Laura adjusted the shower nozzle and sighed blissfully as the warm water rhythmically pelted her back and shoulders. Maybe it wasn’t a Tibetan massage but it felt pretty wonderful all the same.  Just how much of a massage expert was Mr. Steele? she wondered. He’d demonstrated his “mastery” of the art to that blonde witch Felicia, or so the witch claimed. Not exactly a reliable source, but Laura had seen the look that passed between them and it was plain that the blonde had more than her share of hands on experience. 

A sigh caught in her throat, then escaped, as she imagined those long, preternaturally gifted fingers alternately kneading, pressing, stroking – and balancing, too. Whatever that was about. It sounded better than sex. It probably was sex – and sex with Mr. Steele was better than sex. It had to be. All of those cosmetically enhanced blondes, brunettes, and in betweens he squired around weren’t interested in his conversational skills.

No doubt the fact that Steele was as free spending with his wallet as he was with his massage expertise also helped turn a few well coiffed heads. One evening she’d overheard Claude observe with dry Gallic wit, that the restaurant would have to install a revolving door to accommodate the endless procession of femmes. His establishment could certainly afford it. With Remington Steele’s largesse they could practically build their own Arc de Triomphe. 

Strangely enough, the largesse never seemed to run the other way. If Steele received so much as a tie pin from any of his amours he kept the news under wraps. It was probably safer that way given the questionable taste of some of his conquests, with their chronically overdressed bodies and undersized brains. Of course, not all of them were overdressed. Some couldn’t even keep track of their underwear, like that dizzy blonde from Steele’s apartment. His standards had never been high but she hadn’t realized they’d slipped to subterranean.

She didn’t want to think about that now. Not when things had been going so well. At least, thanks to her efforts, Mr. Steele was learning to exercise his body in more ways than just one. She doubted if any of his mattress partners could get him into better shape. Not that it was going to be easy.

The exertions of the last two hours had tested his muscles, but had tested her resolve even more. She was finding her attraction to him more dangerously physical than ever. Even now, her senses could conjure up every detail; his lean body in motion, clothes clinging to his sweating form, the scent of his maleness mixed intoxicatingly with his cologne. It had taken all her willpower to keep his exercise regimen from turning into a contact sport. 

Her hormones went on a roller coaster ride whenever her partner was in close proximity.  Whatever he wore, no matter how good it looked on him, she was always imagining him not wearing it, or wearing just what was underneath. It would be briefs, she guessed, not boxers, if her quick glimpse from the night before was any indication. 

Laura wondered what he would be wearing in the pool. Her imagination idled pleasantly for a moment, then one hand flew to her mouth in shock. She suddenly remembered something. A very little something. That itsy bitsy teeny weeny swimsuit she’d dared him to try on. It had turned into more than just a dare, as Mr. Steele was about to discover when he opened his gym bag. 

Laura ran both hands through her soaking hair, trying to steady her nerves.  What had she gotten herself into, or more to the point, what had she gotten Mr. Steele into? No more than he deserved after this morning but she couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. Half of her anyway. The other half was holding her breath and dying to see what would happen. 

After chatting up two very receptive blondes at the reception desk, Steele headed for the men’s shower area. He turned a corner and almost bumped into a solid mass of muscle. It was Masters, naked except for his briefs and a towel around his neck. 

“Mr. Steele,” he said with a self-satisfied smirk. “I hope that little woman of yours has cooled down some. That whole pin thing was an accident. Scout’s honor.”

Steele could imagine what Laura would think of that “little woman” remark. Masters was lucky he wasn’t in her field of fire. “All in a days work for you, I suppose.” 

“No harm, no foul, right?”

“Precisely. Tell me, Mr. Masters. If a man was interested in bulking up and wanted to get on the fast track, so to speak, there are, well, how do I put this delicately – chemical alternatives. Correct?”

Masters leaned in and gave Steele a conspiratorial wink. “Between you and me and the gatepost, well, sure. There’s more stuff on the market and off the market than all the tea in China.”

“You’re the marketing expert.” 

“If you’re really interested I can, um, get it for you wholesale, for a small handling fee. Unofficially, you understand.” 

“These chemicals of yours, um, steroids and such –“ 

Masters put a finger to his lips. “We prefer to call them ‘performance enhancers.’” 

“Really? I find that rather curious.”

“Curious? How’s that?”

Steele feigned reluctance to broach the subject. “Well, one hears – certain, ah, rumours that these ‘performance enhancers’ aren’t quite as advertised.”

“Would I lie to you? Take a good look at the results.” Masters preened and patted his artificially inflated chest. “I’m living proof.”

Steele waited a beat before letting the other shoe drop. “Oh, dear,” he clucked, apprehension clouding his features. “I certainly hope not.”

“What do you mean?” 

Steele leaned closer and lowered his voice as if imparting a deep, dark, secret. “It’s just that one of the Lifestyles Managers at your reception desk, a rather shapely blonde, tells me that such remedies have been known to have a very detrimental effect on -- well, to put it bluntly - male performance.”

Masters’ eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. He wasn’t at all sure he liked the direction the conversation was taking. 

“In fact,” Steele continued with a smirk, “she says that not only do users lose their sexual potency, but certain portions of their anatomy shrink down to the size of raisins.” 

With cool deliberation Steele’s gaze traveled down the other man’s barely covered torso, then back up to eye level as he smiled blandly into the muscleman’s flushed face. All traces of Masters’ smug superiority were gone and his mouth opened, then shut again as he struggled to form a reply. 

“She’s ly -- that’s not true!”  He clenched one ham-like fist.

“You see, she once dated a bodybuilder with a large hairy mole on his left thigh and –“ Steele looked downwards again.

A muscle twitched uncontrollably in Masters’ right cheek. Speechless, he squared off towards Steele, threat implicit in every line of his enormous frame.

“Have I said something wrong?”

Masters had heard enough. “You just made the biggest mistake of your life, pal.” The hulk’s massive right fist wooshed through the air.

Steele ducked under the blow and moved into a crouch, lowering his right shoulder and throwing an uppercut sharply to Masters’ chin. Steele’s opponent may have had fists the size of footballs but he was stiff as a California redwood and cursed with a glass jaw. He fell backward, hitting the tiles with a force that registered on the Richter scale.

Shaking his head to clear the haze, Masters spat out some blood and fingered a loose molar. He pointed accusingly to the wet floor. “You see that? I slipped.”

“Of course you did. Purely an accident. No harm, no foul.”  Surveying his skinned knuckles, Steele managed not to wince as feeling returned to his right hand.  He flexed it, praying that nothing was broken.

His performance enhanced opponent was putting a towel gingerly to his face. Steele looked on, a half-smile forming on his lips. ”I’d put some ice on that if I were you.”  He took one more deeply satisfying look at Masters’ battered chin, then strolled, whistling softly, toward the showers. 

Feeling refreshed and inordinately good humored, Steele stepped out of the cubicle, towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He combed through his wet hair with his fingers and began rummaging through his gym bag. His imagination was ticking off the possibilities. What had Laura decided to wear poolside to lead him into temptation? If only. His mind’s eye filled with visions of Laura’s body finally, transcendently unveiled like the newly sculpted form of a goddess. Unveiled might be too much to hope for but his Venus wearing only a few strategically placed scraps of cloth would be an excellent substitute. 

Steele was eager to get his own kit on and head for the pool. He dug under his sneakers, socks and rolled up sweats, but found no hint of the muted shades of his boxer style swimsuit. Instead, a turquoise spandex fabric was winking at him, in glorious Technicolor, price tags still attached. 

What on earth was that doing there? Steele wondered. He thought he’d left it in the shopping bag. Eyeing the offending item with disdain, he emptied the entire contents of the bag onto a sink counter. He discovered, to his horror, that his more sedate swim togs were mysteriously missing in action. He hastily repacked everything, picked up the bag, and ducked back into the shower cubicle. 

Steele’s brow furrowed in consternation.  He’d packed the boxer trunks, hadn’t he? Of course he had. There was no way they could be missing unless someone else . . . but Laura had been the only someone else in the vicinity. 

His heart hammered against his chest as a half wonderful, half terrifying idea occurred to him.  What if that was her plan all along? She’d dared him to try them on back at his flat. There had been nothing businesslike about that gleam in her eye. Only the thought of how ridiculous he would look in them kept him from stripping off then and there and hoping she would shed her inhibitions as well. That his other suit was gone was a clue even a detective in training couldn’t miss.  It was obvious that Laura had wanted him to wear briefs and not boxers, and very brief briefs at that.

Steele stood frozen as a statue at the thought; no-nonsense, business-before-pleasure, room temperature Laura Holt resorting to no holds barred chicanery to see him practically naked. Practically naked. The implications spread through his brain and his body like wildfire, causing an almost instantaneous, and very visible reaction under his towel. Though the stretch qualities of spandex were considerable Steele was not eager to put them to the test. He threw off the towel with a sigh and turned on the cold water to the shower. These emergency measures were getting to be a habit lately. 

After a minute his erection subsided, but his imagination was going full tilt. What was Laura thinking that very moment? Was she breathless by the pool, waiting for him to appear wearing his day-glo fig leaf?  Maybe the spandex suit wasn’t as bad as it seemed; it was, after all, tame enough to be sold in an American mall without a plain brown wrapper.

Steele retrieved it from his gym bag and tried it on. Despite its stretchy fabric, it was a pretty tight fit.  No matter how diligently he pulled and adjusted, the material barely covered the essentials. He supposed that was the idea. Steele looked down at himself and winced. One false move or unexpected sneeze, and he could be arrested. 

Steele poked his head out of the shower stall to survey the territory; thankfully, not a soul was in sight. Pulling a dry towel down from the rack for a cover up he set it nearby and took a quick look in the mirror. He blinked twice in shock at his skin tight reflection. The suit showed every line and every bulge. Not to mention every inch. He couldn’t have felt more on display if he were starkers and wearing a flashing neon sign.

Panic rose in his chest. Steele had never minded being naked or half naked, in the right company, but he was not going let Laura or anyone else, for that matter, see him wearing this little item. He looked like a chorus boy from a drag cabaret act. He grabbed on to the towel for dear life and wrapped it around his waist.

“Mr. Steele.” Laura suppressed a giggle. “That’s a very large towel you’ve got there. Planning to spread it out and have a picnic?” Laura bobbed in the water near the edge of the pool, out of the path of splashing swimmers.

“Very droll, Miss Holt. I think Manet had the right idea about picnics.”

“Manet?”

“’Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe.’  Shade trees, green grass, fruits of the vine. The women naked, or nearly so, the men fully clothed.” 

“How quaint. That idea belongs in a museum. Women aren’t the only thing on the menu these days.” She winked at him. “It’s the 80’s. You show me yours. I’ll show you mine.”

Steele hesitated. “Ah, if you insist. You first.”

“Okay.”

Laura showed excellent form, springing gracefully out of the water to sit on the edge of the pool. She was wearing a stylish red bikini in an ultra-sheer fabric that clung to her wet curves like flame-colored seaweed. 

“Hey, you cheated! You louse!” Steele had plunged in while she was making her exit, somehow managing to keep his towel aloft on the way down. He smiled smugly and neatly folded it, placing it at arms’ length from the pool’s edge.

Not to be outdone, Laura dived under the water, leaving Steele sputtering in consternation. “Laura! You’re not playing fair –“

She came up grinning wickedly. “Very stylish, Mr. Steele. What I could see of it before you put both hands in the way. I didn’t realize you were so shy.”

“Err, turquoise really isn’t my color.”

Laura smiled serenely. “I don’t feel shy at all.” She kicked up out of the water to drift lazily on her back. Steele was left marveling at his sweat suited partner, magically transformed into a gauzy, half-draped Naiad. The shape of her breasts and the outline of her firm nipples were plainly visible through the thin fabric and the tiny triangle of cloth between her thighs was almost as sheer. It was as close to being naked as the law allowed. 

Steele had to remind himself to breathe. He felt a flash of heat course through him, his body reacting viscerally to finding the Laura of his dreams, of a hundred fantasies yet unfulfilled, right beside him in the flesh. The coolness of the water was doing little or nothing to put out the slow fire starting in his submerged loins. He could feel his swimsuit becoming even more painfully tight. 

“Shy? I should say not,” Steele breathed huskily, still rapt at the sight of her. 

Laura stopped floating and shifted into a standing position. “You still haven’t shown me yours.”

Steele felt something brush his thigh and winced as a lithe blonde in a navy one-piece came up for air. Something about the way she smiled at him made him certain she’d noticed his obvious arousal.  He exhaled very carefully. “Ah, Laura, perhaps later when we have a bit more privacy.” 

“Promises, promises,“ Laura smirked. “I’m dying to see you in it.”

Steele swallowed hard and ran his fingers through his hair. Incredible as it seemed, it was true. Laura was practically hyperventilating at the prospect of him wearing a swimsuit the size of a hair net. It was either true, or the best dream he’d had in months. He never was sure if he was awake or asleep these days. 

When her fingers brushed his chest he flinched as though they burned him. “Are you ready to practice stroke techniques?” said Laura in a teasing whisper. She took off across the pool, backstroking effortlessly, then swam back to face him, slightly breathless, her skin glistening with water spray.  Her barely covered breasts floated temptingly above the waterline, their thin drapery nearly transparent.

More than her words, the implicit offer of her body caused Steele’s brain to conjure up one fevered fantasy after another, each more sensual than the last. His erection began to throb like fury. He had to get Laura alone before he went up in flames. “Ah, regarding those techniques. I know it seems a bit confining,” he murmured against her shoulder, “but wouldn’t the jacuzzi be less crowded? Certainly cozier.” 

Laura sidled even closer, one thigh briefly touching his. Steele froze in near shock as her left hand began to travel a slow and seemingly inexorable course down the front of his body, past his chest, sliding ever southward, to slip under the water’s surface. When her palm reached the area just below his rib cage she leaned in and pressed her lips against his right ear. 

“Why don’t you save the jacuzzi line for that ditzy blonde. The one who tested out your mattress this morning?”

Steele frowned in bewilderment. How had such a promising conversation suddenly veered left? He could feel the ambient temperature drop several degrees. “This morning?”

“If you didn’t like the color of your swimsuit, you should have asked her to take it back to the store. She doesn’t strike me as the shy type.” 

“Laura, what are you talking about? I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” 

“She probably needed to go shopping for underwear, anyway,” Laura smirked.

Steele raised an offended eyebrow. “They’re hardly classified as undergarments. I’ll admit it’s not my usual style –“

Laura rolled her eyes in disbelief. “You expect me to believe you picked them out for yourself?”

“Of course not! In a manner of speaking, you did.”

“I did? No, I didn’t. She did!”

