“Mr. Steele.” Laura silently commanded her expression to remain neutral to her partner’s discerning gaze, while on the inside, her emotions ran the gamut from relief, to pleasure, to festering anger with no stops in between. 

To a casual observer the detective’s easy manner conveyed that he’d just wandered in from a refreshing stroll around the block, but even from a distance Laura detected a tenseness in the set of his shoulders that gave the game away; fight or flight, he was set to spring out of the blocks as soon as she fired the starter’s pistol. She’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction. 

Murphy, on the other hand, had no qualms about pulling the trigger. He walked over to Steele and eyed him with clinical fascination, as if he had just pulled back the sheet on a John Doe that had turned up in the morgue. 

Upon closer inspection even Murphy registered disbelief. From the neck down Steele was immaculate, if less formally dressed than expected in a ribbed cashmere sweater, houndstooth jacket, and dark slacks. His face, however, was several degrees shy of its usual perfection. There were abrasions on his chin and left cheek, his lower lip was swollen, and a large rainbow colored bruise decorated his brow. 

Murphy gave a low whistle. “Unless I miss my guess,” he began, “Bruno and Guido finally caught up with you.”

“Your consistency is admirable, Murphy. Always ready to assume the worst.”

“In your case it’s a safe bet.”

Steele returned fire with a marksman’s assurance. “My mother, Mrs. Steele, used to say, never bet on a sure thing unless you can afford to lose.” 

“Yeah?” Murphy folded his arms across his chest. “Where did mother’s darling globe trot off to the past three days?”

“No passport required.” Steele replied with brisk authority. ”Never left the city. I decided it was time to venture out beyond the microcosm of these four gray walls. Become a tourist. Get the lay of the land, so to speak.” 

Murphy’s spirits seemed dampened by the news. “Wouldn’t you know it? I had five bucks riding on the Bahamas.”

“Which reminds me,” prodded Bernice expectantly, holding out her hand. Murphy walked over and slapped a bill into her palm with an air of resignation.

Steele looked on from an ironic distance. “You only missed it by a few thousand miles. Remind me not to hire you as my travel agent.” His exchange with Murphy was an afterthought. The reaction he was really interested in was Laura’s. She stood only a few feet away, watching him, her entire body inclined forward as if it were spring-loaded with curiosity. A myriad questions hovered on her lips and the set of her jaw indicated they would be very direct questions indeed. 

Steele scrambled for a fall back position. “No doubt since I’ve been away, clients have been lining up to see me,” he interjected hopefully. Suddenly the reception area seemed terribly empty.

“Not really,” Murphy said dryly.

“Well, it’s lunchtime. I’m sure they’ll be along shortly.” He gestured airily to Bernice. “Perhaps for the sake of efficiency you should send them in by twos.”  In a few long strides he disappeared into his office, closing the door shut swiftly behind him. 

The trio of Laura, Murphy, and Bernice stared blankly at each other for a moment.

“That was unenlightening,” Laura said with a distracted air.

Bernice jerked her thumb in the direction of Steele’s office. “Well, what are you waiting for? A search warrant? Go in there and find out what he’s been up to.”

Laura hung back stubbornly. “Why should I?”

“Because if you don’t you’re going to spontaneously combust.”

Laura huffed mightily. “What Mr. Steele does on his off hours is no concern of mine!” 

“Off hours!” Murphy exploded. “When’s the last time I took an unannounced three day vacation with pay? The only reason he’s back now is he probably used up all his traveler’s checks at the bail bonds office.” 

“I have to agree with Murphy. From the looks of him, Laura, he took a few detours off the straight and narrow. You’d better get in there and start pitching questions or we could all in up in the clink,” urged Bernice.

Laura didn’t spend much time agonizing. “Hold my calls,” she ordered, before striding over and opening the closed door without knocking. 

Steele had removed his jacket and was half hidden behind a newspaper when she entered the inner sanctum. He peered over the pages as she shut the door. “Client waiting?” he asked innocently.

“Don’t bother to check for headlines. They’re scarce these days.”

Steele put down the paper and surveyed his uncluttered desktop. “I take it I haven’t been busy in my absence.”

“No. Not very.” Laura folded her arms.

“It was kind of you to save these for me.” Steele waved a hand at a small stack of daily papers.

“I hear circulation is up where you least expect it,“ Laura said casually, perching on the edge of Steele’s desk. “East LA, for instance.”

Steele recognized the signs of his inquisitive partner in full investigative mode. He was  as offhand as possible in his reply. “Excellent news. Should help to bring in new clients.”

“Maybe we should arrange some photo-ops. That is, if you’re careful to stick to the usual tourist attractions. Wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

“I think I can manage,” he replied. Impassively, he studied his partner and waited for the inevitable cross examination to begin. 

To kill him or kiss him, Laura mused. Both options were equally tempting but only one might get her some answers. On impulse, she reached over and lightly stroked his bruised forehead.  “Can you, really, Mr. Steele? I’m not so sure,” she murmured, sliding one finger slowly down his cheek. 

Her touch sent off warning signals to every cell of his body. He hadn’t expected Laura to play this game. She leaned toward him, across the desk, tantalizingly close, the thin material of her silk blouse drawing tightly against her breasts. The sight made him think of spandex and sweat. He shut his eyes tightly to dispel the image as Laura’s fingers twined in his hair. The aftertaste of his dream lingered as she kissed him, none too gently, but with passion to spare. His swollen lips ground against her teeth, but the pain was forgotten as her assault became more yielding and seductive, sending a spike of ineluctable pleasure through his veins. 

Between kisses, never breaking concentration, Laura resumed her interrogation. “What -- the hell -- have you been doing -- the past -- three days?” 

“Nothing -- this gratifying -- believe me.” Steele managed to get up from his chair with minimal loss of lip contact. 

She felt a small spark of triumph at his admission. His guard was slipping. She was sure of it.  “Why -- should I?” Laura exhaled, slipping off the desk to stand facing him. “Believe you, I mean?” She laced her fingers around his neck and kissed him with renewed vigor. 

“Because -- when you do that,” moaned Steele, demonstrating the action back to her, “I feel this incontrollable -- urge for -- full disclosure.” 

 Laura’s body tensed in response. Mr. Steele gave as good as he got. Her hands roamed across his back, fingers kneading his muscles through the soft fiber of his sweater. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” she breathed. “The truth game.”  She planted a kiss on his earlobe, a smile playing across her lips. “Go on.”

“Now I’ve forgotten the question.”

Laura poked him hard, but playfully, in the chest. “I’ll expect a signed confession on my desk by Thursday.”

Steele’s face instantly turned a whiter shade of pale. He staggered back and stood momentarily frozen in place. 

“I was only joking,” she assured him, dismayed by his inexplicably violent reaction. “Well, half joking.”

Steele was still trying to find his breath. 

“Are you alright?” Laura asked, studying his bruised countenance with concern.

“I’m fine,” he croaked, the sweeping pain in his ribs making him feel dizzy. 

“No, you’re not.”

“It’s nothing, really. Probably just the after effects of that trip to the gym.”

His gym partner wasn’t buying any of it. “Pull up your sweater.”

“Laura,” Steele protested. The thought of doing it made him wince. He’d dressed very carefully and slowly that morning.

“I’ll do it.”  She lifted the garment and the T-shirt he was wearing underneath as gently as she could manage.

“Have a care, Miss Holt. It’s cashmere,” Steele quipped, grimacing. 

Laura’s breath caught numbly in her throat as she drew her fingers across his exposed skin. Deep-dyed bruises daubed his stomach and spread darkly across his chest.  When her palms explored his ribs Steele braced himself not to react, but he still flinched noticeably when she applied pressure. 

Steele gently stopped her progress. “Laura, I can explain.”  He tried, but something went wrong. The stockpile of evasions, excuses, and outright fabrications he had rehearsed on the way up in the elevator mysteriously vanished into thin air.

“Ah, the explanation -- escapes me at the moment.” Steele swallowed the persistent lump in his throat. Why hadn’t he said something sensible?

His partner’s jaw dropped at this anticlimax.

“Laura, it really doesn’t matter.” Carefully, he removed her hands and pulled his sweater back down over his torso.

“How can you say it doesn’t matter?” Laura queried in disbelief, a hundred fraught scenarios flashing through her mind. “What have you been doing?”

“I, that is, Remington Steele, had to disappear for a few days.” He smiled thinly. “I was following a hunch. An old instinct.” 

“A hunch?” she shot back, incredulous. “Some shady, back door operation, no doubt.” 

“Nothing nefarious, I assure you,” Steele winced. “The agency’s reputation remains very much intact.”

Laura’s voice was strained. “You think I’m just worried about the agency?” 

Steele sighed deeply. It wasn’t fair but he was tired of questions and scrutiny, and wary of her solicitude. “It’s safer that way, believe me.” He walked stiffly back to his chair.

Laura’s jerked her chin defiantly. “You’re not in the best position right now to lecture me on what’s safe.” Self possession close to unraveling, she stared back at him, wondering where the Remington Steele had gone who, minutes ago, had kissed her so warmly. This one was a stranger in the same dark clothes, the line of his posture alert, dangerous, warning her off.

Steele regarded his partner distantly from behind the desk, his body language signaling the interview was over. “Point taken, Miss Holt.” 

“I promised myself I would stay out of the advice business,” Laura said, keeping her voice low and even with considerable effort, ”but you should see a doctor.”

Steele looked up sharply. “You’re ever so determined to get me on the psychiatrist’s couch, Dr. Holt,” he sniped. Her earlier injunction still rankled.

“You know that’s not what I meant.“

“Yes, well, it sounded very much like it,” Steele said frostily.

Laura was speechless for a long moment, then found her voice in a rush. “Then tell your analyst to pencil me in,” she snapped. “I must need my head examined. I have this stupid, crazy attachment to lost causes!”

