, but he never anticipated he'd find it at its most sublime in a face. Her lovely, stormy, furious face.

And he knows—much to his chagrin—that all other beauty will pale for him by comparison. All the Monets, Rubens, Van Goghs, and Leonardos of the world can't compete with her exquisite features. No diamond can ever match the steely spark of her eyes. He knows—with greater certainty than he's ever felt—that the rest of his life will be spent in pursuit of that fiery glow.

It's a hell of a thought; she's a hell of a woman. And there's really nothing left to say, except…

He sighs in resignation, rising from his seat. "'Years from now, when you talk of this—and you will—be kind.' Deborah Kerr to John Kerr. Tea and Sympathy, MGM, 1956."

Reaching the podium, he accepts his future in the name of Remington Steele—icy blue eyes meeting the fire of hers across the room.

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