Steele stared in utter confusion. “She who?”

“That half dressed bimbo you sneaked out of your apartment, that’s who. How many girls do you know that don’t wear underwear?” 

Steele’s mouth opened, then closed.

“Don’t answer that.”

“But, Laura. Amber didn’t buy these for me.” 

“So the ditz has a name. Amber. How idiotic.”

Steele couldn’t believe he’d let that slip. That wasn’t like him at all. Not that it mattered. Laura, it seemed, was way ahead of him. So much for this morning’s Houdini-like escape plan. How on earth had she guessed? He’d been careful not to leave any tell-tale clues.
“The manager let her in, actually. We’ve barely been introduced.”

“Just long enough to exchange phone numbers,” Laura sniped. “And bodily fluids.”

“She lives down the hall. Came to see me about some -- signatures. Perfectly harmless, really.” 

“And left her underwear in the hallway like a trail of breadcrumbs?” 

To Steele, the signs had become painfully clear.  Except for one.  One question still needed a definitive answer. “Look, if you thought they were a present from someone else, why did you pack the bloody things? I certainly never intended to wear them.”

“Hah! Likely story. If you could wear them for her then you could wear them for – “ blushing furiously, Laura put a hand to her mouth.  She had stopped just one word shy of a true confession.

Steele grinned at her in his most irritatingly cocksure manner. “Would you like me to complete that thought, Miss Holt? I’m quite certain it was X-rated. Who knew that you’d go to such lengths to see me in spandex?”

“Of all the absurd –“

“You said it yourself. You were dying to see me wear them.”

“Only because I knew it was a bluff,” Laura shot back.  “And it was a bluff, Mr. Steele. When you came out of hiding, clutching that towel like a life preserver –“ Despite herself, Laura started to laugh. 

Steele’s expression was grim. “I hadn’t realized my diversionary tactic was so – diverting.”

“Where’s your sense of humor, Mr. Steele?”

Steele looked down at himself. “A bit waterlogged, I’m afraid.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose I should count my blessings. They might have been plaid.”

“Then you could have palmed them off on Murphy.”

“Laura, I thought you wanted me and Murphy to be chums. I don’t think his weakness for plaid would stretch quite that far, despite the spandex.” 

“What a shame,” Laura said airily. “The agency could have its own Chippendales fashion show. Bernice and I could sell tickets to everyone in the building.” 

“I don’t think that’s a very safe suggestion. Murphy knows where the bullets are to the agency gun.”

“Good point.”

“It isn’t fair, you know,” Steele sniffed indignantly. “Why does a man look utterly ridiculous in a bikini while a woman – the right woman, looks absolutely . . . breathtaking?”  He gazed hungrily at his swim partner’s half-submerged form.

As if in answer to his prayer, Laura lifted herself out of the pool, leaving Steele to stare open mouthed and awestruck as water sluiced down her barely covered curves. 

She shrugged tan shoulders and toweled off her hair. “Who knows, Mr. Steele? Maybe Manet was on to something.” Steele only half-heard her reply. He was hypnotized by the sway of her scantily clad bottom as she walked away from him. 

“Jacuzzi at two o’clock? he called after her. 

Laura looked back, smiling flirtatiously. “Swim time first. Six laps. No cheating. Then I’ll see if I can pencil you in for something more -- extracurricular.”

“Hold that thought, Miss Holt.” Steele took off like a rocket for his first lap.

As Laura gathered up her things something she’d almost forgotten caught her eye. She’d packed it on impulse, not sure what opportunities she’d have to use it.  She leveled it and gazed through the lens.

The athletic blonde swimmer that had surfaced next to Steele was lounging by the pool. She watched as Laura fiddled with the camera. “I hope you have fast film. Some of these guys can move at a pretty good clip.”

Laura put down the camera and pointed toward the center of the pool. “You see that tall, dark, man over there? Swimming as if his life depended on it?”

The blonde smiled back. “I’ve seen him up close and personal. Where has he been all my life?”

“Well, don’t get too personal, but do get fairly close, that is, if you don’t mind – and snap him  for me, will you? Full length. When he gets out of the pool. Make sure you get just the right – exposure. There’s plenty of film.” Laura gave her the camera with a grin. 

“Mmm. Sounds delightful. Don’t I get a souvenir?”

“I’m sure we could work something out. I get double prints at the photo shop.”

“Collect ‘em. Trade ‘em. Better than baseball cards.” They both laughed at the joke. 

“I’ll be back soon. Oh, and give him this.” Laura handed her a very large towel. “After you snap the picture.” 

“Gotcha.” 

Steele stared glumly out of the window as Laura steered the car through the mid-afternoon traffic. At the stoplight she turned to her disconsolate partner with a sigh.  “I know I’m going to be sorry I asked, but are you going to spend the rest of the day sulking?”

Steele looked daggers at her. “I told you we should have taken care of the essentials first.” 

“But how could I know all the jacuzzis would be reserved this afternoon for a stress management seminar?” 

“You were the one who had this little outing timed down to the millisecond,” Steele replied testily. “I thought you had a firm grip on the schedule.” 

“Well, I –“

“I’ll admit I find the gym culture somewhat mystifying, but whatever happened to standards?” Steele expostulated. “To serving one’s loyal clientele in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed?”

The light turned green and Laura hit the accelerator. 

“Accustomed? You just signed in two hours ago.”

“Does that matter? One’s expectations are the same, or should be.” 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Steele. There will be plenty of other opportunities for you to enjoy the lap of fitness luxury.”

“I’ve had quite enough laps for one day.”

The thought of Steele swimming those lonely laps in the pool sparked a stray pang of sympathy. Laura patted his shoulder. “Strictly for future reference, Mr. Steele, I hear that jacuzzi number seven has a marble tub and stereo sound. And there are seven water jets that are adjustable to any position –“

Steele brightened at this encouraging news. “It sounds like you’ve done quite a bit of research. Number seven, eh? Excellent choice.”

“Of course this doesn’t mean you get to forego your regular fitness routine.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll need every ounce of stamina.” He flashed her a devious grin. “I wonder if they take reservations for two?” 

Laura begged to differ. “Mr. Steele, I never said we were going to share.” 

Her partner was undeterred. “Luxury loves company, Miss Holt.  We’ve made such a winning combination thus far. We could set the fitness world on its ear. Planning. Execution. Teamwork.”

Laura rolled her eyes heavenward. “Soaking in a jacuzzi requires teamwork?” 

“If done properly. Division of labour, for example. I bring the champagne, you bring the ‘do not disturb’ sign. I bring the seven varieties of massage oil, you bring the towels. With me so far? Perhaps you should make a few notes.” 

Laura’s businesslike façade began to crumble in the face of his singular brand of charm. Bringing champagne to a gym would never occur to anyone but Mr. Steele. “I suppose I could use a hand with those seven adjustable water jets.” Her mind wandered idly down the sevenfold path to nirvana . . . just the two of them, warm, pulsing water, cool champagne on ice, adjustable positions . . .

“Laura!” 

“Wha -?”

“That was a red light. And a cement truck you just missed by inches.” 

“It was?” Laura gulped. “Sorry.” 

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Get a grip, Laura Holt. Get a grip. 

At Rossmore, Laura parked the Rabbit near the elevator. She switched off the ignition and turned toward Steele with a no nonsense glare. “I’ll be back in four hours. That’s seven o’clock sharp to take you to the sleep clinic. No ifs, ands, or buts this time – and no side trips.” 

Steele sighed heavily. “Well, doctor. Since you insist on shadowing me, we might as well make the best of the situation.” He put his fingers to his temples meditatively. “Let’s see, pencil me in for -- pillow fluffing every quarter of an hour, sponge bath at eleven, tension relieving massage at bedtime, lullaby optional.“ Steele’s brow furrowed in momentary confusion. “When is bedtime? Or when isn’t it?” 

Laura shrugged her shoulders. “Good question.” 

“I’d suggest you pack an overnight bag.”

Laura’s jaw dropped at his presumption. “Mr. Steele, I’m not your doctor, you know. Or even your Nurse Friday. I function best in an -- advisory capacity.”

Steele quirked an eyebrow at the phrase. ”Laura Holt? Advisory capacity? What a ridiculous notion. You have a gift. A rare instinct.”

The sincerity in his tone had her half-convinced. “Rare instinct?”

“And a most promising bedside manner.”

“Would you stop teasing and be serious?  I never know what you really –“ she gestured helplessly. “All this massage business and – “

Steele took her hands lightly in his and kissed each of her palms in turn. He studied them gravely for a moment, then let them go. 

“I’m leaving matters in your hands, Dr. Holt,” he said with barely a hint of irony. Before she could reply her enigmatic partner had gathered his things, shut the car door behind him, and was stepping into the elevator.

Laura stared after him for a long moment, her hands resting in her lap exactly where he’d left them.  Anxiety ran through her veins like quicksilver; maybe she hadn’t turned in that stethoscope after all. 

Laura parked the Rabbit at the curb and walked toward the door of the small but bustling photographer’s studio that handled the Remington Steele agency’s most confidential casework; it didn’t hurt that the owner of the business, Jo Hunter, knew her way around a photo-op and was the shutterbug most likely to get Steele’s good side whenever the debonair sleuth made headlines in the LA Tribune. 

“Laura!” The petite redhead put down her proof sheet and peered at her visitor over her chic horn-rims. “Any news that’s fit to print? How’s the PI biz?”

Laura smiled and waved in greeting. “Oh, still a little rough and tumble.”

“Speaking of tumbles, fill me in on that breathtaking boss of yours. Has he offered you a better position? Something horizontal?”

Laura looked at her watch and made a calculation. “Not in the last twenty-five minutes, but there may be, ah, further developments, that is, if you can work your usual magic.” Laura slipped the roll of film onto the counter with a wink. “Handle him with care, Ms. Hunter.” 

“You’re such a tease. What’s on this? I can tell by that ‘cat that ate the canary’ smirk that you’ve captured one helluva Kodak moment.”

“A picture is worth a thousand words, but I think you’ll be downright speechless.”

“Oh, my! Just what has my favorite snoop been up to?” 

“Oh, a little – dirty pool. But all’s fair. I’m sure once you, ah, see the proof, you’ll appreciate that this one’s not for publication.”

“Our eyes only?  You’re too good to me. The Trib pays lousy anyway.”

“Remington Steele Investigations has certainly gotten its money’s worth. The office wall never looked better.”

“You know me. A freelancer has to have a nose for news and I’m a sucker for guys in trench coats.  Or tuxes. That is, if they have ebony hair, blue eyes, more charm than the law allows, and tight, firm – “

“Easy, girl. Or I’ll have to change my instructions from ‘handle with care’ to ‘do not handle.’” 

“Don’t worry. The only thing between us is a telephoto lens. Not to say I haven’t been tempted. Then I take another look and say ‘there goes trouble in a three piece suit.’” 

“Mmm. And it looks so good walking away.” 

“Now who’s dreaming about those firm, tight buns? Do you still keep that photo of him in your desk? You know the one I mean.”

“Guilty as charged.” 

“Ooh, baby. You’ve got it bad.”

Laura laughed and shook her head ruefully. “And that ain’t good.”

”You gotta admit, Laura, the camera loves him so much it practically lights up a cigarette afterwards.”  The redhead picked up the film and flipped it over in her palm. “Still want double prints?” 

“Make it a triple.”

“I love this job.” 

“Don’t fondle the negatives. I have big plans for them.”

“If you’re thinking of maneuvering that blue-eyed hunk into a dark room, and having your way with him, just remember. Your friendly neighborhood photographer beat you to it.” 

“Clever girl. Oh, make sure you let him drip dry. He’s not wearing a towel.”

The redhead fanned herself and grinned.  “I’m sending out for pizza. This sounds like an all-nighter.”
 

Laura turned the key in the lock.  “Mr. Steele?”

He hadn’t answered the door buzzer, or her insistent knocking. Laura’s lips twitched in a fleeting smile. Murphy would have kicked it in.  She inched her way through the apartment, hanging back with the same reluctance that sometimes dogged her when she spied on a private moment during a stakeout or rifled through a bureau drawer for evidence.  There was no reason to feel guilty, she told herself. After all, she had a key, the agency was paying the rent on the apartment and if the con man who had charmed his way into it wasn’t answering the door, well then, she had every right to be there, to check up on things. 

Seeing no sign of him Laura made her way down the hall toward the bedroom. She could hear the muffled blare of a movie soundtrack playing at low volume. 

Feeling her skin pricking on the back of her neck, she called out his name again and peered through the doorway. Steele was sprawled out on the bed, fully clothed, bedcovers around his legs, a small, neatly packed overnight case propped open on the floor next to him. The TV remote dangled from his right hand and his limbs twitched restively as he clung to his pillow. 

Laura sat carefully on the edge of the bed. She knew she would have to wake him up but she was finding it hard to convince herself it was for his own good. Let him enjoy what little sleep he’d gotten lately, she thought, though it didn’t seem like he was enjoying it much.  Steele moaned and mumbled something unintelligible, then tried to turn over but was hampered by Laura’s weight on the bedspread.  He sank back against the mattress.

“We can't let you go,” intoned the preternaturally calm and dispassionate voice in Steele’s head. “You're dangerous to us.  Don’t fight it, Miles, it’s no use. Sooner or later, you’ll have to go to sleep.” 

Laura reached out and touched his face, drawing her palm gently across his cheekbone. Her fingers traced the arc of his left eyebrow, causing Steele’s eyelids to flicker briefly in response. Her other hand slipped to his chest. She could feel his breathing becoming increasingly more shallow and distressed.

“. . . they're taking you over cell for cell, atom for atom. There is no pain. Suddenly while you’re asleep, they’ll absorb your minds, your memories and you’re reborn into an untroubled world . . .”

Steele’s blue eyes fluttered open and he stared in shock at Laura as if she were some alien creature from another planet. Surprised, she jerked her hands back to her sides, and moved back further on the bed. Steele struggled to sit up, fighting to get air in his lungs, still not quite sure where his mind or body was or where his nightmare stopped and reality started.

“Mr. Steele. Are you alright?”

“’Invasion of the Body Snatchers.’ Kevin McCarthy, Dana Wynter, Allied Artists, 1956.”  Steele recited the words automatically, as if he were under hypnosis. 

Laura was tempted to snap her fingers to bring him out of it, but that seemed a little theatrical.   “Mr. Steele.” She shook him by the shoulder. “You were dreaming. It’s just a silly movie.” 

Still a little disoriented, Steele peered intently at the woman on the bed. It sounded like the same old Laura. He searched her face, finding the crinkle in her brow that was always there when she was worried. 