Stung by her words, Steele took the path of most resistance. “Laura, it’s my life and my ‘lost cause’ as you put it, and I’ll deal with it in my own way.” 

“That’s worked out really well so far, hasn’t it?” In a fury of frustration, Laura stormed out and strode to the sanctuary of her office. She wasted no time in slamming the door resoundingly shut behind her. Ignoring the questioning stares of Murphy and Bernice, Steele got up and with less fanfare, but equal finality, closed his own door to the world. 

Late that afternoon, a new client dug in his heels and adamantly insisted on seeing Remington Steele. Nerves on edge, Laura buzzed Steele’s office, barked the news over the line, and gritted her teeth at Steele’s sardonically amused “Send him in, Miss Holt.”

Few clients that had ever crossed the threshold at Remington Steele Investigations received such rapt attention and tender loving care from the dynamic duo of Steele and Holt.  The brilliant armchair deductions of Steele’s trusted associate had the interviewee practically pinching himself in disbelief over his own good fortune; then, for the coup de grace, he was hit squarely with a dose of charm from Steele that was so blinding it was almost radioactive. 

With the awed client’s head oscillating back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match, the pair’s one-upmanship continued for a full twenty minutes until, giddy from the rarefied oxygen in the room, the man was finally ushered to the door, besieged on both sides with firm jaws and firm handshakes. 

Bernice and Murphy observed the contest with a mixture of amusement and alarm. 

“Amazing, Murph. I thought it was a run of the mill dog napping. The guy’s not even a celebrity, for pete’s sake. He’s a shoe salesman from Fresno.”

“He’s certainly getting bang for his buck.”

Bernice waved Murphy’s five dollar bill in the air. “Which one do you think will run out of ammunition first?”

“Uh-uh. When they get like this, all bets are off. We’ll be lucky not to get hit by the crossfire.”

“Coward.”

“I’ll live to die another day,” Murphy smirked.

That night, even after a therapeutic small screen dose of Cagney and Bogart, Steele couldn’t relax. His lock picking diversions fared no better; he was unable to muster the finesse required to slip past the guard of a twelve pin Medeco Super Special. Somewhat unsteadily, he poured himself a Scotch. 

“She’s right. You’re a lost cause, mate,” he whispered, before downing the shot in one go. The fact that he goaded Laura into the opinion didn’t make his prospects easier to contemplate. 

His first impulse in a crisis had always been to cut and run, and it had kept him safe more often than not; with the exception of Daniel he’d never left anyone behind who mattered.  With Laura, things were more complicated. On the one hand, he devoutly wished her to care whether he left or stayed, and to fret and worry over his well being; on the other, his instincts told him that too much of the truth game was going on for comfort. Fear of being trapped had him as nervous as a claustrophobe.

The more he thought of their earlier encounter, the more gloom washed over him. He’d been so determined to keep her at bay he’d run roughshod over her feelings and painted them both into a corner. Even if the world righted itself again, and his sleep problems disappeared, he doubted she would ever entirely forgive him. If he knew Laura Holt, her guard, henceforth, would be up with a vengeance. His impossible challenge would become even more impossible to win without a long, hard siege.

Steele dimmed the lights and sank down onto the sofa, feeling little relief from the ache in his bones. He stared out at the lights of the city and with an anxious heart, pondered his next move. 

Sitting cross legged on the bed, Laura pored through the ledgers and case files strewn haphazardly at her feet. Working at home had always been a tonic rather than a chore, as long as it was sweetened by a pint of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream or an extended break curling up with a hot cup of coffee and a steamy novel. 

Trouble was, at the moment, nearly all of those pleasures reminded her of someone she wanted to forget. Sipping borrowed Jamaican nectar and breathing heavily over Charlotte Knight’s latest would be tempting fate, to say the least. The last thing she needed to be thinking of was that night, not so long ago, when she and that someone had shared coffee-flavored kisses and fantasized about “prone positions.” 

He’d seemed charmingly open and above board then, not to mention, pleased to see her. Not at all like the man she’d kissed this afternoon, just as deeply, only to be summarily rebuffed minutes later. Nothing about their relationship had ever been simple, but she couldn’t remember it ever skirting this close to disaster. 

She’d been kidding herself to think he needed her. He’d certainly made that clear enough. He didn’t want any help from Laura Holt, or anyone else, even if it killed him. She couldn’t stop agonizing over what had happened to him in the past three days, how he’d gotten so battered and bruised, and why he was determined to keep her out of it. 

So much of his former existence was a closed book to her, but surely the truth couldn’t be worse than what her overactive imagination could conjure up. What messily complicated matters was that tacit agreement that had been with them from the start, to keep their private lives private. Still, as his partner in deception, so to speak, she had a right to know. Not that it mattered now. The likelihood of that signed confession of Steele’s appearing on her desk was growing dimmer by the hour.

Steele leapt to his feet, pacing the well worn path of carpet around the perimeter of his desk. 

“Laura, contrary to the rumors that have been bandied about, Remington Steele is not an invalid, and he is quite capable of doing business as usual.” 

“Business as usual? Please enlighten me,” Laura retorted with an icy glare. “I’m having a little trouble with the concept. What does that mean exactly? Absence without leave? Popping in and out of sight like Houdini at a magic show?” 

“I would merely like to be assured of a ringside seat. I’ve been doodling on dinner napkins for four days running.” 

“Isn’t that what you wanted? Dullness? Boredom? Monotony? Politicians? Insurance salesmen?”

Steele exhaled in exasperation. “I suppose, but it doesn’t appear to be working quite the way I envisioned.” He straightened his tie absently. “I haven’t been able to sleep a wink.”

“Is that my fault?” Laura shrugged, staring fixedly out of the window. In truth, she’d been a bit leery of sending him out on publicity rounds looking like he’d been in a bar fight, but if he avoided the questions of the curious half as well as he had avoided her own, it was a harmless way to keep him occupied. Steele had seemed desperately tired the past few days despite his late show of bravado. He’d been standoffish in equal measure, so it almost came as a relief to find them clashing once again over the same familiar patch of ground. 

“Did you have to be so bloody conscientious? Couldn’t you have thrown in a nice juicy murder to spice things up? I’m sure there’s a politician I’ve met somewhere who wouldn’t be missed.” 

Laura turned back to him with a half smile, appearing to consider the notion. “I’ll try harder next time.”

The buzz of the incoming phone line caused them both to jump. Their eyes met briefly, then Steele reached over and firmly pressed the button. 

“Undoubtedly a distraught client in urgent need of my services,” he theorized. “Steele here.”  Laura could hear Bernice’s voice crackling impatiently over the line.

“Well,” Steele smiled sourly. “I got it half right. It’s for you.” He handed over the receiver, then sat down behind his desk, tapping his fingers monotonously on the arm of his chair. 

Laura assumed a brisk, professional tone. “Yes, Bernice?” She listened for a moment. “He’s a little late for his appointment -- but no, it’s not a problem. I’ll be right out.”

She walked to the doorway and lingered there, as if waiting for Steele to insist on seeing the client, or at the least, lodge a protest at her exclusionary tactics. Instead, the slump of her partner’s shoulders indicated he found it infinitely more satisfying to sulk. 

“Don’t mind me, Miss Holt. I’m sure I can find something useful to do. Sharpening pencils, drafting dull dinner speeches and the like.” 

Laura took a deep breath and proffered some advice. “Maybe you should go home. The day’s almost over. Try to get some rest.” 

Steele ran one finger meditatively across the smooth desktop. “Excellent idea, Miss Holt, but it works better in theory than it does in practice.”

“A movie? Do you know what time it is?” Laura sat up in bed and ran her hands through her hair.

“I make it about eleven. I’ll send a cab round to pick you up. It starts at midnight.”

“What starts at midnight?”

“’Vertigo.’ James Stewart, Kim Novak, Universal, 1958. It’s been re-released in theaters. The VistaVision negative has been deteriorating for years but plans are afoot to restore it. They’re asking for donations to the cause, actually.” 

“Wonderful,” Laura mumbled hazily. “I’ll send a check in the mail tomorrow.”

Steele rattled on as if he hadn’t heard. “A good thing you saved the ‘Arts’ section in today’s paper. An opportunity this rare should not be missed.”

“I saved it for the crossword.” 

“Very funny, Miss Holt.” Steele’s tone changed to pleading. “Laura, come with me and you can hand over your check personally to Martin Scorsese.” 

“Shady associate of yours?” 

You don’t mean you’ve never heard of him?”

Laura rolled her eyes. “Just shoot me.”

“Then perhaps you have. Mean streets of New York. Societal violence. Obsession.”

“Sounds frightening.”

“Actually, for a film director I’m told he’s quite civilized -- and quite a champion of film preservation. Trust me, Laura. This screening is the perfect photo opportunity.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure you have a little black dress hanging in your closet for emergencies.”

“Enough about what’s hanging in my closet -“ Laura barked testily. 

“Must you be so suspicious? Every woman has a little black dress.”

Laura gave a long sigh and blinked fuzzily at her reflection in the mirror. “You win. Let’s make headlines, Mr. Steele. But if I end up as ‘unidentified woman’ again the agency’s subscription to the ‘Tribune’ will be dropped like a bad habit. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.”

“Laura. How often does one get to make a good impression on Martin Scorsese?’ 

“What on earth were you thinking?” Laura shrilled. “That could have paid our rent for the next two months. I should have known not to give you the checkbook.”

“One must keep up appearances. How would it look for Remington Steele not to sign his own checks?”

“I don’t suppose it would be polite to ask for it back?”

“Not in such refined company.”

“Then I’ll distract the photographers and you break into the cashbox.”

