"And then I'll make a few remarks, there'll be applause, applause, applause, and then," he said, picking up a tiara, "I will crown our Homecoming Queen."

The Queen stooped so he could place the crown on her head as Remington Steele climbed up the stage area, yelling, "It's her!"

He arrived just in time to grab her arm. Jillian jolted, threw off his hand, pushed the Dean out of the way, and tried to run only to have her way blocked by Laura and Murphy, who got to the stage just in time to grab her. Not seeing them, Steele jumped at her, causing everybody to fall into the balloons that were going to be released during the crowning ceremony.

"The earring," he said, sitting up.

"His sister," Laura stated.

"His sister?" he asked.

"Not just his sister," Jillian cried out. "Tom practically raised me when my parents split up. He was everything I had! The world! They murdered him!"

"So you decided to return the favor," Laura guessed.

"I'm sorry I didn't get them all."

"Spoken like a true ghost," Steele commented, rising. "Come on." He outstretched his hand to help Laura stand up and said, shining like a new coin, "I hope you'll like Paris, Laura."

She gasped.

The Agency's titular head was spending most of the time in his office behind the closed door, making arrangements for the trip. Whatever time he spent outside of his office, he looked like the cat that had swallowed a veritable flock of canaries.

Laura was icy calm and unperturbed on the outside, but nearly managed to send a wrong report to one of their clients. The mistake was discovered by Bernice just in time to prevent Murphy from finding out.

Murphy, on the other hand, was visibly on edge. He'd expected Steele to gloat openly and had even prepared a couple of jabs to retaliate, but during the entire week, Steele had barely said anything to him, and did even less, which only further irritated Murphy since he had nothing to blame his adversary for.

Entering Laura's office one day, he made sure all the doors were tightly closed and announced, "I'm gonna hit him, Laura!"

She lifted her eyes from the contract she was reading, but said nothing.

Murphy went on, "I will smash his face or break his leg or..." he stumbled, looking for a suitable way to eliminate the threat, or at least disable it... him... and permanently.

"Murphy," she said, rising up from her chair. "Stop it."

"Laura, it's not fair."

"What isn't?"

"We were in on it together; you shouldn't be the one paying the price!" he said passionately.

"Are you suggesting going to Paris with us?" she asked, genuinely surprised.

Murphy's face lit up. "I thought you'd never ask! Where are we staying?"

"I don't know, Murph. He's making reservations."

"And you let him...?"

"It's his weekend." Before he would start arguing again, she added softly, "Murphy, if he lost the bet, we'd have taken him up on his word, wouldn't we?"

"Laura, I'm worried about you!"

"I know. I can take care of myself," she said, still softly, but with a hint of metal in her voice.

"Not with him around!"

"Murphy!" Laura reproached, but it was already too late. He left, slamming the door behind.

"Relax, sport," she said, not in the least embarrassed by being caught almost with her ear pressed to the door. "It's not going to kill her." Before Murphy could say anything to the contrary, the receptionist added, "If she really didn't want to go, she would have found a way by now."

Murphy threw her an infuriated look and disappeared into his office.

Packing itself had never been a problem, but what had been driving her crazy the entire week was that she had no idea what he was up to. She had tried to ask him once, as nonchalantly as she could, what the itinerary would be. With a grin of self-satisfaction, he had assured her that there was no need to worry since he'd taken care of everything. And then, as if having read her mind, he had added with his most cunning smile, "I'm sure you'll stand out in anything you choose to wear."

And so, there she was, with her bed covered with various items of clothing and the empty suitcase in the middle.

With a deep sigh, Laura observed the mess she had created, both figuratively and literally. She still couldn't believe an arrogant amateur had managed to show up two experienced sleuths like Murphy and herself. And by seconds, by mere seconds! Laura ground her teeth in exasperation.

Choosing the right clothes was not the issue. She wouldn't need a lot for two days. Might as well take an extra outfit or two, something suitable for the swanky places Mr. Steele frequented. Even not having proper attire might not be that bad - she could always blame him for not informing her properly. Laura smirked at the prospect and moved her long, formal, off-the shoulders gown further away from the suitcase.

However, her avenging mood didn't last long. There was still the second part of the puzzle to be solved - what to wear underneath. She wanted it to be simple, but stylish, daring without being flashy, and casual enough so it wouldn't be obvious she had paid more than a momentary thought to what she wore. If she only knew what all those descriptions meant; they were borrowed from Charlotte Knight books. Most of her underwear was very simple and practical anyway, nothing racy or even overly romantic. She could buy something, but the mere thought of buying lingerie for this particular occasion made her extremely uneasy.

