Rated: R for sexual situations

"So you do get up.  I was beginning to think you worked in bed like Marcel Proust," purred a sultry feminine voice.

"Who's he?" 

"You wouldn't know him.  A French writer."

"Come into my boudoir."

There was a soft click -- then silence enveloped the dark room like a heavy curtain.  It was no good, Steele thought.  He tossed the TV remote to the floor and rubbed his temples.  Perhaps watching "The Big Sleep" in his current condition was akin to tempting fate.

Raymond Chandler had something more final and deadly in mind when he penned his noir classic than a good night's rest, but that hardly mattered to Steele as he tossed and turned, hoping against hope he could finally nod off to sleep.  He recalled reading somewhere that Chandler was known to be a hopeless insomniac, but now that Steele had joined the club he was in no mood to appreciate the irony. 

He glanced at the clock and whacked his pillow in frustration.  Four a.m.  Not a good sign.  “Better lay off the round-the-clock movies, mate,” he chided himself, “or before you know it you'll be seeing a lot of shows that aren't listed in the ‘TV Guide.’” All the hours he'd spent watching credits roll were beginning to worry him. 

"Morning, Mr. Steele," Laura greeted him, barely glancing up from her case file as he strode through the suite's doors.

"Morning? I suppose it is. Never sure these days." The attempt at levity couldn't disguise the weariness under the surface. 

Startled at his tone, Laura put down the file and looked at him. Really looked at him. She blinked twice and managed to sputter, "Mr. Steele. You look... like hell."

"Thank you for the diagnosis, Dr. Holt." Steele ran his hands absently through his hair and adjusted his tie. His clothes were as immaculate as ever but Laura noticed he disdained his usual French cuffs, and there was a patch of stubble on the side of his jaw the razor had missed. His skin was abnormally pale and signs of exhaustion were clear on his face. 

"Diagnosis? Are you sure you don't need one? You look like you've just spent the night in intensive care. Or in jail. Um, you haven't spent the night in jail have you?" Laura asked, only half-joking. 

Curiosity piqued at the word "jail”, Murphy poked his head out of Laura's office. He walked over to Steele and stared at him in morbid fascination. "Someone named Bruno or Guido after you in a cement truck? Or maybe it's a jealous husband this time."  He warmed to the theory. "Let me guess. He came home early and you spent the weekend hiding in the closet. I hope you had a good book to read."

Steele's single-minded pursuit of sleep had no time to spare for the niceties, nor the usual games of one-upmanship. 

"Tell me, Miss Holt.  What’s on my schedule for the day?  The usual or the unusual?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Steele?"

"By this afternoon I want it wall to wall. Chock full of the usual humdrum routine. Chamber of Commerce luncheons.  Rotarians.  Shriners.  Politicians.  Blue-haired women.  Insurance salesmen."

"What?" Laura gaped at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses.

"Tedium, Miss Holt.  That's all I ask for.  Dullness. Boredom. Monotony."

"I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, Mr. Steele, but just a few months ago you were saying you'd run out of doodles."

"I'll stock up on pencils.  Murphy. Do you have any autopsy reports I can peruse? Something with loads of medical jargon. Or the same in Latin? Greek perhaps?"

Murphy looked Steele up and down as if mentally measuring him for a straitjacket. "I'm fresh out." 

"Surely you have -" Steele paused as if struck by a sudden thought.  "Where's your baseball almanac, Murphy?"

Bernice's jaw went slack, her filing forgotten. "Laura, I think he's finally cracked. Hold up two fingers and see if he can guess how many, or better yet, ask him his real name. If he says it's Dr. Quincy, though, I'd start worrying."

Laura's brow furrowed. "Mr. Steele, are you alright?"  She put a hand to his forehead.  "You feel a little warm. Maybe you should lie down."

"No, I don't think that would help, at least it hasn't for some time.  Perhaps some desk work is called for." Steele blinked hard and looked around in confusion. "Desk work. Through here isn't it?" He began to walk unsteadily toward Laura's office. 

"We'll use your office." Laura guided him by the arm.  "Don't want to overload you with paperwork."

Laura pulled him inside and shut the door. She led him to his chair and pushed him firmly into it. "Sit. I'm going to get you some coffee."

"Laura, I don't think coffee -"

"Don't move. I'll be right back." 

Laura returned, closing the door behind her.  She handed Steele a steaming mug, then sat down on the edge of his desk.  A worried frown creased her brow. "I thought maybe you should drink it black."

Steele shrugged resignedly. "Anything for you, Miss Holt."

"Now give.  What's happened to you in the last seventy-two hours, Mr. Steele?  And don't tell me you've discovered a sudden affinity for autopsy reports."

Steele sighed and eased back gratefully into his chair. "Well, it's all a bit fuzzy around the edges but I think I can recapitulate the major points of interest. Let's see. Roughly eighteen hours of staring at my bedroom ceiling, six hours of solitaire, an Erich von Stroheim film festival, four long walks, ten crossword puzzles, a Bogart marathon -"

"Crossword puzzles?"

"Am I going too fast for you, Miss Holt?" 

"I thought you didn't like crossword puzzles."

"Bore me to tears. Getting the picture?"

"I think so. But what about the Bogart marathon?"

"A man has to keep his spirits up somehow, Laura."

"And this all adds up to..?"

"No sleep. Not forty winks, not four. I think I may have hit two and a half in the shower this morning, or perhaps while I was shaving."

"You haven't slept in nearly three days?" 

"Not that I've noticed. Not since we left the hospital after the Lindstrom case." 

"Good lord! I know you mentioned insomnia but I thought it was just temporary. Brought on by the stress of the case, of pretending to have a sleep disorder." 

"I played my role a lick too well, Laura." He sipped his coffee absently. "Funny, I never thought of myself as a method actor." 

"But you were in such good spirits after we invited Ivan and Dr. Lindstrom for dinner."

"Entirely due to your expert ministrations, Dr. Holt."

Laura thought about the kisses they had shared in the kitchen and felt a faint shiver go through her.  Steele had certainly seemed wide awake at the time. 

"Speaking of your healing touch, Laura, where were you the next day?"

"Next day?"

"The day after the case.  You told me to spend the whole day in bed.  Where were you?"

"Mr. Steele, I never said - you didn't think I would -," she broke off, flustered. "I was busy."

"Too busy to check on the patient? I called the office on the hour. Believe me, I've been watching the clock these days. Your Miss Wolf did a bang up job guarding the drawbridge." 

"You needed your sleep, Mr. Steele."

"You know what I needed, doctor.  Physical therapy. Your lilting voice."

"You know full well that if I, um, we, ended up -"

"Playing doctor?"

"In your bedroom -- you'd have spent the whole time trying to -" 

Steele rose to his feet, meeting Laura's gaze with sudden alertness. His eyes raked over her.

"You know exactly what -"  Laura fiddled nervously with the open collar of her blouse.  "The patient would never have gotten to bed - um, er, to sleep." 

"No matter, Laura. The floor would have been fine. We could’ve nicked the bedcovers in a pinch.”

"You're dreaming, Mr. Steele."

"On the contrary, we were wide awake when you agreed to my course of treatment."

"A neck rub, wasn't it?” Laura sniffed.  "Nothing more."

"We both know it went further than that."

Laura's cheeks flushed at the memory. She knew exactly what he referred to. She just didn't know what to do about it. She hadn't expected Steele's physical therapy to become . . . so physical. 

They had worked closely on the case, just the two of them, sharing evidence, sharing confidences, sleeping together but not "sleeping together."  It was new and unexpectedly seductive terrain. Afterward, at his apartment, they'd lingered in the kitchen, their defenses down, hands wandering, limbs entwined, tongues exploring, temperatures rising. 

When they broke away, they were breathless and clearly aroused.  Only the sound of laughter from the other room as Ivan told a joke had reminded them that they had dinner guests. Laura bolted from the room carrying the dessert tray and Steele managed to compose himself and play the gracious host.  As the guests were leaving, Laura contrived to slip out with them, despite Steele's protestations, saying she wanted to be sure he had time to recover from the demands of the case. 

"I don't think what you have in mind is a medically accepted treatment for insomnia," Laura said defensively. 

"You can't deny the results were promising in the early stages, doctor."

"I thought we were talking about sleep."

"I believe the sleep phase comes later. Once we're nestled in each other's arms, spent but outrageously fulfilled from a spirited round of testing out the mattress."

"You're a medical marvel, Mr. Steele.  Seventy-two hours without sleep and all you can think about is -"

"Bed, Laura. Is that so surprising?"

"Look, this isn't getting us anywhere. Maybe you need to see a doctor.  I can't have a sleep-deprived Remington Steele falling face down in the chicken a la king at the mayor's luncheon or the policeman's ball."

"Ah, so your concern is strictly professional." Sulking, Steele returned to his chair and sank into it with a slump of his shoulders.

"Well," Laura hedged.  "Not . . . strictly. Part of me feels responsible for your condition."

Steele leaned forward, voice lowering to a seductive whisper. "Well, then. If you'd care to make amends, perhaps tonight you could . . . tuck me in.  After we've given the mattress a stress test we could check the sturdiness of the pillows, the couch, the coffee table -" 

Laura tried to ignore the torrid images his less than innocent inferences were conjuring in her mind. Slapping her hand to her forehead, she sighed, "Why can't you behave?" 

"Kiss me Kate."

"Kate? Mr. Steele! You said you had insomnia, not amnesia!"

"’Why Can't You Behave’? From 'Kiss Me Kate’?" At her puzzled frown, he continued. "It's a movie, Miss Holt. A musical. Howard Keel and Kathryn Grayson? MGM, 1953? Surely you remember that one! Cole Porter songs, Shakespeare and glorious Technicolor? A beautiful woman, a charming man. A battle of wills but all's well that ends well."