Steele pulled her gently but firmly by the arm. “Icy calm, Miss Holt. Think of it as an investment in the longevity of the cinema.”

“This had better make the front page.” Laura smiled into the flashbulbs with a blinding show of teeth.

Later, the two of them looked on curiously as a middle aged man on the fringes of the crowd was being hounded for an autograph.

“I’m sorry. I don’t sign. You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

“You’re the shrink to the stars, right?” asked an intense, scraggly bearded college student in a ‘Taxi Driver’ T-shirt. “Brando, Pacino, De Niro. All the greats.”

“I’m just here to support a worthy cause.” He pushed his owlish glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. 

“Uh-huh. I know who you are. You de-program actors. When they get too far into their roles.”

The gray-haired man looked uncomfortable. “I’ll sign if it will make you feel better. Did anyone ever tell you that you have self esteem issues?”

The student grinned delightedly. “Thanks, doc. I knew it was you.”

Laura watched the exchange with a thoughtful frown. “Funny. He is a psychiatrist. That’s Irving Sobel. I know he’s had some very high profile patients, at least that’s the rumor. He also has a serious background on the forensic side. I’ve seen him testify in court.”

“Sounds fascinating.” Steele looked suitably impressed.

“We collaborated briefly, on a murder investigation.”

“Hang on.” Steele’s blue eyes widened incredulously. “Laura, you worked with Robert De Niro’s psychiatrist and you never told me?”

“You never asked. Besides, it was just a minor consultation. We had a client in common.  I’m sure he barely remembers me.”

“Let’s find out. Introduce us, won’t you?” Steele propelled them both through the well dressed throng like celebrity seeking missiles.

“Mr. Steele. We’re not in a race.” She brushed a windblown strand of hair back from her forehead. 

The doctor looked up and saw them barreling his way. He smiled in recognition. “Miss Holt, isn’t it? The Harcourt case?”

“Dr. Sobel,” Laura replied cordially, shaking his hand.

His alert gaze fell on Steele. “Have we met before? You look rather familiar.” 

“Steele. Remington Steele. Perhaps it was at a premiere or something. I see quite a lot of movies. Hobby of mine.” 

“Irving Sobel.” They shook hands. “You must be Miss Holt’s elusive boss. Always unavailable or out of town, as I recall.”

“I’m afraid the press of commitments elsewhere has kept me away from the agency for some time,” Steele replied with an officious air. 

“We’ve practically had to install a homing device in his shoe,” Laura said tartly, in a backhanded reference to his recent exploits. 

Unfazed, Steele assumed the Olympian façade of a builder of empires. “I’ve decided to forego the international scene for a while and take a more active role in things here. Los Angeles is, after all, the firm’s home base.”

Laura resisted the impulse to roll her eyes heavenward.

“The papers say you’re an expert on criminal psychology, Mr. Steele.”

Steele eyed the other man somewhat warily. “I have a -- professional interest in the subject.”

“Likewise. Perhaps we could get together sometime and talk shop.”

“If it’s all the same to you, doctor,” Steele said with short laugh, “I’d rather talk about Brando and De Niro.” 

Crime in the movies is so much more glamorous, isn’t it?” 

An ironic half smile formed on Steele’s lips. “I can’t say I disagree.”

“Dr. Sobel is too modest,” Laura cut in. “His expertise is actually quite legendary.”

“Wonderful. Tell me doctor, “ Steele began, deliberately misreading the meaning of her words, “what was that process like? Getting inside Robert De Niro’s head?”

“Professionally speaking, Mr. Steele, actors are more of a sideline, but they do have a certain fascination. Neurosis seems to come with the territory.” Sobel stared impassively from behind his glasses. 

“You were saying, doctor?” Steele prompted with avid enthusiasm.

“You want to know about De Niro?,” Sobel queried with a tiny smile. “I could write a book. But confidentiality rather than modesty prevents me.”

“Of course.” Steele swallowed his disappointment. “Naturally, as a fan, I would relish the opportunity to hear more, but I quite understand the necessity for keeping secrets, doctor. Our investigative firm operates under the same restrictions. Indeed, all of our clients, especially the more newsworthy ones, are most eager to avoid publicity.”

“Not to say, Mr. Steele, that over a few drinks, I might not be persuaded to share a more public anecdote or two. I’ve never been sworn to secrecy on a movie set, well not most of them, anyway.”

“Miss Holt and I would have more than a few good stories to tell ourselves,” Steele replied expansively.

On Laura’s warning glare, Steele tacked on a hasty amendment. “Names and salient details changed to protect the innocent, of course. Or the guilty,” he finished with an apologetic shrug.

Sobel warmed to the idea. “Well, I certainly owe your firm a debt of gratitude for past assistance.”

“Then it’s settled, doctor. Give me a call when you’re free. We’ll find a bar where the martinis are crisp and the waiters are expert.”

“And properly discreet, I hope.” Sobel smiled politely. They exchanged business cards.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

The doctor shook hands on the deal, and with a slight bow, left Laura and Steele and slipped quietly away from the crowd.

Steele awoke with a start, his head throbbing like fury.  Good lord. What time was it? he wondered, rising from his half recumbent position on the sofa. He pulled a pillow out from behind his head and waited for the room to swim back into focus. 

The vodka martinis that had stung so pleasantly going down a few hours ago were making his stomach churn and had turned the back of his tongue as fuzzy as a shag carpet. Steele dragged his protesting limbs into the kitchen, downed two glasses of orange juice, and semi-automatically began to fluff eggs, milk, and cheese into an omelet. 

After breakfast had been methodically disposed of Steele got up from the table, went into the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. As he stripped out of his wrinkled shirt and trousers a small business card slipped from his pocket and fell onto the tiled floor.  Steele picked it up and blinked twice at the bold, black script. Appointment. 9:30. 2/08. 

Somewhat erratically, he began to fit odd bits and pieces together from the night before. It was a long story that had started, it seemed, at the very long, mahogany bar of Musso and Frank’s. The persistence of memory of Old Hollywood had hung heavily in the air as the elder statesmen behind the counter proffered crisp, martinis, very dry, and sidecars in carafes. One minute he and Dr. Sobel were chuckling companionably at a joke about how many method actors it took to screw in a light bulb and the next thing he knew he could barely walk upright and Fred was shepherding him to the relative safety of his own front door. Somewhere in between there had been a detour to a dive in West Hollywood with unidentifiable drinks and a kosher menu. 

How Remington Steele had suddenly developed a doctor / patient relationship with Sobel was even less clear in his mind. Somehow talk had drifted from Robert De Niro learning to drive a cab on the graveyard shift to night owls to insomnia and a harmless conversation had turned into an impromptu therapy session. Steele squeezed his eyes shut and perched on the edge of the bathtub, head throbbing incessantly to the drum beat of his heart.  He’d never liked drinking, at least, not to excess. It brought out some dormant confessional streak in him. If Laura ever knew, he realized with a sweaty-palmed lurch of anxiety, she’d probably drag him off to the nearest wine cellar. 

Ironic that the outcome he’d been trying so hard to avoid had now become almost inevitable. For a fleeting moment Steele wondered if that chance meeting with Sobel had been staged managed for his benefit. His movie-fed imagination conjured up an image of Laura and the psychiatrist smugly clinking glasses and toasting “to a successful conspiracy.” Then he let it go, deciding that thought was unworthy of both of them. It was odd though, how the good doctor had seemed to get ever more sober as the night wore on.

The question was how to get out of it all gracefully. He supposed he could show up, play the twenty questions game until they both were ready to call it a draw.  Steele rubbed his aching skull and tried to map out his quickest escape route. 

Any actual truth telling, getting down to cases with a psychiatrist, was out of the question; worse, it was anathema to his system. He could think of nothing more horrendous than having his life opened up like Pandora’s box and reduced to a jumble of Freudian impulses. That sort of thing didn’t bear thinking about. Strangely enough, though he’d spent a lifetime keeping secrets, the thought of chatting with Sobel didn’t seem especially frightening. The man had charm, he’d give him that. All the more reason he needed to be on his guard. 

Laura looked up in surprise. “Mr. Steele. I didn’t expect to see you so early. Fred told me you’d had a rather long night.”

Steele wondered just how much the chauffeur had let slip about his nocturnal activities.

“Affirmative, but I can assure you that the spirit is willing even if the flesh is weak.” Steele flinched under the office’s fluorescent glare. “Is it my imagination or is it rather bright in here?” 

“The lighting’s fine Mr. Steele.” She quirked an eyebrow at his bleary-eyed appearance. “Maybe a little too good. You look - “ she broke off, struggling for a disparaging word. 

“Like hell,” Murphy and Bernice supplied, as if on cue.

“Nothing that a few drops of eyewash won’t remedy.” Steele squinted in Murphy’s direction. “I’m afraid I don’t have a cure for that plaid shirt.” 

“How were the chops at Musso and Frank’s?” Laura interrupted.

“I didn’t have the chops -” Steele began, shooting her a wary glance. “You seem unusually well informed of my whereabouts.”

“That’s a first,” Laura said dryly. “A waiter called and described your cigarette lighter. Apparently you left it there last night. They weren’t sure if it was yours or Dr. Sobel’s.”

Steele’s back felt the gaze of two sets of prying eyes. “Miss Holt. Could we caucus for a moment?”

Laura shrugged. “Make it fast. I have paying clients to see.” Curious as to what he was up to, she followed Steele into his office.

Shutting the door behind him, Steele walked over and closed the curtains against the sunlight. “That’s better.” He ensconced himself behind his desk.

Laura looked across at him expectantly.  “So. What’s this urgent matter you need to discuss? Your bar tab from last night?”

Steele gaze turned suddenly serious. “Laura. This Dr. Sobel. How well do you know him?”