“Laura, thank God. I must have dozed off. ‘Creature Feature Matinee’ was on and I – “ Steele broke off for a moment and gave her a sidelong glance. “You don’t have a perfect replica of Laura Holt hiding in the cellar, do you, because in ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’ the aliens –“

“I don’t have a cellar, Mr. Steele. And there’s only one of me – last time I checked.”

“One can never be too careful,” Steele replied, clicking off the TV set with the remote. 

“You’re the one with the five passports. And which one is the real you, I wonder?” 

“Truth is sometimes – stranger than cinema, Miss Holt. Or whoever you are. “ He winked at her. 

Laura felt her heart turn over at the sight of him. Why did he look so delicious slightly rumpled and half awake? She leaned in and pressed warm lips to his. They kissed, experimentally at first, then with less restraint, fueled by the spark that never failed to ignite between them. 

“Was that the real Laura?” she gasped, coming up for air.

Steele was as breathless as she was. “Once more with feeling, Miss Holt? Just to be sure?” 

She silenced his doubts with a kiss that could melt Martian ice caps. 

“Laura, are you sure you’ve never seen ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’? I could swear that was your pod person who took over and drove me here.”  Steele scribbled sundry bits of information on the clinic admissions form. 

“I told you we were keeping strictly to the schedule.” Laura glanced at her watch. “I don’t know why you’re so jumpy. You’ve skipped half of the questions.”  She looked up to see Lindstrom rounding the corner.

“Miss Holt. Long time no see.” Lindstrom looked delighted to find his favorite doctor making the rounds. 

“But who’s counting,” Steele replied acerbically. “I think this is yours.” He gave Lindstrom the admissions forms. 

Lindstrom handed them over to the nurse on duty with the blithe condescension patented by medical men over the centuries. “Make sure that’s in order, would you, nurse?”

“Of course, doctor, “she replied with a hint of irritation. 

“Well, Mr. Steele. Are you ready to take a giant step into twenty-first century medicine? I know you’re just itching to cozy up to the future and the SleepSentry 2000.”

“Why, the very thought kept me awake for hours, doctor.”

“But first there are some slightly more old fashioned diagnostic procedures to deal with.” 

Steele stared coolly at his nemesis. “Nothing too old fashioned, I hope. No applying leeches, or consulting the entrails of passing pigeons.”

Lindstrom laughed uneasily. “That’s a good one. I like to see a patient with a sense of humor.  The bulk of your exam, like before, will be conducted by Nurse Blackell. She’s quite skilled at the more ‘hands on’ aspects.”

Steele winced. “Those who live to tell the tale have the bruises to prove it. I’d hoped you’d convinced her to take off for a brief vacation. To a small, but not inhospitable yurt in Outer Mongolia, perhaps.”

“She has a bedside manner like a buzz saw but she’s a very good nurse.“ Lindstrom stopped short, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. “What’s a yurt?”

“A collapsible hut used by nomadic -- never mind that. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“I just have a few minor adjustments to make to your state of the art sleep station. You have the signal honor, Mr. Steele, of being the very first patient to test this equipment. You’ll be amazed when you see what it can do.” 

Steele yawned at the prospect. “I feel the urge to nap already.” 

“We’ll be monitoring you on video all the way. Down to the slightest eye movement and muscle twitch.”

Steele flinched perceptibly. “Well, I hope my performance is up to par. I hate to disappoint an audience.” 

“That’s the spirit. One thing you’ll find about the Sentry2000 – it never sleeps on the job.”  Lindstrom chuckled at his own joke. “Just a little sleep clinic humor.”

“Charming,” Steele said dryly.

“Nurse Blackell will be with you shortly. If you two would have a seat in the waiting area I’ll make sure she’s ready.”

“Busy oiling her rack and thumbscrews, no doubt,” Steele replied with a sour smile. They found two empty chairs and sat down.

Lindstrom’s eyes lingered on Laura as he made to leave. “Do you play tennis, Miss Holt?”

Laura’s frowned in puzzlement at this rather odd segue. “I’ve been known to. Why do you ask?”

“I couldn’t help noticing your admirable soleus and gastrocnemius.”

“You’ll have to translate. I’m not really a doctor, you know.”

“Nice gams.” 

Laura blushed and looked down at her legs. “Oh, I see.”

“Anatomy lessons are on the house,” said Lindstrom with a hopeful smile. “Anytime you need -“

Steele leapt to his feet, barely resisting the impulse to grab the other man by the scruff of the neck.  “She’s not the one who needs a lesson, mate.” 

The hint of street toughness in Steele’s tone put Laura on alert; only a hair’s breadth of civility was keeping him from swatting Lindstrom like an annoying mosquito. 

Lindstrom’s eyes flickered nervously to Steele as he tried to backpedal out of harm’s way. “Uh, we doctors tend to notice such things. Hazard of the profession.”

Steele’s eyes narrowed.  “Hazardous, indeed, doctor.” 

Lindstrom took the hint and ran with it. “I’ll just go – get the nurse.” He skittered away like a startled beach crab.

Laura let out a breath as the storm clouds receded.  The blustery atmosphere was making her head spin. “Don’t start with me. I’m in no mood to referee the testosterone Olympics,” she snapped ominously.

“You’re warning off the wrong man. Or maybe you don’t want to warn him off.” 

Laura swung her heavy purse onto her shoulder. “I know how to use this – and I’m inches away from putting the both of you in traction.” 

“The man’s insufferable. Every woman in the world does not want to sleep with him.”

Laura shrugged noncommittally. “Except maybe the narcoleptics on the third floor.”

“Good lord. His sense of humor is contagious. I’ll ring the nurse for some disinfectant.”

“Someone we know certainly got up on the wrong side of the bed.” 

“I was quite content to stay there until you rousted me out. Rather ironic, don’t you think? Waking a man up to drive him to a sleep clinic?”

Laura gritted her teeth. “This negative attitude of yours is not helping.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not being left to the tender mercies of Lindstrom and his metal sidekick, Sleep-3PO.”

“I know Lindstrom’s annoying but he is a qualified professional when it comes to sleep disorders.” 

“I think I prefer the sleep droid. Perhaps it’s been programmed with a pleasing personality. Pity we couldn’t start Lindstrom’s from scratch.” 

Steele had inadvertently added the proverbial last straw. Laura sprang up like a jack in the box.  “That’s it. I’m leaving. I haven’t heard this much whining since I had to spend my niece’s allowance.”

Steele eyed her askance. “You spent your niece’s allowance? Really, Laura. Children must have role models.“ 

“We were at the circus, alright?” Laura huffed. “And I forgot to gas up the Rabbit.”

“So you raided the piggy bank. Tsk. Tsk.”

“She shouldn’t complain. She got back fifteen percent interest. Never mind. You’re on your own from now on.” Laura picked up Steele’s overnight bag and deposited it decisively in his lap. 

“But, Laura –“

“Sweet dreams, Mr. Steele.”

“But I’m your most important, most – desperate patient. You wouldn’t desert me at such a critical time -“

“Try me.”

“Love to, but could we go back to my place?  Unless you want to cozy up to a machine. If you’re feeling adventurous we could make it a threesome but it might get a bit cramped.”

“I’m not cozying up to anything. Or anyone. Two’s company, three’s a crowd. The future’s all yours. I’m going home.”

“But, Laura, what about my tension relieving massage?” 

“I’m sure your sleep droid has the latest attachments.”

“Dial ‘M’ for massage? That’s so impersonal. So – clinical.”

Laura waved an arm at their surroundings. “When in Rome, Mr. Steele.”

Steele’s reply died on his lips as he spied the Gorgon-like visage of Nurse Blackell. She was frowning down at her clipboard, heavy strides drawing her ever closer to her prey. 

“Mister Steele,” she barked in a military fashion. “The head nurse at admissions was afraid to disturb you. Seems to think you’re some sort of VIP, but as I’ve told her before, everyone gets the same treatment here.”

“Rather like the Spanish Inquisition,” Steele said dryly. 

“You may think it’s amusing to play hide and seek with your medical history but we get the last laugh in the end. No one leaves gaps on a form 1106-C.”

“Gaps? Really? Must have run short on ink.”

Nurse Blackell smiled unpleasantly and handed him a pen. “I have plenty of extras.” She patted her pocket.

Feeling rather like a prisoner forced to sign a confession, Steele took up the clipboard, squinting at the large portions of white space starting somewhere in the vicinity of question 4-B.  Pen poised above it, he glanced around the room as if hoping to pull inspiration out of his surroundings. 

Steele waved frantically at Laura whom he discovered, to his dismay, was halfway to the exit. “My trusty associate can assist you with filling in these rather unfortunate blanks. She knows every detail of Remington Steele’s medical history. Better than I do, in fact. I have a mind like a sieve when it comes to these matters.“ 

“That I can believe,“ Nurse Blackell replied acidly. 

“There are gaps, Miss Holt,” Steele cried desperately. “I need your assistance. Your rare instincts. Your professional opinion.”

Laura beat a hasty retreat. “Take two aspirin, Mr. Steele. And call me in the morning.”

“So, how do I seem this time?”

Nurse Blackell surveyed him with a gimlet eye.  “As healthy as a Holstein heifer.” 

“I see your stock of similes hasn’t left the barnyard since our paths last crossed.”

“You want poetry –“

“Go to the library. Yes, I remember. Your gruff and pungent wit has made an indelible impression. To match the one in my neck.” Steele winced and tried to turn his head away but his antagonist held it firmly in her fingers. 

“Eyes front.”  She shined a penlight close to each orb.

Steele blinked. “Shouldn’t this sort of thing be done by someone with the proper credentials? You could hurt someone with that –“

The insertion of eye drops put a temporary end to the discussion.

“This will take effect in about twenty minutes or so.  I‘ll be back shortly. Don’t go anywhere. The last patient who went exploring ended up in the cadaver room.”

Steele grimaced. “That’s what I call a stiff penalty.”

Nurse Blackell peered into Steele’s dilated pupils with an ophthalmoscope. 

“What a life you must lead. I haven’t seen eyes this bloodshot since I worked in the methadone clinic downtown.”

“I daresay your patients were more rested than I am. I have this condition, you see. It’s called insomnia. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

Nurse Blackell ignored his sarcasm, squinting into the scope with a disapproving head shake. “Not a pretty picture.”

“I thought you said I was healthy.”

“Healthy. Not perfect. Don’t expect me to massage your ego. This is a sleep center. Not a sensitivity spa.”

“You’ll find my ego is quite easily bruised. I’m sure it’s best for all concerned if we forego any untoward intimacies. I have a very low pain threshold.”

Steele stifled a yelp as she kneaded his shoulders roughly. “So I’ve noticed. Speaking of massage, I think we’re going to get along famously. My hands are certified, you know.”

“As lethal weapons?” 

“I used to work for a doctor who specialized in these kinds of ‘adjustments.’”

“Where is he now? Embroiled in a costly malpractice suit? Or dodging extradition in Paraguay?”

“He was my mentor. I learned a lot from him, Mr. Steele.” She pressed two blunt thumbs solidly against his spine. “But I don’t mind sharing.” 

Steele’s eyes widened in alarm. “I’d sooner share my toothbrush with Margaret Thatcher.”

“There’s a bundle of very receptive nerves just about --” 

“Ouch!”

“Bingo. I never miss. I’m going to enjoy strapping you in, so to speak.”

“I beg your pardon?” Steele gulped.

“To your sleep station.”

“Ah, yes. The twenty-first century wonder.”

“And if you’re thinking of switching connections and wandering off like you did last time, think again.”

“It was a rather daring and unexpected ploy, wasn’t it? Defies categorization really, but you could call it an homage to the cinema. ‘The Great Escape.’ Steve McQueen, James Garner. United Artists, 1963.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen the movie.”

“You go to movies?” Steele scowled as if the thought depressed him.

“I watch the late show. You’re no James Garner. And no one would ever confuse you with Steve McQueen.” 

“You’re not leaving me many options.”

“There’s always that little bald guy with the glasses.” 

“Ah. The forger. Colin Blythe. Played by Donald Pleasance.  Not my first choice but we do have certain skills in common. I’d be happy to supply you with a passport on short notice.  Even throw in some mosquito netting and a one way ticket on the ‘Patagonian Express.’”

“Nice try, but I have no plans to leave my post. I wouldn’t want to miss anything.” 

“What a pity. I was just discussing your vacation with Dr. Lindstrom.  We could all use some rest and relaxation.”

“I didn’t know you cared.”

“I was thinking of the rest of us.”

“There are some things about this place I wouldn’t miss.” She glared pointedly at Steele.

“Nice to have something in common.” 

The combatants looked up as Lindstrom came through the door of the examining room.

The doctor glanced around the room as if expecting to see Laura.  “Mr. Steele.” Still a little wary from their recent encounter, he tried to add an extra measure of cheer to his bedside manner. “Still with us, I see. And how are we faring?” He picked up Steele’s chart from Nurse Blackell.

“We,” Steele replied testily, “are not at all amused.”

Lindstrom glanced at the chart. “Really? I’d say the vital signs are pretty encouraging.”

Steele rubbed the back of his neck and winced. “Appearances can be deceiving, doctor. A few more minutes alone with your accomplice and I’d have been a candidate for reconstructive surgery.”

“I’m sure you’ll, ah, adjust to our way of doing things. It’s important for our patients to have a positive outlook.”

“I’m painfully aware of my responsibility, doctor.”

Nurse Blackell flexed her fingers with a flourish.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Steele,” Lindstrom continued. “And mine is to see that you receive the finest and most up to date treatment during your stay. Why don’t we adjourn to your sleep room and get the ball rolling, so to speak? I think it’s all systems go.”

Steele straightened his tie. “Do I look presentable? My associate, Miss Holt, dragged me out of bed just moments before we arrived, so I’m afraid I’m not at my best for your candid cameras.” Steele hoped that the casually dropped hint of a mattress testing session with Laura was not lost on his rival. 

Lindstrom looked more than a little downcast, Steele thought, but the doctor pressed on manfully. 

“I’m sure you’ll do fine, Mr. Steele. The important thing is to remember that it’s all just part of the treatment.”

“Well, one does like to make a good impression.”

Lindstrom ushered his patient into the sleep room. Steele strolled around, seized by an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu as he stared at the daunting array of wires, graphs, recording pens, and rhythmically pulsing and beeping monitors. He couldn’t fathom what was so remarkable about this new and improved sleep station; it looked more like a glorified, over-fed, calculating machine than an endearing and amiable sleep droid.

“As you can see, Mr. Steele, we like to simulate the home environment as much as possible. You can wear your own pajamas, bring reading material, or even watch television if it helps you drift off to sleep.”

Steele raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Do you get the ‘Movie Classics’ channel? It’s just begun airing and I find it quite relaxing.” 

“Err, I don’t think so. We don’t have cable. Just what’s on the networks.”