It's not that Laura didn't want to spend a weekend in Paris - or anywhere else, for that matter - with him. She did, but she resented the fact that she had to because she'd lost a bet. It's not that she didn't want to eventually cross that line with him, either, but she hated that now it seemed inevitable. She was sentenced to a romantic weekend with the man she was extremely attracted to and found it a very unpleasant predicament.

Mentally cursing herself for having being so slow and so stupid, Laura browsed through her collection of lingerie. Of course, the issue would be moot if he wouldn't see it, but somehow Laura doubted that would happen. If she'd won that bet, she would have made sure her Mr. Steele told her every gory detail about whichever year she would have chosen. As far as she was concerned, it was a fair game.

She picked up a set Frances had given her last Christmas - a lace and silk nightgown and a matching peignoir. The soft feel of fabric made her think of his hands on her body... No, that was wrong, too! The set hadn't been worn yet for the lack of an appropriate occasion; she wouldn't allow him to think she'd just bought it for him.

Laura shoved the soft pieces of silk to the floor and once again looked at her clothes-covered bed.

"Even a cat can look at a queen," Steele retorted with a lopsided grin.

"Now listen..." she started, but halted in mid-sentence, knowing that every jab would only bring her a step closer to dangerous waters. "A queen? Consider me flattered."

"Believe it or not, Miss Holt," he said, still looking straight into her eyes, "in planning to spend this weekend in your company, I didn't feel the need to bring reading material."

She clenched her fists, as he noticed the name of the article she was reading.

"Investigation Business and Surveillance?" he read incredulously. "Laura, tell me you didn't bring work. You are not going to spend this weekend in the hotel pouring over a thick stack of papers?"

"I wouldn't dream of it. I merely thought I'd catch up on some reading before we got to Paris."

"Ah," he said with a smug smile. "I take it you decided your skills could use some honing."

Laura took a very deep breath and resumed reading.

The dinner went by in complete silence. When the trays were removed, Laura put the magazine away, determined to get some sleep.

Seeing her unfolding a blanket, Steele grinned and broke the silence, suggesting, "Would you like to prop your pillow on my shoulder?"

"No."

"No pillows? Even better. Your cheek to my shoulder, the soft fabric of my shirt caressing your gentle skin..."

"No shoulders."

"May I suggest my chest, then? Or even my lap? I could gently comb your hair while you're falling asleep."

"I like my own seat, thank you very much."

She secured herself in a position that ensured she wouldn't have any physical contact with the arrogant figment of her imagination and tried to sleep.

Six months! It had taken him almost six bloody months to break down her defenses! Well, he hadn't exactly broken them, just had won a bet, but that didn't really matter. He knew she was looking forward to this weekend as much as he was; how they got there was of little importance. He'd won fair and square; not that he was above a little cheating, but this time it hadn't been necessary.

Even now, the thought of the Donovan case made his heart beat faster. It had been a truly invigorating experience! Not so long ago, she'd treated him as a mere figurehead, just hired help, someone to attract the clients with very limited access to everything else. Well, with practically no access to anything, including herself. And now he, an amateur, had managed to beat two experienced detectives at their own game. By minutes, but he'd beaten them nevertheless, truly enjoying every moment of this intricate charade. He had never thought that solving a case could be more exciting, more stimulating, more blood-stirring than any heist.

He pulled the thin blanket over Laura's shoulder, removed a strand of hair from her forehead, and contemplated planting a light kiss where the strand had been but decided against it. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake up at an inopportune moment. He wanted this weekend to be perfect; it would do him no good to jump-start it by alienating his companion. A little verbal fencing was one thing. He experienced an almost indecent amount of pleasure from crossing swords with Laura and was certain she didn't mind it... too much. Unauthorized physical contact was another matter.

Steele grinned. He most assuredly deserved this weekend. It would be wonderful! Something about this woman tantalized him. She titillated his senses more than a first-rate sting, challenged him more than any heist he had pulled, and surpassing her at her own game was just as exciting as the prospect of spending the weekend together.

He looked at Laura again and lightly mused if anything would change in her attitude toward him after this little getaway. Would she be more receptive? Would she finally give in to his considerable charms? Would she still remain an enigma to him? He would soon find out.

He cast his gaze over her once more, shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position, and closed his eyes. In the following two days he would need all the strength he had...

Somebody knocked at the door. She opened it and motioned Steele to come in.