She seemed a bit unprepared for the question. “If you want my opinion,” she replied with deliberation, “I’d say he’s a very wise man. Is there something else you’d like to know?”

“Not really. I surmised as much.” Steele shifted uneasily in his chair. “The other night at the screening. Did you know he was going to be there?”

Laura frowned down at him. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if the papers mentioned it or something. He seems to have quite a public following for a man whose business depends on discretion.”

“You could say the same for Remington Steele.”

“You have a point, of course.”

Laura shot him a sidelong glance. “Don’t think I don’t know where you’re going with this.”

“Care to enlighten us both?”

“You think I arranged things so the two of you would meet.” 

“The thought did occur to me.”

“Need I remind you, Mr. Steele, that I was the one dragged out in the dead of night to go see some silly movie?”

“Silly movie?” Steele remonstrated in an injured tone.

“And they still didn’t get my name right. ‘Laura Bolt’!

“Well, it’s an improvement. Only one letter was amiss. Perhaps the agency should hire a publicist.”

“We have enough people on retainer, Mr. Steele. Your tailor, your barber - “

“All valued members of the firm. Image, Laura, image.” Steele adjusted his cuffs.

“Your bookie!”

“Entertainment expense.”

Laura gave him a look that could draw blood. 

“Tax writeoff?” he offered hopefully. “Laura, if you’re afraid that my seeing a psychiatrist will be too great of an expenditure -“

“I’ll tell you what I think, Mr. St -- “ Laura’s lecture came crashing to a halt. She sucked in a breath. “You’re seeing a psychiatrist?”

Steele tugged at his earlobe. “I hadn’t planned on it, but I suppose I am. That is, I have an appointment.” 

“After you practically lopped my head off for suggesting it?” Her temper flared up like a bonfire. 

“If you’d rather I cancelled I’m sure Dr. Sobel would understand.”

“Cancelled?” She discarded the notion without a backward glance. “Ha! You’re not getting out of it that easily.”

Steele got up from his chair and began to pace. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Laura pinned him with a look. “I’m one step ahead of you, Mr. Steele.”

Steele looked thoughtful for a moment. “So it appears, but that’s not quite good enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“In this sort of game one has to think several moves ahead.”

“You’re talking in riddles. What game?”

“Laura.” His expression was grave. “Does your colleague’s M.O. ring any alarm bells? Dr. Sobel is an expert in criminal behavior. Not the sort of man I’d like tiptoeing through my subconscious, thank you very much.”

“I think you’re overreacting. A little behavior modification might do you some good.” 

“Be careful what you wish for, Miss Holt. The end result could be very inconvenient. I’m not entirely sure your figurehead would be left standing, despite my best efforts to guard the agency’s left flank.”

“I don’t need you to remind me of the risks,” Laura said with a superior air. “I created Remington Steele. He’s a figment of my imagination, remember?”

Steele regarded her quizzically. “As if I could forget. Are you sure the good doctor isn’t barking up the wrong patient? Your neuroses are far more fascinating than mine.”

“My neuroses?”  Laura exploded.

“Acting them out is bloody hard work. You should try it sometime.”

“It was your idea to assume Remington Steele’s identity!“ she snapped, her own conscience nipping at her heels. 

“You have me there, Miss Holt.” Steele’s expression softened. “Though you were a rather willing co-conspirator.” He captured her face in his hands and kissed her lightly on the lips. ”The work does have its compensations. An excellent benefits package.” His long fingers nipped around the curve of her waist. 

“We’ll just have to be very -- careful.” She sucked in a breath as he pressed her form against his. “Stick to your official bio. Your news clippings. That sort of thing.”

“All that gop about the CIA?  It’s not much to hang an identity on.”

Laura slipped out of his grasp. “You’re right, Mr. Steele.” She rubbed her forehead absently. “This is all wrong.”

“Don’t look now, Miss Holt, but I believe you’re beginning to trust my instincts.”

“I should. I mean, you should. Trust them, I mean. Say whatever’s on your mind.”

Steele was monumentally perplexed. “I warn you, I’ve never been good at word association.”

 “This shouldn’t be about keeping secrets. You’re going to a psychiatrist, for heaven’s sake!”

Steele eyed the notion with disdain. “No reason to discard the habits of a lifetime.” 

“Maybe there’s plenty of reason.” Laura slapped her thighs. “How should I know? The point is, if you’re not willing to give a few secrets away you might as well get comfortable with that view of your bedroom ceiling.”

“Laura, I’m trying to cure my insomnia, not write my memoirs!”

Laura’s investigative instincts bobbed to the surface. “But maybe there’s a chapter in there that explains it all. Why you can’t sleep. Some childhood trauma or -“

Steele reacted with a slight wince. “That’s a bit of a reach, isn’t it? I’ve only had the problem since the Lindstrom case.”

Laura put one hand against his chest in a restraining gesture. “They don’t pay me enough to psychoanalyze a man with five different passports and five different names. Tell it to your shrink.” 

“But, Laura -“

“I hope he doesn’t send five bills.”

“Speaking of assumed identities, what about the agency’s left flank?”

Laura squared her shoulders. “Dr. Sobel is a professional. Bound by medical ethics. He’d never betray a confidence.” 

“Neither would Remington Steele.” He gave a slight bow in her direction. “Your little deception is safe with me.”

“I never said it was a lifetime sentence.” Laura fought off a wave of anxiety. What if the cure was for Mr. Steele not to be Mr. Steele anymore? “You don’t have to be so noble.” 

Steele looked gravely offended. “You’ve never accused me of that before.”

“I take it back.” She idly smoothed his lapel.

Steele wasn’t fooled by her show of unconcern. He knew that where the agency was concerned, Laura could calibrate each element of risk to the nearest decimal point. Yet, he quietly marveled, for his sake she was willing to roll the dice. She had been from the beginning. The shock of realization hit him squarely in the heart. 

“Tell Dr. Sobel to keep his lousy paws off my figment. I’d like him back in one piece.” 

“So would I, Miss Holt. So would I.”

Steele pondered the paradox of having a world of time on his hands, yet not nearly enough. 

He had to do something to relax. The “Movie Classics” channel had been preempted by an advert for a food dehydrator, he hated taking pills, cigars didn’t go well with breakfast -- come to think of it, breakfast didn’t go well either. Cooking often had a salutary effect on his nerves but this morning’s repast had ended up in the garbage disposal. As for drinking, he planned to abstain from anything stronger than bottled water. Chalk it up to New Years’ resolutions. 

His stress relieving options were dwindling by the minute. He’d gotten out a pad and pencils and tried doing a bit of sketching but every subject he chose seemed to have some disquieting Freudian subtext, even when he turned them upside down. 

The phone rang, teasing his imagination with the hope of a last minute reprieve.

“Steele here.”

“Mr. Steele. It’s Dr. Sobel. I hope I caught you in time.”

“Where are you calling from, doctor? We have a rather tenuous connection.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel our appointment. I’ve decided to give up the profession of psychiatry to become a freedom fighter in the Czech resistance.”

“It seems that destiny has taken a hand.”

“That line. . .it’s from ‘Casablanca.’”

“Indeed, doctor. I’ve waited my whole life to say it.” 

Steele shook his head to clear it. He’d been watching too many Woody Allen movies. He reached over and picked up the still ringing telephone.

“Steele here.” 

He heard the lilt of a familiar voice.

“Laura!” Steele felt cheerful in spite of himself. “The wake up call was hardly necessary.” He listened contentedly as she argued the point. “Well, consider every ‘i’ dotted and every ‘t’ crossed, then.” A rapid-fire laundry list of instructions followed. Steele looked through his wallet. “Medical insurance card? -- Yes, I have it -- yes, I’ll be sure to fill in all the blanks on the forms.” There was a silence as she stopped for breath. 

“Laura.“ 

He heard her reply, “Mr. Steele?” 

“You sound lovely in the morning.”

Sobel looked on, icy calm, as Steele paced back and forth, barely in check, like a caged tiger.

Steele stopped and tugged nervously at his right earlobe. “I suppose you’re going to tell me to lie down on the couch.”

“Such a cliché, isn’t it? I bought this couch a couple of years ago. My patients seemed disappointed that I didn’t have one. Why don’t I lie down on it and you take this chair?” 

“Does that mean I get to ask the questions? About your unhappy childhood and your fascination with ink blots?”

Sobel rubbed his glasses with his tie, then put them back on. “We might get around to that.  Meanwhile, sit.” He got up from the overstuffed wingback and patted the seat cushion.

Steele hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“It was good enough for Robert De Niro.”

Steele did a double take. “Robert De Niro sat in that chair?”

“The very same.”

Steele sank onto the cushions and stared down at himself expectantly, as if waiting for some sort of transformation to happen. “Don Corleone? Travis Bickle? Jake LaMotta? In this chair?”

“Well, not all three at once. Unless Bobby was having a very bad day.”

“Amazing. He, ah, they, don’t seem like the type.”

“Of course Marlon Brando preferred the couch. He liked a bit more elbow room.” 

Steele gazed in newfound appreciation at the unpretentious piece of furniture, with its plump cushions and slightly faded oriental fabric. 

“That’s not a bad provenance for a couch, doctor, though I was rather hoping you’d say Kathleen Turner.”

Sobel cracked a smile. “Never had the pleasure.” 

“Pity,” Steele sighed. “The thought of Kathleen Turner reclining sultrily on this very couch . . .”

“Would Jessica Lange suffice?”

Steele visualized for a moment. “You didn’t expect me to say no, did you?”

Sobel leaned against the back of the well stuffed sofa, chin uptilted slightly as if he’d caught the scent of an elusive perfume in the air.  “Actually, Jessica usually consulted with me on the set, though she did come here a few times.”