The odd thing was, now she did remember it. She just didn't have Steele's lightning quick cinematic reflexes. She hastened to correct him. "I do remember it, Mr. Steele. I don't need to brush up my Shakespeare." 

"Wunderbar, Miss Holt. Glad to hear it."

The man masquerading as Remington Steele was a mystery she despaired of ever solving. "You associate everything with the movies, don't you?" Despite herself, Laura was impressed. "How do you do it?"

"Come round tonight and I'll reveal all," he invited with a waggle of his eyebrows. 

"You sound better already." Laura crossed her arms. "I thought you weren't trying to sleep with me."

Steele smiled at the memory. "Back then, I wasn't trying to sleep with you. But now I'm trying to sleep with you."

"I must have been crazy to involve you in the case," Laura moaned in exasperation. 

"No offense, Laura, but I knew it would turn out badly when you cancelled my 'canard au vin rouge.'"

"I didn't think the sleep clinic would have such a lasting effect on you."

"Not to worry, Miss Holt.  My skills as a cruciverbalist have improved immeasurably."

"Cruciverbalist?"

"A creator or solver of crossword puzzles. Can't recall now if that word was down or across."

"This isn't a joking matter. I'm calling Dr. Lindstrom and getting you booked into the sleep clinic."

"But Laura, I'd get far more benefit out of your personal touch. I won't take up much of your time. A man in my condition exhausts easily. Later when we're rested -"

"No 'buts' Mr. Steele. I'm sure Dr. Lindstrom would be glad to help. You're the savior of his clinic - and his most famous patient."

"Perhaps we should get a second opinion.  Make sure I'm in safe hands. 'First do no harm' is the physician's creed, their Hippocratic oath if I'm not mistaken.  Surely being poked and prodded by Nurse Blackell contravenes that noble sentiment. Even prisoners of war under the Geneva Convention have certain inalienable rights –"

"The patient will survive, I'm sure."

"That may be, but it's hardly my idea of a relaxing evening.  Why, the costly and intensive therapy I'd warrant afterwards could bankrupt the agency, not to mention put me out of action for months."

"For months? You think so?" Laura smiled sweetly. "Maybe Murphy and I can finally get some work done."

"Drudgery loves company, I suppose. That wasn't the action I had in mind."

"Spare me the details, Mr. Steele. Whom you invite to test out your mattress is no concern of mine.  I'm sure they do their best work flat on their backs. Just make sure they don't get lipstick on the designer sheets."

"Actually, I was thinking of the kitchen, not the bedroom. We could pick up where we left off. Just before dessert, wasn't it?"

"I don't think that's such a good..." Laura moved back slightly out of arms' reach. Steele rose from his chair and inched nearer. 

"...idea. Mr. Steele."

As he closed the space between them she felt oddly detached, somnambulant, as though she were watching them both from a distance. Steele lifted her chin, his eyes locked with hers. She felt his fingers skim her jaw line and trail warmly down her neck and along the top of her blouse, raising goose bumps on her exposed skin. 

His touch roused her, whetted her appetite for more. Every rational impulse she possessed was warning her to stop, but now she knew how good it would feel, how good he would feel. She could stop whenever she wanted, she told herself. Just not yet. 

He leaned down to kiss her, softly at first, attuned to the cues of her response, then with more insistence, his hand slipping to the back of her head.  Laura shuddered involuntarily as he buried his fingers in her hair.  At the mounting pressure of his lips on hers, she slipped from the desk to stand upright and facing him. 

Her forearm brushed the rough stubble on his cheek as her arms went around his neck. Laura could feel the cool surface of the desk against the backs of her thighs as his body leaned into her embrace. Her mouth opened to him and she heard him moan in response when she pressed her tongue against his teeth. He let her explore at will until they were tongue tip to tongue tip. 

Laura's fingers slid under his collar, teasing the fine hairs on the back of his neck. She felt him flinch slightly. Maybe he was ticklish there, she thought. She applied more pressure. Abruptly, Steele squirmed away from her as if he’d been branded. 

"Mr. Steele." Laura exhaled in a rush. "What's the matter? Don't like my technique?"

"Perish the thought, Miss Holt. You’re indescribably good, believe me. It's not that at all. " 

"Then what -" 

 "Damn!" Steele exclaimed in frustration. "It's my neck, Laura. It feels like something just went awry, a muscle or a tendon perhaps."

"Can you turn your head?"

"Just barely." Steele winced with the effort. 

"Let me see." 

Laura attempted to rub the area but Steele's collar was in the way.  She unknotted his tie and slid it free and began to unbutton his shirt. She stopped short after the third button, shocked into inaction as she realized too late that she was actually undressing him.

Her throat felt dry as she stared at his chest, his open shirt revealing the dark, silken hair she'd just grazed with a fingertip seconds before. Suddenly unsure what to do with her hands, she froze. Steele quickly captured them with his own. 

"Laura. You were doing so well." He kissed her palms. "Why stop there?" 

Laura jerked her hands away, fighting to regain her composure. "I thought your neck was the affected area, Mr. Steele," she said with what she hoped was a convincingly clinical tone.

"Well, mainly, yes. I didn't think it fair to overburden you with my various other bodily aches and pains. I'm sure if you start at the top and work your way down I'll feel much better in the morning."

"Try an aspirin."

"Never touch the stuff. Hate pills."

"An aspirin a day keeps the doctor away, Mr. Steele.”

"Is that what you're trying to do, doctor? Stay away?" An edge of weariness and irritation crept into his voice. 

"N-no...of course not," Laura stammered. Caught off guard, a feeling of guilt swept over her. "Maybe you don't believe me, but I am concerned about all this -" 

"Perhaps it's churlish of me to notice," Steele sniffed. "But your concern was conspicuously absent two days ago."

"You're right, Mr. Steele."

"I am?"

"It's churlish of you to notice." Hurt and angry, she spun away from him.

Steele barely managed to catch her at the corner of his desk, and get between her and the door. "Laura, I -"

"You don't want concern," Laura spat. "You want someone to fall at your feet. To indulge your every whim. Well, consider me unavailable, Mr. Steele."

Steele had been prepared to apologize but her accusation struck a nerve.

"My whims are easy to satisfy, Miss Holt. The sound of your voice on the other end of the phone would have done for a start."

"Why so starved for company? Lose your little black book? Couldn't find a bouncing blonde to re-enact your production of 'Once Upon a Mattress’?"

Did she really think his standards were that uncompromisingly low? He salved the wound with a quip. "Really, Laura. I give you Cole Porter; you give me dinner theatre. It's hardly an even trade...ohhh!" Steele tried unsuccessfully to suppress a moan as a sharp pain traveled from his neck to his shoulder.

It wasn't fair, Laura thought as she surveyed the man facing her. Running on empty, hair disheveled, shirt hanging open. She couldn't --wouldn't--feel sorry for him. Her mind flashed back to that night at the clinic when desperate for sleep, he'd slipped under the covers with her. That moment seemed charmingly innocent now, though her thoughts at the time certainly weren't. How she'd hated to kick him out. While he'd been counting sheep, she'd been counting the buttons on his pajamas and wondering just how quickly she could unfasten them.

"Look, Laura..."

His voice shook her out of her reverie. "Mr. Steele?"

"I didn't mean what I said. Well, surely not the way it came out. It's just that…" Steele sighed, too tired to dissemble anymore. "I missed you."

She was too surprised at his confession to form any argument. "Missed me?"

"Terribly, as a matter of fact. Your neck rubs. Your lilting voice. Who could ask for anything more?"

Laura still clung to a healthy strand of skepticism. "You could. Several times in the last ten minutes."

"I'm only human, Laura. I'd hoped for more. But failing that penultimate demonstration of your devotion you could at least have helped me with my crossword puzzles. I gave up on the ‘London Times’ after the word ‘acrostic’.”

"The right words would have convinced you, Mr. Steele?"

"From you, Miss Holt? Absolutely. Of course actions speak louder, they say." He considered his options. "You could convince me by … starting right here." Steele rubbed his neck gingerly. 

Laura smiled in spite of herself. "You always know where to start, Mr. Steele. Just not where to stop."

"Perhaps we could meet halfway." He managed a lopsided grin.

Laura wagged a finger at him. "No halfway measures allowed. Wouldn't want to aggravate your other aches and pains."

"Why do doctors always think they know what's good for you?"

"Dr. Holt knows exactly what you need. This for example."  She began to massage his neck with slow, circular motions. 

Steele could feel his entire body begin to relax. He closed his eyes and sighed luxuriously, "Oh. Yes, that's incredibly… therapeutic, doctor.  You're right.  I don't think we need a second opinion." 

"I'm glad."

"Are you sure there's not something about your past you haven't told me?" Steele murmured against her cheek.

"My past?" 

"Stanford graduate. Mathematics major. Massage minor."

Laura laughed. "Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Steele but my scholarship didn't cover it.  Massage, that is."

"Pity not to nourish such a natural talent.” 

"It was the 70's, though," she mused, smiling. "Must have been an elective course."  She continued to massage his neck area, working her fingers up gradually under his hair to the base of his skull.

"Well, if you ever decide to matriculate, Miss Holt, let me offer my services as your most willing class project."  His head fell forward to rest on her shoulder. 

"Are you sure you'll make the grade, Mr. Steele?"

"Mmmmh. Grade? Sure..." 

Steele's breath warmed the skin of her throat; his dark hair was thick and soft under her fingers. She felt his body shifting as he leaned more heavily against her. After a minute passed she found her limbs buckling suddenly under his weight. He'd fallen fast asleep and was close to toppling over.

