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The Truth About Harry
Tracy Kelleher


Lauren Jeffries needed a scoop, something that would get her her first serious newspaper story and away from writing obits. When she sort-of faked Harry Nord's obit, she never dreamed it'd get published, let alone that a hot guy would show up asking a lot of uncomfortable questions and making her feel…well, hot.On the hunt for snatched objets d'art, stolen-art investigator Sebastian Alberti has logged a ton of frequent flyer miles circling the globe. When a death notice in the Philadelphia Sentinel about his chief suspect catches his eye, his legs take him right to Lauren's door–and then into her bedroom….









Speaking of bodies, Lauren was evidently enjoying a very nice eyeful of Sebastian’s


This time, he realized, she wasn’t searching for something neutral to focus on when she spoke to him. “You know, there’s something I should do before I forget.” She scooted next to him and placed a hand on his thigh.

“You need to check that police source for your story?” He observed her hand.

“Yeah, I need to do that, but that wasn’t what I had in mind at the moment.” She made a slow circle on his skin with her index finger.

“You need to call room service for something to eat? I realize we missed dinner.” Sometimes his gallantry astounded him.

“No, I’m fine.”

Sebastian tweaked a smile. “You’re absolutely right, darlin’—in fact, you’re a lot more than fine,” he whispered as Lauren undid her terry-cloth robe and let it slip from her shoulders.


Dear Reader,

The life of a reporter is often filled with uninspiring daily assignments. But what if, under unusual circumstances, a reporter actually got to exercise a self-indulgent flight of fancy regarding one of the least-coveted of duties—writing an obituary?

What if, indeed?

Lauren Jeffries finds out the repercussions when an obituary that she has liberally embellished inadvertently gets published. Not only is her journalistic integrity compromised, but she also finds herself enmeshed in an international art theft. And even more dangerously, she tangles with Sebastian Alberti, the investigator on the case.

Never has a case of “misapplied” identity led to so many twists and turns and sexy interludes. Yes, those sexy interludes.

And here I said a reporter’s life was dull!

All the best,

Tracy Kelleher




Books by Tracy Kelleher


HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

908—EVERYBODY’S HERO

949—IT’S ALL ABOUT EVE…


The Truth About Harry

Tracy Kelleher






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my gracious editor, Kathryn Lye. You made it happen.




Contents


Prologue (#u138762f1-5940-5fc1-8fef-c4c8cbc0a93a)

Chapter 1 (#u5f1972bf-b55f-5673-9e08-9c510e7aa757)

Chapter 2 (#ud3d1b051-4475-5b3f-a692-3367e98cc2c2)

Chapter 3 (#uf800a4ce-db9d-5e8e-8260-97ecf47f1684)

Chapter 4 (#u45233244-96b2-5048-9b24-a3202e3972f6)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


Harry Nord, 83, Manufacturer And Philanthropist, Dies

Harry Nord, a decorated World War II pilot, self-made millionaire and generous local philanthropist, died in his sleep yesterday at the Philadelphia Veteran’s Administration Hospital. He was 83 years old and had been ill for some time.

A true Horatio Alger story, Mr. Nord, born in Camden, New Jersey, came from a humble background, having been orphaned at the age of twelve when his parents died in the infamous B&O train crash of December 1934. An investigation of the incident revealed that the conductor had reported to work inebriated after celebrating at the company Christmas party. Charges were leveled, though later dropped, against the railroad’s management. Mr. Nord liked to tell employees of Nord Notions and Trimmings Company, of which he was founder and president, that it was his constant lack of proper winter clothing growing up in greater Philadelphia that led him to the garment industry.

Before making his mark in the industry, Mr. Nord had a distinguished military career in World War II, rising to the rank of captain. A pilot, his plane was shot down on a mission over northern Italy. Although dazed and injured, Mr. Nord dragged his wounded navigator from the burning plane. Local villagers of San—

LAUREN JEFFRIES tapped on the space bar and rubbed her lips. “San what?” she asked out loud to no one in particular. The rest of the Metro Desk at the Philadelphia Sentinel, eastern Pennsylvania’s second-largest newspaper—a claim that never failed to generate a snide “Hah!” from Lauren—had long since filed their stories for the night’s deadline and were drinking cheap beer and complaining about their piddly salaries at Gino’s, the bar around the corner from the office.

She glanced at her notes, knowing already that they wouldn’t offer any assistance. A conspiratorial smile formed on her lips, and she hunched over her terminal and tapped furiously.

Local villagers from San Margherita discovered the two men and hid the crew until they were well enough to travel. Then, with the aid of a shepherd, they hiked to safety across the Alps to Switzerland. Mr. Nord was later awarded a Bronze Star for heroism.

Upon conclusion of the war, Mr. Nord returned to Philadelphia, where he secured various entry-level jobs in the garment industry. While working as a buttonholer at a shirt factory, he realized that the finishing process would proceed much more quickly if there were a single machine that could sew and slit the buttonholes at the same time. He developed an automatic buttonhole device, which he patented. The Nordomatic, as the device came to be known, revolutionized shirtmaking. Later inventions, including the zigzag zipper-foot, further established Mr. Nord as an innovative leader in the industry, and laid the groundwork for Nord Notions and Trimming Company, a manufacturing business whose headquarters were once located next to Thirtieth Street Station. In 1991, the Singer Corporation bought out Nord Notions; operations were subsequently moved to Mexico.

Mr. Nord was a generous benefactor, as well as an industrial leader. Locally, he established the “Winter Coat Drive” to aid the Salvation Army. Perhaps his most generous act of charity—

Lauren backspaced and deleted the last word.

—of largesse was the rebuilding of the tiny town of San Margherita. Grateful for the protection the villagers had offered despite the risk to their own safety, Mr. Nord donated funds to build a new school, retirement home and library, restore the community’s small but noteworthy Romanesque church and establish a scholarship program to send promising students to universities in Italy and abroad. A plaque in his honor, affixed to the north wall of the town hall, proclaims in Italian, “Here he came to earth in a blaze of fire, and with God’s help, raised San Margherita from the ashes.”

Lauren leaned back. The quote was outrageous, and she could just see Dan Jankowski, the copy editor on duty that night, chuckling to himself before he hit the delete button and sent her a terse e-mail: “Try to keep your flights of fancy to under three inches. This is Metro, not Page One.”

It was bad to fabricate the story, even an obit. Really bad. Lauren, who wore professional integrity on her sleeve the way a lot of professional athletes had endorsement patches, knew it more than most. But she couldn’t help it. And it wasn’t like this one was ever going to see the light of day. Call it a revenge piece. A catharsis. A way to vent her reporter’s spleen. She’d just found out that her managing editor, Ray Kirkel, the douche bag, had passed her over for the State House reporter job in favor of Huey Neumeyer. Huey! An editorial assistant who couldn’t even photocopy straight. Maybe the fact that he was Ray’s wife’s cousin had something to do with the appointment.

“Everything to do with it!” Lauren snorted. One did not grow up in South Philly without acquiring a certain sense of cynicism. It was like cheesesteaks, the local culinary specialty—it went with the territory.

After three years pounding the Metro beat, generating more than the usual school board and two-alarm fire stories—and garnering an award from the Pennsylvania Press Association for her piece on teenage runaways—what did she get? A fax tossed on her desk and an order from Ray: “Two inches by deadline. An ad was pulled from the obit page, and I need to fill the space.”

Lauren had looked down at the bare-bones release from the mortuary. Harry Nord, the real Harry Nord, wouldn’t guarantee more than half a column inch, and that was with a free plug for the funeral parlor.

“So, this is my reward for all my hard work and effort?” Lauren wailed silently after Ray had waddled off in the direction of the men’s room. “The man wouldn’t know a crack reporter, let alone a crack story, if he fell over one,” she muttered under her breath. And to prove her point, she’d taken Harry Nord’s death notice and embellished it beyond recognition, turning it into the human interest story of the year, knowing full well it wouldn’t run, but getting a genuine sense of satisfaction nonetheless.

