Fred trudged up the stairs a respectful few paces behind, catching up with Steele at a landing. Taking his cue from his employer, he set down the box of wine bottles and ice and rolled his shoulders.

"Won't have to do this much longer, Mr. Steele."

"Five weeks, one day and a few hours Fred," he sighed, the relief audible in his tone. "No one will be happier than I." He shouldered his load of bags again. "Although I believe you'll be a close second, eh?" Steele smiled at him, their mutual dislike of stair climbing affirmed.

"Yes, sir," Fred said emphatically, picking up his box.

Steele started up the stairs, his imagination happily conjuring up images of an empty loft, with all of Laura's belongings safely packed on the moving van. That nice couple relocating from Fresno couldn't move in soon enough, as far as he was concerned. He stopped abruptly and turned. "I have an idea, old man."

"About what, sir?"

"I thought perhaps we could station ourselves on the sidewalk while those poor sods from the moving company negotiate these stairs. Wouldn't want to get in their way, would we?"

"I've got a couple of comfortable lawn chairs."

"And I've got a bottle of Roederer Cristal that I've been saving for the momentous day."

"I'll make sure the ice bucket is full." They grinned at each other.

Steele returned to his climb. Inwardly he shuddered at the thought of the moving process, and hoped that the piano would go on the truck first. He was not looking forward to being around Laura when her treasured gift was hauled down three flights of stairs. However skilled and experienced the movers, Laura would be a nervous wreck until the job was complete.

Thinking back on tougher times, Steele realized that a life without many possessions might have been more difficult from day to day, but it certainly was less complicated.

Setting aside his melancholy thoughts, his spirits were lifted by the expectation of an evening of culinary and other delights. He whistled a melody that had been drifting through his head since the morning. Maybe it was Gershwin, maybe it wasn't, but it suited his mood just the same. Tonight would be perfect, he thought. Phone off the hook, a willing Laura in his arms, a little Sinatra on the stereo - all of the ingredients were there - well almost all of them. Bloody market was out of chanterelle mushrooms and he'd had to substitute -

"Hey! Watch where you're goin,' road hog. It's two way traffic here." Steele and the grocery bag had hit something solid, straight on.

Though slightly dazed from the impact, Steele had no trouble recognizing the obstacle. It was Laura's neighbor and sometime nemesis, Nestor Bartholomew, squinting up at him through wire-rimmed glasses.

"Sam Spade. I shoulda known. Don't try to pull any rough stuff. I got friends in this town." Fred took a protective step forward but was halted by Steele's outthrust elbow.

"Why, Nestor. You never fail to surprise. Joined a support group, have you? Grinches Anonymous?" Steele grinned wolfishly at the man's sour expression but his sense of triumph was short lived as he realized that the prime ingredient of his pasta sauce was now littering the stairwell.

Bartholomew picked up one of them and inspected it. "What are these things? They look like something growing in a science lab." He squinted at the label on the cardboard container. "Morals?"

"Morels, Nestor, morels. Wild mushrooms. Accent on the second - never mind."

"Whatever. You and that floozy in 3-A could use some. Morals, I mean. From the sound of things she's having some wild party up there."

This unexpected news upset Steele's equilibrium a fraction but it would be bad form to show it. "She decided to start without me, eh?" Steele nudged Bartholomew with his elbow. "What's a few loose morels between friends?" He smiled winningly. "Care to join us?"

"They'll be making snow angels in hell first."

"Give them my regards."

"Pervert."

"Coward."

"For a big shot detective, you're not too smart. Creating a hazard like this in the stairwell. You'll be hearing from my lawyers. Putnam, Bailey and Richards. I think this is yours." He handed Steele a tomato and glared at Fred. "Outta my way, Kato." Steele stared after him as Bartholomew stalked back to his apartment and slammed the door.

Steele smiled tightly. "So much for the perfect salad course. I'll have to improvise." Fred picked up the stray edibles and tossed them in a nearby trash bin. All things considered, the damage had been minor. As much as he relished these little tête-à-têtes with Nestor, he'd reserved the evening for better things. What had the man meant by that remark about "wild parties?" Probably just his usual paranoid ramblings, he decided.