Maybe she could get him to his chair or to the couch, Laura thought. She managed to pull his desk chair closer and maneuver him into it but Steele was jostled awake by the procedure.

"Miss Holt? Did I -" Steele blinked at her, a lock of hair dangling comically over one eye. Laura smoothed it back. 

"Just for a moment. I was trying to get you comfortable."

"You're a nice person...doctor."

"Speaking of doctors, I'm calling Lindstrom. You've got to get treatment. Unless you want to learn to do it standing up."

"Any position you choose, Laura. I'm flexible. At least I used to be."

"I'm relieved you're such a willing subject, because like it or not you are going to the sleep clinic." 

"Must you be so concerned for my well being?"

"I'm afraid so."

Steele stretched his limbs and gave a sigh of resignation. "I'll expect daily visits from Dr. Holt to check my vital functions. Fluff my pillows, sing me lullabies, give me sponge baths." 

"Sorry, Mr. Steele. I've turned in my stethoscope."

"What a pity. I had visions of the two of us hooked up in the sleep station, listening to the beating of each other's hearts."

Laura’s pulse rate accelerated to fast forward. "I don't think Nurse Blackell would approve,” she replied, feeling a blush steal across her cheek. “She'd never be able to explain the readout."

"There's no one I'd rather make medical history with than you, Miss Holt."

"Mr. Steele." Laura shook him gently by the arm.

"Very odd," he mumbled sleepily. "Why is the bed moving?" 

"We're in the limo." She smiled down at him. The morning ride to the clinic was turning out to be an oddly pleasurable experience. Steele had drifted to sleep almost as soon as Fred turned the ignition. He'd snuggled against Laura's shoulder, oblivious, as her fingers, unable to resist the temptation entirely, ran lightly through his hair. 

Steele yawned, stretched his legs, and hazily surveyed his surroundings. "So we are."  He rolled down the window and sucked in a bracing breath of air.

"I'm feeling better already.  Slept like a baby. I do believe I've hit on the cure. I've always said this car had an excellent suspension. Fred could simply cruise the streets every evening with me in the limo until I doze off, eh?" 

"Fred has more important things to do than have you drive him around in circles. Not that he isn't used to it."

"The simplest remedies are often the best, I find. Why must the layman's method always take a back seat to medical science? Hospitals, doctors, pills by the lorry load.  What use are -" Steele stopped, entranced by his own flow of words. "Yes. Take a back seat...that's very clever. Remind me of that later, Laura."

"I don't think your automotive argument is going to hold much sway with Dr. Lindstrom. You agreed to let him treat you by more accepted measures, remember?"

"How could I forget, with his parting remarks over the phone still ringing in my ears: 'we'll make a sleeper out of you yet, Mr. Steele.'" Steele stared sullenly out the window. "So much false cheer can't be good for a patient's morale. At least Lindstrom's colleague Dr. Wicker had the good grace to expire before becoming unbearably tedious. Well, almost before."

"Are you always this grumpy in the morning?"

"'Sleeper.' Woody Allen, Diane Keaton, United Artists, 1973. A man wakes up in hospital two hundred years in the future after a routine ulcer operation. Slept for two centuries. Routine ulcer operation! Imagine what could happen if they're trying to put me to sleep. The same thing in reverse. The wrong symbol on a chart somewhere and I could wake up minus an organ or two. I have several I'm rather fond of."

"You survived the clinic before, Mr. Steele. Don't be such a worry wart."

"It's my métier, Miss Holt. I'm an insomniac."

"Worry is the interest paid on trouble before it's due. So they say." 

"Good lord. You sound like a greeting card. Or a slogan for T-shirts, perhaps. Why do Americans always assume strangers want to converse with their clothing?"

Laura’s brows knitted together in a frown. "Good question."

"Speaking of which, whatever happened to 'Bankers Do It With Interest’? Did you palm off that sartorial embarrassment on some myopic denizen of skid row? I daresay if he were sober he'd turn up his nose at the white belt."

"It's none of your affair, Mr. Steele," Laura shot back imperiously.

"Quite right. Your affairs are your own, Miss Holt. Unless, of course, you choose to advertise them."

"Advertise them? What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

"Come now, Laura. Surely you knew that one day I'd come across those items in your closet."

"Are you seriously suggesting I left them there for you to find? Of all the delusional, conceited -"

"What better way to stir my jealousy?" Silence hung in the air as he noted her flushed cheeks with satisfaction. "And what surer route to bring our emotions to the surface? Awaken our hidden desires, our lurking... passions." His words teased feather-light against her ear. 

Laura leaned toward the opposite window, trying vainly to resist the spell of his proximity.  "You know perfectly well they were found by accident."

"An excellent plan but rather flawed in its execution."

She turned back to face him, seething. "Execution? There's a thought. I'd buy tickets to yours."

"To expect me to be jealous of a man so lacking in the barest rudiments of good taste."

"I'll donate your wardrobe to the needy. A condemned man doesn't need a two thousand dollar suit."

Steele held up his hand in a conciliatory gesture. "I'll gladly forgo the mysteries of your closet if you'll allow me to explore the remainder of your bedroom. I'll have to admit, Laura, your wardrobe has me curious."  He lounged against the seat cushions, appraising her frankly. " For instance. What did you wear to bed last night? That gossamer nightgown of azure blue, ever so transparent..." 

Had he been spying on her? Imagination overthrew logic for a brief moment, then the pendulum swung back to reality. "I don't have a blue nightgown!" she exclaimed in exasperation.

"What a pity. Your closet needs filling Miss Holt, and I'm just the one to -"

"That's it." Avoiding his keen gaze, Laura punched the controls for the privacy screen and watched with satisfaction as it slowly rose into place.  "I've had enough innuendos to last me a lifetime.  I'm not going to sit here and discuss my -- nightgowns with a thief and a conman who's shopped around with half the female population of Los Angeles."

Steele's calm was maddening. "Well, then. If nightwear is verboten, we could always dispense with it." 

"That's not what -" Laura floundered. "I meant nightgowns are off lim - never mind. End of discussion. I'm not sleeping with you, Mr. Steele."

"Laura! I was merely discussing the state of your closet. Was ever an insomniac so misunderstood?" Steele’s expression of wounded innocence threatened to break out into an insouciant grin. 

Laura's hands clenched and unclenched feverishly as she absorbed this latest round of infuriating, yet tantalizing proposals. Determined to ignore him, she stared ahead with fierce concentration at an imaginary mid point in the glass partition.

Her visible discomfort only incited Steele to further mischief. He flashed Laura a disarming smile and rolled down the privacy screen.  "Fred, can you locate a promising detour on the way to Sleep Central? One that leads to San Francisco, perhaps?"

"Too late, Mr. Steele." Laura said smugly. "The clinic is just ahead on the right."

Steele's smile turned to a grimace. "Fred, do I have to remind you again whose name is on your checks."

"Miss Holt's."

"Miss Holt's, eh?" Steele shrugged philosophically. "Just wanted to make sure you were on your toes."

Steele fidgeted nervously with his tie as Fred pulled into the parking lot. "That sleep case has become very inconvenient. I'd have much preferred to use an alias during my stay as an actual patient.  Now the whole staff knows who I am."

"A blown cover is a risk we detectives have to take. What alias would you have used? Rip Van Winkle?"

"I'm an insomniac, not a narcoleptic, doctor."

"Just trying a little reverse psychology. I'm not your doctor, you know. I'm just here to make sure you and Fred don't take any side trips."

"In that case you'd better call Marty's, Fred, and cancel my reservation."

"Wait a minute! You made a reservation at Marty's? Marty's Restaurant in San Francisco?"

"With the snooze patrol breathing down my neck? Really, Laura. Would I do such an irresponsible, frivolous -"

"I've always wanted to go there."

"Reckless, profligate, impetuous, foolhardy -" Steele stopped abruptly, wondering if he were dreaming or if he were still awake. "What did you say?"

"Marty's. I've always wanted to go there. I've heard so much about it. I have this unfulfilled fantasy running in my head about the perfect evening for two. Drinks at the Top of the Mark. Spectacular views. A candlelight dinner. Dancing." 

"Have you read my mind, Miss Holt or have I read yours?" 

Each stared at the other as if they'd just seen a conjuring trick. "I was going to ask you the same thing, Mr. Steele. You didn't really make a reservation, did you?"

"Sadly, no, but we could pick up the phone and -"

"First things first," said Laura. "I want you following doctor's orders from now on. I wouldn't want you to fall asleep before dessert." 

"Laura Holt, a closet romantic.  Boggles the mind. Now all I have to do is stay awake long enough to reap the benefits - or should that be go to sleep?"

"A 'closet' romantic? If that's meant to be a joke -"

"Inadvertent, I assure you. I take any romantic impulse of yours quite seriously."

"If I've learned anything about you, Mr. Steele, it's that you're never quite serious."

Steele put his hand to his heart in mock distress. "Cruelly misinterpreted, yet again. Will science ever find a cure?"
 
 

"Mr. Steele," said Dr. Lindstrom eagerly. "If you'll step into my office, I just have some initial questions, a brief background survey we do of all of our patients."

"Should I wait outside, doctor?" asked Laura.

"If you don't mind, Miss Holt," said Lindstrom apologetically. "You know, you look even lovelier out of uniform."

"Um, well, white isn't really my color," Laura joked, slightly embarrassed.

Steele scowled suspiciously, his eyes flashing from one to the other. "Dr. Holt is strictly in civvies these days."

"The medical profession's loss, Mr. Steele."

"Undoubtedly," returned Steele, warily. Lindstrom's flirting with Laura had done nothing to calm his nerves. 