"Do you like it?" he inquired.

"It's nice," Laura could almost feel his touch, even though he was still a few feet away, "it's just not what I'm used to."

"Oh? How so?"

"I don't know. It doesn't look like other hotels."

"You are not in the States anymore," he pointed out softly. "Things are different here."

She shrugged, not really wanting to admit that she'd never been to Europe before, and took a few steps back.

"Would you like to freshen up first?" he asked, changing the subject.

"First?" Laura repeated, blushing and taking another step backwards toward the huge bed that occupied almost the entire room.

Steele measured her up and down with a prolonged estimating gaze and commented dryly, "You have a very dirty mind, Miss Holt. Would you like to freshen up before breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry," Laura mumbled, trying to save face.

"As you wish. But you should know that the croissants at the restaurant downstairs are state of the art, it would be a shame not to sample them," he said, taking a short step in her direction.

"You've been here before, haven't you?" she asked, taking a quick breath. It didn't help much as the air seemed to be filled with his cologne.

"Here in the hotel or here in Paris?" he asked, moving closer toward Laura, who had to retreat again.

"In the hotel," she said, realizing there was no more room for her to back up.

"I'll answer yours if you'll answer mine," he said slowly, locking his eyes with hers.

She swallowed and said hoarsely, "Let's try the local cuisine."

"Very well," he said, still holding her stare. "Yes, I've been here before. My room is next to yours; call me when you're ready."

He turned on his heel and left.

Laura slid weakly onto the bed. There was something about this man that made normal human relations with him practically impossible. The way he moved, the way he talked, and the way he managed to lace even the most innocent phrases with sexual innuendo. She silently cursed herself for falling into his trap so easily. Why did she ask if he'd been there before? She had no doubt that Mr. Steele knew Paris quite well and, for all her curiosity, it made little difference whether he had ever stayed in this particular hotel.

She grabbed her make-up purse from the suitcase and marched into the bathroom. How the hell did he manage to keep his clothes so fresh, anyway?

"So, what shall we start with?" he asked cheerfully, putting down his napkin. "Do you have any particular places you want to include in today's tour?"

"I thought you had it all planned," she challenged.

"Of course, I have," Steele replied without missing a beat. "But I thought I'd let you choose the sights since, as you know, I've been here before."

Laura gritted her teeth; she was loosing another round.

"So, what shall it be?" he asked again. "Would you like to see the Louvre? Such an excellent collection - plenty of old masters, Rafael, Titian, Boticelli, Leonardo da Vinci; masterpieces such as Mona Lisa, la Vénus de Milo! Positively mind-boggling! Or do you prefer modern art? What about the Impressionists? Monet, Van Gogh, Cézanne? Musée d'Orsay can offer a vast..."

"Are you sure you can be trusted around a museum?" Laura interrupted his speech.

"Laura, surely you don't think I brought you to Paris with a robbery in mind?"

"I don't know what you might consider a deluxe tour."

"I'm afraid you won't be able to squeeze a deluxe tour of Paris into your busy schedule," he retorted with a slight bow in her direction. "Well, if the museums are out of the question, then we shall restrict our tour to outdoor attractions."

"You mean I'm going to walk the streets of Paris with you?" Laura coldly inquired. "Is that all you have in mind for an honest woman?"

"We can swing by Notre Dame first if you think it'll save your reputation," he suggested. "Unless, of course, you're afraid I'll steal the cathedral."

"No, not really."

"Thank you."

"It would be too hard to fence."

"Very well," he said, rising from his chair. "Shall we?"

He didn't ask any more questions, but somehow, Laura got the feeling that she'd lost that round as well.

Indeed, he knew the city quite well. While Laura busily looked around, Steele was occasionally pointing out things she'd missed and talked about people, books, and movies, movies, movies. Laura had never realized how many movies had been filmed in Paris.

Strangely enough, she didn't find his cinematic references irritating. It was rather nice seeing places she'd read about or seen in the movies - Champs Elysées, Arch de Triumph, the Eiffel Tower... Her French, which she hadn't used since she had left school, was coming back and it felt wonderful, too.

Another surprise for Laura was that Steele didn't make any physical claim on her. Several times, he placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd, but always promptly removing it afterward. She didn't know what she had expected. She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd wrapped his arm around her waist or her shoulder, or even if he'd stolen a kiss (something the streets of Paris provided both mood and opportunity for) but he never took advantage of the situation. Laura found the lack of physical contact extremely arousing.