Tomorrow, she’d do the real obit on the real Harry Nord, and it would appear in a late edition. Ray would never know. As far as she could tell, he hardly ever looked at the paper except to scan the six-column photos of buxom, bikini-clad babes.

Without a second thought, Lauren hit Send and forwarded the text to the Copy Desk. End of story.

Yeah, right.




1


“I AM SO SCREWED,” Lauren mumbled into the shoulder of her fuzzy sweater. She slowly rubbed her forehead as if willing her headache to escape via the horizontal tracks she was tunneling in her cranium.

“What’s that?” Phoebe Russell-Warren arched her swanlike neck and thrust her shoulders back to get a better view of the television news conference at the front of the office lobby. At six foot one with impeccable posture—the effects of years of field hockey, she had once assured Lauren—Phoebe cut an impressive figure. The major bits of gold hanging off her earlobes and dangling from her slender wrists added to the Amazonian effect. “You don’t recognize the man standing next to Ray, do you?” she asked, peering elegantly ahead. “I know all the local broadcasters, at least those worth knowing, and he doesn’t look familiar.”

Phoebe wasn’t exaggerating her people skills. As Lifestyle editor, she knew everyone on Society Hill and the Main Line with a trust fund and a Porsche Boxster.

Lauren went up on tiptoe and frowned. “I can’t see anything clearly except Baby Huey’s dandruff on his navy blue blazer.” Unlike Phoebe, Lauren barely grazed the five-foot-three mark, even wearing clogs. Clogs, a turtleneck sweater and khaki pants—ah, yes, the wardrobe of the penurious and fashion-challenged reporter.

Phoebe turned her attention away from the news conference and stared down at Lauren. “What was it you said? Baby Huey?”

“It’s my new name for Neumeyer, intrepid State House reporter and genuine turd,” Lauren said, gripping her take-out coffee cup a little harder than necessary.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ray Kirkel, their fearless leader, intoned by the bank of glass doors, “I’m very excited to welcome you all here today for this important announcement.”

There was a pause. Lauren figured Ray was beaming into the television cameras from the local affiliate of the network news.

“Not that we’re not used to excitement on a regular basis here at the Sentinel,” he started up again.

“I wish you could see the man at the front next to Ray. He is an absolute dish.” Phoebe nudged Lauren.

Only Phoebe could get away with phrases like “an absolute dish,” Lauren thought. Lauren breathed in slowly and reluctantly leaned toward her friend. “Forget Dishy Mystery Man for a moment.”

“Forget him? Are you crazy? He has that dangerous look of a young Sean Connery playing James Bond. Maybe he has a Scottish accent, too? Nothing like a Scottish accent in bed. Or in the shower. Or up against the wall.”

Lauren went back to rubbing her forehead. “Phoebe, listen, I have something important that I really need to tell you.” The need to bare her soul was an unfortunate attribute of Lauren’s, and one that at the age of twenty-seven she hoped she would have left behind—the same way she’d cleared up her teenage acne and shed the fifteen pounds of puppy fat that once surrounded her waist like a plastic float.

“We’re gathered here today because of the passing of a great man,” Ray bellowed.

Phoebe reluctantly shifted her gaze to Lauren. “You need to confess something? The woman who doesn’t sleep around, indulge in illegal substances and only drinks wine or beer—and then in moderation? You won’t even buy me cigarettes when I run out.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “It’s about the obit,” she whispered.

“The obit?” Phoebe’s delivery wasn’t quite so sotto voce.

“Shh!” Baby Huey turned around. “You two are interrupting a unique moment here.” He looked at them sternly before shifting back to take in the action.

“If you only knew how unique,” Lauren moaned softly.

“As usual, the Sentinel came through,” Ray continued before raising his arm magisterially and pointing to a screen that had been set up to his right. Instantly, there appeared a giant image—an obituary. Lauren’s obit. Well, not her actual obit, but the obit she’d written.

“It just shows that with the right editorial guidance, even a junior member of the staff can make an impact,” Ray announced.

Lauren groaned. “Maybe he won’t mention my name.”

“Of course he won’t mention your name. Ray is a total asshole,” Phoebe said sympathetically.

“Once more, I’m pleased to say our paper, despite our limited resources in comparison to television, scooped the other media.” Ray modestly held up his hand. “No slight to you folks,” he joked to the TV crews. Yeah, right.

“Maybe now I’ll find out who Mr. Tall, Dark And Handsome is.” Phoebe didn’t bother to be coy as she started to move forward through the crowd.

Lauren reached out and stopped her. “Phoebe, there’s something you need to know about the obit.” She gulped. “The guy’s story—I made the whole thing up.” She’d like to say she felt better for confessing, but the pit in her stomach was only getting larger.

“Wha-at?” Phoebe squawked. She swiveled around and grabbed Lauren by both forearms.

“Those Pilates classes have really improved your grip,” Lauren observed.

“Actually, it’s high-impact yoga.” Phoebe pulled her closer and bent her head down. “You mean you killed off somebody who wasn’t dead.”

Lauren shook her head. “No, trust me, Harry Nord is good and dead.” She cast a worried glance around to see if anyone was watching.

Who was she kidding? With two women locked in an embrace, of course somebody was watching. “Will you keep it down? All the guys in production will think we’re staging a little snuggle here just for their benefit.” Lauren grabbed Phoebe by the shoulders, hustled her down the hallway and pushed her through the first door they came to.

Phoebe looked around. “If you’re worried what people are going to think, squirreling me away into the janitor’s closet is not going to help.” Unfazed, she overturned a large mop bucket and lowered herself regally, crossing one leg over the other so that her taupe patent leather Chanel pump swung gracefully next to her slender calf.

Lauren scraped her loose bangs from her forehead. “You see, it’s like this. Ray, being the asshole he is—as you so rightly pointed out—not only appointed Baby Huey to the State House reporter’s job over me, but he didn’t even have the nerve to tell me to my face. I heard it from Donna.”

“You mean, Donna of the ill-fitting double-Ds? She won’t ever give me new erasers, even when I ask politely.” In addition to being president of the Engelbert Humperdinck Fan Club, Donna Drinkwater was head of the supply closet and ruled over it with the arbitrary élan of a born martinet.

“You’re kidding? I can always get erasers,” Lauren said, then waved her hand in the air. “The point is, Ray, the schmuck, when he finally did come face-to-face, merely assigned me an obit without so much as a by-your-leave. So I got mad, really mad. And really more out of spite than anything, I—”

Phoebe rose. “You don’t need to go on. You invented a great news story—about Harry Nord—didn’t you?”

Lauren nodded.

“You know, I particularly liked the bit about the villagers harboring Harry and his wounded navigator after he dragged him from their burning plane.”

“Thanks a lot. Anyhow, never in my wildest dreams did I expect the thing to appear.”

“Of course not.” Phoebe laughed, then did a double take. “Are you telling me you submitted it to the Copy Desk and counted on them to realize it was a joke?”

“To my utter amazement, all Dan Jankowski did was change a semicolon to a period. Did you ever notice the way Dan hates semicolons?”

Phoebe eyed her gravely.

Lauren held up her hand. “I know, I know. It was a stupid thing to do. But how was I to know that the story would run, that it would get picked up by the wire services and somehow find its way to television?” She breathed in deeply. “Do you think I should throw myself on Ray’s mercy and hope that in his heart of hearts he’ll find a way to forgive me?”

“Lauren, get real. Ray doesn’t have a heart.” Phoebe paused. “Have you ever thought about becoming a salesperson in the shoe department at Wanamaker’s?” As an old-time Philadelphian, Phoebe still referred to the department store in the grand building on Market by its original name—steadfastly refusing to let Lord & Taylor pass her lips. “I could really use the discount.”

