Lauren reached for it, aware that her hand shook. "And what are you planning on doing? Reenacting the 'Charge of the Light Brigade'?"
"Don't worry. I can handle myself." He moved his hand under his jacket to the small of his back.
Lauren didn't think he was reaching for a comb. "Great. Just great. You decide to play hero and possibly get yourself shot." Amazing how a little irritation could diminish fear.
Sebastian removed his arm from under his coat and grabbed her by both shoulders, summarily turning her around. "Will you go downstairs?" He thought he'd exercised amazing restraint by not kicking her in the butt.
Lauren scowled over her shoulder. "All right, I get the point. But no getting yourself killed and ruining my chances for the biggest story of my career, you hear?"
"And here I thought you were concerned for my health. Glad to get that straightened out." He watched her remove her clogs and skip swiftly down the stairs. A momentary sense of relief washed over his body, quickly replaced by an acute awareness that the potential for danger was far from over. He refocused, breathing purposefully, and reached inside his coat to pull out his .38 Smith & Wesson.
Lauren went down the two flights of stairs and stopped at the landing on the second floor. She had no desire to walk into a crime scene in the making, but she sure as hell wasn't going to abandon Sebastian altogether. She quickly put through the call to the police and waited for the sound of cars arriving below.
For the sound of gunfire from above.
Five minutes and four Our Fathers and five Hail Marys later—for a totally lapsed Catholic, it was amazing how the words tumbled out—the boys in blue arrived.
The shots didn't.
Lauren supposed she should be relieved. And she was—until she saw that Ricky Volpe was one of the beat cops.
"Laurie, you the one to call in a potential B and E?" Ricky asked. No "Are you all right?" No "You're not hurt, are you?" It figured. Back in high school it was well-known that Ricky's concept of foreplay was to unzip his pants.
"Yeah, good to see you, too, Ricky." She nodded toward her apartment. "My place is the next floor up. A colleague and I noticed the door was open. He's still up there, checking thing's out."
"Oh, yeah?" Ricky shook his head. "A regular Arnold Schwarzenegger?"
Lauren thought about the image for a moment. "Actually, more like Benicio del Toro."
"He's Hispanic?"
Lauren shook her head. "Never mind. In any case, he's the only one in my apartment wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit, unless whoever broke in has this thing for Armani, as well."
Ricky raised his eyebrows. "Armani, huh?" He unholstered his gun and faced his partner. "Let's see what gives, and try not to dirty the fancy tailoring at the same time."
What a wit. Lauren started to follow them up the stairs. Ricky swerved around. "You, half-pint. Stay put until I call you." He turned around and the two men headed up the stairs.
Half-pint! Lauren was disgusted. She waited for a count of ten, then followed on up. From the end of the hallway she could see that the door to her apartment was wide open. Sebastian was standing in the middle of her living room-slash-dining-room-slash-kitchen. He had his hands on his hips. His jacket was pushed back and his head was bent down as he talked to Ricky's partner. His face was set in a grim line. He periodically nodded his head toward various parts of the room.
Lauren walked to the doorway and stopped. What greeted her was a disaster area akin to the proverbial trailer park after a tornado.
Ricky came back from checking out her bedroom and bathroom and holstered his gun. "Holy cow, Laurie. This is one hell of a mess," he said, shaking his head. "You know, you're mother's going to freak when she hears about this."
Lauren gave him a steely gaze. "And who's going to tell her? If you so much as breathe a word about this, I will personally come and put tiny holes in all the packets of condoms in your medicine cabinet, or bed stand, or wherever you keep them. Then the neighborhood will really have something to talk about nine months from now."
"Hey, you're one to knock my social life," Ricky said defensively. "Anyone who goes out with Johnny Budworth shouldn't talk. Oh, that's right, he dumped you."
Lauren narrowed her eyes. "Just to set the record straight, I was the one who dumped him."