They had lunch in a swanky restaurant with a hostess who looked like a model from Vogue and a menu that seriously challenged Laura's limited French vocabulary. Then they went to further explore Paris attractions.

When the streets grew darker and Steele flagged down a cab, Laura realized she had spent the entire day not once regretting her predicament. In fact, she was truly enjoying this little getaway for two. It was enigmatic, invigorating, and a little frightening - much like Mr. Steele himself. Suddenly, it dawned on her that she was not afraid of spending the night with him anymore. The thought alone would have scared the hell out of her just a day before, but now only brought on a slight smile that went unnoticed by the man beside her. Or maybe he did notice, but never inquired into the cause.

A knitted black top she'd packed would do, but not with the gray wool skirt, which she'd brought to spite Mr. Steele. He would definitely say something like, "Surely you don't expect to see a client tonight, Miss Holt?" And she'd have nothing to say in return because anything would be better than admitting that she had simply forgotten about Paris' most unique attractions.

On the way down, Laura realized that, while he hadn't commented on her outfit, he hadn't seen fit to go back to his room and to change out of his tuxedo to make her feel comfortable. It was a battle of wills; each was on their own.

Steele, on the other hand, paid very little attention to the performance. Nothing that was occurring onstage could possibly compare with the woman beside him. Absorbed by the show, she seemed to have forgotten all about him while he was studying her - the slight tilt of her head, golden highlights in her hair, noticeable even in the dark, her delicate features, and the cleft between her breasts, barely visible in the cut of her sweater. He couldn't stop thinking of how her freckled skin would feel under his lips. He'd find out soon enough. He could always tell when a woman was ready.

He'd learned his lesson after the weekend in The Devil's Playground. Laura didn't like to be rushed nor did she like to be taken for granted and he made sure he did neither. But he'd been watching Laura the entire day. Away from the office, clients, and familiar surroundings, she had grown more and more relaxed, truly enjoying herself. She was most definitely ready. He suppressed a smile. In just a few hours...

Saying, "Good night, Mr. Steele," Laura leaned in to give him a perfunctory peck on the cheek. She could never explain afterward how she happened to miss the mark so completely. But, when their lips finally parted, she found her hand entangled with the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his head down for a second, deeper encounter. Bodies melding together, lips exploring one another's skin, they hastily went into her room.

Coats were removed and thrown to the floor as they leaned into each other again. Steele's fingers gently cupped Laura's head and she stopped thinking. All her fears, all her demons were forgotten as long as he was holding her close. For once, she wanted to let herself go, to throw herself into that stream, and not to worry what was around the bend. She slowly ran her fingers through his hair and brought her hand down to play with his bowtie.

One of his hands slid down, too, caressing Laura's waist while his other stroked her ribcage through the thin fabric of her sweater, dangerously close to the edge of her bra and yet, agonizingly far from it. She pulled his tie loose, unbuttoned his collar, and started planting a series of light kisses on his neck.

Gently, questioningly, as though expecting to be rejected, his hand slid underneath her knitted top touching the skin on the small of her back, awaiting further reaction.

Skin contact was electrifying. Laura moaned and slightly moved away, allowing his other hand easier access to her breast.

He kissed her again, and then his lips trailed along her jaw, down her neck, and yet lower, to the collarbone, teasing her skin, making it tingle with anticipation; she needed to hold on to him as her knees began to tremble.

Suddenly, his lips froze on her shoulder. He paused and then planted another kiss, but something was different. She froze, too, waiting, unsure of what had gone wrong.

Another stiff kiss followed and he slightly pulled away and whispered, "I'm sorry."

She opened her eyes and let go of his neck, waiting for further explanation.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I can't."

He took a few steps away from her and swallowed.

"I've just realized something," he started with difficulty. "No woman has ever slept with me because she lost a bet."

Laura wanted to say something, but the words stuck in her throat.

"It might be hard to believe, but even I have principles," he continued. "I know you want to do it now and so do I, but in the morning, we'd both regret it."

He moved toward the door, careful not to come too close to her, and said, picking up his coat, "I'll see you tomorrow."

As the door closed behind him, Laura was still standing in the middle of the room, trying to absorb the situation.

For a moment, he felt an urge to run away as far and as fast as he could. He had a passport and some money; it was more than enough to get by. He'd started with less than that once or twice and leaving now was probably a sensible thing to do. But at the same time, a quiet voice inside his head was telling him that running away was the last thing he wanted and he knew it was true.

"Salut mon mignon! Ca t'dirait une couette bien chaude pour te réchauffer?"