Steele allowed himself a small pang of jealousy. “I think I’m in the wrong profession, doctor. Beautiful blonde Oscar winners have never obliged me by assuming prone positions on my office furniture.”

“It’s not as salacious as it sounds. She was doing research for her movie about the actress Frances Farmer.”

“’Frances.’ Jessica Lange, Sam Shepard, EMI, 1982.”

Sobel gave Steele a curious look. 

“Sorry. I have this habit of reciting film annotations.”

“It sounds like a perfectly harmless ritual.” Sobel scratched several lines on a clipboard. 

“Ritual? You’re not writing that down, are you?” Steele asked nervously.

“Just making a few preliminary notes.” The psychiatrist smiled slightly as if amused by a private joke.

“So how was Jessica Lange?” asked Steele, trying for a change of subject.

“In a word. Tempestuous.”

“Really?” Steele grinned slyly.

“As you can imagine she might be, Mr. Steele, after the strain of playing a famous actress who becomes a mental patient.” 

“Yes, of course,” Steele deadpanned.

“Not to mention, the stress of filming ‘Frances’ and ‘Tootsie’ back to back.”

“’Tootsie.’ Dustin Hoffman, Dabney Coleman -- ah, well, no need to fill in the rest.” 

"It was touch and go for a while. Dustin Hoffman kept stealing her nylons and wearing her bras." 

"Better than Charles Durning,” Steele shrugged.

Sobel thumbed through a file folder. "I have your records here from Dr. Lindstrom. Although he does suggest some possibilities it appears there's no readily apparent physical cause for your condition."

"If there is,” Steele remarked wryly, “twenty-first century sleep medicine hasn’t discovered it yet."

"In my experience, most cases of insomnia are only partly psychological. It's relatively easy, under stress, for one's body clock to get out of sync."

"Dr. Lindstrom did hint at something of that sort."

"Did he mention 24 hour cycles? Circadian rhythms?"

"Quite possibly. I forget. Not the sort of rhythms Ira Gershwin wrote about, at any rate."

"I see that he prescribed some lifestyle changes. Routine exercise, keeping set work and sleep schedules, cutting down on stimulants. How is that working out?"

Steele fidgeted with his tie. "Not precisely as advertised, though I suppose I haven't given things a fair chance." He looked slightly chagrined.  "I was rather convinced at the time that Dr. Lindstrom was doing it just to annoy me."

Without replying Sobel scribbled several lines in the file.

"It's not that I harbor any, ah, latent hostility towards the medical profession -"

"Don't apologize, Mr. Steele. I often annoy my patients. Keeps us all on our toes."

"It's just that -- well, I hesitate to take a colleague of yours to task but frankly, Dr. Lindstrom's behavior was not entirely professional."

"Really? In what way?”

"For a start, when it came to my associate, Miss Holt, he couldn't keep his innuendos to himself. The man thinks every woman in the world wants to sleep with him."

"Interesting. An idée fixe suggestive of a Don Juan complex."

“If you plan to psychoanalyze Lindstrom I hope you have a strong stomach."

Sobel steepled his fingers under his chin. "Does that disturb you? That other men find your associate sexually attractive?"

“I'm a man of the world, doctor,” he replied, masking his discomfiture with well practiced sang-froid. “I'm aware that Miss Holt, while not your typical cover girl or film starlet, has a certain allure, a fascination -“

“The allure of the unobtainable, perhaps?”

“In Lindstrom’s case I certainly hope so,” Steele sniped. 

“And in your case?” 

“Ah, Miss Holt is a very independent woman. Stubbornly so, at times.” Steele smoothed a wrinkle in his trousers.

“I see.” Sobel put down his clipboard. “Have you ever fantasized -- about sleeping with her?”

Steele colored slightly. It was a palpable hit, one that demanded a parry of his own. “I’m an insomniac, doctor. I could dream about sleeping with anyone. Princess Margaret, Indira Gandhi. As long as they didn’t hog the covers.”

“Humor. Classic suppression technique.”

“Eh?”

“A defense mechanism employed when one is afraid to express a thought directly.”

Steele smiled softly. “The direct approach can be rather dangerous with Laura Holt.” 

Sobel blinked curiously from behind his glasses. “You sound like a man who’s tried it.”

On impulse, Steele decided to come clean. Laura did tell him to say whatever was on his mind. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and recited his woes. “I’ve tried everything, doctor. Seduction, artifice, coffee and sympathy.  An insomniac should never have to work so hard to get a woman between the sheets.” 

“Ah. I rather suspected as much,” Sobel replied with a smugly oracular air. 

Steele shot him a look of mild annoyance. ”I wasn’t aware my motives were so transparent.” 

“I noticed it at the movie screening. It wasn’t that obvious, really, except to the trained eye.”

“What wasn’t?” 

“A discreet look.  That lingered just below her neckline and kept going.” Sobol didn’t seem at all surprised by Steele’s preoccupation. “It was a dress that could stop traffic, wasn’t it?”

“I have an eye for fashion, too, doctor.”

“And Miss Holt returned the once over rather enthusiastically in your direction, though I confess I’m less sure there. Even Freud could never figure out what women want.”

Steele weighed in decisively. “Perhaps Sigmund needed to get out more. The tricky part, I find, is not discovering what a woman wants, it’s reminding her of it at just the right moment.”

Sobel was amused by Steele’s presumption. “Speaking of a Don Juan complex -“

“You can put your theories to rest, doctor. Despite your feeling that the feeling is mutual, frankly, I begin to despair that Miss Holt and I will ever get our, ah, watches synchronized.”

“An interesting choice of metaphors.”

“I think a stop watch would be more apropos.” Steele exhaled in utter exasperation. “The woman insists on all this business before pleasure business, then out of nowhere drops the bombshell that it’s not a hard and fast rule.” He sprang up and began to pace. “Room temperature one minute, fever pitch the next. It’s enough to - “ Steele stopped abruptly when he noticed Sobel scribbling notes. “Forgive me, doctor. I seem to have strayed from the business at hand.” 

Sobel lounged on the couch, propping his clipboard on his chest. “I don’t mind if my patients don’t follow the script. In fact, improvisation is keenly encouraged. But if you’d like to get back to the text, as they call it in drama school, we can talk about your insomnia for a while.”

Steele sank into his armchair and planted his feet on the floor, willing the tension from his limbs.

Sobel glanced briefly at his notes. “Let’s recap. When you were investigating the sleep clinic case, you checked in, so to speak, as an insomniac. And since then, I gather, you’ve had difficulty in letting the role go.”

“Be careful of what you pretend to be, because you are what you pretend to be,” Steele recited, with an air of disenchantment.

Sobel considered the notion. “Adults like to think they did most of their pretending in childhood, though I often find it’s the other way around.  Still, one’s formative years are nothing to sneeze at. Perhaps we should start there. Do you remember any similar instance as a child?”

“Of insomnia?” Steele queried, affecting to miss the point entirely. An instantaneous and involuntary recollection slipped past his guard, a shadow play of silver images across his vision. 

“I was thinking of role playing. Pretending. Assuming another identity.”

Steele became excruciatingly aware of the silence. “Well, I suppose it all started at the movies,” he began hesitantly. “I spent my afternoons sitting in the dark wanting to be Humphrey Bogart.”

Sobel’s mouth twitched wryly at the corners. “I know the feeling. Bogart and Cagney. Gary Cooper. And, though it sounds like a contradiction,” he added with a wistful gleam in his eye, “I always wanted to be Cary Grant.”

Steele shrugged. It was a desire universally acknowledged. “Even Cary Grant wanted to be Cary Grant.”

“Bogart makes sense given your profession, even though it seems a little too easy to connect the dots.”

“Playing detective, you mean. There are times, doctor, when I wish I could wake up as Sam Spade rather than Remington Steele.”

“Why does that fantasy remain so appealing?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. For a rather shifty character there’s something very reliable about him. No matter what situation confronts him he can size it up and look it in the eye. Always get the best of it. At least for two hours until the credits roll.” 

“Real life is rarely so accommodating.” He eyed Steele thoughtfully. “The heroes of our childhood do tend to stay with us. I take it you’re not still obsessed with Humphrey Bogart.”

“No more than a discerning cinemaphile should be.”  Steele wondered what Sigmund Freud would have had to say about his five passports.

“What about your professional career? Your years of government service? Were you ever called upon to play a role, perhaps while undercover, that got a little too far under your skin?”

Government service? Steele’s palms began to sweat at the allusion. He’d forgotten that Sobel had read his press clippings -- all part and parcel of that absurdly inventive cloak and dagger biography Laura had dreamed up: CIA, NSA -- he’d forgotten the rest. What on earth could he conjure up along those lines? Steele’s first impulse was to stonewall like a seasoned politician. “Of course, most of my activities during my time as a, shall we say, ‘licensed troubleshooter’ are still very hush-hush.“ 

“Doctor and patient confidentiality applies. You don’t have to reveal names, places, or dates.”

“Well, of course, I couldn’t possibly,” Steele replied. His mind raced, seeking out a scenario with a grain of truth for his fertile imagination to embellish. Surely, he reasoned ironically, his larcenous past was the perfect training ground for government work.

“I understand your hesitation . . .“ 

After a moment, Steele leaned forward conspiratorially as if he were about to reveal a state secret. “There was one rather protracted period of role playing that sticks in the memory.”

“Go on,” the doctor prompted.

“I was summoned to a small nation in Eastern Europe to serve in a somewhat unorthodox capacity. You see, I had a strong, almost identical physical resemblance to a prince first in line to the throne . . .” Steele paused briefly to gather in the loose threads of his narrative.

Sobel raised an eyebrow. “OK. I’ll bite. You served as a prince’s double? Were there fears of assassination?” 