“So much for the comforts of home.”

“The staff has had your things brought up. You can step into that adjoining bathroom and change into your pajamas. Then we’ll get you wired, as they say in the parlance.”

Steele went into the bathroom and emerged several minutes later wearing dark blue silk pajamas and carrying his clothes over his arm.

“Nurse, would you hang up Mr. Steele’s clothes?”

Nurse Blackell reached out for them causing Steele to step back in alarm. “I prefer to do it myself. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to these things.”

“As you like,” agreed Lindstrom.

Nurse Blackell frowned at her watch as Steele took nearly three minutes to square the shoulders on his jacket and to drape his trousers so that the crease would remain flawless. 

“You really should invest in some proper suit hangers,” Steele remonstrated. “It would make this much simpler.” He smiled innocently. “I hope I’m not holding up progress.”

“Don’t worry,” said the nurse tartly. “I get paid by the hour.”

“So. Where do you want me?” Steele asked his medical team.

“On the bed is -- traditional,” replied Lindstrom.

“Of course.” Steele stretched out full length on the bed and shifted about trying to get comfortable. “Not quite up to the Michelin Red Guide Standard, is it?” Steele gave the pillow an experimental thwack.

“Nurse Blackell, perhaps you should fluff Mr. Steele’s pillow.”

“I’d be happy to.”  She yanked the pillow unceremoniously out from under Steele’s head and proceeded to pound it like a boxer striking a heavy bag. She smiled with satisfaction and thrust it back into place. “There. Isn’t that better?” 

“Oh, quite. You’ve certainly beaten it into submission.”

“Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

“OK, Mr. Steele. Let’s get you situated. Nurse, if you would assist me in hooking up the patient.”

“Of course, doctor.” 

In short order a series of electrodes was attached to Steele’s scalp, near his eyes, nose, and chin, and on his chest and shins. Elastic belts were secured around his chest and abdomen and a small clip device was attached to his index finger. 

“The clip on your finger will monitor your blood oxygen levels and the elastic belts will measure respiratory effort. The electrodes, Mr. Steele, will tell us what you, the subject, are not able to about your sleep events. They will be recording your EEG, EOG, EMG, and so on.”

“Is a translation on the house, too, or will it appear on my bill?”

“Oh. Sorry to sound so technical. It’s actually quite simple. Your brain waves, eye movements, leg movements, muscle tension data will all be fed into your SleepSentry 2000. The attached recording pens will transfer the data onto these printouts. 

“Yes, I believe I’ve seen the results before. Charming idea for a bedspread. You could sell them in your gift shop.”

“Two pages of data equal to about one minute of sleep. A patient can go through a thousand pages a night.”

Steele was mildly amused. “The sleeper’s equivalent of a Tolstoy novel.” 

“All in the name of science, Mr. Steele. The high resolution monitors we’ve installed at the central nurses’ station will display a full view of your sleep environment, and your various sleep positions, in living color recorded on videotape. 

“I’d have preferred a big screen debut at Grauman’s Chinese Theater,” Steele replied disdainfully, “Still, my hopes weren’t high.”

“Nurse Blackell will be checking up on you to see that everything is going smoothly.”

“If you need anything during the night,” Nurse Blackell said with a thin smile, “I have a bedpan handy.”

“Right. I almost forgot, Mr. Steele. We provide a bathroom but we prefer that our patients not unhook themselves from the machine. Nurse Blackell will be on call. You can press this remote button here to summon her when needed.”

Steele made a mental note not to drink any liquids in the next eight hours. 

“I suppose it’s unfair of me to expect a layman to share my enthusiasm but I’m awfully excited by the possibilities with our new SleepSentry. We’re at the crossroads of a new era in sleep disorder diagnosis and treatment.” 

“If you don’t mind my asking, doctor, is there a massage attachment on this thoroughly modern machine?”

Lindstrom’s brow furrowed. “No, I’m afraid not. I suppose that never occurred to the manufacturer. But it’s not a bad idea. Might be relaxing for some of our patients.”

The intercom crackled with static and a voice announced, “Nurse Blackell, please report to nurses station two. Nurses station two.”

“I’ll finish up here, nurse,” reassured Lindstrom.

“Your special expertise is required elsewhere, eh?” Steele queried sardonically. “A lorry load of ace bandages arrive? Or perhaps a consignment of tongue depressors?”

“Those could come in handy,” snapped his nemesis. “We have no shortage of bedpans. I’ll be keeping in touch. I can’t wait for next morning’s rounds.”

“What happens tomorrow morning?” asked Steele apprehensively.

“Your sponge bath.”  Nurse Blackell’s lips pulled back in a semblance of a smile. “I have just the perfect sponge for the job.”

Steele was struck speechless for a moment but he quickly recovered.  “Some variant of industrial grade sandpaper? I must warn you I have very sensitive skin. In fact, a sponge bath could be hazardous to my health. I only use a specially imported soap from Hong Kong. Or is it Marrakesh? I doubt you have it in stock.”

Nurse Blackell curled her lip in disapproval and marched out to answer her summons.

“All of our soaps are hypoallergenic, Mr. Steele,“ said Lindstrom soothingly.

“Best not to take any chances, don’t you think? I could break out in a terrible rash. Be unable to sleep a wink for weeks.”

“I wouldn’t worry needlessly, Mr. Steele. None of our patients have complained of this before.”

“Well, the narcoleptics wouldn’t, would they? They could sleep through anything. We insomniacs are more sensitive.”

“I’m beginning to think so.”

Steele fidgeted on the bed, trying to shake off the feeling that he was inescapably trapped; at the mercy of the Lindstroms and the Nurse Blackells of the world, and there wasn’t much he could do about it.

“I don’t see that a sponge bath is necessary. I thought I was only staying overnight.” 

“You’ll probably be released before lunch. We want to determine your sleep phase syndrome based on your wakefulness in the morning and note any EDS deficits.” 

“EDS?”

“It’s an acronym for excessive daytime sleepiness.”

“How prosaic. I thought you physicians preferred Latin and Greek.” 

Steele’s eyes darted around the room restlessly. He noticed a device wired to the sleep station that looked like a downsized version of a blood pressure cuff. It was practically the only thing he wasn’t tethered to. He held it up by two fingers.

“What’s this, doctor? Something you forgot to attach?”

Lindstrom was taken aback. “Well, ah, perhaps, but we don’t use it in all cases.”

“I like to know my agency is getting its money’s worth. What’s it used for?”

“It’s an NPT, um, nocturnal penile tumescence device. We give it to our male patients to wrap around their penis during sleep. You see, some of them are referred to us due to erectile dysfunction; this cuff device measures blood flow, duration and intensity of the subject’s nocturnal – “ 

Steele held up both hands in a restraining gesture. “That’s quite enough translation, doctor. You’ve no further need to, ah, expand on the subject.”

“Of course, I had no indication it was needed but if you’re having any dysfunction –“

Such a suggestion from Lindstrom was more than he could stomach. “Hardly,” Steele hastened to assure his rival. “I wake up with a smile on my face every morning, doctor. And several times a night, in fact.” 

“Really?” Lindstrom winked broadly. “I have the same problem.”

Steele highly doubted it.

“Seriously, though, Mr. Steele. That could actually be contributing to your sleeplessness. If you have episodes of unusual frequency or intensity, well, we might want to record them for further study.”

Steele flushed with embarrassment. “Err, I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I don’t think there’s any connection. It’s all quite usual, really.” That wasn’t exactly the whole truth, Steele mused. Ever since he had been trying to bed a certain petite, chestnut haired, maddeningly elusive private eye the frequency, duration, and intensity of his “episodes” had reached fever pitch. 

“I should have asked during your initial interview, “ Lindstrom continued. “Many male patients are rather reluctant to broach the subject on their own.” 

“Yes, well, I think the matter has been discussed at length, ah, I mean, quite enough, doctor.” 

“Well, if you’re sure there’s no need.”

“Quite sure.” Steele wondered if Lindstrom was dense or just goading him.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your session. There’s no need to inform us of when you plan to go to sleep. The system is ready and waiting for its cue.  Whenever you feel the urge just let it happen. We’ll know the precise moment you drift off to dreamland.”

Steele made a face. “What a comforting thought. If I skip a number when I’m counting sheep I’ll be sure to check the printout.”

Laura nibbled the edge of a Hershey bar and cranked up the ignition. This was the third gas station she’d stopped at since she left the clinic. She’d gotten off the highway twice before, with every intention of turning around and heading back to check on her patient but she’d managed to talk herself out of it with a combination of unassailable logic, residual anger, and primal fear. Decision final despite the sharp pricking of her conscience, she pulled onto the highway and headed for the relative safety of home. 

Her admirably balanced, mathematical brain told her that as long as she was on the scene there would be friction between Steele and Lindstrom, and that was hardly the ideal scenario to speed the patient on the way to recovery.  That particular ménage a trois equaled disaster; Steele needed to see his doctor as an authority figure, not a rival. 

Also on the debit side, her partner’s crankiness was not making him easy to live with. Disinclination to do what he was told had always been his stock in trade, not to mention that he had some odd notion that medical science was hugely overrated and she could fix what ailed him with a head to toe body massage, a sponge bath, and her -- what did he call it again? Oh, yes. Her lilting voice. His moods and flare-ups she could handle; it wasn’t as if she’d never seen him lose his temper before, but the job description for his private duty nurse was not what Florence Nightingale had in mind. 

It wasn’t just the physical therapy side of the ledger that had her running for cover. She’d begun to suspect that underneath the flirting and the frustration was something that, reduced to its simplest terms, jolted her equilibrium even more. He needed her. Not just her voice or her touch, but her continual presence, her reassurance, her companionship. But how could she really help a man whose depths were so shrouded in mystery?  What she knew about him barely scratched the surface. The pre-insomniac Remington Steele hadn’t seemed to need anyone, least of all Laura Holt. He desired her without equivocation, had readily admitted he was challenged by her – but he had never needed her. Until now. It was a sobering, thrilling, scary, spine tingling thought. 

Steele sat propped up in bed, a free agent no longer, yoked and tied like a helpless lab rat into the nerve center of Sleep Central. He stared disconsolately into space. Being here was far worse than he’d imagined, even more disheartening because the day had shown such promise. Laura had put him through his paces at the gym in more ways than one but he’d rarely had a more stimulating or more enjoyable two hours. His limbs were beginning to feel the after effects of his exertions but it was a relatively benign ache at this particular moment. He wondered what he would feel like in the morning. 

Why hadn’t Laura stayed with him at the clinic? And what on earth had set her off like that? He thought he’d been more than civil throughout this entire ordeal. Certainly far more accommodating than Lindstrom deserved. It all seemed so trivial now.  And so pointless.  Having his angel of mercy on call was what really mattered. Didn’t Laura know how he would miss her?

Trying to fortify himself for the hours ahead, Steele summoned up a detailed memory of Laura by the pool that, as it progressed, became nearly unbearable in its eroticism.  His body, starved for any form of excitation reacted visibly and quite measurably in a manner guaranteed to stretch the limits of any NPT device had one been attached to his designated appendage. Steele shut his eyes tightly for a moment and surrendered himself body and soul to the feeling. The spell was abruptly broken when an involuntary twitch of his leg disconnected an electrode and sent a monitor beeping like mad, sharply reminding him that he was still the main attraction onscreen at the nurses’ station.  He let out a moan of frustration and rolled over on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. It was going to be a very long night. 

1:15 am.

Steele stared at the neon green lights of his sleep monitors and calculated his chances. The bathroom and blessed relief were only a few feet away but the action entailed a rapid and total disengagement which would in all likelihood send out the SleepSentry version of an all points bulletin. If only there were some other warm body he could attach his electrodes to, but none was convenient. There was nothing for it but to slip away as quietly and expeditiously as possible.

Steele quickly began removing his tethers. First one sensor, then another began to beep and blink frantically. All that was needed to complete the picture was a guard tower, a searchlight, and a barking Alsatian. “Traitor,” Steele muttered darkly to the machine as he sprang toward the bathroom door. 

“Oh, what a relief it is,” he said aloud as, bladder finally eased, he exited the bathroom shortly after. Steele began to weigh the considerable odds of a complete getaway. Perhaps he could tell Laura that he sleepwalked during the night and managed to make it back to his flat by hitchhiking with some compassionate passing motorist. 

A familiar gruff voice spoke from out of the near darkness. “Like I said, no one would ever confuse you with Steve McQueen. And even he couldn’t clear that barbed wire fence.” 

“Next time remind me to get script approval.” 

“Try it again. Please. I haven’t had to strap anyone to the bed in a long time.” 

“I warn you, nurse. One phone call to Amnesty International –“

“Don’t push it.”
 

4:10 am.

Steele surfaced, clammy with sweat, from a claustrophobic and uneasy slumber. He felt dull, yet unsettled, like a car stuck fast in the mud spinning its wheels. His right eardrum reverberated with the muffled whine of the SleepSentry’s paper feed and he could discern the faint scratching of the recording pens as they dutifully noted each brain wave and tiny movement his half awake body was sending. 

A line from a poem popped into his head from nowhere: “the moving finger writes; and, having writ, moves on…”

He had no idea what it meant but it made him wonder if all this machinery he’d set in motion was capable of answering the one question that had haunted him for five days and five nights: why couldn’t he go to sleep? 

“Good morning, Mr. Steele.” Laura smiled down at him.

Steele pulled himself up on his elbows and stared at the vision that had materialized before him, still unsure if his sleep deprived brain was playing a few more tricks. 

“You look awful.”

He decided it wasn’t.  “You’re rather cheeky for a mirage.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just that you seem rather prone to sudden disappearances and re-appearances these days. Not that I’m complaining,” Steele hastened to add. At that moment there was nothing he wanted more than to gather her securely in his arms. 

“Stay right where you are, Laura.” 

“What for?”

He solemnly attached a spare set of electrodes one by one to his surprised partner. When he placed one just above her right breast she convulsed with laughter. 

“That tickles.” 

“You wear them well, Miss Holt. Oh, I forgot this.” He removed his elastic chest strap and fastened it tightly around her waist. 

“I know you’re capable of anything when it comes to getting me helpless and horizontal, but I never thought you’d go this far.” 

“Desperate times, desperate measures.” 

“I don’t think that’s a medically accepted use for this equipment.”

“Anytime you’d like to test my, ah, equipment, Miss Holt, I’m more than willing to show you how it works."

In an impressive display of agility for someone who was half asleep a minute before, Steele pulled her fully on top of him. His pulse began to race when he noticed she hardly resisted. 

“Mr. Steele.” She could feel his heart pounding hard and fast. She slipped her palm just inside his pajama top, fingers tentatively exploring the dark hair of his chest. 