By the time Steele reached the landing outside apartment 3-A, he knew something didn't feel quite right. He knocked on the door and realized the floor was vibrating under his feet. The metal door was humming in rhythm. Now perhaps he had found the source of the music that had greeted their arrival in front of the building. He looked at Fred quizzically. The stereo speakers were obviously going full tilt, but from his vantage point it was simply noise. The second hand crawled by on his Rolex while he waited for Laura to answer the summons. Fred propped his burden against the wall.

"La-a-u-ura, the lettuce is wilting," he whined, hammering on the door and giving it a kick for good measure. "Damn, this is useless," he muttered to Fred, checking his shoes for scuffs. He was about to give up and make a forced detour to the fire escape when the door slid open and Laura stood there, looking slightly annoyed.

"Mr. Steele. Running late, as usual." She motioned him inside with an impatient wave.

"Hello, Fred," she said pleasantly. "I'll take that."

"Are you sure, Miss Holt? It's pretty heavy."

"Not a problem. See you Monday?"

"Yes, ma'am. Have a good weekend. I'll get the door."

Laura followed Steele to the kitchen and dropped her load next to his. "I see you're wearing your new Rolex."

"It keeps perfect time. For example, it took exactly 4 minutes and 12.8 seconds for you to answer the door. What on earth is that racket?" Steele's ears registered something very loud and orchestral and naggingly familiar. "I thought perhaps the Los Angeles Philharmonic had taken up residence."

"Close, but no cigar. 'Shostakovich Symphony no. 5 in D minor,' Opus 47. Finale. Leonard Bernstein, New York Philharmonic, Columbia Records, 1959.'"

Shostakovich - 5th Symphony - Finale

"Impressive, Miss Holt, but that's no reason for not answering the door."

"You can't convict, Mr. Steele. I'm 'taking the Fifth.'"

"Good Lord. First the hearing goes, then the mental faculties. I think the sense of humour is the next casualty. Could you turn down the volume before it gets contagious?" Steele crossed to the sofa and sat down, trying to angle his body away from the speakers.

Laura complied, rattling on with enthusiasm. "Isn't it thrilling? So powerful, so kinetic." She picked up a record sleeve and curled up next to Steele on the sofa. "According to the album liner notes Shostakovich's 5th is the great unanswered question. Is it anti-heroic or heroic, political protest or - "

"As soon as my ears stop ringing, I'll venture an opinion."

"You're on Mr. Steele."

For a long moment Steele listened in a meditative pose, fingers to his temples. "Well Laura I think I can safely say, without fear of contradiction that it sounds very, um, very ---Russian."

Laura put down the record sleeve and stifled a laugh. "That's your considered opinion, Mr. Steele?"

"It also sounds very familiar but I can't quite place it." Steele rubbed his forehead, lost in thought. He leapt to his feet, inspired. "I've got it. 'Battleship Potemkin', Sergei Eisenstein, Grigori Aleksandrov, Mosfilm, 1925. The great silent film classic, of course. I'm almost sure of it. That music wasn't written for the film but added later. Various rousing bits. Depends on the print. If you had a spare copy lying around we could pop it in the VCR and see which -"

"Does a piece of music have to be a backdrop for a movie to get your attention?"

"Laura, aren't you the least impressed that I recognized this masterpiece of yours? I have to rely on something. A picture is worth a thousand -"

"I am. Impressed, I mean. There's hope for you, Mr. Steele. Musically speaking."

Steele smiled broadly, immensely pleased with himself. He rejoined Laura on the sofa and lounged against the cushions, curling an arm around her shoulder. "I'm relieved to hear it. Frankly, I'm relieved to be able to hear anything after that ear splitting rendition but -"

"Ear splitting?" Laura pulled away from him. "How many times have you dragged me to film festivals full of sound and fury, Mr. Steele? Combat, natural disasters, gunfire, murder and mayhem? 'John Ford's America: the World War II Years? 'Apocalypse Wow: the Hollywood Disaster Film,' 'Sam Peckinpah: Blood and Bullets?'"