Lindstrom ushered Steele into his office and closed the door. 

"Please take a seat, Mr. Steele. I can't tell you how delighted we are to have you back at the clinic. As an actual patient this time."

"Well, I hadn't exactly planned on it but, ah, fate intervened as it were." Steele leaned back in his chair and expelled a long sigh.

"There's a standard series of questions we ask all of our insomniacs. I hope you don't mind indulging us. I assure you they are necessary to determine the pathology of your particular case."

"I'm sure you know best, doctor. Fire away."

"Can you pinpoint the onset of the sleep problem? To the best of your recollection?”

"Well, outside of my recent sojourn at your excellent facility, I would say I haven't slept since I checked out." 

"Really? Why, that's fascinating."

"That's not precisely the word I would have used, but you're the expert," Steele said dryly.

"It sounds as if your role-playing as an insomniac has had a powerful effect on your subconscious." 

"That seems all too evident, doctor. The question is how do we reverse it?"

"Well, we would first want to rule out any organic cause before we decide on a course of treatment. We also need to be fully apprised of your sleep habits and any lifestyle issues that might be contributory."

"Lifestyle issues?" Steele arched an eyebrow. 

"A patient's lifestyle can be either a curse or a blessing when it comes to restful sleep, Mr. Steele. Don't worry. All of that will be covered in this questionnaire."

"How comforting."  Steele had no idea what sort of lifestyle was favored but he was fairly certain his own was not among them.

Lindstrom pulled out a notebook and a ballpoint pen. "Insomnia is a very individual thing, Mr. Steele. Proper diagnosis and treatment requires that we ask questions which may seem, well, a little personal. This is all completely confidential, of course."

"Of course."

"Now then. What sort of sleeping environment do you have at home? Your bed, for instance. Do you have comfortable bedding? A firm mattress?"

"I would describe it as quite comfortable. I've certainly spared no expense. I must say the mattress has held up rather well under various -- stresses."

"Stresses? Such as?”

"The usual. Tossing, turning. I go through a lot of . . . positions in one night, doctor. My mattress has responded quite admirably to the challenge." 

"You'd call yourself a restless sleeper, then?"

"On occasion, yes." Steele allowed himself a smile.

"What about the noise level in your bedroom. Is it relatively quiet?"

"Well again, it varies."

"High level of street noise? Loud neighbors?"

Steele's thoughts drifted back to an orgasmic bout of bedroom Olympics with the fashion model who lived two doors down. "I'd say the neighbors have been a bit noisy at times but on the whole, quite satisfactory."

"Excellent. Now let's move on to your general sleep habits. Do you keep late hours during the week?"

Steele repressed a flash of irritation; his various nocturnal activities were strictly his own business. He decided an evasion tactic was the best route. "I'm sure you understand doctor, that we detectives, like the members of your own profession, burn quite a lot of midnight oil. Dedication has its drawbacks."

"Believe me, I can relate. You might want to consider turning over some of the casework to your staff.  That attractive associate of yours, Miss Holt, seems quite capable of handling the burden."

Steele had no doubt of it. Other than the recent sleep clinic case, his workload had hardly been overwhelming. "I'll take that under advisement, doctor." 

He wondered anew why Lindstrom seemed so interested in Laura. He was practically drooling over her. Steele decided to test the waters.  "Doctor, forgive the intrusion but we're always concerned for the continuing welfare of our clients. How are you faring these days? Sheila Marcus's death must have been quite a shock to you."

"Very much so."

"I know that one is often tempted in these situations to er, compensate for the loss of the loved one, search for outlets for one's grief, rebound into new and perhaps ill-advised relationships. . ." Steele trailed off, unsure of how to continue without seeming obvious. 

"To be perfectly honest, Mr. Steele, Sheila's death has caused me to re-evaluate things. I've filed for divorce, actually.  My marriage was really over a long time ago. Sometimes I think my life has been a quest to find the perfect woman. Sheila was darn close. Wild, uninhibited, impulsive. Happen to know any women like that, Steele?" 

Steele flashed back to a memory of Laura doing an impromptu striptease in a winery. "Not a one," he said with all the conviction he could summon. Why, the man had the morals of an alley cat. Steele hoped Lindstrom's wife had a good divorce lawyer. 

"I'm not surprised. Sheila was one in a million. Still, I thought maybe a bachelor like yourself . . ." Lindstrom let the inference hang in the air.

Steele regarded his rival with barely concealed distaste. "I rarely have time for such frivolities, doctor. I live and breathe private investigating. Give me mysteries to solve, clues to ponder, and I can fill every waking hour. Well, at least I could before three days ago."

"Don't worry, Mr. Steele. We'll get to the root of your sleep problem. Just a few more questions to go.  What about your weekends? Do you make time to relax, unwind from the pressures of the job? What did you do the weekend before the case, for instance?"

Steele struggled for a moment to remember what he'd been doing and with whom. He'd gone out to the ballet with Irina, an extremely limber Russian exchange student. She'd spent the overture nibbling on his ear and whispering amorous suggestions about a pas de deux they could perform together. She'd promised it would take all night. Attention to the activities on stage began to wander as much as their hands. They'd left for her studio apartment an hour before the entr'acte.  Steele sighed at the memory; he'd never known barre exercises could be so stimulating.

"Took in a bit of culture. The Kirov Ballet is in town and I was able to get tickets at the last minute. Russian dancers. So athletic." 

"A pleasant evening out?"

"Splendid performance. I was in bed by ten."

"Very commendable, Mr. Steele. Is that a typical recreational activity? What about the weekend before?"

Steele grimaced involuntarily as he recalled the details of a disastrous sojourn to Tijuana. He'd gotten into a poker game with a card sharp named "Fingers" who wasn't as sharp as he thought he was. When Steele pressed him for the money they ended up at Caliente, watching the man's collateral, a gelding named Pochismo get bumped like a pinata in the stretch, then fade and finish fourth. Before the evening was over Steele had tried his luck and several shots of mescal too many and concluded that by comparison, the outcomes at California tracks were as predictable as atomic clocks.

"Mr. Steele?" 

Steele was spared further unhappy recollection by the interruption. "Sorry, I seem to have lost track. Could you repeat the question?"

"Your weekend?" Lindstrom prompted.

"Ah, yes. Went out of town to assist a colleague with a little, um, financial snag. I hardly think it's relevant to your diagnosis, doctor."

"Fair enough. I just need to clarify a bit. How about weekdays? Do you try to give yourself the occasional break from the office routine? Within limits, of course. I realize you do have to be able to get sufficient rest to get up bright and early the next morning."

Since Steele rarely strode through the office doors before noon the counsel scarcely applied. The good doctor would be cheered to know that his new patient spent most, if not all, of his waking hours trying to escape the clutches of responsibility. Still, it would hardly be to Steele's advantage to state the truth so baldly. 

"I quite agree, doctor. Getting away from the pressures of business can often stir one's creative juices. I think better when I relax."

"Relaxation is very key, Mr. Steele. I can see we have something to build on here. In light of this, one admonition I always give my insomniacs is to avoid certain stimulants: coffee, tea, alcohol, nicotine. Are you on any medication?"

"None." 

That answer required no prevarication. Steele had an almost pathological dislike for taking pills and was wary of any sort of recreational drug use. As for drinking, he did it mostly socially, and not to excess unless the occasion called for it. He rarely drank alone. His nicotine intake was governed by quality over quantity. He was willing to succumb to the pleasures of a fine cigar.  Other habits would be harder to break. He knew he would regret the loss of those extra few cups of coffee in the morning.

"How about physical activity? Do you exercise regularly? Work out? Go jogging? There's no better way to work off that extra adrenaline."

Steele gazed wearily up at the ceiling and fought an impulse to yawn. The question was distressingly familiar. Was everyone in California a health fanatic? It was bad enough that nearly every tryst with an eligible female had to be fit in between aerobics classes. He'd managed to resist the trend so far but the course of idleness certainly hadn't run smooth since he'd arrived. 

"I find that a daily workout routine is the most beneficial for my patients, Mr. Steele. I advise them to get a membership in a health club or gym."

"I have my own methods, doctor. Unorthodox perhaps, but I manage to keep myself reasonably fit." 

Doctor's orders or no, Steele planned to avoid such depressingly fashionable places like the plague. He'd been shocked to find that gyms in Los Angeles had valet parking and juice bars. In his opinion, if a gym didn't have a 20-foot square boxing ring, a heavy bag, and a smell like stale sweat and cigar smoke it wasn't worthy of the name. 

"I think we've covered most of the preliminaries, Mr. Steele. The important thing at the outset is to establish a pattern that will give you at least seven good hours of sleep each night.  I want you to start keeping a sleep diary."

"A sleep diary?"

"A log of your sleeping habits. What time you went to sleep, how many times you woke up during the night, what activities you engaged in before going to bed, and so forth. I need you to record this for at least two weeks." 

"Won't you be keeping track of my activities here at the clinic?"

"You won't be required to stay here continuously, Mr. Steele. After you check in and we run some diagnostic tests we'll hook you up to the monitoring machine and see how it goes.  Thereafter, you'll report here on one more scheduled evening around eight o'clock and be hooked up until morning. We hope to be able to alleviate the problem primarily through those lifestyle changes we discussed."

"Lifestyle changes. Yes. I'm sure they'll work wonders," Steele said with an air of certainty he entirely lacked. He'd rarely felt less sure of anything. 

"I'm going to give you a prescription for some sleep aids."

"Is that absolutely necessary, doctor?"