“Phoebe! This is my career we’re talking about.”

Actually, it was more like her life’s dream—not the part about working for the Sentinel necessarily, but being a reporter. Ever since Lauren could remember, she had been hooked on journalism. She salivated over the way the headlines screamed the news. Marveled at the quotes that the writers could get important people to say. Was awestruck by the emotions the photos could elicit. Even the smell of the newsprint and the way the ink came off on her fingers inspired Lauren with a sensory glee that she couldn’t explain—certainly not to her mother, who naturally thought Lauren should join the family dry cleaning business and certainly not break off her engagement to a handsome local boy who had a guaranteed income of seventy thousand as an accounts manager at Jefferson Memorial Hospital.

“Just think, he could probably use his influence to get you a private room at a lower rate when you have your first baby,” her mother liked to say. This from the woman who saved used rubber bands on the kitchen doorknob.

Well, despite her mother’s protests, Lauren had pulled the plug on the whole rosy picture—the baby, the private hospital room and the wedding.

The decision had been made easy when she found her fiancé, the no-good creep Johnny Budworth, doing the deed with Agnes Iolites, their greatly overpriced wedding planner. But that wasn’t the only thing that had tipped the scales. You see, Lauren had already wised up to the fact that Johnny never understood what turned her on—and she wasn’t just talking about sex, though sex was part of it. Over the course of their relationship, Lauren had seriously wondered if halftime during a televised Eagles game really was the most romantic moment to indulge in intercourse.

No, it was more than about sex. And if she had to put her finger on the one thing that summed up their different outlooks on life it would be that Johnny never read her articles, never read the Sentinel—never read any newspaper for that matter. “I listen to news radio, babe. What more do I need to know?” he’d say, and then add, “You know, maybe you should go wash your hands. The ink from the paper leaves smudges on the white leather couch my Aunt Dotty gave me.”

Yeah, it was more than a career for Lauren—it was a dream of doing something special, making a difference, regardless of leaving smudges. The Sentinel might not be the end-all-be-all, but it was on the road to better things.

Phoebe placed a hand on Lauren’s shoulder. “Listen, if I were you, I’d just stay quiet. Who knows? There’s a good chance that this whole thing will blow over and no one will ever know. Besides, it’s not like the story ran with a byline, and Ray’s not about to voluntarily give you any credit.”

Lauren was tempted to tell Phoebe she’d split an infinitive, but decided now was probably not a good time. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’ll all blow over like yesterday’s news.” And maybe she’d grow another four inches.

Lauren squared her shoulders. “So, shall we go back and see the rest of the dog and pony show?”

Phoebe nodded, and they slipped out of the closet—so to speak.

“I am especially pleased that the Sentinel is able to have yet another scoop,” Lauren heard Ray announce when they got back to the large lobby. “And with that in mind, it is my great pleasure that I am able to introduce to you today—”

Lauren went up on her tiptoes and strained to see the front of the room.

“Sebastian Alberti.”

“Who?” Lauren looked to Phoebe who had abandoned her customary sangfroid and was violently fanning herself.

“The grandson of Philadelphia’s own hero, Harry Nord,” Ray declared.

Just as the Red Sea parted for Moses, so too the bodies in the lobby miraculously opened up, and for the first time Lauren got a good look. At Ray. No, forget Ray. At the man standing next to Ray.

She was stunned. No wonder Phoebe had gone gaga. Men like that simply didn’t live in Philly. They didn’t even visit Philly. They certainly didn’t walk through the front door of the Sentinel’s lobby.

And nothing against Phoebe’s judgment, but Sean Connery, even younger and with hair, couldn’t hold a candle to the man in front. Tall, with broad shoulders and a trim build, Sebastian Alberti wore his charcoal-gray suit as if it were made for him. Lauren peered more closely—it was probably made for him. Still, even though he looked perfectly at home in Savile Row tailoring, he was definitely no wimpy clotheshorse. Not when his confident posture managed to simultaneously radiate ease and tension.

And that face. Lauren shook her head. Face was too prissy a word. His collection of chiseled features—the prominent cheekbones and square jaw—his raven-black hair, deep-set eyes and slashing eyebrows. No question about it, the whole package spelled B-A-D. Hot bad. Hot, HOT bad.

With some coaxing, Sebastian Alberti stepped to the microphone and smiled. At which point his features altered perceptibly, and a collective sigh could be heard from among the female members of the audience and even some of the guys, though not the boys from production. Right in front of their eyes, Mr. Bad Boy was transformed into Mr. Bad Boy With A Heart.

Lauren would have succumbed then and there along with all the others duly affected in the room. Would have—except for one glaring problem. Harry Nord, real or otherwise, didn’t have a grandson.

Sebastian Alberti—or the heartthrob claiming to be Sebastian Alberti—leaned into the microphone and ducked his head down, just like someone not used to talking in front of an audience. Lauren could feel the tension as all the mothering types held themselves back from going up and adjusting the angle of the mike just so.

“I’m honored to be here today. Thank you, Ray.” He nodded politely, and Ray lifted a hand and pretended to be humble. “I never thought anyone would write about my grandfather that way.” Unlike Double-O-Seven and his Scottish burr, Harry’s supposed grandson spoke in a subtle southern drawl. But it definitely contained a license to kill. Hearts, that is.

“My late mother, a product of war-torn Italy—” a chorus of “oohs” chimed in here “—would have been so pleased that her father was finally recognized, given his generosity to her small village. Babbo, as I always called him, never talked about his past. ‘True giving,’ he always said, ‘should be anonymous.’”

There was a chorus of “amens.”

“It’s like watching a revivalist minister in an Armani suit,” Lauren said out of the side of her mouth.

“Well, I could easily become a convert,” Phoebe nearly panted.

“So, given how difficult it must have been to unearth this story—”

“Not that difficult,” Lauren whispered.

“I find myself just wanting one thing—”

Lauren saw Donna Drinkwater instinctively step forward.

“And that’s to meet the intrepid reporter who uncovered my babbo’s story.” He lifted his chin and scanned the crowd. His eyes quickly honed in on the back corner of the room, the back corner where Lauren was crushing her foam cup and trying to look even smaller than she already was.

Phoebe coughed. “Tell you what. As long as we’re making things up, how about I be you? For him, I’m ready and willing to be totally screwed.”




2


“CAN YOU BELIEVE RAY didn’t announce the guy’s name until the very end? Talk about burying the lead!” Lauren complained into the mirror of the ladies’ room. She had to lean to the right because the notice to buy Tupperware from Elaine in Accounting was taped smack in the middle of the glass.

“Forget Ray’s journalistic failings.” Phoebe rummaged through a small Fendi pouch containing makeup. “You’re on the verge of possibly being fired. There are far bigger issues to worry about. Apricot or pink?”

Lauren looked at the two tubes in Phoebe’s hand. “You criticize me for discussing journalistic competence when you’re debating the merits of lip gloss?”

“This is not simply a matter of lip gloss. We’re talking about your image as you’re about to face Ray and Harry Nord’s grandson.”

“Phoebe, how many times do I have to tell you? Harry Nord never had a grandson.”

“Are you sure?”

Lauren nodded. “According to the press release from the funeral parlor, the real Harry Nord had no family survivors.”

“Well, the fake one—the one you invented—appears to have acquired one, and, trust me and my little heart, which is still going pitter-patter, he is very real.”

Lauren tipped her head. “You’re right.”

Phoebe surveyed her with an arched brow. “And frankly, even though you are one of my nearest and dearest, you are hopeless in the image department. I mean, really, that ersatz-graduate-student look of chinos and clogs is so passé.”

Lauren held her hands out wide and looked down at herself critically. Okay, not that critically. “And here I thought wearing an eggplant mock turtleneck sweater was daring. What did I know?”