Startled, he took his eyes of the river and looked at the woman in front of him. Heavy-set, in her late thirties, she was positively freezing in a very short skirt. A streetwalker. He probably looked like he could use some, but he'd never liked that kind of love. He shook his head and the woman left with an indifferent shrug.

Remington shivered. The night air was chilly and he knew he'd better go back to his room if he didn't want to freeze to death on the bench. But he didn't want to; not yet. He couldn't go back and be so close to Laura, separated by a thin wall, just a few steps away, just at the arm's length. Just like she always was. He wouldn't be able to sleep anyway knowing all it took was just a knock at her door. And he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he went there and knocked.

In all the excitement of being in Europe for the first time, yet, in a city made for love and romance, with the man she'd wanted for so long, it had seemed so easy to let go. But her terminal flights of frivolity had always cost her more than she'd been willing to pay and by the wee hours of the morning, she was grateful Remington hadn't let her make a mistake she knew she'd regret.

Tossing and turning in her bed, she kept thinking of what they'd say to each other in the morning until she finally drifted into a light, troubled sleep.

"Oh, my God! Where have you been?" she exclaimed, pulling him into the room. "What happened?"

"Nothing, nothing. I wasn't sure you were up yet," he slurred through unyielding lips. He hadn't realized how frozen he was, but as he started speaking, it took quite an effort to keep his teeth from chattering.

"You're cold. Did you sleep in the streets?" Laura asked worriedly.

"I fell asleep on a bench," he admitted, forcing a smile. "It was the best cold shower I've had in my life."

"It looks more like a cold bath to me. Come on, go to your room, you need to take a hot shower, you look like an icicle."

"Laura, I need to talk to you."

"Whatever it is, it can wait," she admonished, pushing him out of the room.

He put his hand on her arm, trying to silence her. "About last night... I owe you an explanation."

"Don't. I understand." She stopped pushing and added in a different, soft tone, "I think you were right, it would have been a mistake if we... did it... even though we both wanted to."

"Thank you," he said honestly.

"Now go, go!" she ordered. "Your lips are red, your cheeks are blue, you look like an abstract painting, and if you don't take a long hot shower, you're going to look like an ice sculpture soon."

"Apollo," Remington blurted suddenly.

"What?"

"Cellini Apollo," he clarified. "How to Steal a Million, Audrey Hepburn, Peter o'Toole, 20th Century Fox, 1966. A priceless statue is insured for a million dollars by..."

"I don't believe it!" Laura moaned. "Whatever brain cells you had are now frozen, too! Besides, it was a Venus, not an Apollo. And it was a fake as well!"

"I assure you, Laura, I will be an Apollo; a real one. 'Tall, blue-eyed, slim, quite good-looking...'" he quoted from the movie.

"Satyr! You will look like a satyr! Now get out!" Laura yelled and pushed him once again for further emphasis. He finally obeyed and she added softly, "I'll call room service for breakfast."

They hardly exchanged a word while they ate, but the silence no longer felt awkward. Chewing her food, Laura cast glances at Remington, wondering about his plans for the day, but not asking, just finally relaxed enough to wait and see and enjoying the feeling.

After breakfast, they went out and this time he chose a different part of the city, taking her down short, narrow streets where the buildings were older and not as well maintained as those in the center and where most people weren't tourists. Though nothing in the surroundings seemed to be familiar anymore, it felt more like the real Paris than the one she had seen the day before.

Looking at little shops, old women selling flowers on the street corners, and middle-aged couples walking past them, minding their own business, Laura mused that this part of the city seemed much more genuine, made with purpose and not intended to attract idle crowds looking for souvenirs.

She stopped for a moment to look at an artist who was painting a nondescript church squeezed between two brick buildings; his work was just as nondescript. When they were safely out of earshot, Remington commented matter-of-factly, "At least, it'll never be stolen," causing Laura to giggle.

Hours flew by and they had almost forgotten about time but just as Laura was about to say she was hungry, Remington guided her to a heavy wooden door with an unassuming fish-shaped sign over it, probably known only to the locals, just as everything else around it.

Inside, an old woman who, Laura decided, was the owner, the hostess, and the waitress all rolled into one, greeted them in French and lead them to a table in the far corner of the room.

Laura sat down, only now realizing how tired she was and looked around searching for a menu as Remington quickly said something to the woman. She nodded and was about to leave when Laura exclaimed, "Huîtres? What's that, oysters? You didn't just order oysters, did you?"