"Just to tide you over until we can get you scheduled at the clinic." Lindstrom scrawled the prescription on a notepad and handed the slip to Steele. "I regret to say that there will be a delay of twenty-four hours until we can take delivery of our new equipment. I think you'll find it most impressive. The SleepSentry 2000. It's the state of the art in sleep monitoring. Why, the ‘Sentry’ almost has a personality of its own."

Steele raised a dubious eyebrow. "An engaging one, I hope." 

Lindstrom chuckled. “I think you’ll become rather attached to it.”

“I can’t wait,” Steele replied with a singular lack of enthusiasm.

Lindstrom apologized again for the delay in admitting Steele to the clinic and effusively assured him he would soon be getting the best of care.  Steele rose from his chair and followed the man out into the corridor. They walked toward the waiting room area. 

"Don't let it concern you, doctor. I'm sure I'll survive in the interim."

"There is some excellent literature on insomnia at the admissions desk. Be sure to look the pamphlets over and call me if you have any questions. There are some tips for sleep strategies you'll want to put into practice."

"I'll give them my undivided attention. Ah, Miss Holt. There you are." Steele was relieved to see her, or indeed anyone who wasn't predisposed to treat him as the subject of a lab experiment. 

"I'll leave Mr. Steele in your more than capable hands." Lindstrom's appraising eye fixed on Laura for what seemed, to Steele, like an eternity, though it would have appeared to the unwary as the merest glance. "We'll be admitting him in twenty-four hours for a full work up, the doctor continued. "In the meantime I suggest that you give your employer every assistance. We want to be sure that his workload is fairly light at this crucial stage."

"As far as the office is concerned, Mr. Steele doesn't have a care in the world. I'll see to it that he stays as uninvolved as possible." Laura managed to deliver this pronouncement with only a light frosting of sarcasm. 

"It's a strange phenomenon. Often busy executives find they can delegate far more than they ever realized. The office can practically run itself if they just loosen their grip." 

"Mr. Steele runs the office with a light hand,” Laura interjected smugly. “Light as a feather, in fact."

"I have a firm grasp on the big picture of course," Steele said in an expansive tone, hoping to dispel any notion that he was a mere figurehead. "Whereas Miss Holt's forte is paying due care and attention to every tiny detail." That smirk on Laura's face was most unattractive, he decided. It was time to give her a dose of her own medicine. "I can rely on my trusted associate to be tediously thorough. Toiling tirelessly behind the scenes, no matter how trivial or menial the task –"

"You've made your point -- sir," said Laura with an annoyed stress on the honorific. 

"I merely wished to ensure the good doctor that his patient wouldn't be over burdened with the petty, nuts and bolts operations.” 

"I'm relieved to see I have no worries on that score," replied Lindstrom.

"Glad to be able to put your fears to rest, doctor."

"Speaking of rest, Mr. Steele, I've been looking over these sleep disorder pamphlets and there are some very improving ideas in them." Laura dug several folded sheets from her purse. "Even for people without sleep problems. Daily exercise, keeping regular hours, following a set schedule -"

Excellent, Miss Holt." Lindstrom was impressed.  "Mr. Steele should be encouraged to practice his lifestyle regimen as much as possible."

"I'll do my best to see he follows it to the letter." Laura couldn't resist a twist of the knife. "However trivial and tediously thorough the advice may seem."

"If you're not careful, Mr. Steele, I may hire this woman away myself. The clinic can always use someone of her obvious talents. And she would certainly improve the scenery."

Lack of sleep was straining Steele's forbearance to the breaking point. He'd had just about enough of the man's feeble attempts at seduction. His voice took on a silkily dangerous edge. "A word to the wise, doctor. Miss Holt isn't for sale. Or rent." The warning in his tone was unmistakable. 

"I hope I haven't stepped on anyone's toes," replied Lindstrom, taken aback. "I was merely paying a compliment –"

"Whatever you're paying it isn't enough. Come along, Miss Holt. We have work to do." He pulled a speechless Laura after him by the arm. 

"Remember," Lindstrom called after them, "you'll need to report back to the clinic tomorrow at eight p.m. sharp."

Steele delayed their egress for the briefest possible moment. "I'm well aware of the schedule, doctor. Good day." 

Laura shrugged apologetically. "We'll be there," she assured the bewildered medical man.

As soon as they were out of earshot she turned on him. "What left field did all that come out of? Miss Holt isn't for sale? As if I were your private property! I have news for you, Mr. Steele.  Any interested buyers are my business."

"You can't mean you're considering it? Laura, the man's a philanderer. An adulterer - "

"So he likes to play the field. He isn't the first." Laura jerked away from Steele’s grasp and marched toward the clinic entrance, irritation mounting with each step.

Her voice echoed loudly down the corridor. "You think I can't handle someone like him? A womanizer, a flirt, an annoyance? I'm a very artful dodger, Mr. Steele, or haven't you noticed?"

"Point taken, Miss Holt. Your reflexes are excellent but -"

"I should write a book. I'd never run out of material. Every day at the office is a new chapter."

Steele matched her stride for stride. "It's not your handling that worries me, it's his. The man couldn't keep his mitts off Sheila Marcus and now he's after groping the next warm female body he can find."

"That's all I am? A warm female body?"

"To a man like that, yes." Steele eyed her slender form with a connoisseur's appreciation. "Although I will award him considerable points for good taste."

"I'm immune to male flattery, Mr. Steele. His and yours."

"But of course you are. It's inconceivable for Laura Holt to have the slightest chink in that armor of hers. No compliment to femininity gets past her guard. I salute any man who tries to lay siege to the fortress. Once more into the breach -"

"Are you defending Lindstrom? Or yourself?" Laura flung open the clinic doors and strode toward the parking area. 

Steele barely managed to dodge the doors on the backswing. He lengthened his stride to catch up with her. "It's not the same thing."

"It isn't? Then kindly point out the difference, Mr. Steele. And bring a microscope. I'm not sure it's visible to the naked eye." 

"That shows a want of feeling, Laura." Steele seemed genuinely distressed. "You really think I'm as cold blooded as that man in there?" 

"I stand corrected. You're all heart, Mr. Steele."  Laura's tone dripped sarcasm. "Your efforts to get needy blondes and silicone starlets off the streets and into a nice warm bed are strictly philanthropic."

"It's time you came in from the cold, Miss Holt. A few sessions with a philanthropist would do you a world of good."

"And I suppose you're volunteering for the job. What a mensch!"

"I'd call it a mercy mission." Steele snapped, temper flaring. "The man who beds you should get the Nobel Peace Prize."

Laura stopped in mid stride and gave him a look that could freeze an Eskimo. "If you're hoping for a congratulatory call from Stockholm you're going to have a very long wait,” she huffed. “The next time you get the urge to be charitable, heat up a blonde."

"I find that an excellent suggestion," Steele shot back. "At least they start out above room temperature."

They glared at each other in frigid silence until Laura abruptly turned away and stamped across to the limo. Steele made it there in time to see her push past Fred who was holding the car door open for her. She flung herself into back seat, and slammed the door shut behind her with hurricane force. His hand on the opposite door, Steele swore he could feel his teeth rattle. 

He got in on the other side, gratified by Laura's look of extreme annoyance as he shut his own door almost noiselessly. 

Laura's voice was tight with rage. "Fred, drive me to the office. And drive Mr. Steele -- somewhere else. Around in circles -- to San Francisco -- or Stockholm -- I really don't care." 

Steele sank gratefully to the sofa, closed his eyes, and exhaled wearily. The morning had been a disaster of epic proportions. During the ride back from the clinic the silence between them had settled in like a layer of permafrost. Laura had taken a sudden interest in a featureless stretch of highway; Steele had tried and failed to concentrate on a crossword puzzle from the daily paper. His skills still hadn't improved, though he did get a thrill of satisfaction from scratching out a-d-u-l-t-e-r-e-r, the word for seven across, and replacing it with l-i-n-d-s-t-r-o-m.

Steele hadn't really considered the man to be serious competition, but the thought that Laura might want to entertain the notion, even out of mere spite, was cause for losing sleep. And he'd done enough of that already.

He frowned at the bottle of little green pills on the coffee table and the nearby glass of water.  Should he give up, call it a day and take one? He had nothing better to do. Laura had made it clear she didn't want him at the office and it was a bit early to go looking for female company, even if he were so inclined. The fact that he wasn't depressed him even more. 

Steele twisted the cap off the bottle and removed a pill, swallowing it down with a gulp of water. He recoiled as a wave of nausea swept through him. He couldn't shake the persistent feeling that his fortunes had taken a wrong turn when he wasn't looking. 

The new identity that he'd assumed so confidently suddenly felt claustrophobic. Was life as Remington Steele really different from that of any other harried businessman in a three-piece suit? He'd spent a lifetime thinking that respectability was the ultimate trap. Yet here he was, in the clutches of the soft life, tossing and turning and popping tranquilizers when once he'd been accustomed to sleeping in squats and on park benches. 

Steele smiled grimly. If his old mates could see him now they'd say he was a sad case indeed. That mortifying incident at the sleep clinic was proof enough. It had taken him five minutes to pick the lock on the door to the hospital records room. He hadn't slept much at the time, but lock picking was rarely a skill that was performed under ideal conditions. Commonly, one had to contend with an alarm system, a tight schedule and pitch darkness, not to mention keeping an eye out for security guards or police.

He was right. He should have been able to do it in his sleep. He'd taken his talents for granted for so long the possibility that he might lose what he considered a god given ability had never occurred to him. His well stocked arsenal of survival techniques was a reliable fixed point in a world where nothing had ever lasted for long and addresses and identities changed with the prevailing wind.

