Authour's note: I would ,again, like to thank all of you who've given feedback. Thanks a bunch you don't know how much I appreciate it.
and without further ado Men of Steele part 8
Lexor Hotel
“OHHH…Mr. Steele that feels so good.”
Laura was in utter bliss. The sensations flooding her body had shut down most of her more cognitive brain functions. And she now lay, in a boneless heap, on the queen sized bed of their hotel suite.
All the years she and Remington had been married this was one of the many perks she’d enjoyed.
For with this one activity he had succeeded where others had failed—miserably. Laura could count on one hand the number of relationships she’d had before Remington, and she could honestly say that not a single one of them came even remotely close to what she had now. Speaking of now—“Ahh…I don’t think I’ve ever told you how good you are at this” Laura sighed, her auburn tresses pillowing out over the quilt.
Steele looked up, a slight twinkle of amusement in his eye “sure you’ve told me Laura, numerous times.” With a suggestive waggle of his brows he continued his ministrations.
“You know…ahhh…you must have perfected this…ohh…right there…on other woman before me. You’re lucky I’m not the jealous type.”
At this point Laura was beyond bliss, she was in some state of advanced nirvana—if that was possible.
Steeled stopped his actions, eliciting a slight whimper of protest from Laura, “Why Laura, are you suggesting that in my more youthful years I was no more then a common rake?” he stated in a mock serious voice.
Laura smiled “I would never insinuate such a thing, but you are VERY good at this.”
Satisfied, Steele continued, and Laura returned to her state of ecstasy.
For what felt like hours Laura, was in heaven. Floating amongst the clouds, she soared like an eagle above the landscapes of the earth. She could, in her minds eye, almost picture herself ascending to higher heights.No longer was she seeing the Great Pyramids or the Eiffel tower, but she could picture other galaxies, other universes even—shimmering brightly in the distance.
Her almost dream like trance was shattered however by the loud and obtrusive ringing of the telephone.
Steele looked up, “Who could that be?” he wondered aloud.
Laura sighed in defeat “It can’t be Trevainian. It’s only three thirty.” Reluctantly she reached for the phone cutting it off in mid-ring.
“Hello”
“Ms. Groggins?” the voice on the other end inquired.
God she hated that name. Why did Mr. Steele insist on using it every time they went undercover?
“Yes, this is Myrtle Groggins.”
She cringed internally; glaring daggers at Steele’s smiling face.
“This is the front desk. We were asked to call you in regards to a package left at the front desk.”
Her interest was sudddenly peeked “What package?” she asked.
“Someone named Cox left it at reception. Your room number was on it”
“Oh…of course-- that package we were expecting it, but not this soon.”
She looked up, intending to get Remington’s attention, but saw he’d already made his way over to the window. He was looking below to the early evening traffic with an almost nostalgic expression on his face.
“Hello? Ms. Groggins are you still there?”
“I’ll be down as soon as possible.” She said absently, and hung up the phone. standing she made her way over to Remington; she wrapped her arms around him from behind and sighed.
“I take it the hunt is on.” He said, eyes never wavering from the scene before him.
“Yeah” she replied a note of disappointment in her voice.
“What’s the matter? You seem a million miles away. Usually I have to beat you away from our cases with a stick.”
Steele smiled slightly “Just thinking about old times love.” He turned in her arms and kissed her temple slightly. “Shall we alight to the front desk?” he said, his jovial charm returning.
“I suppose we have no choice.” She sighed “My foot massage will just have to continue another day”
Remington chuckled “I told you not to buy those shoes—“he said, deftly avoiding a playful swipe on the arm from Laura. “Well I did, didn’t I?”
Laura could only shake her head; it didn’t escape her notice that he’d skillfully avoided her previous inquiry. She let it pass for now, but made a mental note to broach the subject again later.
“Come Laura” Steele said extending his arm “The game is afoot--“A Study in Scarlet” Reginald Owen, Warburton Gamble, 20th Century Fox 1933.” He rambled off without missing a beat.
“I was wondering how long it would be before you quoted an old movie.” Laura said dryly taking the offered arm.
“Like I always say Laura” Steele replied,opening the door of the suite, “there are no old movies, just classics.”
And out the door they went.
********
Lexor Hotel Lobby
Jason nervously reached into the pocket of his battered jeans. From their torn and ragged depths he retrieved a pack of cigarettes—only two left he observed, popping one into his mouth. Reaching into his lambskin leather jacket, the one thing he owned that he was proud of, he produced a sterling silver Zippo lighter. On the anterior side was an emerald green shamrock, with a menacing snake coiled protectively around it. On the back was a black spade; the words, “Is minic a gheibhean beal oscailt diog dunta!”—meaning: “an open mouth catches a fist” in galeic, where etched in gold beneath it.
Jason was a hardcore Irishman. Born in Dundrum, a stones throw from Dublin; he’d left home when he was only fourteen and had traveled, via cargo ship, to England. He spent the next ten years of his life in and out of trouble with the law for various offenses.
His specialty was lifting wallets; he was so good that he could lift from other pickpockets, and they would remain none the wiser. As his skilled improved and his “business” became more lucrative his confidence had grown, and so, unfortunately, had his carelessness. When he was only seventeen years old he had an encounter with Remington Steele, or as he was known then, Patrick O’Donnell—it had not ended well for Jason.
Thinking O’Donnell was just another “East Ender” out for a good time on a Saturday night; Jason decided to lift him as he crossed the street to Gary’s pub. As it turned out Jason actually ended up being lifted, and beaten, until he couldn’t stand.
With as much strength as he could muster he chanced a tentative glimpse at his assailant, and etched what he saw in his memory. He was surprised to see, a thin rakish boy no older then himself, glaring back at him. His coal black hair long around his face and collar, and steel blue eyes were haunted—looking,for all the world, like a child who was forced to grow up way to fast.
In an accent, easily recognizable to his trained ear as Irish mixed with White Chapel, O’Donnell spat at him “next time mate don’t mark someone who’s already marked you.” And, just as suddenly as he'd appered, he ran back into the wood work--not to be seen by Jason’s eyes for the next fifteen years.
Remarkably, the next time Jason had made contact with O’Donnell, they’d bumped into each other in LA. Of course Jason, recognized him immediately, but O’Donnell, now Steele, didn’t even give him a second glance. This made Jason all the more enraged; not only did Steele not remember him; he was a highly successful Private Investigator, and an international hero.
Though,suspiciously, photos of him were hard to come by Jason had spent hours at the public library combing though old issues of the LA times, and had finally hit pay dirt—“Remington Steele, and unnamed woman, solve yet another mind bending crime for the LAPD.” The headline made his blood boil. Where it not for the luck of the draw it could have been Jason standing there, smiling smugly at the camera’s; living it up in a swanky penthouse suite, and being revered world-wide as a great savior.
That’s why when he was contacted by Nigel four months ago about this job, he’d jumped at the opportunity.
This would be his chance to finally exact revenge for the injuries that had been dealt to him by this “Remington Steele”, or whatever his real name was.
And that was exactly the reason he was standing, or rather lurking, behind a large column in the lobby waiting for Steele to make an appearance.
Nigel knew nothing about his plan, and neither did the shadowy figure called “The Boss” he was indentured to. That was the way he intended to keep it; let them play their game, he would play his own.
They both thought they were so superior to him, Nigel and his phantom employer, and he’d let them think that for now. Because, just as Steele was about to get his, Nigel would be next—and then, on to the big fish.
**************