"I'll admit, Peckinpah's 'The Wild Bunch' isn't for the squeamish but disaster films can be a climactic, roller coaster ride. Remember that revival screening of 'Earthquake' we went to with SenSurround sound? A forgotten piece of cinematic history."

"Victoria Principal running around in an afro wig is historic?"

"Well, yes, absolutely, in a 70's time capsule sort of way. Speaking of historic decades, what's wrong with World War II and John Ford? Wasn't it one of your American generals who said 'war is hell?'"

"Hah! I've heard that phrase before. The night you blew out the left speaker on your big screen TV playing 'Tora, Tora, Tora.'"

"But Laura, to experience the invasion of Pearl Harbor and Kurosawa at less than full volume would be -"

"Sensible?"

"At least I don't have the neighbors up in arms. Your Mr. Bartholomew, for one."

"Up in arms? I haven't heard any complaints."

"One doesn't usually until the local plod, otherwise known as LA's finest come knocking on the door."

"It's your neighbors who should be calling the police, not mine. I'm not the one who watches old movies all hours of the night. What about that little old lady next door to you? Must drive her batty."

"Mrs. Velasco? Deaf as a post." Steele smirked.

"The guy across the hall, the air traffic controller?"

"Works the night shift."

"The fashion model?"

"Plays Jane Fonda workout tapes in the wee hours. No one's complaining, though. Sometimes she's clothing optional."

"Now how do you know that, Mr. Steele?"

"What about your neighbor the nude saxophonist?"

"Got a bigger horn. Switched from tenor to bari sax. He's pretty well covered these days. Well, unless the angle's just right."

Steele did an involuntary double take at her words. "I'm all for music appreciation, Miss Holt but I think you're taking a few too many notes."

"As they say in the parlance, Mr. Steele, he didn't measure up. Of course, one runs across the occasional exceptions." She ran one thumbnail lightly down the front of Steele's shirt, stopping just shy of the zipper of his pants. "The instrument of a true artist requires very close study."

Steele raised an approving eyebrow, drawing closer until his warm lips barely grazed her earlobe. "Music to my ears, Miss Holt."

"I suppose I could be persuaded to do a bit of research later this evening. In the interests of art." She murmured the words against his shoulder.

"A noble sentiment. Mmm." Steele pulled away with reluctance and rose to his feet. "Speaking of artistic endeavors, I need to get started on dinner."

Laura sprang up and led the way. "It's all yours, Mr. Steele. Whenever you're ready."

"That sounds more like a dare than an invitation. No doubt a reference to the state of your kitchen. It's only fit for primitive man."

"Primitive man? How primitive are we talking here, Mr. Steele? Neanderthal?" Laura turned and took a step towards him, holding his attention. "Homo habilis?" she grabbed fistfuls of his striped braces and jerked him to her before whispering into his lips, "Or Homo erectus?"

The proximity was too much. His arms enveloped her. Instinctively their bodies pressed tightly together and they kissed passionately; a kiss that became more erotic in its intensity. Steele groaned as her hips moved gently and rhythmically against his. Finally, he lifted his head and whispered, "Dinner."

Laura smiled up at him. "Hungry?"

"Ravenous."

"Me too. Think you can handle my appetite tonight?"

He released her from his embrace and quirked an eyebrow. "I'm sure I'll rise to the challenge."

She idly stroked his chin. "I'm sure I'll relish it."

"Indeed." Steele pecked her forehead. He removed his long, white apron from its hook and tied it around his waist.

"I went by Rossmore while you and Fred were out and picked up a few items. Some assorted Bourgeat cookware, your set of Wusthof chef's knives -"

Steele stared at her in genuine surprise and delight. "Laura, I'm moved beyond words. I promise you tonight's dinner will be worthy of the gesture."

"Share and share alike, Mr. Steele."

The symphony thundered to its conclusion. Not daring to be too obvious, Steele kept his sigh of relief to himself and announced eagerly, "The sooner I get started the sooner we eat, eh?"

Laura helped Steele unpack the groceries and set them out on the counter.