“It was nothing quite so dangerous, really.” Steele eyed the other man for a reaction. “You seem disappointed, doctor.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be, but I got my hopes up, so to speak. It sounded like a modern day ’Prisoner of Zenda.’ Ronald Colman, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Selznick International, 1937. Well, that version’s considered the classic though there are nearly half a dozen remakes.”

Steele’s reply was deferential. “Not bad at all, doctor. I won’t trouble you for the other five annotations.”

“That’s a relief, because my reputation for infallibility wouldn’t survive it.”

“Neither would mine.” Steele concurred ruefully. “I was playing the Rudolph Rassendyll part for entirely different reasons. The prince had developed a rather nasty drugs habit and his royal relations wanted to pack him off to a rehabilitation clinic for six months. Since the press followed his every move, a plausible doppelganger was needed for the duration in order to avoid a scandal and ensure the stability of the realm.” 

The part about the prince’s indisposition was entirely true. Steele’s mentor, Daniel Chalmers, had learned of it through one of his shadowy contacts on the continent. Daniel had originally hatched the plot after thumbing through a tabloid and almost, but not quite, seeing the features of young Harry, his protégé, staring back at him from the ski slopes of Gstaad.  At first they’d only planned to go on an extended shopping spree and charge the expenses to the royal accounts, but the more closely Daniel investigated he realized there was a more lasting bargain that could be struck. 

“For all intents and purposes, doctor, I was the prince for six months. I christened ships, awarded decorations, visited hospitals, toured military installations, gave boring public speeches about my country’s glorious past and golden future -“

“It worked for Ronald Colman,” Sobel interjected philosophically.

“Well, he had the voice for it. Actually I was afraid I’d have to affect the native accent. Luckily the prince had studied at Oxford and sounded more English than the English or I would have been sunk.” A happy side benefit occurred to him. “Then there was the more delicate matter of the unattached royal’s equally blue-blooded stable of girlfriends.” Steele halted meaningfully in mid-sentence. “All with their eyes set on one thing.” 

Sobel raised an eyebrow. “One thing? You mean you had to -” He left the obvious inference dangling.

“I was speaking of the throne, but as to your question, the answer is yes. They all knew something was up, as there was, ah, a rather measurable difference between the real prince and myself. Poor chap. Pedigree isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Steele shrugged. “Well, as I was saying, they were more than happy to keep the sizeable secret to themselves.” 

Sobel chuckled. “To have a chance at the family jewels.”

Steele grinned roguishly. “I think they were rather sorry to see me go. I was sorry, too, for a time. I learned to play polo and to fence from the prince’s own tutors, was wined and dined, had my own private art collection, access to some of the finest treasures of Europe -“ Steele caught himself before he let slip just what that access had netted him. 

“It sounds too good to be true,” remarked the psychiatrist, rubbing his chin skeptically. 

“There was a downside, of course. The regimented lifestyle drove me mad and some of it was dead boring. The speeches, the state dinners, the cricket matches.” Steele suppressed a yawn. “The interminable photo shoots and interviews for ‘Hello’ magazine and ‘Horse and Hounds’.  To this day I have an allergic reaction to grouse shooting. And horoscopes.”

“Allergies are a little out of my line,” Sobel deadpanned.

“I began to feel rather at home in the prince’s polished boots.  I knew that I wasn’t tied down to it for a lifetime so I kicked up my heels a bit. I think that deep down my, err, that is, the prince’s subjects, and the press began to suspect something. Despite one’s training, one could only keep up the charade in fits and starts.” Steele smiled at the memory. “Oddly enough, honor was satisfied. The press conveniently ignored the rumors of a switch in exchange for six months of a raucous good time and some lively copy, and the citizenry lapped it all up with a spoon.” 

All things considered the deception had a very profitable run, and Harry and Daniel had made a sizeable dent in the royal household’s coffers. After the tour of duty was up, they departed for London with one of the aforementioned art treasures and slipped back into relative obscurity, skins intact. 

“It plays like a movie with a happy ending. Hard to believe the press would sit on a story like that.”

“I’m sure some money changed hands discreetly. I’m not free to discuss the details,” Steele replied with an airy wave. 

“Your stint in government service sounds a bit more romantic than I pictured it.”

Steele gave a short laugh. ”The whole truth can be so tedious.” Steele was struck by the realization that his real former profession was not so different. “My work was a very oddly syncopated business, really. Danger one minute, utter boredom the next. 

Sobel looked thoughtful. “It’s not as uncommon a situation as you think. Soldiers suffer from a similar affliction. Bouts of sheer terror, followed by months encamped with not much to fill the day but homesickness, drills, and exercise.”

Steele regarded him speculatively. “You sound as though you speak from experience. You were in the war?”

“Korea.” After brief instant of eye contact Sobel’s gaze returned to his clipboard. 

Steele was curious to know more but there was a heavy weight of finality in that single word that conveyed that the subject was closed. He was left with the distinct feeling he’d been talking through his hat and maybe government service was quite another thing altogether. 

“I take it you didn’t have typical nine to five assignments?” Sobel queried.

That was putting it mildly, Steele thought. “I’d call it, ah, freelance work for the most part. The hours were . . . variable. Rather dark business at times, skulking around street corners. After sensible people have gone to bed.” 

“I imagine that a detective agency is a bit more regular.”

“Not always. Miss Holt and I do our best work after five: in the cramped space of a car during a stakeout, turning on a lamp or a torch and disturbing the occasional murder victim -“

“I don’t mean to suggest you keep strictly to banker’s hours but I imagine the business day conventions have to be observed, to accommodate clients, and so forth.”

“You have a point, doctor. The daily grind has taken some getting used to.” Steele had a sudden, unsettling vision of himself in a gray flannel suit with attached briefcase.

“I don’t think I’m reaching here to suggest that might be contributing to your sleep problem. A shift in work habits does require a mental and physical adjustment. I am curious as to why it took this long to catch up to you. I mean, the agency has been open for some years, hasn’t it?”

Steele silently cursed the inconvenience of having a psychiatrist who was no fool. He skirted the issue as adroitly as he could. “Miss Holt handles the day to day operations. She’s been with me since the beginning. My own role is somewhat harder to define . . .” Steele trailed off, searching his phrase book for le mot juste. 

“That’s not atypical of most CEO’s,” Sobel replied sardonically.

“The arrangement is a bit unusual, you see. After I made a name for myself in, ah, government service I was eager to parlay that into a more -- settled line of work. You might say I provided the agency with the trappings of success: a well respected name, a ready made reputation for discretion and resourcefulness -“

“Sort of like a creating a franchise.”

Understanding passed between the two men like a secret code. “That’s it precisely, doctor,” Steele pronounced, feeling a weight suddenly lift from his shoulders. 

“Customers know what they’re getting. Operations hum along smoothly courtesy of your experienced staff -“

“I see you have a firm grasp of the concept. To be perfectly frank, Miss Holt has the formal training as a detective. I had to learn the ropes as I went.”

“Difficult adjustment?”

“Less than you might suppose. Miss Holt is remarkable, truly. A most excellent teacher, though in some areas her education is sadly lacking.”

“That surprises me. Isn’t she a Stanford graduate?” Sobel interrupted.

Steele felt moved to expound on the pedagogical problem. “We’ll be embarked on the demanding last leg of a case, et voila! The puzzle pieces begin to fit; I offer a solution so daring, yet unassailable in its logic that Agatha Christie would envy it. But to Laura Holt I might as well be speaking a foreign language.”

“I’m a little confused myself.”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I find much of my crime solving inspiration is drawn from the cinema. For instance, if I say to you a conspiracy is afoot just like the one between Robert Walker and Farley Granger in ‘Strangers on a Train’ why, you’d get my full meaning immediately.”

Sobel nodded in understanding. “It is a useful form of shorthand.”

“To you and me, perhaps,” Steele replied, “but to my associate, it’s bloody Sanskrit.”

“It does come in handy when I work with actors,” Sobel affirmed. “If I tell them they’re in danger of becoming scopophilic, chances are I’ll get a blank stare until I say, “look what kind of trouble Jeff Jeffries got into in ‘Rear Window.’” 

“Scopophilic?”

“One who takes undue pleasure or stimulation from looking.”

Steele’s mind wandered for a moment. “I’ve been guilty of that a time or two myself.” 

“Cinematic inspirations aside, I imagine some of your previous ‘licensed troubleshooting’ expertise would come in handy.”

Unwittingly, Steele mused, the doctor had struck a sore point. His natural instincts and talents, unlicensed as they truly were, had hardly been used to the full. Who at the agency could claim a more first hand knowledge of crime? Some things, he reflected, were better learned from the inside out. “Not as handily as I’d expected,” Steele sighed. “I feel like a fifth wheel at times.” 

Sobel pondered Steele’s predicament. “A client would expect Remington Steele to have all the answers.”

“Having a ready supply can be tricky. Sometimes it’s as though I’m on stage waiting for a prompting from the wings.” Steele smiled slightly, thinking of the Havenhurst reunion, and Laura, between eye rolls, whispering stratagems into his ear.

“Even JFK needed a good speechwriter.”

“I remember once Miss Holt and I were trapped one weekend trying to solve a murder in a houseful of detectives.” 

‘”Murder by Death.’ Peter Falk, David Niven, Alec Guinness, et al, Columbia Pictures, nineteen, um -“

“Seventy six.” Steele supplied, smiling in delighted appreciation. “Excellent doctor. The Lionel Twain of the piece was one Alan Grievey, head of the Havenhurst detective agency.”

“So that’s where the roomful of detectives came in.”

Steele nodded. “It was a reunion of sorts. Miss Holt was so sure I would be unmasked as a neophyte in the sleuthing game that she hid my invitation.” 

“Not exactly a vote of confidence.”

