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 traveling 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 Kl 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.
"You also shouldn't delve into crime. I'll catch you, you know?" He moved his head more closely to hers. The width of the drawer the measure of separation.
"What if I don't want to be caught?" She wasn't talking about crime.
"There's a theory that deep down, all criminals secretly want to be caught, you know."
"But I'm not a criminal," she protested, intent on the movement of his full lips.
"Then I'll just have to further my investigation to confirm that, won't I?" He tilted closer and angled his mouth.
Lauren bit her top lip and let go, opening her mouth in breathless anticipation. The notebook in her hands tumbled atop the others.
"So this is how you follow up on a story!" The squeaky exclamation was followed up with a loud snort.
Flustered, Lauren jerked herself upright, banging her shoulder on the edge of her desk. She rubbed the sore spot. "Huey, I'm surprised to find you slumming around the Metro section. You need me to tie your shoes before you head out the door on your big seafood scoop?"
Huey scowled, causing a few more flakes of dandruff to join the blizzard that adorned the shoulders of his too-tight blazer. They resembled sprinkles on a cupcake. "You know, you should be nicer to me. I have influence. I can make life difficult for you around here."
"What are you going to do, Huey?" She emphasized his name. "Jam the photocopier the way you usually do?" Lauren shot back. She was beyond worrying about retribution. What was Ray going to do? Demote her to making coffee? She did that anyway.
"I don't need to be insulted," Huey retorted.
"Then why don't you leave? In case you haven't figured it out, you're not entirely wanted around here. And trust me, it's not just professional."
She glanced down at the drawer, which of course immediately reminded her of the kiss that almost was. An almost-kiss that had left her breathless in a way that far exceeded even the three-hour necking session at the postprom party her senior year in high school. She shook her head and stared at the notebooks before reluctantly turning to Huey. "You haven't seen a pad of mine lying around, have you, maybe when you were clearing out your desk last week? It's got my notes on Harry Nord."
Huey screwed up his close-set eyes. Not a pretty sight. "This is a new low, even for you. Just because I got a promotion and you didn't, you accuse me of stealing your work?"
"You're right, what was I thinking?" She banged her forehead with her palm. "You wouldn't know what to do with my notes even if I dictated you a story from them. Now that I think about it, I must have taken the notebook home that evening, just jammed it into my bag. It's probably sitting on my dining table along with my unpaid Visa bill. I apologize profusely for my unwarranted accusations."
"Well, if you put it that way." Huey appeared temporarily mol
lified. "Besides which, I only stopped by because Ray asked me to tell you he wants you in his office. Seems the fire department put out a warning about the dangers of low water pressure in the hydrants, and Ray wants a story."
Lauren sighed. "I can see the lead now. 'Kiddies, don't open fire hydrants in the warm weather, no matter how much fun it could be.' I'm surprised you didn't grab at the chance to write up that one."
"I have bigger fish to fry now that I'm the State House reporter." Huey thrust his shoulders back, an unfortunate gesture given that the button straining against his round waistline finally gave way and popped across the cubicle.
Sebastian efficiently bent over and retrieved it. He held it out. "Actually, I was under the impression that lobster Newburg was simmered, not fried."
Huey snatched at the button and hustled out of the cubicle as quickly as his Easy Spirits could take him.
Sebastian looked at Lauren, who had risen out of her chair and was busy opening another drawer and grabbing her shoulder bag. "You think it's smart to bait him that way?" he asked.
"What's he going to do? Go running to Ray complaining I don't play nice?" Her head was buried in her bag as she pushed through its contents. "Even if he is the boss's relative, there's no way Ray is going to fire me because that little pipsqueak asks him to. It's a simple matter of economics. No fresh-faced kid out of journalism school is going to settle for a salary as low as mine. When I was on the job market, I was so eager to get the position that I would have been willing to take less than the going rate at McDonald's. Come to think of it, I did." She rose and took a few more pens out of the can on her desk, which was decorated with a decoupage of grocery store coupons past their expiration dates. The den mother of Lauren's niece's Brownie troop had a lot to answer for.
THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY Page 4