“Obviously, not enough. Darling, extreme décolletage is daring.” Phoebe thrust a tube toward her. “Here, take the pink. We’ll simply play up your baby-fine blond hair—capitalize on that innocent look of yours.”

Lauren stared at the lip gloss and did as she was told. Innocence was a rare commodity these days, as she knew only too well. She tossed her cold cup of coffee into the trash, turned to Phoebe and, holding herself erect, declared, “I can do this.” She punched the air and pushed open the bathroom door—

And ran smack into trouble, aka Sebastian Alberti. To be more precise, the top of her head plowed into his pronounced and very hard chin. Which left her momentarily stunned. She put out a wobbling hand and connected with something hard, very hard. And it wasn’t the door.

The material of his designer suit may have been soft as silk, but the fabric of the body underneath was as solid as marble, and as well-chiseled as a Rodin statue. Sebastian Alberti might be a phony, but there was nothing insubstantial about him.

Lauren attempted one of those cleansing breaths that relaxation gurus are so fond of. To say that inner calm was hard to achieve when her nose was pressed into a silk tie and her nostrils were filled with the heat and woodsy scent of a drop-dead gorgeous male was something of an understatement. Still, calm, or the illusion of calm, was absolutely essential if she had any hope of rescuing her career—and her sanity.

She pulled her head back and looked up, her eyes level with a half-Windsor knot. “Sorry, I didn’t see you coming.”

Sebastian Alberti rubbed his chin, then dropped his hand and smiled a heartbreaking, melt-in-your-mouth-and-on-the-gray-industrial-carpeted-floor smile. “That makes two of us.”

Lauren nearly sank back into him with more than her nose. But propelled by an even stronger sense of professional decorum, she mustered what little self-control she still had and took a step back. “Yes, well, um…” Words were supposed to be her forte. “You might not realize this, but we’re actually supposed to see each other in Ray’s office.” She gulped. “I’m Lauren Jeffries, the reporter who wrote your grandfather’s obituary.” The dramatic emphasis could have registered as far south as Baton Rouge.

Her words seemed to ruffle—albeit momentarily—his composure. Was it a flash of surprise or sexual interest?

Foolishly, Lauren was hoping that sexual interest would win out. She shook her head. Foolishly was right. She hadn’t been foolish since she’d cooed over the engagement ring that Johnny Budworth had given her when he’d proposed at an Outback Steakhouse. She’d actually believed that the sparkling brilliant had been genuine and not cubic zirconia from the Home Shopping Network.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me, as the saying went. Lauren looked up at the small cleft in Sebastian Alberti’s chin—such a nice cleft, by the by—and said out loud the obvious. No, not that she found him amazingly attractive and would desperately like to throw caution to the wind and check into the Four Seasons and have wild, abandoned sex and use all the bath towels. But rather, “I think it’s safe to assume we have much to discuss about our situation here.”

He arched a brow. “You think?”

“I know and you know,” she said emphatically, with a lot more confidence than she was feeling.

He crooked up the corner of his mouth. “Meaning that our involvement makes us both—”

“Liars?” she offered.

A sexy dimple appeared in his right cheek as his smile broadened. “And here I was going to say soul mates.”

Lauren looked into Sebastian Alberti’s dark eyes—up close they were a deep, sinfully dark, chocolate brown. If they were supposed to be the windows to his soul, then she was in real trouble.

She swallowed. And was saved from coming up with some witty, sophisticated reply by a loud rapping from the other side of the ladies’ room door.

Phoebe maneuvered her head around the corner. “Is it safe to come out yet?”

“It all depends on what you mean by safe.” Lauren waved her through. “Phoebe Russell-Warren, Sebastian Alberti. Phoebe is the Sentinel’s Lifestyle editor.

He nodded. “It’s not every day I get to meet a Lifestyle editor.” He was the very embodiment of charm, but was it Lauren’s imagination, or had the tension that had zinged back and forth a second ago like a cue ball ricocheting off the side pocket, instantly lessened?

Not that that deterred Phoebe. “Well, it’s not every day I get to meet the grandson of one of our obituaries.” She smiled broadly, displaying the dazzling effect of diligent dental care.

Sebastian smiled smoothly. “And it’s not every day that you get an obituary like my grandfather’s, either, is it?”

“You’re darn tootin’,” Ray greeted them, his enlarged waist preceding the rest of him by a second or two. “Well, I see you’ve already met the little lady who wrote the story.” He nodded to Lauren.

She closed her eyes and told herself she would not lecture Ray on his choice of words.

“I would hardly call Ms. Jeffries little in terms of her capabilities,” Sebastian said.

That opened Lauren’s eyes.

Phoebe’s eyes were already locked on Sebastian’s in killer seduction mode. “I bet your capabilities aren’t little, either—in any terms.”

Sebastian raised one eyebrow. “You know, I’m beginning to wonder why I never met a Lifestyle editor before.”

Lauren went back to rubbing her forehead.

“Maybe I can run a feature on you?” Phoebe offered, stepping close enough to discern the warp and woof of his suit jacket. Woof was right.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ray wagged a finger at Phoebe. “You’ve got a luncheon to go to or whatever it is you do.”

“I only fill six pages on weekdays and a half section on Sunday, but then, don’t mind me,” Phoebe huffed before turning to Lauren. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” On the last word, she looked pointedly at Sebastian and inhaled loudly before sauntering off in regal fashion.

“Is she for real?” Sebastian asked as he watched Phoebe depart, her long legs striding and her narrow hips swaying around the corner.

“I sometimes wonder myself,” Lauren admitted. “I think it has something to do with going to too many cotillions at an impressionable age.”

“Ray—Ray, we’ve got a situation.” Huey Neumeyer bounded over—definitely not a pretty sight in Lauren’s opinion. Here was a man who wouldn’t know a cotillion if he tripped over one. Actually, tripping was his usual mode of entrance.

“We’ve got reports of a hostage situation at the State House, but I’m here because of the press conference and not in Harrisburg to cover the story,” Huey panted. A rivulet of perspiration meandered down his right cheek, and a distinct whiff of body odor mixed with Aramis.

Lauren smelled a story—among other things. “I’ve got a source in the State House. And I have his cell phone number,” she volunteered. The minority leader’s chief of staff had been the best man at her brother’s wedding, and during the rehearsal dinner they’d shared a few too many tequilas, along with several wet kisses and a quick feel. Since all the action had stayed above the waist, it meant he was still a reliable source.

Huey stamped his foot. “This is my beat.”

Sebastian wisely sidestepped Huey’s little hissy fit. “Not that I want to get in the way of a pressing news story, but I was ever so hoping to meet up with Ms. Jeffries.” He turned his southern drawl up another notch.

“Huey, pull yourself together and go to my office,” Ray barked, his face turning an alarming shade of red. Lauren wondered if she should send him an e-mail suggesting the merits of a stress test. “I’ll get the governor’s press secretary on the phone and the spokesperson for the Pennsylvania State Police. You can head out with a photographer as soon as we know what’s happening. And you, Jeffries—” Ray jabbed an index finger in the air in front of her sweater “—take Mr. Alberti to the conference room. And don’t even think about calling your source and muscling in on this story.”

Forget the e-mail, Lauren thought as she watched him lumber down the hall. She spun around and was immediately aware that she was alone with Sebastian.

“I believe you were going to show me the conference room?” he asked.

A sense of foreboding overcame her. She nodded toward the hallway. “This way.” She didn’t bother to linger and, instead, quickly clomped down the linoleum floor to the open door at the end. She sounded like a Clydesdale. Maybe clogs weren’t the best shoe choice after all.

“Here we are, Mr. Alberti.” She pushed the door open. “Is that your real name, by the way?” She waited for him to go through first.