“She needn’t have worried. It all went swimmingly. You see, it’s not solely a matter of having clues and facts at one’s fingertips; any Cordon Bleu graduate can assemble a meal’s ingredients. The master chef knows the difference is in the presentation. One must have flair, confidence, élan. To continue the cooking analogy, by the end of it I had the detectives eating out of the palm of my hand.”

“That must have been gratifying.”

“Well, Miss Holt did a bang up job supplying the ingredients but I turned them into a banquet. Did I mention that the clue that broke the case came from a movie? Pity one’s inspirations are so rarely acknowledged.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Your press clippings would indicate otherwise.”

“Miss Holt is rarely as fulsome in her praise as the ‘LA Tribune,’” Steele said acerbically.

“Do you miss it? Your life before you started Remington Steele Investigations?”

Steele’s brow furrowed. He’d never been given to soul searching but he felt the question merited a thoughtful answer. He wondered if it were possible to halve his existence so neatly; despite Laura’s restraining hand, the art of dissembling still came as naturally to him as breathing. It was certainly novel to be on the right side of the law for a change, but there were times he wondered if his role playing as Remington Steele was all that different. 

“It’s hard to say, doctor. You describe it to someone and it sounds glamorous, exciting. It can be rewarding when things go according to plan.” Steele paused, weighing his words carefully.  “The element of risk nags at you after a while; the need to prepare for every contingency, identities failing, being found out. You can never quite relax, or feel at home.” 

“You were speaking in the present tense,” Sobel observed, raising an eyebrow. “Do you feel more at home these days? Here in Los Angeles?”

Sobel took off his glasses and Steele could feel the doctor’s eyes on him. He felt the urge to be as noncommittal as possible. “Oh, a few weeks ago, on a good day, I might have said yes.”

“But now you’re not so sure.”

“If only I could sleep on it,” Steele quipped, brows drawing together quizzically. “Things here do seem to be coming apart in a rather spectacular fashion.” 

“I can understand how you feel.” Sobel glanced at his watch, unsure the time left in the session was sufficient to cover more new ground.  “We still have a lot to talk about, and the hour is getting away from us. Why don’t we explore that territory in detail in the next session?”

Steele exhaled audibly as relief swept through him. He suddenly felt spent, sapped of energy, as if he’d run a marathon.

“In the meantime I’m going to give you some aids that may help you ‘sleep on it.’ Breathing exercises.” He got up and handed Steele several clipped sheets of paper. “You might be interested to know that these relaxation techniques are commonly taught in acting classes. Robert De Niro swears by them.”

“Strange. He never seems very relaxed.” 

Sobel shot him a look of mild disapproval.

“A little levity, doctor.”

“You’re suppressing again.”

“I’m never more serious than when I’m joking,” Steele replied with an air of perfect gravity. 

“A rather neat Lacanian paradox.”

“If you say so.”

“Jacques Lacan studied linguistic opposites and their role in revealing the unconscious -“ 

Steele held up a hand in a restraining gesture. “That’s quite alright, doctor. I’m not sure I want it explained to me.” 

Sobel shrugged. “Come to think of it, maybe your paradox was more Groucho Marx.”

“Ah. Now we understand each other.” 
 
 

Really, Miss Holt. Our session was confidential. I’m beginning to think you’ve spent far too much time looking through keyholes.” 

“Occupational hazard.” Laura admitted with a frown, twisting a lock of chestnut hair around her finger. She was sitting in Steele’s desk chair, shoes off, legs stretched out, tired feet luxuriating in the softness of the carpet. 

Steele circled around the desk, admiring the view offered by Laura’s choice of a conservatively hued but rather daringly short skirt. “I’d love to satisfy your curiosity,” he mused, “but only if I can do it from a horizontal position.”

“I hope you didn’t spend the whole time making flip remarks.”

“There’s a multi-syllable word for that. In the Freudian lexicon.”

Laura’s jumped to her feet and squared off combatively. “I knew you wouldn’t be serious. The most sought after, and need I remind you, most expensive psychiatrist in LA and you spend the session cracking jokes!”

“In layman’s terms it’s called wit. I found it very therapeutic. Especially the word association.”

“I thought you weren’t good at word association.”

Steele began a dialogue with himself. “It was child’s play.” 

“Bed . . . . . . Laura Holt. Couch . . . . . . Laura Holt. Elevator . . . . . . Laura Holt. The top of Mount Fuji in a snowstorm . . . . . . Laura Holt.“ 

“Really, Mr. Steele -“ Laura began.

“One has to keep warm somehow.” Steele grinned back at her shamelessly. “Where was I? Oh, yes . . . cigar . . . Cohiba Esplendidos.”

Laura did a double take.

“Well, as Freud said, ‘sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’ You should try it sometime.”

“Cigars?”

“Word association.”

“You must be joking.” 

“Suppressing, Laura. Suppressing. Come now, it’s easy. I’ll start you off.” Steele clasped his hands behind his head and thought for a moment. “Staff . . . . . . Mr. Steele,” he prompted.

Laura raised an eyebrow. “That’s a first. You admitting you’re just an employee.”

“Laura.” He lounged against the desk. “You’re not entering into the spirit of the exercise. Think Freudian. Allow me to demonstrate.” Steele began his recitation, an impish gleam in his blue eyes. “Staff . . . . . . Mr. Steele. Long sword . . . . . . Mr. Steele. Scepter . . . . . .   Mr. Steele. Fire hose . . . . . . Mr. Steele. Really enormous -” 

“There’s a psychological term for that, too,” Laura interrupted, not failing to notice that with each innuendo her partner was closing the distance between them. It was time to put a damper on his enthusiasm. “It’s called wish fulfillment,” she said smugly. 

Steele was undeterred.  “Wish fulfillment, eh? Mine? Or yours?” A shudder of anticipation ran down her spine as the challenge was murmured into her left ear.

Laura willed her arms not to twine around his neck, her body not to melt against his. “Mr. Steele, I wish you would -“

A kiss stopped her breath. She wasn’t sure whose lips made contact. A well timed switch was thrown and her pent up emotions -- desire, fear, and worry -- combusted in a gasping, clutching minute of pleasure that sent her resolve to keep her distance flying out the window. 

A shirt button hit the floor as, aching to draw his lips back to hers, she pulled at Steele’s collar. After a mutual exchange of feverish kisses, Steele extricated himself from their embrace, tie askew, and declared an early victory. “I think you just answered my question,” he said, his breath becoming unsteady as Laura’s fingers slipped around his waist. 

“Not so fast, Mr. Steele.” One finger teased along the inside of his waistband while her free hand lightly grazed his hip. Steele drew back in surprise, not sure if the contact was accidental. He could feel the pressure building in his groin at the anticipation of where she might touch him next. Emboldened, his hands worked to pull Laura’s blouse free from her skirt. 

Buried in the dormant rational side of Laura’s brain was a frantically beeping danger signal that was gradually climbing to full volume. Mid-afternoon in the office was no place to play a game of “can you top this?” with Mr. Steele. Laura groaned aloud, half luxuriating, half panicking as his hand touched bare skin. 
The sound sent Steele over the edge; he was almost fully erect now, his form against hers, left hand inching across her rib cage.  In alarm, Laura stepped back, shoeless right foot landing on top of one of her forgotten pair of pumps. Off balance, she reached out awkwardly to steady herself; her right hand, aiming for her partner’s waist, grabbed his left buttock. 

The click of the door handle was lost in a haze of confusion and very nearly requited lust.

“Laura, here’s that file you asked for -“ Bernice Fox swept through the door, mouth gaping at the sight of the two of them, clothes disheveled, hands groping feverishly, bodies pressed together like sardines. 

Two pairs of eyes slowly swiveled in her direction.

“Miss Wolf -“

“Bernice -“

Hands dropped to sides, then clothing was frantically straightened. Steele’s face flushed as he noticed the brunette’s line of sight was momentarily riveted below his waist. He took the file from her outstretched hand for camouflage. He cleared his throat, feeling decidedly foolish standing there with a manila folder clutched strategically in front of him. “Thank you, Miss Wolf. You’ve done your usual bang up job.” 

“Thanks for nothing,” Bernice retorted, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “But I don’t think I’m the one who’s been doing the banging.”

Laura bit her lower lip and blushed a ripe shade of melon pink; Steele opened his mouth to reply but for the first time since he and the receptionist had crossed swords he could think of absolutely nothing to say. 

Bernice stood in the doorway, savoring the moment like a belated Christmas gift. “Warn me next time,” she drawled knowingly. “I’ll need some extra caffeine to steady my nerves.” She sauntered out, high on the oxygen of finally getting the last word. 

After a moment of stunned silence Laura made her escape. 

“Laura, where are you going?”

“Damage control,” she called out, grabbing her shoes and trying to slip into them without losing stride. Steele stared after her as she hopped-stepped through the office door, then he closed it quickly behind her. 

Bernice was re-applying her lipstick in the bathroom mirror when Laura appeared in her rear view. 

“I know what it looks like,” Laura began.

Bernice pursed her passion red lips experimentally. “Call me crazy, but it looks like you had your hand on his ass.”

“That was an accident,” Laura protested, then wondered if maybe it wasn’t. “Oh, god.” She squeezed her eyes shut, willing away a surge of panic. 

“Laura, you and Skeezix doing a striptease together is hardly a newsflash.”

“A striptease?” Laura spluttered.

“Yeah. Emphasis on the tease.”

“But I wasn’t -- he wasn’t -“ Laura groped for words. “I can’t explain it, Bernice. It just -- happened. I’ve been so worried about things, so on edge lately -“ 

Bernice fixed Laura with a no nonsense look. “When are you two going to stop torturing each other and get it over with? You can’t keep up this level of lust forever, you know. You’ll both go up in flames and it’ll be hell on the insurance rates.”