Since he'd arrived in Los Angeles and assumed the mantle of the famous detective, his old skills seemed rather beside the point. He used them sometimes in the line of duty but they were hardly as essential as Laura's legwork or her well-schooled investigative methods. Even the minor recreational detours he took from the straight and narrow hardly challenged his powers. Perhaps those talents really didn't count for much any more.  But his stubborn pride and a sense of insecurity still gnawed at him. 

Steele went into the kitchen and retrieved something from the bottom drawer of the cabinet. He walked back to the sofa and sat down, placing the object in the center of the coffee table. He regarded it speculatively from several angles. 

It was the complete mechanism of a high security pin tumbler lock. The lock contained twelve shear cut pins randomly situated around the cylinder's 360-degree circumference. Each pin had to be picked and aligned vertically, then twisted a set number of degrees to allow the cylinder to open. It was virtually impregnable to a thief unless he took the usual route of drilling it. Such crude methods, though effective, were anathema to a true artist. 

The word on the street was that the manufacturer offered a reward to anyone who could pick the lock, not that Steele had any intention of collecting one. The considerable challenge would be its own reward.  In preparation he rose, walked over and closed the curtains and extinguished the lights and put on a pair of dark glasses. He selected two finely crafted tools from the set of lock picks in his jacket. 

Steele sat perfectly still and began to focus on his task, conjuring a mental picture of the lock's internal mechanism from a diagram he'd once seen. His pulse quickened in anticipation. He held the tools delicately between his fingers, approaching the object as if it were something rare: a well guarded gem or perhaps a lover he'd long been waiting for. In no hurry, he let his sense of touch guide him as he explored the mystery before him with infinite care.  Minutes later, his face in shadow, he smiled softly at the satisfying click as the first tumbler fell into place.

Laura pulled the car into a space in the parking garage at Rossmore and turned off the engine. She cranked the top back up on the Rabbit and ran nervous fingers through her windblown hair. She still wasn't sure what she was doing there but she'd felt restless and uneasy the whole afternoon. 

She'd drifted through appointments like a sleepwalker, shaking a succession of hands, acting businesslike and reassuring, her body going through the motions but her mind elsewhere. More than once she thought of how Mr. Steele would have handled the client, imagining him winning them over with that singular brand of charm and persuasion that he seemed to employ without apparent effort.

It was ironic, she thought, that once she had banished him from the office, she couldn't stop thinking about him, wondering what he was doing, and if he was OK.  She found out later that Fred had dropped Steele off at the apartment several hours ago after stopping by the drugstore to get his prescription filled. 

In the limo, she'd noticed Steele dozing off between filling in blanks on a crossword puzzle. He'd looked drawn and tired, almost devoid of energy. She could feel a sympathy that was almost maternal welling up inside her, a rather puzzling impulse considering that a few minutes earlier her only feelings for him had been homicidal. Unable to resolve the contradiction she forced herself to look out the window at the non-existent scenery, nursing a migraine while she replayed their argument over and over in her head.

It wasn't his jealousy of Lindstrom that drove her up the wall. She found the doctor's behavior almost as disgusting as he did. What galled her beyond endurance about Mr. Steele was that proprietary air of his, as though they were more than just business associates and he had some sort of claim on her. He seemed blithely unconcerned that this exclusivity he trumpeted was a one way street. She was expected to live like a nun in a cloister while he had carte blanche to have a stream of women trooping in and out of his bedroom like it was Union Station.

Laura got out of the car and headed for the elevators, telling herself every step of the way that a man like that deserved a few sleepless nights and why should she care if Remington Steele turned out to be an incurable insomniac? She punched the elevator button and wrestled with the nagging voice inside her head; the one that said it all started with the Lindstrom case and she'd gotten him into this mess and she was going to have to help him out of it. 

By the time she rang the doorbell to his apartment the voice was considerably more subdued. What if he'd taken her up on her suggestion and was with some blonde whose body temperature was higher than her IQ? What if he was asleep? Then she really shouldn't disturb him, right? What if he wasn't asleep? What would he think she was doing there? 

He'd never believe she was just being caring and concerned.  He'd think she was jealous, spying on him, trying to catch him with someone else, or that she'd come there to apologize. Or worse, that she'd come there because she'd reconsidered and she wanted to spend the whole day in bed with him, practicing massage techniques and -- 

The door opened.

"What the devil do you want? Can't you - " Steele stopped in mid tirade and blinked at her. "Laura?"

"Mr. Steele."

"I'm sorry," they both said in unison.

"I thought you were the annoying chap down the hall. He's been trying to sell me insurance."

"You were asleep?" 

That much was obvious, Laura thought as she took in his slightly dazed expression, his tousled hair, his silk robe that was barely fastened at the waist. She caught a tantalizing glimpse of the dark fabric of his briefs before he quickly gathered his robe and tied the belt more securely. She swallowed hard. This errand of mercy business wasn't going to be as easy as she thought.

"I'll come back later."

"No, don't go, Laura. I was, um, just watching a movie," Steele improvised, not wanting her to think she'd disturbed his sleep. 

Laura stepped through the door with furrowed brow, listening.

"I don't hear the TV."

"Ah. . . with the sound off. Know the dialogue backwards. 'Scarface.’ Paul Muni, Osgood Perkins, United Artists, 1932. Re-discovered classic." Steele quickly shut the door behind her. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Would you like some coffee or something?" He straightened the sofa pillows and motioned for her to sit down. She sank onto the cushions with a worried frown. 

"I've dragged you out of bed." 

His mouth twitched in a smile. "Not a problem. You can drag me back in."

Laura felt her skin flush at the proposal. "I'm sure you can manage on your own, Mr. Steele."

"But it would be so reassuring to have you by my side in my hour of need." Steele perched on the arm of the sofa. 

"Hour of need? Are all insomniacs this prone to exaggeration?"

"Hard to say." Steele regarded her appraisingly. "We could try a few prone positions and see what develops."

"This conversation is beginning to sound very familiar."

"Of course it does. Remember Charlotte Knight? Hot and steamy novels? 'Prone Positions’?" 

"Are you suggesting -"

"A little bedtime reading? Not unless you brought along a copy."

"Why would I have a copy of one of her books?" Laura replied dismissively.

"Why, indeed?" Steele grinned slyly. "What a wonderful knack you have, being able to describe them in minute detail without having read them. What was the phrase you used?  'Every thigh is creamy white, every breast is full and heaving.'" 

Despite the triteness of the prose, Laura's imagination began to wander into the torrid zone. There was something about the way his voice caressed the words that made them sound genuinely erotic rather than mass-marketed. And that look. Why did he have to give her that look?  As if he were imagining them both en route to the bedroom door leaving behind a trail of hastily discarded clothing.  Although in his case he wouldn't have much to remove. How was it that a man who'd barely slept for days could be this tempting, could still make any passing female's palms sweat and her mouth water?

It was very disconcerting, not that she was about to let him know it. Laura forced herself to meet his gaze. He was watching her with a slight smile on his face as if he was well aware of the precise effect of his seductive powers. 

"Ha! You've read one, you've read them all," she volleyed back.

"And have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Read them all?"

"I may have skimmed a few," Laura replied with a show of disinterest. "When we were working on the case."  She picked at an invisible piece of lint on her jacket.

"That reminds me, Laura. That copy of 'Twice Nightly'  -- the one that you inadvertently left in the file cabinet? It's due back at the library on Tuesday." 

"Tuesday?" Laura blurted before she could stop herself. She quickly recovered and tried to turn the tables. "What were you doing in the file cabinet?"

"Oh, just looking for stray clues."

"Likely story. You were snooping."

Steele's air of reasoned calm was unassailable. "Merely trying to take an interest in our work.  I'll admit I'm no expert but is it usual to file erotic literature in with the gory details of murder, mayhem, and malfeasance?"

"If you're determined to master our filing system, I'm sure I can teach you the basics. Once you've caught up on your sleep and things are back to normal you can start solving cases from A to Z - and each and every letter in between."

Steele was affronted. "Filing? Laura, you can't seriously be suggesting that the head of the agency engage in such menial activities."

A detective's work is never done, Mr. Steele."

"Wouldn't a division of labour be in our best interest? I find your rapt attention to the mundane very liberating. You see, it frees me to look at the large canvas. To make those great intuitive leaps –"

"Of faith?" Laura finished derisively.

"Of deductive reasoning."

"You can't have it both ways, Mr. Steele. Deductive reasoning and intuition are two entirely different things."

"Excellent point, Miss Holt. Let's not limit ourselves, best of both worlds and all that."

Laura crinkled her brow thoughtfully. The fact that Steele's slightly bent perspective sometimes seemed to make sense was beginning to scare her. 

"Why don't I make that coffee, Laura? You look as though you could use some. That unappetizing brew you concoct at the office hardly qualifies."

Laura could hardly deny the awful truth but felt compelled to put up a defense. "It keeps me going."

"Ah, but at what cost to your life expectancy?"

"Stop whining. You're as bad as Murphy."

"Really, Laura. There no need to insult a man who was going to offer you a gift from the gods."

"What gift?"

"The finest coffee that has ever passed man's lips. An exclusive blend direct from the Wallensford Estate in Jamaica."

"Jamaica? I usually buy what's on sale at Safeway."

"Allow me to educate your palate, Miss Holt." 

"You don't have to -"

Steele was already halfway to the kitchen. "Two sugars, correct?"

Within minutes a pungent and distinctively rich aroma filled the air.  Steele breezed past the sofa and headed in the direction of the hallway. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

Laura heard water running briefly, then Steele re-appeared a few minutes later, drying his face with a towel. He was wearing pajama bottoms under his robe and he had combed his hair. 