Sebastian paused in the doorway and thought, now’s the time to bring out the truth, at least, carefully edited portions of the truth. “Please, as a Southerner and an Italian, custom prevents me from preceding a lady through the door.” He waited. “And my name really is Sebastian Alberti. Actually, Sebastiano Alberti, but I anglicized it years ago.”

That was only one of the changes he’d made when he was young—not that change solved everything.

Sebastian had long ago learned to accept the notion that he was destined to be an outsider, no matter how much he adapted. He had left Italy as a child. The land of Valentino and Visconti had grown and altered, and so had he. There was no way it could ever be home again.

Nor could Alabama be, either. His family had moved to the deep South. Their strange accent was noticeable—their ignorance of the great god Bear Bryant even more egregious. Sebastian had arrived having never thrown a baseball and never eaten fried chicken. He immediately devoted himself to becoming the most American of Americans. Ah, the fervor of a convert.

But never mind that he played tight end in high school and dated a cheerleader. He was still different, never fully accepted. His mother made sure of the latter—having run off with the rival high school’s football coach when he just started junior high.

Still, he couldn’t blame all of his sense of alienation on his mother. He had never completely fit in because, well, he just never had. No amount of time could erase the moments when he yearned to bite into crusty Italian bread instead of eating hush puppies, when he would have given anything for a bowl of creamy risotto instead of gravy on mashed potatoes.

But the anxiety of being an outsider that had so plagued him during his teenage years had gradually subsided. Now it was something he actually cultivated like a protective cloak, a cloak that even extended to his place of residence.

Besides his farm in the country, miles from anyone else, he had a small but tasteful townhouse in Georgetown. His neighbors were diplomats—strangers in a strange land.

But Sebastian was home. And he wasn’t.

But a place to plant roots wasn’t the issue at hand—it was getting a handle on a possible lead. He smiled in a way that he knew left women and thieves feeling both intrigued and slightly uneasy. And if his hunch was right in this case, the two might just turn out to be mutually inclusive. “Please, why don’t you go in first?” he offered, forcing Lauren to ease by him.

Strange, but in all the editorial meetings she had attended in this space, Lauren had never experienced the entryway as being too narrow for comfort. She eased her way through. “So you’re from Italy originally?”

“I was born in Italy, but my parents moved here when I was ten,” he said, following her into the room. He motioned to the chairs pushed into the long table. “Have a seat,” he said, and she nodded, slipping into one on the opposite side. “My father was an aerospace engineer, and he worked for the government in Huntsville, Alabama.” He waited for her to sit before unbuttoning the front of his suit jacket and lowering himself into a seat.

Lauren decided to let Sebastian be the one to dispense with the usual small talk and move on to the subject of Harry Nord. Playing the waiting game, she contented herself with looking at his large hands spread calmly on the surface of the table. Contented probably wasn’t the right word.

Sinews formed ridges on his tanned skin, and his nails were bluntly cut, attesting to strength born of outdoor activity. He wore a small, gold signet ring on his left hand, nothing effeminate—no, not by a long shot—just kind of classy, understatedly sophisticated. She had an almost irresistible urge to touch him and feel the contrast between the smooth ring and the rugged power of the muscles in his hands.

Lauren cleared her throat. “That explains your accent and your command of English,” she said and tucked her hands in her lap under the table. She didn’t feel like having him stare at her chewed nails. Strange, but their gnawed appearance had never worried her when she’d been engaged. That should have been a tip-off right there.

“Yes, well, even before we moved to the States, my mother insisted I learn English.” He coughed softly and covered his mouth. Then he lowered his hand again and drummed lightly on the table.

Maybe not so relaxed, after all.

“She was enamored of all things American—cheeseburgers, skyscrapers, baseball, Harrison Ford,” he said.

“How unItalian of her—except for the Harrison Ford part, that is.”

“Her enthusiasm was so great I can safely say I was the only kid in Poggibonsi whose mother asked him to turn the radio up when it was playing American music.”

Lauren looked at him askance. “Really? Somehow I can’t picture you humming along to Metallica.”

“You’d be surprised.” He rubbed his chin, his finger passing over the little cleft.

No, she guessed she wasn’t surprised at all. There was something dangerous about him. She instinctively knew he was bad for her health, but somehow she was drawn perversely closer. It was like succumbing to eating that second donut. No, she corrected herself, it was potentially far worse than several hundred empty calories.

“But not you?”

Lauren blinked. “Me?”

“You weren’t a heavy metal fan?”

She held up a hand in confession. “Strictly Motown. The Four Tops. The Supremes. Aretha Franklin’s ‘Respect’ was my personal anthem.”

He studied her. “I can see you standing on top of your bed, belting out ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’”

“Actually, it was mostly in the bathroom, with my toothbrush as a microphone and my brother Carl pounding on the door to get in.”

Sebastian grinned, and his eyes opened wide, making the contrast between the milky whites and the dark, rich irises all the more pronounced, like chocolate Hostess cupcakes with a vanilla crème center—only in reverse. Ah, she really had empty calories on the brain. No, she knew she had other things on the brain.

“You know,” he said, still smiling and looking so, so appealing, “if you tell me stories like that, I’m almost inclined to believe you’re innocent.”




3


“BUT I AM INNOCENT,” she protested. I may be lusting in my heart, she thought, but I am innocent. “Well, in a fashion,” she amended.

Sebastian leaned closer and reached out. He gently cupped her hand in his and let his fingertips—with their rough calluses, Lauren couldn’t help noticing—brush her palm. “We all know there’s no such thing as innocent.” He studied her closely. “Though heaven knows if anyone is, it could possibly be you.”

The pulse in her wrist throbbed with an aching urgency. “It’s the lip gloss,” Lauren mumbled.

“Lip gloss?”

“It’s pink. You see?” She raised her other hand and rested her index finger on her lower lip.

He stared. At her hand. At her extended finger. At her cherry-blossom-stained lips.

And she gazed at his chest. Time became measured by the rise and fall of his pectorals.

And then he turned his gaze and let go of her hand.

Lauren stared at the table and rapidly pulled her hand back into her lap. “Well, if nobody’s innocent in your book, doesn’t that mean you’re not innocent, either?” she asked. She looked up defiantly.

He played with a gold cuff link.

And then it hit her. “Hey, if you’re here to bilk the paper with some kind of con, you’re talking to the wrong person. The Sentinel might be a two-bit rag, and Ray is a scumbag in every sense of the word, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to help you commit a crime. In fact, I’ve pretty much decided the only honorable thing to do about this mess is to own up to the fact that I concocted the whole thing—Harry’s childhood, his war record, the philanthropy. True, it was meant to be a little joke—”

Sebastian looked at her askance.

“All right, more than a joke. I was pissed at Ray, but then that’s another story.” She waved her hand. “In any case, I never meant for the story to go to print. But seeing as it did, I think it’s only fair that I take responsibility.”

He sat up straight. “I don’t think so.”

That stopped Lauren. “You don’t think so?” She narrowed her eyes. He was deadly serious. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m an investigator for the European division of the World Organization for Retrieving Stolen Art. It’s an international registry of looted works of art.” Sebastian slipped a picture ID from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Lauren quickly scanned the card. She shook her head. “I’m still not clear about what you do.”

“I recover stolen art. The commission has an Internet site that lists items of cultural value taken by thieves. Publishing this information as widely as possible gets the public involved and helps us retrieve the items. It’s been very successful. Since 1999, we’ve recovered roughly four hundred and twenty works of art, and we have over seven thousand cases under investigation. At the moment, I’m working with the Italian Carabinieri Unit for the Defense of the Cultural Heritage, in the hopes of lowering that figure by four.”

“Looted art? Italian police?” She held up both hands as if to motion stop. “What does this all have to do with me?”

“Possibly a great deal.” He reached into the same pocket and pulled out a wallet-size photograph. He slid it across the table toward Lauren.