“Mmm?” He nibbled her earlobe.

“Don’t look now but that printout is going a mile a minute.” 

“So it is.” His lips skimmed her jawline and trailed warm, breathless kisses down her neck and right shoulder.

“What would Dr. Lindstrom say?”

“He’s the expert observer. I’d guess something along the lines of ‘Mr. Steele, for a man who can’t sleep, you’re in a very enviable position.’”

“I don’t think he’d say that, Mr. Steele.” 

“You’re probably right. I’m sure he knows some anatomical term for it.”

“Is there any way to turn that thing off?”

“Not from here, apparently. And the nurse’s station still has the video - ah, never mind about that.”  Steele mentally kicked himself for his verbal slip.

“Video? You never said anything about video!”

“You never asked.”

“Well, how would I know? And besides, you -- distracted me.” Laura tried to wriggle out of his grasp but he held her fast.

Steele grinned in triumph. “I must truly be irresistible.”

“Ha! I’d rather kiss a narcoleptic.”

“You don’t say, “ Steele murmured against her lips. “An instant cure, no doubt. You certainly keep me awake at night.”

“You’re not blaming all of this on me!”

“Why not? Ironic that wanting to sleep with you has me up at all hours.”

“Uh-uh. No fair. I’m not taking this lying down, Mr. Steele.”

“Pity. That sounded like a good start. What say we give the gang at nurses station two something to talk about, eh?”

Laura quirked an eyebrow at him. When she had passed by the station the one and only topic of conversation had been the impossibly good looking and semi-famous patient in room 203.

“Those nurses talk quite enough, Mr. Steele. It wouldn’t surprise me if they spend their lunch hour phoning in hot tips about the clientele to the local news.” Laura wondered how many of them were taking notes. She kissed Steele’s forehead chastely and slid off him to one side, looking around for the video camera. 

Not willing to surrender his prize so easily, Steele sidled closer, slender fingers of one hand teasing the exposed bare skin under the hem of her blouse. 

“Would you stop!" Her hand closed on his, arresting further developments.

Steele’s eyes wandered freely over the areas of her body where his hands were denied permission. He studied her, clearly enjoying the view. “While you look perfectly ravishing as always, Miss Holt, perhaps a charmingly backless hospital gown would be apropos."

Confounded by the man who reclined mere inches away, Laura wondered how many women he’d charmed into just this position. The word “ravishing”, Laura was sure, had never sounded as exquisitely sensual as it did coming from his lips.  Still, she felt compelled to put up more than a token resistance.

Laura pushed away from him and sat up on the bed. “I think I’ll pass. I don’t want my naked tush to end up on ‘Spotlight News.’” 

“I believe I caught a glimpse of it last night.”

“In your dreams!” Laura scoffed at his bold assertion. 

Steele sighed fervently. “At least twice nightly - but I was referring to ‘Spotlight News’. Tell me, Laura, just to satisfy my idle curiosity. Are all American female newsreaders blonde and braless?”

“On ‘Spotlight News’? Try brainless.” 

“You know, Laura, if you’d move just a shade to the left our audience would have a clearer view of my profile.” 

Laura’s brow furrowed as something else occurred to her. “Speaking of our audience -- what’s an NPT device?”

Steele did a double take. “Ah, why do you ask?”

“Just curious. One of the nurses was saying she’d like to hook you up to one.”

“Really?” Steele’s eyes widened. He grinned roguishly and ran his fingers through his hair. “An attractive bonde, green eyes, lovely cheekbones?” 

“No. A brunette with a very big perm and a very big -” Laura’s hands motioned expansively near her chest.

Steele raised an eyebrow.  “Stethoscope?  Ah, I think I know the one.” He paused, lost in thought. “Nurses. That reminds me. Promise me something, Laura.”

“Not without seeing the fine print,” Laura said warily.

“I don’t think you quite understand. This promise isn’t negotiable. It’s a matter of life and death.”

Laura detected the rising note of panic in his voice. “I almost believe you.” 

“Promise me that if Nurse Blackell appears you’ll tell her that I’ve just received an urgent communiqué from Interpol. Must dash to Lyon on the Concorde without delay.”

“Interpol? Aren’t we taking our official bio a bit too seriously?”

“Any port in a storm.”

“Coward,” Laura teased, straightening the collar of his pajamas. “Why drag me into it? As I recall you used the same approach on Emory Arnoch. Flight from Bogota, wasn’t it?”

“Laura, I wouldn’t approach that woman without a loaded pistol. She’s armed with a deadly sponge.”

“A sponge?”

“Would you be averse to changing the subject? Ask me how I slept last night.”

“OK. I’ll bite. How did you sleep last night?”

“Terribly.  The surveillance techniques they practice here put Remington Steele Investigations in the shade.” 

“I thought you enjoyed the spotlight, Mr. Steele.”

“There are times, Miss Holt, when even the most public private eye yearns for anonymity. The allure of the camera has its limits.” 

Laura slid closer, half reclining, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “How disappointing for your fan club at the nurses station. That blonde will be devastated.”

“She’ll get over it. In time.” Steele abruptly sat up and began digging through the toiletries in his overnight bag. He unearthed a bottle of shaving cream.

“You’re going to shave? Now?” Laura’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. She ran her fingers across the dark shadow on his chin. “Actually, Mr. Steele, I rather like this look for you.” 

“Hold that thought, Miss Holt.” Steele held up one finger in a “time out” gesture.  Managing to stand up on the mattress without disturbing his tethers, he coated the lens of the overhead video camera with thick, white foam, then tossed the can of shaving cream back into the bag.

In a flash Steele had resumed his original position on the bed. “That’s better. Now. Where were we?”

Between slow, searching kisses Steele lowered Laura the rest of the way to the mattress. She hadn’t intended things to end up this way but what he was doing with his lips was enflaming her senses as instantaneously as a match put to dry paper. Laura reached around his neck, eager fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair. Not content with that tactile sensation, she ached to feel more. Her hands wandered feverishly over his half buttoned pajama top, sliding across silk, tangling in electrode wires; Steele’s own restraint was equally affected; his growing arousal brushed her thigh. 

A loud knock on the door sent Laura springing away as if she’d been fired from a gun. Frantically, she straightened her clothing and tried to untangle herself from the electrodes. The door opened and Lindstrom entered, clipboard in hand. 

“Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully. His mildly confused gaze took in the scene. “Can I help you with something, Miss Holt?”

Laura pulled the last connection from her chest and let it fall to the floor. “I was just, um, checking Mr. Steele’s, um  - apparatus.” She got up from the bed and slunk to a nearby chair.

“Any problems?”

“On the contrary. Everything is in perfect working order,” Steele replied smugly, covering himself below the waist with a pillow. “What are your findings, Doctor Holt?”

Laura could feel a ripe blush creeping over every square inch of her skin. ”Everything seems --- to be, um, ah, functioning -“

“At peak capacity, wouldn’t you agree?” finished Steele, drumming his fingers lightly on the bedsheet.

Laura glared a warning at him. “I didn’t inspect that closely, Mr. Steele.”

“That’s easily remedied. I’ve no doubt my equipment can perform to the most rigid standards.” 

The inference passed unnoticed by Lindstrom as he busied himself with removing Steele’s electrodes. “I think we have all the data we need for now.”  He perused the top pages of the sleep printouts. “There seems to be some unusual spiking activity in the last few minutes.” He scratched his forehead. “Fascinating." 

Steele glanced behind Lindstrom, feeling the skin prick suddenly on the back of his neck. “Where’s your gruff and ready accomplice this morning?”

“Pardon?”

“Nurse Blackell. Has she flown away on her broomstick to parts unknown?”

“Nurse B?  Oh, terrible accident. Glass everywhere.”

“On the freeway?” Laura asked with concern.

“Not exactly. One of the narcoleptics fell asleep in the hallway when she was carrying some specimen bottles. Tipped her right over.” 

“Alas. How unfortunate.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Steele. She’s fine. Just a bit of a mess to clean up. It was Ivan Turbell, actually, who was the roadblock. You remember Ivan.”

“Of course. Dear God. How is he? None the worse for wear, I trust.”

“As well as expected. Over the years he’s gotten used to being stumbled upon.”

“All in the line of duty. Good show, Ivan old boy.” Steele grinned delightedly.

“Speaking of the line of duty, Mr. Steele, I have a simple task for you to complete.”

Steele rolled his shoulders, wincing a little. “Does it involve heavy lifting? I think we covered that yesterday.”

“Just a simple alertness test. To measure your EDS levels.”

“Daytime sleepiness, yes.” Steele repressed a yawn. “Don’t worry, doctor, I’m ready for anything.”

Lindstrom handed him the clipboard and pencil and waved adieu. “See you in half an hour.”

Steele looked down at it and felt his stomach turn over. “Crossword puzzles?”

“They’re a great mental exercise.”

“So they tell me. I’m beginning to think that being an insomniac requires an infinite capacity for filling in blanks.”

“It’s a little unorthodox, Mr. Steele. Not our usual method, but I thought you might enjoy it.”

“I’d like to express my gratitude, but frankly, words fail me.”

“I hope not. We require at least a seventy percent completion rate.” Lindstrom chuckled at his own cleverness.

“Well then, doctor. I’ll try to eke out a gentleman’s ‘C.’” 

Lindstrom tucked Steele’s sleep printouts under his arm. “I’ll be in touch with you in a day or so with your results. We’ll be doing our part, the SleepSentry and I, playing detective with the clues from your sleep record.”

“Playing detective? Was it Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with a candlestick? Or Professor Plum?” Laura intoned mock dramatically.

Steele and Lindstrom stared at her with blank incomprehension. 

Laura shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.  You’ve never heard of ‘Clue’?” 

The pair shook their heads slowly as if humoring someone shy a few marbles. “Refresh my memory, Miss Holt,” Steele recovered enough to ask. “Who starred in it?”

“It isn’t a movie, Mr. Steele. It’s a game.” 

When he looked even blanker she tried to explain. “When things got a little slow at Havenhurst, we used to sit around, spread out the board and -  well, it was kind of a role playing thing." She gestured aimlessly. "I guess you had to be there.”

“Happy hunting doctor. I think my associate should lie down. She’s obviously unwell.”

 Laura glanced over at the bed. “You never give up, do you?”

Lindstrom cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll leave you to your pencil and paper, Mr. Steele. I’ll be back to check up on you shortly.”

“If my, ah, alertness this morning is any indication, I’m sure I’ll make excellent progress,” replied Steele with a meaningful glance at Laura.

“Good man,” said Lindstrom, on his way out the door.

“Ready to continue your inspection, Miss Holt?” Steele waggled his eyebrows salaciously.

“I don’t think your schedule will allow it, Mr. Steele.”

“You may be right. There isn’t a moment to lose.”

“I’ll say. Crosswords aren’t your strong suit.”

“Point taken, but that wasn’t what I meant.” Steele glanced up at the video camera which was beginning to drip shaving cream. “I’d be delighted to continue what we started earlier but I’m not sure how much longer we can avoid the roving eye of Sleep Central.”

The sight of a deliciously rumpled Steele reclining a few feet away was almost irresistible. “It’s a tempting offer,“ Laura conceded, “but what about your crossword?”

“As it happens I know the answers practically by heart.”

Laura crossed her arms skeptically. “That sounds suspiciously like a bluff.”

“Not at all. I worked out this very same puzzle days ago. Odd coincidence, but there it is.” 

“Too odd.” Laura walked over to the bed and handed him the clipboard and pencil. “Put it in writing, Mr. Steele.” 

Steele sighed audibly. “Trust is such a rare commodity these days.” 
 

11:45 am

“Amscray. Buzz off. Make like the Invisible Man and disappear. Some of us have work to do.” Bernice Fox made a shooing motion with one hand and retrieved a pencil from behind her ear with the other. Turning a cold shoulder to the recipient of her ire, she sat down at her desk and began jotting notes on a steno pad.

The titular head of Remington Steele Investigations showed no particular inclination to budge from the general vicinity. “Penning your resignation letter perhaps?” Steele lazily stretched his lean frame. “Don’t stop on my account. I look forward to toasting your long overdue departure with a remarkably well bred bottle of Cheval-Blanc.” 

Bernice looked up from her writing and made a face. “I’d write your official good-bye in a heartbeat -- if you had a real job.” 

“Unlike your own, Miss Wolf, my skills are too numerous to fit with room to spare in a one column inch secretarial advert.”

“Speaking of room to spare, your office is that way.” Bernice gestured behind her. “Go talk to the furniture. It’s more on your level.”

“Precisely. The executive level.  Where one finds the not inconsiderable consolations of a clean, well lighted desk-top, an ergonomically designed chair, and a freshly ironed newspaper. I hope today’s ’Lifestyles’ section is ready for my perusal.”

Bernice rolled her eyes. “Just about. I’ll tell Murphy to unfold his paper airplane. Would you stop looking over my shoulder?” She half covered the pad with her hand. “This is agency business. That makes it none of yours.” 

“Business, eh? Do you always draw little hearts in the margins on agency correspondence?”

Bernice drew another one, bisecting it decoratively with an arrow. “So sue me.”

A semi-guided object made of newspaper spiraled out of the open doorway of Laura’s office. It was trailed by a rather puzzled Murphy Michaels. 

“Curses. Still haven’t licked that stability problem. Maybe downward wing flaps would help.” 

“Good lord. I’m gone for twenty-four hours and the entire staff is regressing back to the womb.” 

Murphy picked up the paper plane and lofted it to Steele with a smirk. “She’s all yours. Ya know, just when you think the society page couldn’t be duller, a new wrinkle shows up. So to speak.” 

Steele unfolded the paper and found himself face to face with his own photo from a recent charity event. “More than a few, it appears. You’ve wrecked the crease in my trousers.” 

“Yeah, but I got really great airlift.”  Wearing an insufferably pleased grin Murphy went back to his case files. 

Still in the mood to skirmish, Steele gave a disparaging head shake in Bernice’s direction. “Writing tawdry little love notes on company time? One shudders to think of the possibilities. ‘Dear To Whom It May Concern. My life is now complete. Thank you for inventing Press-On Nails.’” 

“Don’t knock it. That nails guy’s a gazillionaire. He could write a check for Dodger Stadium out of petty cash.” 

“Poor chap. Pawed over by hordes of cheap, desperate women with fake fingertips.”

“You should know. You’ve cornered that end of the market.”

“How’s your love life?” Steele inquired sardonically. “Managed to track down that fellow who kept phoning last week?” 

“Probably a secret admirer,” Bernice replied with a mysterious air.

“I’m sure you remember the one. I knew you two would hit it off when he asked what color knickers you were wearing - though I must admit the heavy breathing was a bit disconcerting.”