Laura felt a twinge of disappointment. She kind of liked the just-tumbled-out-of-bed look. His wardrobe at the office was always so formal that she relished the chance of seeing him a little more unbuttoned. This time was a bit more than she bargained for. She never expected to catch that quick freeze-frame of him, standing there in his open robe half naked. The sight had almost made her heart stop. She had a feeling that glimpse would be replayed in her fantasies for quite a while. Too bad he'd put those pajama bottoms on, she mused. Still, things were probably a lot safer that way for both of them . . .  not that any situation where they were alone together was entirely safe.

He went into the kitchen to check the coffee and returned with two cups filled to the brim with the heavenly brew. 

"Sorry I disappeared on you. I was just making myself a bit more presentable. I wasn't expecting company."  He handed her a cup and sat down next to her on the sofa.

"I should have called first. I'm sorry. I just wanted to, um, check on the patient," she finished self-consciously.

"A doctor this charming who makes house calls is a rare find, indeed," he teased, brightening at the prospect of a therapy session. 

His hopeful look did not escape her. She had to be honest with him. "Um…I'll stay for coffee, but I really can't . . . stay." 

His mouth turned down at the corners a little in disappointment but she saw the acceptance in his eyes. 

"I understand," he said finally, setting down his cup. He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

"You do? I was afraid you'd -"

"Laura." He smiled at her in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. "It doesn't matter. I'm just glad you're here."

A feeling that was part pleasure, part relief swept over her. "Insomniacs say the nicest things, Mr. Steele."

Steele chuckled. "Crossword puzzles do wonders for the vocabulary."

Savoring the aroma, Laura took a sip of her coffee. The taste was so exquisite it almost made her toes curl. "This coffee is incredible. I think I could get used to the finer things in life.”

Steele arched an eyebrow. “Then my work hasn’t been entirely wasted.”

Laura lifted her mug in salute. “Maybe I could add another line item to the office expenses."

Steele drank deeply from his own cup. "I will warn you that it could turn out to be a rather expensive habit."

Laura shrugged. “We could all use a little indulgence now and then. Within reason.” 

Steele regarded her with warm amusement. “Indulgence and reason are two different things, you know.”

"Touché, Mr. Steele. The coffee went to my head.” 

"Damn, that reminds me."

"What?"

"Coffee. I'm not supposed to drink it, doctor's orders. I guess I'll have to get used to decaf." He grimaced at the prospect. "Bottoms up, Miss Holt. It's all yours." He handed her his cup.

"Mr. Steele," Laura protested. "Now I'll be the one who's awake all night."

"Solidarity. That's the spirit."

Steele insisted she take the rest of the brewed coffee home in a thermos and he gave her the remainder of the package of coffee beans. 

"No need to let it go to waste."

"Get some rest now. You'll need to get your exercise in the morning."

"Exercise? In the morning?” 

"Part of your new and improved lifestyle, Mr. Steele. You'll thank me for it someday -- when you're being chased by the police and are able to put on that extra burst of speed."

"Be gentle with me, Miss Holt."

Laura was on her way to the door when something on the coffee table caught her eye: a very sturdy and complex looking solid steel lock and a pair of lock picks. 

She inclined her head. "Planning to do a little breaking and entering before bedtime?"

Steele improvised rapidly. "Just, um, product testing. I'm thinking of putting some more secure hardware on my front door. Detective work can be a very dangerous business."

Laura was sure he was up to something but decided to play along. "Good idea. Make sure you give me a spare key."

"Oh, of course, Laura, what's mine is yours. You shall have unquestioned entrée to my flat at all times."

"As long as the agency is paying the rent."

"Quite right, Miss Holt." Steele hastened to agree.

"Good night, Mr. Steele." She swept through the door he opened for her.

She turned slowly as an irresistible force drew her back.  She reached out and gently smoothed back his dark hair at one temple, then leaned in and kissed him hard, her body pinning him against the doorframe. His hair was damp and his warm lips tasted of coffee. 
He barely had time to react before she released him. 

"Mr. Steele?" 

"Ye-es?" he managed to gasp.

"About that hardware of yours." She looked him frankly up and down.

"Hardware?" Suddenly his pajama bottoms felt a bit tighter than they did before.

"On the coffee table."

"Oh. That." He glanced back at it distractedly.

"Do try to stay out of jail tonight. You need your sleep." 

With that parting shot she walked away, leaving him speechless in the doorway.

***

Sleep Diary of Remington Steele

26 January, 1983

Sleep aids taken (1) (is this really necessary?)

Caffeine units (1 half cp Jamaican ambrosia, remainder gallantly surrendered)

Number of crosswords completed (0) (redeemed by creative spelling)

Number of cross words exchanged (too numerous to count)

Congratulatory calls from Stockholm (0) (but peace talks promising)

Number of times thought of strategies to warm up heat resistant partner (98.6 and rising) 

Number of prone positions
(solo) imposs. to say after restless night
(with partner) 0, unless verbal foreplay factored in 

Congratulatory calls from Medeco Lock Co. (0) but success is own reward, also fait accompli

Number of times solid steel(e) hardware caught the eye of lovely associate (2) possibly more, judging from direction of glance

Number of times dreamed about testing mattress with lovely associate (3)
minus nightwear (2)
minus mattress (1)

Number of times solid steel(e) hardware interrupted sleep (3)

Number of times interruption accompanied by cold shower / emergency relief measures (3)

Sleep Diary of Remington Steele (as related to Dr. Philip Lindstrom) 

26 January, 1983

Sleep aids taken (1) as per doctor's orders

Caffeine units (.5) considerably less than adult daily requirement 

Activities prior to bedtime

1. Vocabulary building exercise on drive back from clinic
2. In depth discussion with associate on agency filing protocols
3. Product testing of new security system (req.executive level expertise)

Times got up for extended periods during the night (3)

Est. hours of sleep obtained (3?) 
Times sleep interrupted (5+)
 
 

Steele stood under the caressing warmth of the shower spray, turning slowly as the reviving force of the water massaged his body from every angle. Fifteen minutes of absolute bliss, that was the ticket. He rinsed the last vestiges of shampoo from his hair and reluctantly turned off the water. He slid open the shower door, reaching blindly for a towel while combing his hair back with his other hand. 

Hope flickered in his chest that his fortunes were improving with a certain lady detective, despite the restless night that had followed her departure. 

Even the prospect of a morning constitutional / exercise regimen / health club workout didn't seem such a bad idea, with a spandex-clad Laura by his side. He wasn't quite sure what his partner had in mind. She'd been rather mysterious about the whole thing, merely telling him to pack a gym bag with a change of clothes and that she would pick him up at lunchtime. He'd had to ask Fred what sort of attire was usual for this sort of outing and undertake a last minute shopping trip to find something to wear. Fred often observed the natives in their natural habitat while dropping Laura off at the gym, so he had a good idea of what was de rigueur.

Working out with Laura surely couldn't be boring, Steele decided. She'd be with him every step of the way; keeping his spirits up, giving him pep talks, urging him on to spectacular feats of athleticism. He pictured their sweating bodies in rhythmic synchronization, heartbeats accelerating as they stretched their endurance to the limit. What did Americans call it? Going for the burn? Perhaps a steamy rendezvous in the sauna would be part of the program. He sighed deeply as he imagined his captivating partner clad only in a very small towel. His temperature was rising already, and parts of his anatomy were following suit.

He toweled off his hair vigorously and padded out of the bathroom in a pleasantly distracted fog. By the time he reached the bedroom, he was fully erect and the part of his brain that wasn't otherwise engaged was telling him he needed to get back in the shower and try that cold remedy again, maybe with an ice bucket for extra insurance. Otherwise he'd have to tell Laura that something had come up, not that that "something" was necessarily a bad thing if she were in the vicinity, but he did have to work on his timing. 

He started in shocked surprise as an unseen hand reached around him and between his legs, feminine fingers avidly exploring his length. 

"Guess who?"

Steele didn't have to guess; he looked up to see her tanned and toned reflection in the mirrored doors of the closet. The groper's name was Amber and her face had graced the covers of every fashion magazine in Los Angeles. Her body was the stuff dreams were made of; her honey colored hair framed perfect cheekbones and full, flawless lips. She was young and eager to make it in more ways than one. Her beauty was somewhat spoiled by a perpetually slack-jawed expression, though the handicap wasn't fatal. She could change it to a sensual, lover's pout at the click of a shutter. 

"Something on your mind?" She giggled and reached for him again. "Remy, you have such a gorgeous -"

He carefully pried her hand loose. "Don't -- call me Remy."

"Whatever you say, lover."

Laura maneuvered the Rabbit briskly through the traffic, not even minding the retaliatory horn blast from the sleek, black Mercedes she cut off at the head of the lane. Her agile ragtop made it under the yellow light with milliseconds to spare. She cranked up the radio and a fizzy explosion of synth pop blared from the speakers as Olivia Newton-John warbled "Lets Get Physical" to a procession of passing joggers.

A smile formed on her lips as she wondered what surprises were in store once she crossed the threshold at Rossmore. Though the mental image of Mr. Steele wearing form fitting workout attire had undeniable appeal, Laura was still monumentally unsure if he would actually go through with it. His usual reaction whenever she mentioned the gym was either a stifled yawn or an eyebrow quirked in amusement at the American fetish for fitness.

Ever since Steele had arrived on the scene she'd been kept off balance by his unorthodox and irregular habits. Where the agency was concerned she was on firm ground. It was entirely appropriate to lecture him over noon arrivals, leisurely lunches, and calling it a day before the clock struck three, but what he did on his off hours, especially his evenings, was terra incognita and likely to remain so. She would rather walk barefoot over hot coals than admit to her enigmatic partner that she was consumed with curiosity about his social calendar or his ever-so-mysterious late night wanderings. 