She inclined forward and picked it up. It was an old black-and-white snapshot of a man in uniform. Not a man really, more a kid, judging by his puppyish features and wide-eyed stare. And from the age of the photo and the vintage of the uniform, he was a babe in the woods who had served in World War II. She flipped it over but there was no identification on the back. She glanced up.

“Bernard Lord,” Sebastian said in answer to her silent question.

“Bernard Lord?” Lauren frowned and looked at the photo again. “Sorry, it doesn’t ring a bell.” She placed the snapshot on the table.

Sebastian tilted his head. “Are you sure? Why not take another look? The photo’s old, and there’s a chance that you came into contact with him when he was older, much older.”

Lauren glanced at the picture and shook her head. “No, neither the name nor the face mean anything to me.”

Sebastian sat up straighter and crossed his arms. “Bernard Lord was born in Camden eighty-three years ago. An orphan, his formal education was spotty at best. During World War II, he enlisted in the army and was assigned to the air corps. He was later shot down over northern Italy.”

Lauren shook her head in disbelief. “That’s amazing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Bernard Lord was Harry Nord. I mean, not the real Harry Nord, but my fake Harry Nord.”

“You sure it was fake?” He stared without blinking.

“Of course I’m sure. I realize there are a number of coincidences—” She was feeling flustered and rubbed her hands together before planting them squarely on the table.

Sebastian uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. He joined his hands, a mirror image of hers. The photo of Bernard Lord rested halfway between them, a link. A bone of contention.

“Over the years, I’ve come to realize there is no such thing as coincidence.”

Lauren gulped. “Maybe this is the exception to your rule?”

Sebastian pushed the photo closer to her clenched hands. “Sixteen years ago, Bernard Lord made a sizeable contribution to a small hill town in northern Italy, at least, sizable by the village’s standards. Later the villagers discovered that while Lord giveth, he also taketh away.” His smile was enigmatic.

Lauren shivered and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“It seems that on his visit to the town, Mr. Lord may have also liberated a small but exquisite painting by Caravaggio from the church, in addition to a rare Carolingian silver chalice and a pair of marble candlesticks attributed to Nicola Pisano. The thefts were only discovered after his departure. And not only did he depart, he disappeared into thin air. Without any real proof, the townspeople couldn’t pin the thefts on a man many still considered to be their benefactor. The case was only recently reopened when the local police chief retired, and the new one decided he should contact the Carabinieri. They, in turn, contacted me.”

Lauren peered down at the photo of the young man whose skinny neck looked lost in his uniform collar. “Let me guess. The painting, the chalice and the candlesticks were worth more than his contribution?”

Sebastian nodded once. “Far more. And you’re going to help me find them.”

Lauren studied his serious expression. “But, like I said, I never met, I’ve never even heard of Bernard Lord. And the world of art and paintings hardly figures into my beat at the paper. How can I possibly help you?”

“For the past twenty-five years or so, Bernard Lord received his veteran’s pension at a post office box in central Philadelphia. Approximately six months ago, he stopped cashing them. The police have no record of his whereabouts or death. I can only presume he stopped collecting them because he somehow got wind of my investigation.” Sebastian paused. “As you possibly did, as well, either consciously or unconsciously incorporating it into your story on Harry Nord.”

Lauren splayed her hands across the front of her sweater. “And what possible motive would I have for doing that?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Lauren threw up her arms. “Why are you making me feel like the guilty party here? All right, I’m guilty of losing my temper and letting a prank get out of hand, but beyond that…” She narrowed her eyes. “Beyond that, if we’re going to start casting aspersions, you’re the one who came waltzing in, pretending to be Harry Nord’s grandson. Wouldn’t it have been simpler, needless to say, more truthful, just to come in and say what you really wanted? Why the whole deception?”

“Rather than deception, I prefer to think of it as discretion. In general, I find a low-key approach yields more information and limits further complications.”

The light dawned. “Meaning nobody else, possibly me, making off with the goods before you can apprehend them?” She frowned in indignation.

Sebastian smiled. Lauren Jeffries probably didn’t realize it, but when she was irritated, her pouting lips only added to the edgy attractiveness of her seemingly angelic face. An angelic face that appeared at odds with a criminal mentality.

But his gut told him there was a connection. In which case, she was more likely a fallen angel. Curiously, the image was somehow more compelling.

As long as he kept his eye on the prize, Sebastian figured he could also enjoy, to be a polite Southerner, certain fringe benefits. After all, he enjoyed women—without the least inclination or desire to develop emotional attachments, that is. His mother had taught him that lesson. And one thing was for sure—Lauren Jeffries was a tantalizing woman. Amazing, when you considered how that purple sweater she was wearing covered her from chin to waist. Still, try as it might, it couldn’t hide her rounded breasts.

He leaned closer. “Let me tell you, darlin’, apprehending you would give me no greater pleasure.”

His remark should have horrified her. Irritated her at the very least. Instead, it left a tingly stranglehold playing havoc with her vocal cords and an awkward sensation between her legs that had nothing to do with her khakis cutting into her bottom.

She shifted in her seat. “I’m not sure pleasure is the operative word at the moment.” Who was she kidding?

“Who are you trying to fool?” He gently snared one of her hands and enveloped it in the warmth of his. “Me or you?” He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the back of her palm.

Lauren sniffed loudly. That awkward feeling—the one that had her squirming—only got worse, worse in that achingly desirable way that could get a girl into real trouble. “As a reporter, I must confess I’m used to asking the questions, not answering them.”

“Confessions are good. And I have my ways of bringing them out.”

His words left the roof of her mouth burning. She found herself tilting forward, when the smart thing to do would have been to head straight for the hills or, barring that, the ladies’ room, Tupperware party announcement and all. “Am I supposed to be scared? Will you pull out the handcuffs when I refuse to cooperate?”

Sebastian’s smile only grew larger. “Trust me, there’s no question about your cooperation.” He bent forward, their heads now separated by a few crucial inches, drawn together by a force far greater than gravity. “And it won’t take restraints.” He angled his head.

She stared at his broad mouth and full lower lip. “It won’t?” Her voice was low, breathy.

Sebastian brushed the photo aside and reached to cup her jaw. “Not unless you want it to.”

And he lowered his head and kissed her, teasing her lips with the heat of his, drawing her nearer so that she had to place a hand on his shoulder or she’d fall.

But she did anyway—into the best, most sensual kiss of her life. A kiss that had her thinking how good he was at this, and how turned on she was by the rough abrasion of his teeth against her lips and the playful but purposeful dance of his tongue around the contours of her mouth. And how his doing all this made her stop thinking completely and let the overwhelming sensation of feeling grip her totally. Where they were and what was going on around them became a vague blur, an amorphous ambience against which she tasted and touched the one thing that seemed alive.

Until he abruptly pulled away.

And Lauren would have banged her nose, but good, on the table if the voice from hell hadn’t penetrated her cloudy consciousness.

“So it’s all settled then?” Ray popped his large head through the door.

Lauren gripped the edge of the table.

Sebastian rose and smoothed his dark blue tie. If the kiss affected him, he wasn’t letting on. “I think so. Ms. Jeffries has agreed to my idea.”

Lauren froze. “I have?” She eyed him suspiciously.

Ray came around to the head of the table and stared earnestly at Lauren. “Now, I want you to do me proud, kid. I intended to have someone senior do the feature, but seeing as you’d already filed the obit on his grandfather, Mr. Alberti insisted that you were the right person for the assignment.”

Lauren rose slowly. “Let me get this straight. You want me to write a feature on Harry Nord?”

“Not that you won’t still be responsible for your regular beat—and the obits, of course. I’m not running a country club here. But if you do a good job, I may even bump the story out of Metro,” Ray said magnanimously. Lauren could tell he was feeling magnanimous because he put his hand inside his belt buckle and rubbed it back and forth.