Bernice tossed her head. “At least I wear underwear. Your dates would be underdressed at a Playboy club.” 

Steele’s stinging retort was interrupted by a phone call. 

“It’s for you.” She dangled the receiver with a languid wrist. 

“Would it be too much of an imposition to ask who’s calling?”

“How should I know? Some Italian guy.”

Steele winced involuntarily. There were a number of men with names ending in vowels he’d been studiously avoiding since a certain investment went sour two months ago.

“Al Pacino sort of Italian or more Marcello Mastroianni?”

“Huh?”

“I thought you took shorthand,“ Steele exhaled in exasperation.

“He said his name was Gianni, I think.”

Steele’s heartbeat returned to normal. “Ah. My tailor. I’ve been expecting a call.” He took the receiver, stretching the phone cord as he leaned casually against the far side of the desk. “Gianni, my good man. Steele here. I’ve got a bone to pick with you about that worsted chalk stripe. The elves in your shop are slipping. Lining’s loose. What’s that? New showroom? Shipment of vicuna? I take it back, old chap, all is forgiven.” 

Bernice scowled impatiently and punched the hold button. “Do you mind?”

Steele promptly disengaged it. “Sorry about that. Still here? New receptionist. It’s so hard to get good help these days. Mi scusi, un momento.” Steele put the call back on hold. “I’ll take it at my desk, Miss Wolf. Less chance of unwanted static on the line.” He vanished to the confines of his executive level inner sanctum. 

A minute later Laura Holt strode through the double doors of Suite 1157 and into the reception area. Purse slung over her shoulder, file folder tucked under one arm, she breezed by humming the theme tune from the ‘KROT’ morning show. 

“Hey, not so fast,” called Bernice. “You promised you’d tell me everything that happened between you and you know who yesterday at the gym. So spill,” she ordered her friend. “I’ll let you skip to the good parts.”

Laura affected an air of unconcern. “What makes you so sure there were good parts?”

“That silly grin on your face for one thing.”

“I don’t have a silly grin on my face,” Laura replied, trying to slip gracefully back into a businesslike expression.

“Right, and I never kiss a guy on the first date. Who’s kidding who?”

Laura winced. “Is it that obvious?” A wry head shake was all she got in reply.

Steele stepped through his office door. “Laura.” Their eyes met instinctively. “You sound chipper today. What do you say to a leisurely lunch? At Café Lautrec?”

“Café Lautrec?” Laura gaped at him. “I hate to shatter your illusions Mr. Steele but at those prices I could barely afford a small salad. For the main course, I might have to hock something.”

“Nonsense, Laura. My treat.” 

“Independently wealthy, are we?”

“Well, to be more precise, my tailor’s. He’s invited all of his best customers to lunch to celebrate the grand opening of his new showroom. A lovely gesture, don’t you think?”

Unimpressed, Laura shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose. Considering that you signed enough checks last month to re-tile his pool.“

“Well, at least he’s in a mood to be generous.”

“Maybe. But I’m not so sure his generosity extends to inviting your trusted associate.”

“Now that you mention it . . . Steele trailed off as an alternative occurred to him. “Perhaps we could call it a business lunch. For tax purposes, that sort of thing.” 

Laura’s face set in a dubious frown. Between Steele’s new gym membership and the likelihood of several sleep clinic bills the agency balance sheets were getting deeper in the red than a valentine card.

“Discretionary fund?” Steele pleaded.

“I’d rather not write any more checks for a while. Anyway, I have client meetings scheduled. You go on ahead.” 

Disappointed, Steele tried not to show it. “I imagine it’s for the best. Claude tells me their swordfish en brochette could be used for a doorstop. Still, the Café’s dessert chef is a marvel. I’ll abscond with something for your sweet tooth.” 

“You certainly know the short cut to a girl’s heart.”

“Chocolate mandarin cheesecake, I presume.”

“Bingo.”

“Excellent. Well I’m off then. Fred’s bringing the limo around.”

“Hey, no fair! What about the rest of us?” called Bernice. 

“You and Murphy? I suppose I could pick up a few souvenir matchbooks. Caio.”  With the blithe condescension of visiting royalty, he sailed out the door. 

Bernice stared after him. “Laura, can we change the locks before he gets back?” 

Laura perched on the desk, letting her legs dangle. “Sure. But would it do any good?” 

“You’re right. I forgot that we hire from Felons R Us.” Bernice absently twirled her pencil between her fingers. “You know, there are days when I’d gladly throttle him. Then I remember you have first dibs.”

“You and Murphy will just have to wait your turn.” Laura expelled the air from her lungs in a heartfelt sigh. “To kill him or kiss him, that is the question.” 

“For you maybe. I’ll stick with option one.” 

“You know, it’s funny. Since he’s become an insomniac I’ve only felt homicidal towards him oh, five, maybe six times.”

“You’re getting soft.”

“Could be. Don’t want to kick him when he’s down. Lately, he seems  -- I don’t know. Different. A little more open, more honest. Less devious. Less enigmatic.” 

“Are you sure he’s not sleepwalking?”

Laura laughed. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s still as hard to read as ever.”

“I’d be careful if I were you. I don’t think it’s a permanent condition.”

“The insomnia?”

“The honesty.”

“Damn. I got my hopes up, didn’t I?”

“Happens to the best of us.” Bernice gave a world weary sigh. “Enough soul searching. I want to know what happened yesterday. Did you two get physical or what?”

Laura lips twitched in a secret smile. “You might say that.”

“Now who’s being devious and enigmatic.”

Laura glanced over at her open office door. “Murphy’s still here, isn’t he? We’ll caucus in Mr. Steele’s office.”

“Why so mysterious? The coast couldn’t be clearer. Your gym partner probably won’t be back for a couple of hours.”

“Trust me.” Laura grabbed her purse and the file and made a beeline for Steele’s office, Bernice trailing in her wake. “Murphy,“ she called out. “If the phone rings take a number. Bernice and I need to have a private chat.” 

Murphy poked his head through the door. “Don't tell me. Let me guess. One of those 'men – can’t live with ‘em’, can’t exchange ‘em for credit’ chats, right?"

“Affirmative. And we don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve learned to keep my head down.”

Closing Steele’s office door behind her Laura caught her breath, still clutching the file in front of her. 

“OK, Laura. We made it to the safe house.” Bernice looked at her quizzically. “What have you got in there? State secrets?”

“Pretty close. Eyes only.” She opened the file and removed the contents. One by one she spread a series of color photos on the desk. “I’ve got four eight by ten glossies and the original snaps. Jo had to enlarge the 8 x 10's so they’re a little fuzzy in places but I think you can still get the picture.”

Bernice did a double take that would be the envy of a stand-up comic. “I see it but I don’t believe it! Did he mug a male stripper on the way to the pool? What is that he’s almost wearing? And how did you get this close with the camera?"

“Long story.”

Bernice inspected one shot at crotch level. “Hmm. Long enough. Everything’s to scale. Maybe you could make an educated guess. Got a ruler?” 

“Bernice!” Laura blushed crimson.

“Don’t tell me the math major’s not curious. I’ll bet you’ve studied these photos under an electron microscope.”

“Don’t be silly,” Laura shot back. “Just a little close-up work with the magnifying glass in my glove compartment.”

“Remind to borrow that later.” Bernice slapped a hand to her mouth and gasped. ”What am I saying?”

Laura grinned. “What I’m thinking.”

“I know. That’s what scares me. I refuse to go over to the dark side. The day I have the hots for Skeezix cats and dogs will sign peace accords, the Cubs will win the World Series again, the shirtdress will come back into fashion - “

“Saw one in a store on Melrose last week.”

“Not funny.”

Laura held up her right hand. “God’s truth. Hey, the dark side has its perks. The view’s nice from where I’m standing.”

Bernice studied the photo with a connoisseur’s eye. “I hate it when you’re right.” She tossed the glossy back on the desk. “I gotta know. How on earth did you talk Skeezix into that spandex slingshot?” Did you have to get naked first?”

“Of course not,” Laura replied, trying to sound terribly shocked.

“OK. Next question. Did he lose a bet?” 

Laura smiled at the notion. “No. At least I don’t think so. He got them from some dumb blonde. He was going to return them, wear something else, but I was mad at him over the bimbo and pulled a switch before we left. A dirty trick but it was worth it.”

“Whoa. Back up a minute. What were you doing going through his clothes?”

“He asked me to,” Laura said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You should have seen Mr. Steele at the pool. He came out clutching this huge towel around him; nothing underneath but that turquoise G-string.” 

“You’re killing me! Sounds like at least one of you had a good time yesterday.”

“Once he finally got submerged I teased him unmercifully. In more ways than one. Remember that bikini I showed you?” 

“The itsy bitsy teeny weeny red one?”

“Did I mention it’s practically transparent if you add water?”

“I’ll bet that got his attention.”

“A few more minutes and we both might have gotten lucky.”

“My hat’s off to you, Laura Holt, PI,” Bernice said with undisguised admiration. “When I said Chippendales and photos I was only kidding. I never thought you could pull this off.”

“We came close to pulling everything off. Shirts. Pants. Tops. Bottoms. In the gym, in the pool.” A smile crept across Laura’s face as a pleasant image came to mind. “Mr. Steele has very nice skin.” 

“There goes that look. The one you were wearing the day Ben Pearson showed up flashing his fake ID.”

“You were wearing it, too,” Laura reminded her.

“I plead temporary insanity. You, on the other hand, are a lost cause. Perry Mason couldn’t get you off the hook.”

“You make it sound like a life sentence.”

“If you show him the door maybe you can get time off for good behavior.”

“Maybe I don’t want to get off just yet.”

“Your problem is you want to get off with Skeezix in the worst way.” 

“Too true. There was a moment yesterday . . . strike that, there were a lot of moments -- when I was dying to ask Mr. Steele to scratch my itch.  I almost lost it when he was doing sit-ups.”

“Uh, OK. Whatever turns on your headlights.”

“Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? He was kind of in a rhythm -- not to mention a little hot and sweaty. Well, more than a little hot. Clothes clinging to him in just the right places. If he’d been doing push ups I would have crawled under him and -”

Bernice covered her face with her hands. “Stop or I’ll get the agency gun and put you out of your misery! You don’t have to draw me a picture. Speaking of pictures, Laura, you’d better put these under lock and key. If he ever finds out you snapped him - he doesn’t know, does he?”

“Not a clue. My plan worked like a charm.”

“And how! I’m getting this story on tape. Then I’m selling it and the pics to the Trib.” 

“Bernice, it’s a tempting thought, but I don’t think the agency needs that, uh, kind of exposure.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not really going to the Trib. Just to your office to show Murphy.”

“No-o!!, Laura protested with sudden vehemence. “Don’t -“

“Why not?” Bernice stared at her fellow foot soldier as if she’d gone over to the enemy. “Murphy’s your best pal. A stand up guy. He deserves it. God knows entertainment is scarce around here.” 

“We-ell,” Laura equivocated.

“Think of it as the gift that keeps on giving. Something to throw darts at when he’s feeling blue. A fab addition to the office wall. C’mon. You have to bring him in on this one.”

“I don’t know, Bernice. I’d like to but -“

“You almost sound worried about him, and I don’t mean Murphy.”

Laura’s smile was as mysterious as the Mona Lisa’s. “Why play your ace in the hole on the first hand?”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“Of all the people on the planet, who is the last person Mr. Steele would want to get a peek at these beauties?” 

The light bulb went on over Bernice’s head. “Murphy.” 

“He’s my hole card. I’m saving him up for the proverbial rainy day. Mr. Steele refuses to obey one direct order, does one reprehensible thing, steps one toe out of line and -“

“Sounds like blackmail, but I like it. Don’t spend it all in one place. Just remember, with that guy, when it rains, it pours.”

“Yeah, but at least I’ll be carrying an umbrella.”

All eyes were on Remington Steele as he strode through the suite’s doors, swathed from head to toe in luxury fabric. His suit, mid-grey in colour, a felicitous combination of lightweight wool, silk, and mohair, was a study in raffish elegance. A small cardboard box tied with string was held securely in his well manicured right hand. 

The silence was deafening. No greeting or salvo of wit issued forth from Steele’s captive audience. Both women seemed content to stare as if the sight made mere words superfluous. 

“Don’t everyone applaud at once.” Steele stared back, absently putting the small box on the desk. Was he only imagining it, or were both of them looking somewhere a bit south of his waistline? An awful thought struck him and he surreptitiously checked his fly. Thankfully, nothing was amiss. He thought perhaps with all of the suit trousers he’d been trying on in the dressing rooms at Gianni’s, he’d gotten a little careless. 

It was Bernice who recovered first. “What are you going to do with him, Laura? He has more costume changes than Cher.”

Steele’s nostrils flared in disgust. “I won’t even entertain the thought of such a vulgar comparison.”

“How was lunch?” Laura inquired.

“In a word, Miss Holt. Decadent. The chef was definitely on form. I think Claude may be a little jealous.”

“At least this particular overindulgence of yours didn’t cost anything.”

“I’m not so sure.” Steele looked down at himself ruefully. “I think I may have gained several inches.”

Laura and Bernice exchanged a look. “Quick, Laura. Go get your tape measure.” 

Steele glanced at her warily. “Hardly necessary. I’m sure Miss Holt can help me work off the extra in the gym.” 

“Nothing would give me more pleasure, Mr. Steele,” Laura replied, resorting to biting her lip to keep a straight face.

“Fifty push-ups ought to do the trick,” opined Bernice with a spreading grin. “Laura will have that flesh stripped down in no time.” 

“Is this what the well dressed man is wearing this season?” Laura queried in an offhand way.

“You think it’s too flashy?” Steele asked with a hint of concern. “More Piazza del Duomo than Savile Row but one learns not to be a slave to tradition.”

“You know what they say, Mr. Steele. Less is more.”

“But a little flash goes a long way,” Bernice added with thinly veiled innuendo.

Laura shot her a look of warning. It wouldn’t do for Steele to catch on to their fun and games. She fingered the sleeve of his suit. “So, how many extra zeros were on the price tag?” 

Steele gestured vaguely. “Oh, the usual range.”

“Somewhere near the gross national product of Belize?” Laura’s voice was laced with sarcasm. 

Steele had the grace to look slightly chagrined. “I know the agency is having a bit of a cash flow crisis, but Gianni was swamped with orders. I’m sure the reckoning will be delayed for a couple of months.”

“You’d better use that high-powered suit to haul in some clients, Mr. Steele, or we’ll all be drowning in red ink.” 

“I suppose this means the vicuna top coat I have my eye on is out of the question.”

“Unless you need something to wear to your funeral,” Laura replied tartly.

Steele decided it was time for diversionary tactics. He picked up the small box from the desk and proffered it in the palm of his hand. “Care for dessert, Miss Holt?”