“I’m kidding myself,” Laura moaned. “I say I’m worried about his condition, but as long as his libido is functioning I’m perfectly willing to take advantage - “

“Laura, take it from Murphy. It’s impossible to take advantage of that guy. Anything you’ve thought of, he’s thought of first. And you know what portion of his anatomy he thinks with.”

Laura flushed, warmth spreading down to her toes at the memory of his anatomy pressed against her own. “I’m not quite sure where my brain was at that moment, either,” rubbing her brow with a wince. 

“You want my advice?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“The guy can’t sleep, right?” Bernice fluffed her curls with her fingers. “So sleep with him. You’ll be doing both of you a favor.”

Laura sighed wistfully.  “If only it were that simple.”

“Hey, life can’t be complicated all the time.  And if it doesn’t work, at least you’ll have scratched that itch of yours.” 

“I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too much.”  They made for the door and Laura headed back to Steele’s office.  “You’re not going in there are you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Unless you’re ready to relieve that itch, I think he might need a moment or two alone.”

“Oh,” Laura gasped, as understanding dawned.  “Uh, Bernice, maybe you’d better, um, hold Mr. Steele’s calls.”

“Sure,” Bernice smirked.  “As long as I don’t have to hold anything else.”

Laura tried and failed to repress a grin.  “You don’t think he’s really in there, well, uh, you know –“

Bernice weighed the odds. “Probably not, but if it makes you happy to think so, go ahead and fantasize. I won’t tell.”

After what Laura, if she were counting, might have thought of as a decent interval, Steele emerged from his office.  His usually immaculate appearance was intact, but only below the neck, his missing top shirt button making it impossible to wear a tie in a businesslike manner. 

“You wouldn’t by chance have a needle and thread?” he queried with a tinge of annoyance, the now superfluous length of foulard patterned silk hanging loose around his shoulders.

A bit chagrined, Laura thought for a moment. “Maybe in my office.” Steele followed as she went in to check. 

Laura poked around in the top drawer of her desk, managing to unearth a bright magenta spool of thread. “Will this do?”

“Nothing in basic white?” Steele sniped.

“I guess not,” Laura shrugged, after digging a little more and not finding anything useful. She shoved the spool back in the drawer, hoping Steele hadn’t seen the Charlotte Knight romance novel secreted in the back corner. 

“Really, Laura,” said Steele, peering over her shoulder. “You should learn to control these passions of yours or I’ll be left hanging by a thread.”

Laura spun toward him. “I should? What about your libido?” she protested with righteous indignation. Her thoughts flashed back to the game of word association. “You’re the one with the enormous -- everything!” 

“I was singularly inspired.” The look he gave her made her knees feel weak. “I’ll wager, so were you.”

Laura knew he wasn’t referring to the wordplay. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut?  She was not going to be dragged down that road. “Be serious,” she snapped. “Just because you’ve heard a few buzz words in a psychiatrist’s office doesn’t make you an expert on feminine psychology.”

“I don’t think psychiatry enters into it,” Steele replied with a superior smirk. ”That particular form of expertise is an art, not a science.”

“And I suppose you think you’re Michelangelo?” Laura sniffed.

“Raphael would be a more apt comparison. He knew his way around a lady’s boudoir.” 

Laura threw up her hands in disgust. “I can just imagine what you and Doctor Sobel talked about!”

“To be perfectly candid, your name surfaced quite often in the conversation,” Steele mused, rubbing his chin.

“You talked about me?” Laura blurted before she could stop herself.

“Well, I’m not sure how often. I lost track, really,” Steele replied vaguely. He remained straight-faced with an effort, barely able to refrain from grinning like a lottery winner at the thought of driving Laura crazy with curiosity. 

“Well, I hope you talked about something besides female psychology,” Laura groused. 

“Indeed. The good doctor was most interested to hear about my past history.”

Laura’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “But I thought you weren’t going to talk about -“ 

“How Remington Steele became Remington Steele? Relax. Your secret is safe as houses.” Steele patted her wrist soothingly, then glanced down quickly at his watch. “We’ll have to continue this conversation later. Must dash.” He strode briskly out of her office into the reception area. 

“Where are you going?” Laura called out as Steele headed for the suite’s doors.

“Home to change.”

Curse him for being so damned mysterious, Laura fretted, scowling in his direction.

Steele paused in the doorway, his expression innocent as a choir boy’s. “Don’t look so worried, Miss Holt. As far as Dr. Sobel is concerned I played it straight down the fairway.”

What did that mean? The only time he played anything straight, Laura told herself, was to set up for another shot.

As if reading her mind he replied, “As an arrow. Remington Steele’s official bio. Just as you suggested. Dr. Sobel found it quite -- revealing.”

That wasn’t very reassuring, Laura decided, as Steele strolled down the hallway and out of sight. Goosebumps pricked her bare arms and neck, though the office thermostat read a comfortable seventy-eight degrees. 

Steele loosened his tie, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably against the chair back. “Can you explain it, doctor? One minute, we were fighting, and the next -“

Sobel took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’ve come across this particular dream from a patient only once before.”

“You know what they say,” Steele remarked, to break the tension. “The dream sequence always rings twice.”

“Just twice if you’re lucky. You wouldn’t believe how many times I hear from people dreaming they showed up for work naked.”

“You sound rather bored by it. I take it Kathleen Turner never obliged you.”

Sobel put on his glasses. “’Fraid not.” 

Steele looked thoughtful. “This patient who had the same sexual fantasy. In the boxing ring. What did it mean in their case?”

“You really can’t generalize about these things,” said Sobel cautiously.

“Give me a clue, then.”

“You’re the detective. What do you think it means?”

Steele flashed the other man a look of irritation. “How should I know? I’ve had more fantasies about Laura Holt than I can count.”

“But there’s something that disturbs you about this one.” It was a statement, not a question.

Steele rubbed his forehead. “A little.” Now that he’d dropped his guard he wished the subject were closed. He expelled an anxious breath and continued. “It’s just that -- I didn’t pull this dream sequence out of nowhere. I’ve done some boxing before and it’s not a friendly sport.”

Sobel nodded. “As a socially sanctioned form of aggression I’d say it’s top of the list. But your dream doesn’t necessarily mean you wish to overpower your partner physically. The way you described it, she initiates the sexual act.”

Steele gave a short laugh. “Miss Holt would say that that’s a form of wish fulfillment. In my case, not hers.”

“Your fantasies could be closer than you think.” Sobel paused meaningfully. “You should also consider that your dream might not be just about sex. Sport has other connotations. Would you describe your relationship with Miss Holt as unusually -- competitive?”

Steele didn’t bother to deny it. “The staff have learned to keep their head down.”

Sobel scribbled in his notebook. “I’d call that a yes.”

“You know that song, ‘Anything you can do, I can do better’? That’s been our motto from the first,” Steele said, tugging his earlobe. 

“Relationships have been built on less.”

“It does seem to be the nature of the beast. You have to understand that a woman like Laura Holt is always running full tilt, trying to prove that she can be as macho as Sam Spade. The detective business is still a rather exclusive men’s club.”

“And you have nothing to prove to her?”

“On the contrary, I’m forever proving myself. But she pretends not to notice. If I were a lesser man, I’d be discouraged.”

“You say she pretends not to notice?”

“She must be, doctor. She’d have to be blind not to see it.”

“As a wise man once said, ‘a child of four could understand this. Run out and find me a four year old child.’” Sobel waggled an imaginary cigar.

“Groucho Marx in ‘Duck Soup’. Not bad, doctor.”

“A slight paraphrase, but you get the idea. Maybe the proof isn’t as plainly obvious as you think.” 

Steele rubbed his chin reflectively. “The more you explain it, the more complicated it gets.”

“It’s psychoanalysis. If it were easy, anyone could do it.” 

“At these rates I certainly hope not.”

“And a funny thing happened on the way to the subconscious.” Sobel calmly adjusted a sofa pillow behind his head. “There’s an emerging theory that holds that the dream state is a form of vigilance. In our evolutionary history we had to be prepared to fend off physical danger, to regain our mastery over our environment. In that sense all dreams are future oriented. ‘What’s out there and how do I respond to it?’”

“A form of vigilance, eh? That’s does rather take all of the fun out of it.”

“All part of the mix. You don’t think the sexual realm is rife with control issues?”

Steele winced at the truth of the statement. “With some partners more than others.”

“Your boxing scenario may be a vigilance response to a strong stimulus, and I don’t mean just a hormonal one. Think of your dream as a metaphor in motion. A fighter in the ring must be constantly on guard against the blows that are coming at him. Perhaps this represents a situation in your life you feel unprepared for, one that you fear will dominate you and exert control.”

“In my dream Laura Holt was in the dominant position. I admit I rather enjoyed it at the time -“

“These theories are not thoroughly proven, of course,” Sobel continued with a judicious air, “but it’s probably no accident that she was at the center of your dream. And with your competitive natures, I’m sure the issue of who’s on top, so to speak, is never far from your minds.”

“As a matter of fact, it, ah, came up yesterday. In the office.”

“Speaking of workplace issues, I want you to think for a moment about your associate, Miss Holt, how she manages the office, the caseload, the clients. What are some things that annoy you, drive you up the walls? Just say whatever comes to your mind.”

“Things that annoy me? About Miss Holt?” Steele glanced down at his watch. “Just checking the time, doctor. Don’t want to shortchange the subject.” Steele fidgeted in his chair, a spike of nervous energy animating his limbs.

“Is something wrong?”

“Can I get up, doctor? It’s easier when I move.”

“Suit yourself. Just don’t throw anything. I’m underinsured.”

Steele bounded to his feet and began to pace the carpet. “Where do I begin?  She’s overbearing, obstinate, opinionated, officious --“ Steele expostulated, waving his arms in frustration. “An