Sebastian cleared his throat. "Not to break up this cozy tête-à-tête," he drawled, "but I do believe we have a crime scene to investigate. I've already told Officer Greene here what I know." He nodded to the junior partner, who really did look wet behind the ears. His shoes were spit polished and his hair trimmed to within a millimeter of his pumpkin-shaped head. His biceps bulged in a way that spoke of a close working relationship with the weight room and dietary supplements.
Ricky spread his legs and hooked a thumb into a side pocket. "And you would be, exactly…?"
Lauren sighed, wondering how the situation had gone from being about her to about them. "Officer Ricky Volpe, this is Sebastian Alberti, an art theft investigator out of D.C."
Ricky and Sebastian suffered a nod at each other. It was only slightly more elevated than the way more lowly male species sniffed each other's rear ends.
"Ricky and I grew up together, graduating from Our Lady of Victory Grammar School," Lauren explained with a certain amount of disgust. "Luckily the gods intervened and we parted ways in high school when Ricky went to LaSalle Academy, a Catholic military school in South Philly—a combination that only the Jesuits could have dreamed up."
"Hey," Ricky said defensively. "I'll have you know that we won the parochial league basketball championship when I was captain my senior year."
"I'm sure it was the high point of your life," Sebastian said sardonically.
Ricky looked to say thank you, then realized maybe he should think better of it. He turned to Lauren. "You notice anything that's missing?"
Lauren did a quick survey. "In here, a boom box from the bookshelf. Maybe some CDs. Hey, a thief who likes Motown—there's a clue for you." Her eyes circled back to the table. "I won't know about the papers until I go through them, but I can tell you my laptop's missing—a PowerBook G5." That hurt. She'd just gotten it. She walked over to the kitchen counter and rifled through a wicker basket that served as a catchall for take-out menus, keys and loose change.
"Hey, don't touch anything. I'm gonna have some guys dust for prints," Ricky called out.
Lauren looked up, distracted. "Oh, sorry. I was just checking if I still had a backup to my work on the computer." She held up the small memory stick that fit into the USB port on her laptop—or what used to be her laptop. Then she took a few steps across what the real estate agent had euphemistically called the "galley kitchen" to the miniscule oven. She pulled down the door to the gas model and peered in.
"Hey, Laurie, kid, let's not do anything desperate." Ricky moved toward her uncertainly.
"Fear not, Ricky." Lauren stood up straight again. In her hand, she held a steno notebook. "I keep my files in the oven."
Sebastian angled his head. "You don't find that a little awkward when you cook?"
She blinked innocently. "Who cooks?"
Ricky made a face. "And to think you come from South Philly." He looked at his partner. "Get this down, will you?"
"About where she keeps her files?" Officer Greene stared vacantly.
Ricky frowned and addressed Lauren again. "Any previous break-ins, either at your place or in the building or neighborhood?"
She shook her head. "Not that I know of, but then I've only been here a few weeks." She distractedly pointed to the unopened boxes as evidence of her short time in the place.
"So you can't think of any reason why you were hit in particular?" Ricky asked.
Lauren shook her head. "It's not like I leave cash lying around or have anything valuable like jewelry. My high school ring is only twelve-carat gold."
"Well, on the surface of things, it all looks like your typical breaking and entering to me. You might want to get your lan
dlord to invest in some decent locks." He waved his thumb toward the door. "A juvenile delinquent with half a brain could pick those."
Lauren caught a glimpse of Sebastian's frowning expression. "You think differently—that the locks are good enough?"
"No, I think even a Labrador retriever with no brain could pick those locks." He shook his head. "It's the motivation I question." He worked his jaw and added, "Maybe we're looking at a falling-out among thieves?"
Lauren rolled her eyes. She seemed to do a lot of that around Sebastian Alberti. "Oh, for the love of Mike. Will you give it a rest? I've just had my brand new apartment burgled and you're giving me a hard time? Ricky—" she looked pointedly at the cop "—don't even follow up on that line of questioning. I take back anything I may have said that seemed to compliment Mr. Alberti's investigative skills."
Sebastian shrugged.