Laura grinned and held out her hand. “What’s a few extra inches in a good cause?”

Bernice peered over Laura's shoulder at an open file folder. "The Richards case. That was a puzzler for the finest minds," she observed with liberal dash of sarcasm. 

"It had some features of interest," Laura bluffed.

"You must have memorized all two of them by now. Finding a prom queen for a high school reunion? What really puzzles me is why you've been staring at an old case file for the last half hour." 

Laura cupped her chin in her hands and stared into space. "I guess I am a little preoccupied."

"There's a newsflash." Bernice's voice softened. "Anything you want to tell me?"

Laura took a fortifying sip from her coffee. "I'm sure business will pick up soon."

"Laura, I'm not talking about cases. What's going on around here?"

Frowning slightly, Laura ran her fingers through her hair. "If you're looking for answers -- I'm fresh out."

"I mean, one phone call and Skeezix disappears for three days to parts unknown -- not that I'm looking a gift horse in the mouth. Since then you've been acting like a zombie, burying yourself in paperwork, barely saying a word to anyone but clients –"

Laura rubbed her forehead, trying to ward off an incipient headache. "I know I haven't exactly been chatty lately –"

"'Inanimate object' doesn't begin to describe you. Murphy says if you don't snap out of it, he's going to fit you with a toe tag and have the coroner declare you D.O.A."

"'D.O.A'. Edmund O'Brien, Pamela Britton, United Artists' –"

Bernice looked more than a little worried. "He's really gotten under your skin, hasn't he?"

Cole Porter didn't know the half of it, Laura thought glumly. Her mind wandered back to the first time she'd heard that movie reference. The Buddy Shapiro case.  Remington Steele never shows up wrinkled. She wondered what state Steele would be in if he showed up now --"if" being the variable in the equation. 

"Are you going to fill me in on this mystery or are you just going to sit there and mope?"

"As long as you're giving me an option, moping sounds good."

"Not really. You know the drill. Twenty questions. For starters, what happened between the hour of eleven and eleven fifteen the morning of January 28th?"

"The Dow went down 2.6 percent."

"Are you going to cooperate or do I have to get rough?"

Laura cracked a smile. "There was a phone call. From Lindstrom."

"The sleep doc?"

"He had Mr. Steele's test results."

"And?" Bernice prompted.

"There's not much to tell. Twenty first century sleep medicine couldn't find anything.  Zilch. Nada. Neesh. At least that's what Mr. Steele told me."

"That's it?"

"Things are never as simple as 'that's it' with Mr. Steele. He didn't take it very well."

"Why not? It's good news, isn't it?"

"Maybe. I think he was expecting it to be an open and shut case. Instant diagnosis. Instant cure. But it didn't work out according to plan."

Bernice shrugged her shoulders. "Life is like that sometimes."

"Then things progressed inexorably from bad to worse. Lindstrom suggested he see another sort of expert."

"What sort?" 

"A psychiatrist. They have one on staff."

Bernice's eyes widened. "Skeezix go to a shrink? Call me crazy, but I don't think he's crazy. If he is, it's more like a fox than a Russian Wolfhound. Murphy might disagree."

"No bones about it,” Laura joked half-heartedly. 

"I prefer to think of him as household pest," Bernice continued, getting warmed up. "A one man plague of biblical proportions. A nuisance -"

"A damned attractive nuisance."

"But not crazy. Even if he has seen one too many old movies."

"You don't have to be crazy to see a psychiatrist."

"But it helps."

Laura gave a short laugh. "I was foolish enough to agree. That he should see one, I mean. I've had worse ideas, but I can't remember when. His reaction wasn't exactly encouraging."

"What reaction? I don't remember hearing the usual fireworks. You know, two fighters leaving their corners at the sound of the bell."

"Don't quote me, but that would have been a relief. It got as quiet as a tomb in there. He just looked straight through me like I was transparent and said three words. ‘I'm going out.’”

"I'm going out?"

"Then he left. End of story."

Bernice looked thoughtful. "Has he called?"

"He won't." Laura stirred her coffee absently. "I screwed up, didn't I? I should have stopped playing Dear Abby and kept my mouth shut."

Bernice patted her shoulder. "You were trying to help."

"Maybe. Or maybe I want an instant cure as much as he does. Let's face it. It's not fun and games anymore. It's getting serious. What if he doesn't -" Laura bit back the words.

"Hey, don't panic." Bernice smiled in encouragement. "Skeezix is as hard to get rid of as a bad cold, right?" 

"I got us all in over our heads. Not just by giving him free rein on that sleep clinic case but by letting him be Remington Steele in the first place. Maybe I created an impossible role for anyone to play."

"Laura, the guy changes identities like he changes suits. How much of a strain can it be? You do the work, he takes the bows? In at noon - out by three? Luxury apartment? Key to the executive washroom?" 

Laura sprang up and paced the carpet, words tumbling out in a headlong rush. "It's not just a one night scam, though, is it?  Or a quick score. As long as our mystery man is wearing the great detective's eminently respectable shoes, he has to tread the straight and narrow and keep the side trips to a minimum. I mean, I'm always moaning about how he's turned our lives upside down; I've never thought about what it looks like from his side of the street." 

"Laura, he's stayed this long. I don't think he's ready to hang up his Italian loafers just yet. Even if they are a tight fit."

Half convinced, Laura stopped pacing and tried to gather her thoughts. "I went by his apartment yesterday. No sign of him. Bed hadn't been slept in, though I'm not sure how much of a clue that is right now. Didn't find his passports which means either he's gone globe trotting or he's hidden them somewhere I haven't thought to look. His closet's full of clothes though –"

"That's a good sign."

"Including Gianni's latest creation."

"Case closed, Laura. He wouldn't have left that suit behind. Has Fred seen him?"

"Not since he dropped him off at the corner of Cesar Chavez and Gage."

"In east LA?" Bernice queried in disbelief. "What's he doing in east LA?" 

"Believe me, I'm as confused as you are. I had Fred drive me to the spot and there's nothing much for blocks, just some half boarded up buildings with murals on the walls, the usual taquerias, check cashing places, a couple of furniture stores." 

"Doesn't sound like the place for a high stakes poker game or an art heist. But with Skeezix you never know. Maybe he had to meet someone."

"I wish I knew which someone," Laura said with feeling. "I asked around but no one's seen him. How many tall, well tailored, blue-eyed gents with British accents could be hanging around the neighborhood?"

"Maybe something got lost in the translation." 

"Think I should brush up on my Spanish?"

"Couldn't hurt."
 

He'd been here before, as a visiting tourist, and gotten the recklessness knocked out of him for his presumption. The cinderblock building on Lorena Street was as airless and shadowed as a cellar; inside, a 20 X 20 boxing ring filled the small space, leaving only a narrow, mirror-lined perimeter. On this small patch of neutral ground, roughly ten fighters shadowboxed, skipped rope, and stretched their muscles, sharing time on the heavy bags that swung in dangerously long arcs from rusted chains in the low, plaster ceiling. A smattering of free weights, speed bags, and double-end bags, jealously guarded by their owners, were scattered around the ring's edges. The spicy rhythms of “Yo Tambien Quiero Bailar” by Miami Sound Machine blasted out of a boom box on a metal folding chair. The smell of dampness, leather, and sweat stuck to every surface like cobwebs. 

"Steele!" called a softly accented voice. "Where are your wheels, amigo? Limo in the shop?”

Steele put a finger to his lips, grateful for the noise level. "It's Michael, ah, 'Mick', this trip." It would feel good to be anonymous for a while.

"Glutton for punishment, huh, St -, uh, Mick?" said the dark-haired youth with a wink.

Steele's set his gym bag on a bench and grinned ruefully. "I don't see my friend here, Manuel. The one with the baseball cap and the double jab-right cross."

"Tito? Lost his job driving the bus. Gone back to San Felipe." 

Steele's face fell. "I was hoping to go easy on him this time," he joked.

Manuel scratched his chin. "I don't think he'll be back. Trouble with la migra. Immigration."

Steele's oblique gaze studied the other fighters as they bobbed and weaved on the mirrored walls.

"His cousin Emilio could be his twin," Manuel told Steele. "Same style. A little more power, maybe. Same weight. 155. He's over there in the green trunks." 

Manuel pointed out a well muscled, light skinned youth wearing a heavy gold cross on a chain around his neck. He was barely twenty, 5' 8", with velvet soft, angelic features. As he released a flurry of blows to the heavy bag his trainer yelled a mixture of commands and insults in Argentine-accented Spanish. 

"If you want to do some work, I'll talk to his trainer," offered Manuel. "He trained Tito. I'm sure he remembers your right hook."

Steele nodded assent. "Thanks," he said to Manuel's retreating form. Steele flashed back to that hot, sweet moment his punch had connected and the force had staggered Tito to one knee. The rest of the sparring had been a prologue that blurred in the memory; the shaking off of the pain of repeated blows until finally timing the other's jab and feeling his own hook sweep out over his opponent's extended arm. After six minutes of being out-maneuvered and out-boxed it had been an ending to savor. 

Skin pricking on the backs of his hands, Steele watched as Manuel conferred briefly with the trainer, both men almost shouting to be heard over the solid thump-thump of fists against leather and the squeal of hi-tops sliding across the wood floor. 

After the formality of a handshake and a cursory introduction in Spanish, it was decided; Steele began to gear up. In T-shirt and trunks, he slathered Vaseline around his eyes, nose, lips, and cheeks, and drew someone's hastily borrowed headgear on over his ears. He slipped in his mouthpiece and waited stoically as Manuel performed the solemn ritual of wrapping his hands before lacing him into his gloves and fastening his chin strap. 

After fifteen minutes of warm-up on the bag, Steele stepped through the ropes to face his sparring partner. He gave Emilio a quick glove to glove salute and both men lightly sprang apart on the sound of the bell. Tension was a vice around Steele's chest as he traded flurries, trying to loosen up, alternately circling and feinting. A fake and a solid right jab and the sting of hard contact traveled like an electric current from his arm to his synapses; he felt the once familiar fear and anticipation begin to settle in the pit of his stomach. 

An answering hook struck Steele with the force of a rifle shot, exploding near his temple and driving him backwards.  With an effort he shook off the knife-sharp pain and the hot flash of anger that always came with shocking suddenness on its heels. He knew the tiniest slip of concentration would bring more punishment, and to avoid it he had to think past the pain and adrenaline and find the weak thread that would unravel a youth from Baha Norte barely out of his teens. The smooth-faced boy, trained as a fighter since he was fourteen, was, by any opponent's logic, simply a human puzzle to take apart and solve. 

Working at the edges of the ring, Emilio shifted his weight and slipped under Steele's straight right to strike a hammer blow to his ribs. Momentarily unable to breathe, Steele collapsed against the ropes. The youth pressed the opportunity, grappling with him and going to the body with a series of low, compact punches. Steele pulled out of the clinch, recovering enough to go up top to counter to the other’s exposed chin with a left hook. As he knocked his opponent off balance, Steele stepped back and gasped in a desperate lungful of air. Sweat stung his eyes and ran down his back and legs to dapple the canvas in heavy drops. 

He could hear the boy’s trainer shouting in Spanish. "Pegate a él, che. Sobre el cuerpo! No boludees! Usalo de bolsa!”

Steele had no intention of being Emilio’s body bag. He knew he had to get outside his opponent's punches and begin to use his greater reach and height to his advantage. He spun off the ropes, guard low, snaking out with his jab, landing quick strikes to the jaw and nose to hold the shorter man at bay.  Emilio countered by trying to go over guard, but Steele side-stepped his attack, and youth’s hook, thrown wide, glanced off his shoulder. Steele came back with an overhand right and paid for it as Emilio deflected the shot and slipped inside with a granite-hard jab to Steele’s midsection. 

With each successive blow the young fighter seemed stronger and faster and he began to drive Steele back with a series of crisp double hooks. His trainer yelled encouragement as his fists found their mark and pounded once more against Steele's battered ribcage. Steele froze in slow motion agony, stilling his head and giving Emilio the target he'd patiently been waiting for. His left hook cracked solidly against bone, hitting Steele with full force at the point of the jaw. Knees buckling, vision fading to near black, Steele slid with almost glacial slowness to the canvas.

“Descanso!” The trainer shouted at the sound of the bell. 

Steele didn't want a break. He wanted it to end. He staggered upright, legs and arms limp, gloves heavy and clumsy as anvils. His entire body was drowning in sweat and his breath rasped hard and painfully in his throat. His chest felt like it was on fire. 

Emilio's trainer came up to him and ran his hands over Steele's ribs. Even the light contact was like torture. "No parece que haya nada roto. Solamente machucado,”  he said. Nothing broken, only bruised. He handed Steele and Emilio bottles of water which each half emptied in a simultaneous gulp. "Buen round, che. No muchos le pueden dar a mi pibe un buen round. ¿Pega fuerte, no?”  He clapped Steele on the shoulder with a good natured grin. "Volvé mañana.” 

To Steele's half-disconnected brain the words sounded far away, as if he were hearing them through several fathoms of water. ”Come back tomorrow.” The injunction seemed as foolhardy and outright dangerous as walking a high wire without a net. "Sure," he said. 

Steele stripped out of his sweat-soaked clothes and stood naked in the cramped cubicle of the shower. The last of the hot water had long since vanished and the pressureless cold spray ran in thin rivulets down his battered torso. He washed carefully, nursing his aching ribs. 

After drying off with a towel he surveyed the damage in the mirror: a large, spreading black bruise just to the right of his heart, a still bleeding abrasion along his chin, a red swelling above one eyebrow.  He watched idly in the glass as Emilio, sitting behind him on a bench, scraped dried blood from around his nose and mouth. The sight gave him a secret pleasure. 

"Manuel, amigo. This is more than just a social visit. I need to get lost for a while. A few days." Steele rubbed his sore chin nervously. "It's a bit hard to explain."

"Working on a case?"

"Ahh, you might say that. Do you know a hotel or a rooming house close by? Some place where they don't ask questions and don't read the 'LA Tribune’?"

"A hotel? You come to my home turf and want to stay in a hotel?" Manuel clapped a hand to his heart as if mortally wounded. "Steele. You insult my hospitality. You can stay at my place, with my tía and my brothers and sisters. I know it sounds crowded, but you can sleep on the porch at the back. Plenty of privacy."

Steele wanted to demur; he hadn't meant to wrangle an invitation, but he could see no way out without causing offense.  "Ah, it sounds ideal. Thank you," Steele said sincerely. "You won't even know I'm there, Manuel. I'll just blend into the scenery."

"You? Blend in? Whatever you say, hombre." Manuel laughed. "I'll teach you to salsa," he winked. 