“I would think that the scope of the story could easily raise the newspaper’s and the reporter’s profiles quite dramatically.” Sebastian gazed at Lauren from beneath his dark brows.

So that’s where all this was coming from. Sebastian had convinced Ray that she should work on a bigger story on Harry Nord because it had higher circulation—and maybe even Pulitzer—written all over it. Meanwhile, he’d stick to her like glue with the idea that she’d crack and divulge her involvement with Bernard Lord.

Well, there was nothing to crack on that score. But if Bernard Lord still did live in the area, she was sure she could track him down. Once she got on the trail of a story, she didn’t quit until she landed the goods. And besides, all those years of attending the local Catholic schools had left her with more than the usual social maladjustments—it also meant she knew half of Philly’s police force. If anyone was going to break open the case, it was she. In which case, there really was potential news value. And a chance to move out of Metro—way out.

She turned her full wattage of charm on Ray. “Just remember to carve out six inches above the fold on Page One by the end of next week.”

Ray, momentarily stunned that she wasn’t affording him her usual scowl—and no doubt shocked by her display of chutzpah—forgot to breathe. “Page One?” Ray removed his hand from his belt. His face turned a sickening puce before he recovered. “You’re right. The whole ‘This is your life’ scenario has real appeal. Maybe we’ll throw some advertising behind it, as well.”

Lauren smiled brightly and caught Sebastian’s pleased expression out of the corner of her eye. And realized almost immediately that he’d fooled someone other than Ray. Sebastian Alberti had counted on her being blinded by the lure of a terrific story, that is, if he was giving her the benefit of the doubt. There was still the issue of his thinking she was somehow involved in the thefts, and that she would have to play along if she was going to get him off her back.

Either way, he had her. But it could be like having a tiger by its tail. Because if she let things run their course and wasn’t successful at uncovering Bernard Lord and the stolen loot, she’d never be able to atone for the mess she’d caused. It would be an absolute kiss of death.

Why hadn’t she thought of that when she’d locked lips with Sebastian Alberti? She could still call a halt to the proceedings now and fess up to the obit prank. That way she might have a chance of salvaging her career. Slim, but nevertheless a chance. “Ray?” She looked up, prepared to bite the bullet. “About Harry Nord…”

“You can rest assured,” Sebastian quickly interrupted, “we won’t let my grandfather stay buried.”

Ray punched the air. He could have been Robert Preston leading the band in The Music Man. “You’ll keep her on track, Mr. Alberti. I can see that. Meanwhile, I gotta run. Seems it wasn’t a hijacking at the State House, but a catering truck that rammed into a van of rabbis. All we know so far is that four of them were covered in lobster Newburg. We’ve got a call into the theological seminary to see if that violates any kosher regulations.”

Lauren watched Ray’s retreating figure. She felt as if a catering truck had hit her, as well. She slowly swiveled around on the wooden heel of one clog and faced Sebastian. “I guess I should thank you for getting me Page One on a story that involves investigating someone who doesn’t even exist.”

“That’s not necessary. In any case, we both know that if you can uncover the scoop on the real Harry Nord, aka Bernard Lord, you’ll be filing a far bigger story.” He paused and added almost impulsively, “Besides, look at the positive side. Working together will help to cement an amicable, ongoing relationship.”

“Amicable, ongoing relationship?” Lauren felt a ripple of dread mixed with excitement curl in her stomach and travel helter-skelter to her throat.

“Yes, you heard Ray. I’m supposed to keep you on track.”

“Please, I have a very good sense of direction. And I think things would move far more efficiently if I did the legwork myself and got back to you with daily updates by phone or, if you insist, in person at the office. Trust me, it’s not as if I’m going to skip town.”

Sebastian stepped around the table. “I don’t think so.”

Lauren willed herself not to back up when he halted next to her. Very close next to her. Close enough that she could practically measure within a few degrees the angles of his prominent cheekbones, not to mention inhale another whiff of his subtle, woodsy aftershave. Yes, she’d definitely prefer not to mention that.

She cleared her throat. “And why is it you don’t trust me?”

Sebastian studied her lips. “Well, among other things, I think it’s got something to do with your pink lip gloss.”

There was a moment of silence, after which Sebastian walked to the conference room doorway and waited for her to pass—ever the gentleman. “So where do we start?”

Somehow, etiquette didn’t seem to have anything to do with his proposition.




4


LAUREN MADE NO EFFORT to hide her scowl as she turned to lead the way to her desk. “The Metro section is over in the back corner.” She clomped swiftly down the hall without bothering to look back to see if he was keeping up. If he got lost, so much the better. Sebastian Alberti gave her the willies. No, he gave her more than that. He made every nerve ending in her body acutely aware of things like the smell of hazelnut-flavored coffee and quiet desperation wafting up the stairwell from the Classified section. Ad space was down, and the hazelnut coffee was probably a contributing factor.

Lauren took a sharp right past the City Hall desk and knew instantly he was still following. Closely. Her scalp prickled with the subtle rise in temperature.

This was not good, definitely not good. She lengthened her stride, unaware that the exaggerated gait left a lasting impression for anyone with a view from behind.

Needless to say, Sebastian was as observant as the next man. Maybe even more, given his professional training and artistically inclined eye. An eye that normally lumped women who wore those ridiculous wooden shoes in the company of plow horses, but in this case looked charmingly contrapuntal against Lauren’s energized strides and nicely rounded rear end. He pursed his lips and watched her take the corner past a low partition with the skill of a professional driver. Yes, definitely a nicely rounded rear end.

Life could be a lot worse, he reflected with the sardonic smile that seemed as much a part of his being as his fingers and toes. How often did he get the excuse to follow a woman who attracted him as much as Lauren Jeffries? She appeared to be a fragile doll, her cap of pale blond hair haloing her delicate features. Yet she was as tough as nails, with the ramrod-straight posture of a bantamweight boxer. And that mouth of hers. Her quick, Northeastern way of speaking with its sarcastic bite. Ah, yes, that mouth. He thought of her full, blushing-pink lips…. He coughed and adjusted his steps as she slowed down.

Lauren stopped at a small cubicle demarcated by low beige fabric-covered walls. The only thing that distinguished it from the other work areas in the cavernous room was a “Metro” nameplate affixed at the opening. Her own name occupied the slot directly below, while the third slot was empty.

“It’s a little cramped, but you can sit there if you want.” She pointed to an empty swivel chair. A counter, which served as a continuous desktop, lined three sides of the cubicle. In addition to two computers and phones, there were dual In and Out baskets. “Frankly, I wouldn’t go near it without a serious dose of Lysol and an incantation from a voodoo priest. But then, I’m not the most trusting of people.”

“Any particular reason?”

“For my naturally suspicious nature?”

“Actually, I was referring to the desk chair, but your point is perhaps more interesting.”

Lauren scowled. “Trust me, there’s nothing interesting along that line. As to the chair, it used to be Baby Huey’s.”

“Baby Huey?” Sebastian raised his eyebrows in question.

Very nice, slightly arched black brows, Lauren couldn’t help noticing. She cleared her throat. “Huey Neumeyer, the new State House reporter?”

Sebastian nodded. “Ah, yes—the lobster Newburg incident. I can see how that could generate a lot of reader interest.” He glanced at the empty chair. “I take it he worked in the Metro department until recently?”

Lauren maneuvered her foot around one caster of her chair and pulled it out to sit down. “That’s putting it politely. Huey finds breathing through his nose a full-time activity. In any case, his computer and phone are still functioning. I can just plug in my password, so if you need to check into your office, go right ahead.”

“That’s all right. I carry my office with me.” He slipped a wafer-thin PDA from his inside breast pocket.