Officer Greene slapped his pad shut. "The team should be here real soon to dust for prints, but truthfully, I'm not holding out much hope. Once you've gone through the place, you'll need to come down to the station to file a claim for what's missing. Meanwhile, maybe you should think about staying somewhere else for the night, or at least until you get the locks changed."
Lauren nodded. "Nothing like being driven out of my own house before I've had a chance to color coordinate my bathroom towels with my shower curtain."
"Sorry?" Officer Greene furrowed his concerned brow.
Lauren shook him off. "Never mind. I tend to use sarcasm in times of stress."
"Next you'll be spouting Shakespeare," Ricky said. "Then we'll really be in trouble."
"Is that your way of offering comfort?" Lauren gave him a withering look.
"Listen, kid, I'd give your insurance agent a call and chalk it up to bad luck," Ricky advised.
"Not to mention bad locks," Sebastian added.
Ricky tipped his head. "And that, too."
Lauren swallowed deliberately. "All right." She went to usher out the policemen but stopped a few feet short of the doorway. "Hey, Ricky, you wouldn't know anyone who works on the Camden force? In the Roebling area?"
"You think there's a connection?"
Lauren shook her head. "No, it's for a story I'm working on with my friend here."
Ricky worked his upper lip, then let his jaw drop open stiffly. "Remember Walt Mahoney?" Lauren frowned. "He was captain of Xavier's basketball team? The only school to whip our butts in the regular season?"
"Bunch of dirty players. But you're right."
Ricky nodded. "Mahoney works out of the precinct in that neighborhood." He walked to the door. "But, hey, you know that neighborhood's pretty rough. You want to watch yourself going over there."
"Don't worry. She won't be alone," Sebastian said.
Ricky eyed Sebastian and acknowledged his terse statement with a grunt as he left with his partner. Lauren would never understand male communication skills, or lack thereof.
She slowly closed the door. She breathed in deeply, straightened her shoulders and turned to face the inevitable. "Well, it's a good thing I'm not an acquisitive person. Otherwise trying to salvage this mess could be kind of upsetting." Who was she kidding? She was devastated, not so much by the material loss, but at the notion of being violated. She'd only had a glimpse through the doorway into her bedroom. Even then, she saw that the room had been tossed. Somehow, that bothered her more. She couldn't contain a shiver that ran the length of her body.
A shiver that Sebastian noted right away. He studied her resolute expression, and he could tell she was trying to put a good face on a bad—very bad—situation, but her anxiety was just as clearly evident. She was right: poker was not a professional alternative.
He fought down the unfamiliar urge to embrace her in his arms and offer comfort. After all, he was here to get to the bottom of a crime—not be her friend.
Which didn't explain at all then, why the next thing that came out of his mouth was, "When I said you wouldn't be alone, I meant it. You're moving in with me."
* * *
6
« ^ »
Lauren's head snapped up. "What? What are you talking about?"
What was he talking about? The truth of the matter was that his impulsive statement was probably more a shock to his system than hers. Sebastian couldn't remember the last time he'd invited a woman to a hotel room.
In matters of sex, Sebastian had a strict policy regarding one-night stands with anonymous partners. N-O.
It was a matter of mathematics, really. As someone who dealt with crime, he was constantly assessing risky behavior. And casual sex with strangers was simply too risky. Far better for him to engage in intermittent interludes of passion with charming, intelligent women. Women who commanded his respect and stimulated his libido, and who made their careers a priority and thereby understood the rules of engagement. In other words, what they were entering into was shared mutual pleasure with no expectation of any personal attachment, long-term or otherwise.
As for his sudden invitation to Lauren Jeffries … it wasn't a question of sex. Well, maybe partly, but only partly. Sebastian was sufficiently self-aware to comprehend that his offer was a gesture of friendship.
And that was something totally new.
To put it bluntly Sebastian didn't have friends. Yes, he had the admiration of his colleagues and socialized with them on occasion. He was also a favorite among Washington hostesses, who frequently sought him out as a witty and sophisticated dinner guest. But real friends—the kind you shared your hopes and dreams, your disappointments with—those he didn't have.