Remington wiggled his eyebrow and smiled to the hostess who returned the smile and left, obviously having no intention to listen to what Laura had to say. Though she hadn't let it show, something in the way she looked at him made Laura think she knew her guest and his tastes.

"And what am I supposed to do while you're feasting on your oysters?"

"What's the matter?"

"I don't suppose it has occurred to you that I might prefer something else."

"Laura, oysters are the absolute pinnacle of gourmet cuisine and if there is one place in Paris that knows how to serve them properly, it's here. You at least have to try them."

"I'm fully capable of ordering my own food, thank you very much."

"You're welcome to do just that," Remington said suddenly, leaning back in his chair and indifferently looking around.

Laura looked around, too. Nothing on their table even remotely resembled a menu; a stack of them wasn't waiting at the entrance and the owner was nowhere in sight, either. Allowing Laura a good look around, Remington pointed toward the back of the room where she finally found what she was looking for - a list of dishes chalked on the wall, which she, much to her dismay, couldn't understand anyway. She sighed, finally accepting that her high school vocabulary wasn't enough to get by. She could still just pick something else and hope it would be edible but there was no one she could talk to except for her ever-so-confident partner.

"All right," she reluctantly admitted. "Now what?"

"Now we're going to eat oysters."

"We're going to do it without me."

He gave her a long appraising look before venturing, "Surely your prejudice against them isn't based on the fact they're considered aphrodisiacs."

"Of course not!"

"What is it, then?" Laura kept silent. "Indigestion? Religious restrictions? Food allergy?"

"They look just like snails," she finally admitted.

She expected him to laugh, but instead, he asked seriously, "Laura, do you trust me?" She didn't know what to say, but just before the pause became embarrassing, he rephrased the question, asking, "Do you trust my taste in food?"

"I do. But I'm not eating snails."

He covered her hand with his and said, "Try one. Please. If you don't like them, I promise to take you straight to the nearest McDonalds."

"And if I do like them?"

"Oh, come on, this isn't a bet." Under her trying stare, he added, "Surely a few bivalves can't be worse than shoe leather fried in machine oil."

Thinking this man could probably charm oysters out of their shells with that boyish, lopsided grin, she pursed her lips and attempted to give him another stern look, knowing she was slipping and not giving a damn about it...

"You don't?" he asked, stunned.

"No. I really enjoyed this weekend."

"Pick a year," he said curtly.

"What?"

"Let's make it a draw. It should've been. Pick a year."

His honesty caught Laura off guard. Just a day ago, she would have jumped at the opportunity. Today, she was just curious. While she still wanted to know more about him, more about his past, did she really want to know everything? Did she really want to hear about every woman he'd slept with? Did she really want to learn about every heist and every con he'd pulled? Did she really want to make him reveal something else just as discomforting?

She looked at him. He was waiting, looking directly at her.

Still, it was too good an offer to pass on. She could always pick a safe year. Yes, that was it. She'd ask about the time he was thirteen or fourteen - his parents, hometown, school, child hobbies, even the first kiss, perhaps. She mentally calculated his age.

"Nineteen-sixty seven," she said finally.

His face went pale and she realized that, unintentionally, she had hit some old, poorly healed wound.

"You want to know what I was doing in..." His voice faltered. He wasn't even asking, just repeating her words, as though trying to comprehend them.

"I wanted to know what you were doing when you were about thirteen or fourteen," Laura explained apologetically.

She wasn't sure he'd even heard her. The wound may have been old, but hadn't even begun to heal; he was just standing in front of her, his face a mask of old terror, and only his lips repeated automatically, "When I was thirteen..."

She touched his sleeve and said, "Forget I asked."

Her words didn't quite reach him, but the sound of her voice drew his attention.

"Forget it," she repeated and smiled. "It wasn't a draw anyway."

He swallowed and mustered, "Thank you," still trying to regain his composure.

She tugged at his sleeve to distract him and said, "Come on, Mr. Steele. Surely there is another movie location I haven't seen yet."

The color was slowly returning to his cheeks as he said, "Now that you've mentioned it, there's a little bookshop Gene Kelly visited when he was..."

His movement, albeit slight, made her stir and adjust her position.

"Laura," he whispered deciding she wasn't asleep yet.

"Hmmm?" she mumbled, opening her eyes.

"I want you to know - Paris never felt better."

"Likewise, I'm sure," she replied, once again trying to nestle on his shoulder.

He covered her with a blanket. As she gratefully smiled, closing her eyes, he whispered, "Sweet dreams, Miss Holt."

The End