"Looks interesting," she commented, looking over the variety of ingredients before her. "What's on the menu?"

"A symphony of Italian delights," he proclaimed exuberantly. Hooking his arm around her, Steele brought her bare forearm to his lips. He kissed it with exaggerated relish, traveling from elbow to wrist. "Mmmm. Antipasti, primi, secondi, dolcei -"

"Sounds delicious."

"That you are, Miss Holt." He nibbled her fingers.

"I was talking about dinner."

"Ah. A close second."

"Care to translate, Mr. Steele?"

"Bowtie pasta with morel cream sauce, roasted asparagus with wild mushrooms, Tournedos Rossini, balsamic strawberries with mascarpone cheese -"

"Did you say Rossini?"

"Is something the matter?"

"Not at all."

"You'll find this dish a most inspirational choice, I assure you."

How right you are, Mr. Steele, Laura mused, with a secret smile.

"The cuts I've selected for our Tournedos Rossini would make Escoffier green with envy. Filets mignons fit for royalty." Steele seasoned the splendid cuts of beef and gave them a last admiring glance before storing them in the fridge.

"A culinary classic in the making."

"It will be, Miss Holt, it will be. And lest we forget, the perfect wine for our venture into la buona cucina - a well aged 'Vietti Brunate Barolo.'" He presented the wine bottle label out with a flourish. I decanted it several hours earlier - de rigeur with a fine Barolo Riserva. It needs to breathe properly to be at its best."

"I'm the one that's breathless, Mr. Steele. Everything sounds fabulous. Anything I can do to help?"

"You could put the foie gras in the refrigerator. Riding around in the limo boot didn't do it any good."

Laura did as he asked and then put the ice in the freezer.

"I've had a bit of stage fright about trying this dish but the sommelier at Spoleto's was very accommodating. After I relieved him of that fine Barolo and put a sizeable commission in his pocket he gave me something quite valuable in return."

"What did he give you?"

"A small but potent container of Chef Bartolo's marvelous beef stock. Now that I have that essential ingredient without having to sweat for it we're well on the way to reproducing Rossini's favourite dish in grand style."

"I almost hear music, Mr. Steele."

Steele washed and sorted the morels and the salad ingredients and drained them. He pulled out a cutting board and chef's knife and began to slice off the mushroom stems with quick, precise strokes.

Laura watched him work, his shirtsleeves rolled up, long fingers curved firmly around the knife handle. His ease in the kitchen would once have made Laura envious, but repeat performances over many nights like this had given cooking a comfortable feeling of intimacy.

Steele cut several slices of thick white bread into octagonals and heated some oil in a large sauté pan. An intoxicatingly earthy aroma began to fill the air.

"That smells absolutely incredible. What is it?"

"Truffle oil. Have I weakened your defenses yet?"

"You're getting there, Mr. Steele."

Steele placed the bread slices in the pan and browned them lightly. He removed them and took the filets mignons from the fridge. After adding more oil, he turned up the heat slightly and began to sauté the filets. He set some water to boil for the pasta course.

"Anything else I can do to help?"

Steele dusted his hands against each other. "Everything's under control here. What about some more music?"

"OK. Let's see what I can find." She started to leave the kitchen but stopped when Steele reached for her arm.

"Actually, I was hoping you'd play something on the piano."

A lightning quick flash of stage fright surged through Laura and her first impulse was to refuse. As much as she loved to play the piano, as time permitted, it was always for herself and her personal enjoyment. The idea of someone listening to her play brought back memories of high anxiety as she waited her turn to perform at childhood piano recitals. At age 13 she had promised herself that when she grew up, she wouldn't allow anyone to subject her to that kind of stress again.

"You want me to play?"

Steele noted the anxiety in her voice and put his arms around her. "Yes, I think it would be a wonderful accompaniment to dinner preparation."

"I haven't practiced for awhile."

"No matter. Whatever you select will be delightful, I'm sure." He kissed her cheek and went back to work.

Laura crossed the loft and opened the long black bench. She reminded herself that she probably would not find a more receptive listener than Steele. A few months ago they had finally broken down one of the major barriers between them; perhaps he could help her overcome this mental barrier as well.