Why? Because he didn't need them, or so he always told himself. But with Lauren, his steely resolve to isolate himself was, well, less steely. Her vulnerability, which she tried fiercely to deny, was piercing his carefully constructed emotional chain mail. And in turn, he was ready to charge to her rescue, wear her standard and vanquish her foes.
Sebastian scowled. The physical threat to Lauren Jeffries was all too real. But that wasn't what was troubling him. After all, he'd found himself in danger before. No, it was the emotional threat to himself.
Sebastian knew that if he offered to help her, he was also exposing how he felt. He would face the risk of not being accepted or understood, of disappointing someone because he was not one thing or another. All of his instincts told him to pull back and remain outside the emotional fray.
There was something about Lauren though, something that went beyond her fragile beauty and her luscious body and dragged him into the world of true friendship, not to mention, emotional intimacy. He shuddered. Emotional intimacy. Next he would be quoting Freud.
Then he looked at her face—still startled from his unexpected invitation—and knew anything was possible.
Sebastian worked his lips. "I'm saying that once the police are through here, you should pack a bag with items you'll need for a few days and move into my hotel room with me."
"Don't be ridiculous. I mean, I can understand that it'd be totally stupid to stay here until the locks are changed, but in the meantime I can just call Phoebe. I'm sure she'd have no problem with me bunking with her for a while. Her place is large enough to hold all the starting players for the Sixers and a number of substitutes. For all I know, for that matter, she already has." She saw Sebastian slant her a curious glance, and shrugged her shoulders. It wasn't her job to explain her friend's—shall we say—all-embracing social life.
Sebastian came over and stood close—a little too close. "As much as that statement begs elaboration, and in some circles might offer real appeal for staying at her place, I don't think you want to jeopardize Phoebe."
"You think this break-in was more than what it appears?" His earlier statement about "a falling-out among thieves" was preposterous. But the notion that the crime hadn't been a random occurrence wasn't.
"You're saying is that whoever did this"—she nodded around the room "—is really after me?"
"For any number of reasons. And if you stay with me, not o
nly will you be safe…" Sebastian lowered his chin and looked at her from under his slanted brows.
He stared into her face. Somehow, some way, Lauren Jeffries had managed to tap into his supremely suppressed capacity to trust. Trust that one individual would not mess with his psyche and leave it in broken shards.
He raised his hand and rubbed her baby-fine hair, the gesture releasing a sweet fragrance of innocence—or maybe just the remnants of her conditioner. Whatever. He smiled. To himself and at her. He placed his thumb on her forehead and gently rubbed away the furrowed lines of worry. "Trust me." Just as I trust you, he thought but didn't say.
"You think?" The corner of her mouth twitched up.
He breathed in slowly, studying the curved line that cupped the corner of her delectable mouth. "I know."
Then he bent his head and touched his mouth to those full pink lips of hers, lips that begged to be kissed. It was a feathery kiss that tasted of coffee and spoke of laughter, newness, promise.
And it had Lauren's heart thumping like the bass line of a Led Zeppelin track. She pulled back—not because she didn't like it, but because she knew she liked it—a lot. She noticed how dilated Sebastian's pupils had become. And even with the space between their bodies, she felt his heart pumping erratically.
"As invitations go, that's a whopper." She supposed she should have acted more coolly, but with her body temperature hovering close to tropical limits, cool was not possible. "Are you sure I'll be safe if I go back with you to your hotel?" The question wasn't just rhetorical.
She knew. He knew it, as well.
Sebastian shook his head. "Frankly, I'm not sure I'll be safe."
Lauren surveyed the irregularly shaped hotel suite, with its dormer windows and impeccably tasteful furniture, including an immense armoire holding enough electronic paraphernalia to launch the Sixth Fleet. She craned her neck toward the bathroom and caught a glimpse of the most enormous bathtub this side of the Delaware River.
The Rittenhouse, a boutique hotel on posh Rittenhouse Square
THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY Page 6