Sometimes she would lie awake, a glance at the clock causing her imagination to idle restlessly. 1:35. Where was Mr. Steele?  Clues would surface in the expense accounts or from a tell tale sign in the limo the next morning; a stray betting slip; a matchbook from an exclusive club; a long blonde hair on the seat cushion; the scent of an expensive perfume. 

Mr. Steele's amours were his own business, she supposed, though they were hardly a secret. The women he went out with enjoyed the spotlight. Still, he stubbornly cultivated an air of mystery. He delighted, it seemed to Laura, in firing her curiosity about his love life and then leaving her hanging. It was as if, deep down, all he really wanted to make sure of was that she cared, at least a little.

She knew he liked the finer things: Savile Row tailoring, Italian shoes, haute cuisine, and he loved old movies, but other, more intimate knowledge was harder to come by. His newly acquired insomnia fell squarely into the unknown category; she was afraid to delve too deep. Despite picking up some of the lingo during her stint at the clinic, she wasn't a doctor. Maybe the best she could do was to see that he complied with his treatment - whether he liked it or not. 

She harbored no illusions that his lifetime habit of indolence could be reversed overnight, but Steele had been willing to follow doctor's orders on his caffeine consumption, a sign he was taking his condition seriously. 

Despite her natural skepticism she felt a small thrill of hope. Could his insomnia be a blessing in disguise? Maybe -- just maybe -- it would change things. Make it possible for him to change. To become more mature and responsible. More self-disciplined. Less indulgent. You're dreaming, Laura, she told herself as she sat waiting at the stoplight; but it was a pleasant fantasy all the same. 

Green.

The station wagon in front remained stubbornly immobile. After a couple of seconds Laura hit the horn, impatient to be on her way. "Hey it's not going to get any greener. Move it! Some of us are in a hurry!" 

"How did you get in?" Steele said to Amber in a tone of growing annoyance. "I don't recall giving you a key."

"The apartment manager let me in. He'll do anything I ask him. I told him you were expecting me."

"Seems I'm always the last to know," he said offhandedly. Inwardly he was cursing his luck. If he couldn't get rid of her soon he'd have to hide her in the laundry hamper.

Amber eyed the sweat suit and the partially packed bag that lay on the bed. "You're going to the gym? Since when? I thought you hated the gym."

"I've taken up a new hobby," Steele replied nonchalantly, strapping on his watch. 

"Hobby? Who is she? And don't tell me Jane Fonda."

"It's not a social liaison. It's purely a professional relationship - a client." There was an almost imperceptible hesitation on the last word.

"A client? Uh-huh. What's so important about a client? You never take me to the gym. And I look great in spandex."

Her arms encircled his waist, hands lightly stroking the dark hair on his belly as she rained light kisses across his shoulders. 

Steele pulled out of her determined embrace and rummaged in his top drawer for a pair of briefs. "I'm working on a case. Surveillance operation. The subject, er, client, that is, is someone I'll be pumping for information -- while pumping iron, as it were. As I said. Strictly business." 

Amber kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed.  She grinned shamelessly up at him. "I can take care of business, too. You won't need those." She tugged at his underwear.

"Normally I'm delighted by spontaneous displays of affection but as the song goes, 'it's the wrong time, and the wrong place.'" 

"C'mon, Remy. You know you want to. Remember that night in front of the fireplace? You said it yourself. We're made for each other."

Steele gaped at her as if she were speaking in Hindustani. He said that? He couldn't have uttered anything so ridiculous -- or so boring. Impossible. And if he had, how could she be so thoughtless as to remind him of it? He had to admit, the night in question was a bit out of focus now.  Something involving a bottle of Dom Perignon, an overturned ice bucket, and a very revealing fashion show.

"Must have been the champagne."

Amber peeled off her silky, camisole style top, revealing a pair of perfect breasts. "I don't think so."

Steele was temporarily at a loss for words, distracted by the unexpected sight of her shell-pink nipples.

She slapped a manicured hand to her forehead. "Jeez. I almost forgot. I've got something to show you." She began to undo the button on her jeans.

"For heaven's sake, not now!" Steele glanced frantically at the clock on his nightstand, sending up a silent prayer to the Almighty that Laura be unavoidably detained by a flat tire, a minor earthquake, or a nice, juicy triple homicide.

"You'll love this."

"Perhaps later."

"It can't wait."

"An admirable sentiment but under the circumstances -"

In a flash, Amber was out of her jeans and underwear. She held up her panties as if they had a starring role in a lingerie commercial.

"See?"

"Um, very nice. Calvin Klein?" 

"They're autographed."

"Isn't everything these days?"

"Not by Simon Le Bon. Feast your eyes. He signed it right there, just below the elastic."

"Simon who?"

Amber put down the panties and rolled her eyes in disbelief. "'Hungry Like The Wolf’?"

"Sorry, love." Steele squinted nervously at his watch. "I don't have the time or the inclination."

"Have you been living on the planet Mongo? You've never heard of Duran Duran?"

"Of course I have! He's the character played by Milo O'Shea in 'Barbarella.' Jane Fonda, John Phillip Law. Paramount Pictures, 1968. Directed by Roger Vadim. Incidentally Vadim was married to Jane Fonda at the time, but before that his claim to fame was being Mr. Brigitte Bardot and -" 

"Puh-leeze." Amber yawned. "Snooze-o-rama! Like a dumb Jane Fonda movie could ever compare to a totally awesome band like Duran Duran. For your information, 'Hungry Like The Wolf' is a track from the 'Carnival' EP. I got it last week. And these panties are signed by Simon Le Bon, their hot lead singer.”

"Oh. I take it that he's somewhat famous then?" Steele casually remarked as he splashed on some cologne.

Amber watched him in the mirror as he turned his back to her. From her vantage point she had an excellent view from both front and rear of his half naked form. His tight-fitting briefs merely served to emphasize the fact he was still partially erect. The sight of him standing there, coolly oblivious to the effect he was having on her, kicked her hormones into overdrive. She came up behind him and nuzzled his neck. That scent he was wearing was definitely a turn-on. 

"Hello, gorgeous," she breathed into his ear.

"'Funny Girl.' Barbara Streisand, Omar Sharif –"

"Omar who? Don't you know anybody that's like, really famous, like John Taylor or Nick Rhodes?" Amber sighed, playing a videotape in her head of Simon's cutest band mates in all their glam, synthetic glory. 

She walked back to the bed and stretched out languorously, picking up the panties and clutching them to her chest. "My brush with stardom," she recalled with a dreamy smile. "It all started when my agent got me this 'new faces' photo session for 'Elle’, my first major shoot, you know, on this luxury yacht. There was this totally rad party going on at the same time for some department store heiress or whatever. I was taking a ciggie break when I turned around and there he was! Simon Le Bon -- in the flesh! I had multiple orgasms on the spot! Just melted into a puddle all over his Gucci loafers . . ."

Repressing a shudder, Steele pulled on his sweat pants. He knew his bed partners weren't exactly Mensa candidates, but were they all this insipid? Don't answer that, mate, he told himself. What on earth was she rattling on about? He'd known French poodles with more wit. Cocker spaniels, even. He had to get rid of her, and quickly. The clock was ticking and he was woefully ill prepared to play a game of truth or consequences with Laura. 

". . .Simon was there with this stuck up French model, très Eurotrash, you know the type, lots of underarm hair, but I would have committed murder for her Alaia handbag. Anyway, I could tell Simon was checking me out in my Calvin Kleins and I did the Brooke Shields thing, like, 'do you wanna know what comes between me and my Calvins?’. . ."

"Brooke Shields. 'Pretty Baby,' Susan Sarandon, Keith Carradine, Paramount, 1978," Steele said to no one in particular. 

". . . then I showed him. I could tell he was really interested, you know, but that hairy matchstick wouldn't let him out of her sight. Simon signed them anyway. Told her he was just having a laugh. I did, too. I mean, I really did. You know how ticklish I am." She giggled as if to illustrate the point. "He is just, like, so -- wicked. I nearly died."

Amber's games of 'Simon says' were making his eyelids droop. Her chatter would cure the most dedicated insomniac, Steele thought. At least she was good for something. Cole Porter was right. It was the wrong time and the wrong place, and her face was lovely, but it was the definitely the wrong face. Despite the lyrics, Steele decided, if some night she were free he'd be sure not to call. What had he been thinking that night in front of the fire? Or more to the point, what had he been thinking with? 

Amber bounced lightly on the edge of the bed. "I only wear them when I'm really, really, in the mood for love, you know. I owe Simon that much." She tossed the panties playfully in his direction.

Steele was beginning to feel slightly desperate. His knowledge of the fair sex was encyclopedic but there were far more entries devoted to getting women out of their clothes than back into them. Short of physical force an effective strategy was proving maddeningly elusive. Still, inspiration had never failed him before; surely an answer was out there somewhere. If only he'd slept better last night maybe he could think.

"I said, I only wear them when I'm really, really -"

Her words fell on deaf ears as a blinding light switched on in Steele's brain. The answer had been dropped, quite literally, in his lap. You're slipping, mate, he admonished himself with a rueful grin. He snatched up the panties and raced for the living room, a naked and bewildered Amber trailing behind him.

"Hey, Remy, what are you doing?  Wait for me! Do you have something kinky in mind?" she called out as he hurdled the couch and sped through the open French doors to the balcony. Steele stood teasingly out of arms' reach, holding the panties high above his head.

"Sorry, love. I don't have time to play games. I have an urgent appointment."

Amber, half hidden behind the French doors, stretched out and made a desperate but awkward lunge in Steele's direction. 

"Ah, ah. Simon says take two steps back."

"Be careful with those, she whined. "You