"Something energizing, or something relaxing?"

Steele looked up from his cutting board. "Something relaxing, I believe. George Mulch at 4:00 on a Friday did nothing for my stress level."

Laura laughed. "If you hadn't let Mildred go home early today, she could have stopped him at the drawbridge."

"A drawbridge is a capital idea. Better hire a few dragons for good measure. Brave Sir George is tilting at some very dicey windmills these days. Care to hear his latest scheme?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"Actually, it's partly my fault. I bumped into Mr. G. E. M. Productions at that Lubitsch film fest last week. The credits were rolling after 'To Be or Not To Be' when he tapped me on the shoulder. Of course I wondered why he was there, then I reasoned, what more could he do to Ernst Lubitsch, Jack Benny, and Carole Lombard? They're all dead."

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

"Well, I thought in fairness to those dearly departed I needed to get his mind off using their famous names for some kitchen gadget. I did a quick segue from old movies to old cases and we ended up talking about 'Chef Gaston's Instant Gourmet Dinners.' Unfortunately my well intentioned digression merely inspired him further."

"I'm still waiting for the punchline."

"Can you grant me absolution first?"

"Granted."

"A line of frozen entrees. '60 Minute Meals.' Just the thing to digest during your weekly news digest. George is trying to line up endorsements from the newshounds at '60 Minutes.' Andy Rooney's Cheese and Macarooni Bake. Mike Wallace's Mixed Grilled Favorites. Diane Sawyer's Steak Diane. And from the wine cellar - Harry Reasoner's Reisling."

"What happened at the pitch meeting? Did they put a cork in him or grill him first?"

"As George tells it Andy Rooney rather liked the idea. Plain speaking, plain food, that sort of thing. Harry wanted a beer named after him. Diane, unfortunately, is a vegetarian."

"What about Mike Wallace?"

"He was a bit steamed. I expect a camera crew to show up at George's flat any day now."

Laura turned from the piano and stared at him, worry crinkling her brow. "You didn't invest any agency funds in this hare-brained scheme did you?"

"Laura, you cut me to the quick. How could you suggest such a thing?"

"Forgive me, Mr. Steele. I should have known you'd never risk the agency's good name on such -"

"The agency? It's my good name that matters here. Remington Steele - culinary artist, paragon of taste, bon vivant - backing such a flash in the pan enterprise? Freeze dried food? Macaroni and cheese?" Steele turned the filets mignons over and began to scrape the pan with a bit more energy than was necessary.

"As I recall, when we were on that case in San Francisco a certain paragon was more than willing to eat a chili dog."

"You're hardly playing fair, Laura. A starving man will force most anything past his lips."

Laura tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing, really. Just the thought of Remington Steele, bon vivant, on the cover of 'Tomorrow's Food' eating a chili dog with onions."

"Well, I'm sure I could appease your taste buds with something of the fast food variety. I'll just whistle for Fred, hop in the limo, locate the nearest drive thru window - "

"Don't you dare, Mr. Steele. I want you in top form tonight."

"Well then, play something wonderfully soothing to the ear, Miss Holt, and I promise the chef will stimulate the palate." Steele added the pasta to the pot and began to prepare the side course of asparagus, shallots and mushrooms.

"I'll do my best."

Laura rummaged through her music and pulled out a few volumes. She flipped one of them open and mentally reviewed the music. Placing her hands on the keyboard, she began to play the simple, elegant chords.

Satie - Gymnopedie #1

Steele moved around quietly in the kitchen, trying to keep his lid rattling to a minimum. He stopped for a moment to watch Laura play, her expression relaxed, and a feeling of contentment flooded over him. What better way to unwind from a stressful week then for him to be buzzing about in the kitchen with Laura, apparently lost in thought, providing background music?

He thought with satisfaction, and not for the first time, about the many days to come when he could have this same feeling, when he and Laura would move into the house in Silverlake they had both agreed was perfect.