“Next time the Sentinel has a few grand they want to throw my way, I’ll know what to ask for. In the meantime, I’ll have to make do with one of these.” She picked up a steno pad from her desk, then turned to boot up her computer.

Sebastian didn’t take her dismissal personally—he didn’t take anything in life personally. Instead, he seized the opportunity to look freely at Lauren’s workspace and glean some information about her.

In contrast to the barren bulletin board over the other desk, Lauren’s was packed with a Far Side wall calendar, phone lists, birthday cards and photos. There was a school photo of a little girl missing a front tooth. And almost hidden beneath a snapshot of a baby staring wide-eyed from the lap of a redheaded woman was a picture of Lauren and the Amazonian Phoebe, a true Mutt and Jeff combination if ever there was one. They were grinning into the camera and holding plastic cups of what looked like red wine. Behind them, a conference room was decked out in tacky holiday decorations—a recent Christmas party at the newspaper, no doubt. Lauren had her blond hair in pigtails, a fuzzy red scarf wrapped around her neck and high color on her cheeks.

By all rights she should have looked like a somewhat tipsy Heidi, but Sebastian’s thoughts were hardly on Swiss orphans. Instead he found himself internally yodeling the delights of slowly disrobing her, leaving only the scarlet boa, and slipping the bands from her hair one by one so that the silky tresses fanned over her cheeks and onto a pillow….

Sebastian blinked. It was happening again, this completely uncharacteristic loss of focus. He cleared his throat and frowned, concentrating on her fingers moving rapidly over the keyboard. “Is that something to do with the case?” He peered over her shoulder.

Lauren swiveled her neck and glanced up. Sebastian loomed over her shoulder like a vulture—a very sexy vulture, but a vulture nonetheless. “I was planning on accessing LexisNexis. Didn’t you want to sit over there and play with your BlackBerry or something?”

“Well, you did warn me about the chair. Besides, it’s not every day I get to see a newspaperwoman in action.”

Lauren rolled her eyes but decided it was best to ignore him—well, at least pretend to ignore him.

She pulled up the search engine that served as the research bible for journalists and typed in Harry Nord’s name, plus Philadelphia, in an attempt to winnow down the number of hits. The obituary she’d fabricated immediately popped up. But right below it was a second item from 1950: a sidebar to a story in the Sports section on Game Two of the World Series between Philadelphia and New York. After a disappointing loss to the Yankees on a homer by DiMaggio, it seems a distraught Harry Nord was in a car accident while driving home from Shibe Park—the Phillies old stomping grounds. Nord’s wife, the only other member of Nord’s family, was killed, and he was left completely paralyzed.

“If Nord became a quadriplegic over fifty years ago, I don’t see him travelling back to Italy after the fact, let alone heisting any art treasures. Your Bernard Lord must be a completely different guy. Let’s see what we get on Bernard Lord instead,” she said out loud, and absentmindedly scratched her neck as she waited for the search to finish.

Sebastian stared at her small hand exposing the white skin at the nape of her neck and had a definite urge to push her fingers aside and run his own across her smooth skin. He breathed in, telling himself to ignore the light scent of lavender. “Do you really think you need to type in Bernard Lord’s name?”

She dropped her hand to her lap. “Are you implying that if I’m really Bernard Lord’s accomplice, I would know everything already? Please, even if I were in on the thefts, you’d think I’d be stupid enough not to pretend otherwise?”

“You’d be surprised how stupid most people are.”

She peered at the screen as the information came up. “I’m not most people.”

“I figured that,” he murmured and leaned next to her ear to read over her shoulder. The smell of her gentle soap was stronger, invitingly stronger. He willed himself to study the screen. While he didn’t have access to this particular data bank, his own tie-in to Interpol was far from shabby. Still, if there was one thing he had learned over the years, any information was relevant—even a dead end.

That’s why when he’d seen the wire story on Harry Nord’s purported obit he decided to follow through. And his instincts told him that he might have gotten lucky. How lucky, he didn’t quite know.

“Hmm,” she mumbled. “Seems your Bernard Lord was quite a flyboy after all—Bronze Star, Purple Heart. Nothing new as far as you’re concerned, though. Let’s see what else we can get—maybe through the Veteran’s Administration.” She tapped in a cross-reference. “No, nothing interesting there.”

Sebastian rested a hand on the back of her chair. “Why don’t you try Camden?”

Lauren poised her fingers on the keyboard. “Camden? As in New Jersey?”

“That’s right. You wrote in the obit that that was where Harry Nord was born.”

Lauren frowned. “That’s right. But it was something I made up, if I remember my notes correctly. Still, it’s just across the river, so why not?” She shrugged and typed in the information. And while the computer hummed away, she tucked her fine hair behind her ear, inches from his face.

Sebastian watched her gesture and was suddenly conscious of the delicate curve of her ear. It would be so easy for him to lower his head and nuzzle her lobe. Offer a teasing bite. Cause Lauren to turn her head and offer more than a gentle nibble in return. More like a full-blown kiss on those plump lips…He gripped the chair more tightly.

“Bingo!” Lauren grabbed the steno pad and scribbled notes. “Seems a Bernard Lord reported a break-in at his apartment at 38 Roebling Street, Collingswood, eight years ago.” She moved her head back and forth as she scanned the copy. “Missing items included a silver tea set, Lenox china. Gee, pretty pricey items for that neck of the woods. Wait a minute—” she scrolled back up “—Roebling Street. That rings a bell somehow.”

She swiveled her chair a few degrees, forcing Sebastian to let go, and rifled through a stack of papers on her desk. “I must have left it here some place.” Coming up empty-handed, she flipped through another, then pulled out a drawer with a stack of steno pads. She ducked her head and searched.

“Looking for something?” Sebastian joined her by the open drawer.

She lifted the top few pads and went through them one at a time. “Yeah, my notes on Harry Nord. I took down information from the press release from the funeral parlor and the VA hospital to write up a ‘real’ obit, which of course, I never actually did when all the hoopla broke out. I must have it here somewhere.”

He stared at the jumble of notebooks. “Maybe I could help you look? Otherwise we could be here until it’s time for you to collect your pension.”

“Technically, the Sentinel has a K1 plan, not a pension plan, which, because I’ve been here four years already—” she stopped going through the pads and blinked. “I can’t believe it’s already been four years.” She shook her head. “Never mind. If I think about that too much I’ll go into a terminal funk. What were we looking for—Oh, right, the notes on Harry Nord. Sure, I suppose you can help look. Just grab a handful. My filing system might not be the greatest, but at least you’ll see I carefully mark the cover with the dates that I used the pad and what stories the notes refer to. See, this one says ‘Christmas Tree Scam’, ‘Homeless Shelters Revving Up For Winter Weather’, ‘Soup Kitchens Facing Shortage Of Food.’”

She skimmed through the pages. “Everybody thinks the holidays are so great, but for some people, it’s just more hardship. At least the story on the soup kitchen generated some interest—they called me to let me know a supermarket chain made a large donation in response. Kind of makes the beat worthwhile after all.”

She closed the notebook and for the first time glanced over at Sebastian and noticed that he was staring at her. His mouth, that incredibly sensuous mouth, was slightly open, and the top ridge of his bottom teeth exposed. “What? Do I have something on my nose or something?” She reached up but didn’t feel anything more than the little bump on one side, the result of having fallen out of the top bunk at a sleepover party when she was nine. Her mother was forever suggesting that she apply concealer to mask it.

“It’s not so much your nose as your eyes, your expression. You don’t even realize how you telegraph every emotion—frustration, modesty, pride, tenderness.” Sebastian studied her some more, shifting his head first one way and then the other.

Wow, frustration, modesty, pride—let alone tenderness—were not the emotions that immediately came to the fore. And if he could read her thoughts that easily, well, he’d figured out that embarrassment was following hard on the heels of lust. “I guess I shouldn’t play poker then,” she stammered.




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