Manuel lived in a neat, frame one story house with a sunny front yard dotted with palms and rose bushes. The surrounding Boyle Heights neighborhood was once a gateway for newcomers of many cultures: Jewish, Armenian, Italian, Russian, Japanese, and Chinese, as well as Latinos. Manuel's quiet street, near a large indoor market, housed extended families, young and old, but gangs and guns were a fact of life less than a half mile away. 

Manuel introduced Steele to his aunt Rosaria. "Tía, this is a friend of mine, Michael O'Leary. We call him 'Mick'. I've invited him to stay for a few days."

Rosaria put a hand to her mouth in shock and launched into a torrent of rapid Spanish. "Señor Steele! Rem-ing-ton Steele! Pero qué honor! Pero si leemos todo lo de sus casos en el periódico, siempre, desde que Manuel resolvió aquello del George Kaplan!”

So much for staying incognito, Steele thought. He shot Manuel a look of mild reproof. "You solved the case?" 

"My tía likes to exaggerate," said Manuel with an apologetic shrug. 

"Must be a family trait," Steele said dryly.

"Es que Usted es bien famoso,” Tia Rosaria continued. "Como Erik Estrada.”

"Erik Estrada?" Steele queried politely.

"TV motorcycle cop," Manuel said sotto voce.

"Y casi igual de buen mozo.”

"Almost, eh?" Steele tugged at his earlobe.

A lithe, curvaceous girl of about seventeen wearing glossy pink lipstick, a stretchy mini dress, and platform sandals strolled over to Steele, putting some extra sway into her languid movements. 

She rolled her eyes in her aunt's direction. "Tia, you need glasses. He's much better looking than Erik Estrada." Her eyes traveled over Steele's features and took in his jeans and sweater-clad body with frank appreciation. 

"Mick, this is my sister, Reina. Everyone calls her 'La Shy Girl' -- but they're only kidding."

Tía Rosaria called to her other niece and two nephews. "Apaguen la television y vengan a saludar al invitado.” 

Three children reluctantly got up from in front of the television, shifting restlessly in the stranger's presence while they were being introduced. 

"This is Carletta, she's five, Nicolas is six, and José is nine," said Manuel, pointing each out in turn. "This is el señor Mick," he told them.

"He's a very important man. A detective," put in Tía Rosaria.

José’s expression was solemn.  "Can you pick locks?" he asked.

Steele started in surprise at the question. "Um, only in the line of duty," he answered.

Manuel ruffled the boy's hair. "He saw it on Starsky and Hutch. Ever since he's been practicing with a nail file. No lock is safe from him. Tore up the dresser drawer in the front bedroom and scratched all the paint on the back door."

"Well, don't be too hard on him. We all have to start somewhere," Steele said philosophically, giving the boy a friendly pat.

Steele looked out cautiously from under the pillow, then groaned and blinked his eyes. The brightness of the morning sun scythed sharply through the leaves of the low limbed sycamore that shaded two thirds of Manuel’s back porch.  Every inch of his body ached but intermittent spells of sleep had only half-quelled his leftover adrenaline. Careful of his bruised ribs, he got up and padded into the house in his bare feet and pajamas. 

He found Manuel at the table eating breakfast chilaquiles: fried tortilla wedges with green tomato sauce, chicken, jalapenos, and cream, topped with a fried egg. 

Manuel looked up at Steele and shook his head in mock dismay. “Señor Mick,” he greeted with mild sarcasm. “You’re late. I guess it’s corn flakes for you.”

Steele glanced warily at the other’s cholesterol laden dish. “Well, at least I won’t die young.”

“This is a real breakfast, hombre. You look like you’ve been eating oatmeal for a week.”

Tía Rosaria scooped chilaquiles from a cast iron skillet. “Corn flakes?” She waved a spatula threateningly over Manuel’s head. “¿Así es como tratas a los huéspedes? Ignórelo, Sr. Steele. Mi sobrino no tiene, cómo dicen en Inglés, no maneras?”

“No manners,” supplied Steele. “I quite agree.” He smiled smugly in Manuel’s direction. 

She set an even larger plate of the hearty dish in front of Steele and garnished it with cilantro. “A comer, Sr. Steele,” she ordered him, politely but firmly.

“Do what she says, amigo. Eat. You don’t want to see her when she’s angry. That frying pan can crack a human skull like an eggshell.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Steele began to dig in, chewing carefully. His jaw was still stiff and painful from the effects of Emilio’s fists. After a few bites he threw caution to the wind and began to eat ravenously, his body reacting with visceral pleasure as if it had been deprived of food for months. “Está delicioso, Tía Rosaria.” he said between mouthfuls. “Absolutamente delicioso.” 

“Gracias, Señor Steele.” Rosaria beamed.

In minutes the plate was empty. “Tengo más manteniendose caliente,” she assured him, indicating more chilaquiles in the oven in a casserole dish. 

“More?” Manuel cried incredulously. “Don’t encourage him, tía. I’ve seen pigs with more restraint,” he joked. 

Giving her nephew a dirty look, she got out the dish and spooned more food onto Steele’s plate. 

“I really couldn’t -“ Steele began, but something about the no nonsense look in her eye made him withdraw his protest. He finished the second helping more slowly than the first but still made short work of it.

“Where’s the rest of the brood, Manuel?”

“Carletta and Nicolas are still asleep. The others are at school.”

“Why aren’t you still in bed? I thought you worked nights.”

“Well, after you, that is, we solved the George Kaplan case all the honchos from Ratooi ended up in jail  -- and Esteban and I got laid off.”

“I see,” said Steele, somewhat dismayed at this unintended consequence. 

“No problem. We found another cleaning job. Three days a week. Something better will turn up.”

“I’m sure it will.”

“I’m going to see a man at the Mercado about some part-time delivery work. If you want to tag along here’s tía’s shopping list.” 

Steele looked over the list of unrecognizable ingredients. “Does this come with pictures?”

El Mercado, at the corner of First Street and Lorena, was a sprawling, three-tiered indoor market that sold everything from aphrodisiacs to huaraches to yams -- a combination supermarket, clothing store, metaphysical pharmacy, and folkloric festival. Its nooks, crannies, archways, and central open air gallery invited all who entered to explore the sights and smells of the bakeries, meat and fish stalls, sun splashed vegetables and fruits, clothing, crafts, dried beans, herbs and spices, virtually anything and everything with a Latin American accent. Within its pale stucco walls, salsa rhythms hot off the Latin pop charts clashed brightly with the slap of bass guitarrons and mariachi melodies piped in from the third floor restaurants. The air hummed with the noise of buyers, sellers, cash registers, jukeboxes, and gossip. 

The market made no attempt to cater to the tourist trade. English was a foreign language and on the second floor immigration lawyer’s offices crowded next to counters where people queued up to cash checks and wire money to Mexico. 

Sticking close to Manuel, Steele wandered through the ground floor aisles, threading his way past racks of colorfully embroidered clothes and fancy stitched boots and turning tight corners to find piles of produce and dried food items in large, white baskets. To an outsider, Steele mused, street markets were much the same everywhere.  All had their mix of the strange and the familiar. “Manuel, this list of yours might as well be in hieroglyphics. Flor de calabaza? What is that? Squash flower?” 

“Si. For soup.”

Still a little mystified, Steele read the next item. “Huitlacoche?”

“It’s kind of like a mushroom. I thought you spoke the language, amigo.”

“Apparently not the local variety.”

Manuel shook his head sadly. “You Anglos.  Like babes in the woods.”

“Should I leave a trail of tortillas back to the car?” Steele queried with a thin smile.

“Let’s get the hierbas first. Tía said to be sure not to forget the manzanilla. She makes a tea out of it mixed with honey. It’s better than Alka-Seltzer for an upset stomach.” 

With Manuel leading the way, Steele soon found himself on ground that tourists feared to tread. Arcane plant-like materials bulged from bins and hung suspended from ceilings. Pictures of saints with garlic around their necks neatly framed racks of potions, oils, tarot cards, and innumerable plaster Virgins of Guadalupe.

The counter was presided over by a woman wearing heavy eye make-up, dangling earrings, and a leopard print blouse and skirt.  As the two of them approached she froze in mid motion, staring at Steele’s face with a look of revelation. Never taking her eyes off him, she made a mysterious sign in the air.

“Ojo,” she muttered darkly. 

Steele was more than a little disconcerted. “What’s all that about?” he whispered to Manuel. 

Manuel looked surprised by Steele’s ignorance. “You don’t know what ‘ojo’ means?”

“I know what it means. What does it mean?” 

“Eye. Evil eye.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“You’re telling me. Her family comes from a long line of curanderos. If she says someone’s put the evil eye on you, my friend -“

“Oh, wonderful.  That certainly puts a crimp in my plans for the weekend. Ojo, eh? Not that I believe in that sort of nonsense,” Steele added, mentally reciting a prayer.

“Of course not,” Manuel agreed, half smiling. “Still, history teaches us to hedge our bets. Pascal’s wager, you know.”

“Pascal’s wager?”

“French philosopher and mathematician. He examined belief in God through a decision matrix. Better to wager that God exists and live your life accordingly, otherwise you take a chance on going to the infernal regions.”

“What does that have to do with this evil eye business?”

“Same principle. Better to be safe than sorry. You should take the cure.”

“What’s the cure?” Steele asked, not really sure that he wanted to know.

“The healer recites a special prayer and rubs the victim’s body all over with a freshly laid egg.”

Steele grimaced. “Never mind. I’ll take my chances.” Manuel’s store of unusual knowledge had him curious. “Where did you learn about Pascal’s wager?” 

“You think only Anglos read philosophy?” Manuel replied, eager to challenge the assumption. 

“Not at all.”  Steele’s own background had made him less inclined than most to take the orthodox view. 

“I didn’t learn it in high school, that’s for sure. I read on my own. Science, economics, history. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life cleaning offices.” Manuel clapped Steele on the shoulder. “Adios, for now, amigo. I’ve got to see this dude about a job.” On Steele’s worried look he added, “just hand her Tía’s list. She’ll know what to do.”

As he watched Manuel slip out of sight, Steele shifted nervously in front of the curandera. Feeling more than a little foolish, he whispered to the woman in Spanish. “Señora. ¿Tendrá usted alguna cura contra el insomnio?”

“Si, señor,” she replied, with a wary glance at him. “Zapote blanco.” She handed him a plastic packet of dried leaves and melon seeds containing a colorful sleeve with tea making instructions. 

Steele translated aloud. “’Restful sleep in one hour or your money back.’” His lips twitched in a half smile. Not much margin for error, he mused. “Gracias,“ he said to the curandera, handing over some small bills. “Muchas gracias.”  Steele tucked the packet away inside his shirt pocket. 

In the mornings, he sparred with Emilio, three minutes of work expanding to six, then nine. A break -- then two more rounds, Steele’s overextended body taking a beating but occasionally hitting stride, finding a rhythm, slipping punches. Opportunistic in pursuit, Steele would land a sharp hook or jab that rocked his opponent’s head back, kindling a flash of surprise and anger in the other man’s eyes. 

On each walk back to Manuel’s the world outside of the gym felt slightly removed, grainy and artifacted, like softly blurred images on old film stock. Steele napped on the porch in the afternoons, exhausted, dogged by a low grade headache and the raw pain in his ribs. 

Outside of living dangerously in the boxing ring, life was uneventful by the standards of a muy famoso, jet setting sleuth.  Steele took the trio of Carletta, Nicolas, and José to the movies, amazed them with card tricks, and read them stories in Spanish. He went clubbing with Manuel, half the neighborhood, and a bottle of Cuervo, and learned salsa steps with Reina, ‘La Shy Girl’, to Ruben Blades’ latest hits. 

Even though Suite 1157 and his life as Remington Steele seemed far away, Laura was rarely out of his thoughts. Twice, he tried her home number in the middle of the night, but hung up before she could answer. He wanted to clear the air between them, to give some account of what he’d been doing the past few days, but how could he explain to her what he couldn’t explain to himself? 

On his last night on Manuel’s porch, Steele lay on the mattress and slipped fitfully into sleep. He dreamed that he was sparring with Laura, not with words but quite literally in the ring, with boxing trunks and gloves.  Laura’s body was a weapon; she stood before him, lethal and perfect, taller than he remembered, stronger, and impossibly fast. She was wearing a low cut spandex top, and sweat shone on her skin and beaded in droplets between her breasts. 

Her blows rang like thunderclaps against his head, and as she closed with him he held on to keep from falling, pulling them both off balance and down hard to the canvas. Laura was on top of him then, one silken leg parting his knees. Her mouth sought his and they kissed hungrily in a clash of teeth. With their hands encased in leather, full contact defaulted to groins and lips. Laura squeezed her glove between their bodies and pried it loose. Once one hand was free, she pulled at the elastic of his trunks and underwear and Steele was eager to oblige, lifting his hips to help her slide them down the rest of the way. She reached up for him, and with a low moan, he came erect against her palm. 

Laura scrambled on top, guiding his erection inside the loose fitting leg of her boxing trunks. She had no panties on underneath and without further barriers his stroke slipped easily and fully inside her. Still completely clothed, she rocked him in a slow, pulsing rhythm, holding onto his shoulder one handed for leverage. Grappling closer, their bodies slick with sweat, they increased the tempo until they were driving each other to a frenzied heat. 

The force of Steele’s climax left him shuddering, gasping, and finally awake, his fantasy dissolving as the all too real ache in his ribs competed with the throb in his groin. He shut his eyes against the darkness and clutched the pillow to his chest, waiting for his rapid breathing to return to normal.

That morning at breakfast, under the table, Manuel’s sister Reina put her hand on Steele’s thigh, smiling at him with such boldness he wondered if she had heard him in his sleep. Face flushing with embarrassment, he quickly brushed her hand away. An entanglement with Manuel’s seventeen year old sister was no way to repay his friend’s hospitality. Despite his sense that nothing much had been solved by his coming here, he knew it was time to move on.

Manuel drove him back to Rossmore before noon and Steele invited him up for coffee. 

“Next time you come for a visit, hombre, bring that foxy lady of yours. That is, unless you are afraid my charm will be too much for her.”

“My lady is quite charm resistant, actually, so I’ll keep the offer in mind.” 

“You do that, Steele.” He shook Steele’s hand in something close to the traditional manner.

“If you need a change of scenery from East LA, Manuel, my door is always open.”

Manuel took a long look around Steele’s tastefully appointed flat. “Nice place, but does it have room service?”

Steele laughed. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Remember, my friend. Don’t fight stiff like an Anglo. Keep your head moving and keep shifting your center. Get your weight behind those jabs.”

“Thanks for the lesson, mate.” Steele clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s on the house, amigo.”