The only cloud in his sky was the promise to Laura, made under some duress, that he'd keep Abigail out of the loop. Laura had made it very clear to him that her mother would be told everything about the small private wedding she was planning for next month in McCollum Park, when she was ready to tell her. In her own good time. After it was over.

The ancient dance came to an end and Laura opened the next book. Now a slow, smoky jazz melody filled the loft.

Gershwin - Prelude #2

Steele placed the side dish ingredients in a shallow roasting pan and put them in the oven. He came over to the piano and sat next to Laura, his back to the keys.

Laura continued to play, studiously avoiding eye contact with him. As she came to the end, she played the last chord and reached for the final bass note at the far end of the keyboard. After she released the sound, Steele took advantage of her position and pulled her left arm around his waist, looping his own arm around her waist.

"Somehow that sounded vaguely familiar, Laura."

Laura smiled and hummed a few bars of I've Got Plenty of Nothin'.

"Ah, yes, the great George Gershwin."

"Did you know that old George like to compose in the nude?"

"You're joking, Laura."

"Kind of puts a new spin on things doesn't it?" Laura grinned and broke into song. "'The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea... the mem'ry of all tha-a-t -'"

"Laura, please. As much as I enjoy your singing I'd rather keep my memories of the man sacred if you don't mind. Let's call the whole thing off, shall we?"

"If you insist, Mr. Steele. I didn't think George would object."

"Perhaps we should switch gears for a while. I'd love to hear you play something else. It will be a bit longer before dinner's ready."

Laura knew what she would play next, and she didn't need the music for this one. Whenever a personal or professional storm swirled around her, Laura could play this piece and be transported back to the night she had entered her newly furnished loft to find this magnificent instrument ensconced in her living room. Every time she looked at it Laura was reminded of how much Steele cared for her. Now as she played she thought about how much she cared for him.

Even though some might think the music melancholy and the chords monotonous and repetitious, Laura found it helpful in putting her mind back on its analytical path.

Chopin - Prelude in E minor

Laura pulled her arm back and Steele released his hold. She played without conscious effort, her gaze on a point somewhere far, far away. The music traveled from her memory to her fingers without any intervention from her thought processes.

Steele sat quietly next to her, noting her far away expression. Although he could not name the composer, he knew he had heard this music before, and vaguely recalled a specific time and place.

Laura came to the final measures, letting the last three chords sink in. When they had finished reverberating through the loft, she returned from her far off place.

"That was beautiful, Laura."

Laura blushed. "Thank you. That's probably my favorite piece." She smiled at him. "It's the first piece I ever played on this piano."

Flashes of recognition leapt through Steele's mind as he was suddenly reminded of that specific time and place, in fact the very night that he had stood on the sidewalk outside the warehouse, concern about her safety foremost in his mind.

Steele forced a neutral expression. "Really?" he replied, feigning ignorance.

Laura tolerated his bluff. "It's much too late to be coy with me, Mr. Steele. You got me through some of my darkest days when my house was blown up. I didn't have anyone else to turn to, and you were right there. I couldn't believe it when I came in that night - I had to sit down and play to convince myself it was real. That I wasn't dreaming."

Remington sighed. "I know, I heard you," he confessed. "I had Fred bring me over here to make sure you were home safely."

Laura smiled and put her arms around him. "And I appreciate it. Somehow I had a feeling you were down there. After all you had done for me, I knew you wouldn't have just left me alone in this suspect neighborhood. I figured you were hanging around."

She kissed him, smiling to herself as she thought through the scheme she had planned for tonight. Well, maybe scheme wasn't the best word - perhaps scenario. Since she had replaced her ancient stereo with a state of the art system installed by Monroe's workers, she had been enjoying her music collection and the acoustical advantages of her high-ceilinged loft as often as possible. After an evening with the instructional manuals she had figured out how to record cassette tapes, and had made her own compilations of music for the car.

Acting on a flash of inspiration that had hit her while showering one morning, Laura hoped that Remington would be as receptive to her plan as she assumed he was. Of course, it was never a good idea to assume anything with Mr. Steele, but she was willing to try. A previous evening chez Steele had convinced her that he was in dire need of her intervention...