She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder then stopped. "On second thought, you hold on to this." She thrust the envelope-shaped Coach bag in Sebastian's direction. Phoebe had talked her into buying it at an end-of-season sale. Even at thirty percent off, it had been beyond her budget. Lauren should have known not to go shopping after drinking two glasses of wine.
Sebastian stared at the bag. "You want me to hold your purse?"
"I want you to stay here and hold my bag while I stop in at Ray's office to get this hydrant assignment. Then I'll have time to slip out and get my notes from my apartment. There's something about Roebling Street
in Camden that rings a bell."
"Sorry if I'm a little dense, but why am I the designated purse holder? If it's to test my masculine security, I can assure you it's quite intact." Sebastian held up her bag.
Lauren breathed in deeply. "Somehow I'm not surprised. But to answer your question, you're holding it because I want to sneak out, and Ray will put up a stink if he thinks I'm bailing out on a rinky-dink public service piece in favor of a potential Pulitzer prize story." She held up her hand. "And, yes, before you ask, his priorities are that skewed. Besides—" she gave him an endearing smile that caused more than a little excitement in Sebastian's nether regions "—you were the one who wanted to develop a close working relationship, correct?"
Sebastian cleared his throat. "As long as I'm not caught holding the bag."
Unfortunately, Ray was in one of his expansive let-me-explain-to-you-the-meaning-of-journalism-not-to-mention-life moods. His sentences invariably began with the words "Now in my day…" Rather than suffer through the arcane details of Ray's experiences as a cub reporter in the Precambrian era, Lauren finally grabbed the press release from the fire department and hightailed it out of his office with the excuse, "I'll be sure to get this in the Monday edition, but it's that time of the month, and I really do need to go to the ladies' room."
Ray blinked and let her go immediately.
Clumping down the hallway as fast as her legs would go, Lauren glanced down at her watch. "Great, a twenty-minute discourse on the glory days of Edward R. Murrow." She turned the corner without looking up and barely had time to stop herself from ramming directly into Sebastian.
Even still, she had to rock back on her heels to reclaim her balance. Actually, she was starting to come to the conclusion that she was permanently off balance when it came to being around Sebastian Alberti. Especially when he did things like smile slyly and greet her with, "Darlin', this way of meeting is becoming a habit."
Lauren crossed her arms in front of her chest. She had the suspicion the sudden strain on her lace bra was not due to the effects of dry skin. "Well, maybe if you didn't stand like some sequoia in the middle of traffic it wouldn't happen so often."
"Don't worry that you've offended me," he said, watching her grab a worn leather jacket from a hook.
"Some things worry me, but offending you is not one of them." She slipped on the coat. "Good, you've got my bag, too. I'll take it now. If we walk quickly we should be able to get to my place in thirty minutes or so." She marched to the elevators and raised her hand to punch the Down button.
His left hand was there first. She rubbed her forehead and tried not to be pleased at the lack of a wedding ring. She studied the lighted Down button with keen interest.
"You know, I'm truly flattered that you think of me as firmly thrusting myself upwards," he said with that mischievous lilt of his.
Lauren instantly looked up. "What on earth are you talking about?" The elevator opened and she got in and plastered herself against the back wall—as far away from Sebastian as possible.
Sebastian calmly joined her, leaning forward to push the lobby floor button before resting his back next to hers. "Your choice of words? Calling me a sequoia?"
Lauren gazed heavenwards. "That was just a figure of speech."
He smiled slyly. "Ah, but you above all people know the power of words."
The elevator stopped at the next floor. "Hi, Lauren, going out?" asked a female voice.
Lauren tilted her head down and saw that Donna Drinkwater, the doyenne of the supply closet, had joined them. And while Donna had addressed the question to her, her eyes—with their pale orange lashes—were zeroed in on Sebastian. Lauren would have dearly loved to shake Donna by her ample shoulders—despite being only five foot two, Donna had a real shot at a linebacker position on the Eagles—and tell her, "Donna, you're old enough to be his maiden aunt and besides, why don't you stop wearing crocheted vests that make you look like an afghan rug?"
"Donna," Lauren instead said politely, "I don't think you've met our celebrity guest, Sebastian Alberti." Donna smiled sweetly, and Lauren could almost forgive her the crocheted vests—no, she couldn't. "Sebastian, this is Donna Drinkwater, an invaluable member of the staff and one of the few people who actually has Engelbert Humperdinck's phone number."
"Engelbert Humperdinck?" Sebastian asked with raised brows.
"You know, the seventies singer with the big sideburns that came all the way down his jaw?" Lauren mimicked the effect.
Sebastian opened his mouth, but he needed a moment to get the words out. "Of course, Engelbert Humperdinck. Without question, his rivals, Tom Jones and Julio Iglesias, pale in comparison." All this, and he managed a straight face.
Then Sebastian took Donna's hand and for a moment, Lauren thought he was going to kiss it. Instead he gently shook hands and Donna, still in a daze, let hers drop limply back to her side. Lauren wondered if Donna would avoid washing it for days.
Whatever. Lauren was eternally grateful that they reached the lobby without anybody else getting on. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Donna," Sebastian said in parting. "And I must tell you, Engelbert Humperdinck's rendition of 'Release Me' has always been one of my favorites."
Donna slumped in the corner. "If you send me your e-mail address, I'll be sure to include you in the fan mail listing." She weakly raised her hand.
Lauren walked swiftly across the lobby to the bank of glass doors. "'Release Me?' Puh-lease. Do you always have to lay it on so thick?"
"You wanted me to tell Donna that the last decent crooner was Perry Como? I don't think so." His large strides easily caught up with her choppy steps. "There's no need to rush, you know."
"I thought you were as anxious as I am to get to the bottom of the Bernard Lord story." She pushed through the revolving door. "We've already lost a lot of the day due to Ray's penchant for verbal diarrhea. And you know, it's going to take a while to walk to my place."
"That's what I thought, so I brought the car around to the front while you were occupied."
Lauren stopped on the sidewalk. "But there's no parking in front of the building."
Sebastian withdrew his car keys from his trouser pocket. "Maybe for some people, but the security guard assured me I'd have no problem."
Lauren looked at him in disgust. "Do you always get your way?"
Sebastian humored her by actually pausing to think a moment. "Yes, I'd say so." He nodded in the direction of the curb. "So how about you getting in the car before I pull out my gun?"
"You really carry a gun? I wouldn't think your tailoring would allow it." Lauren glanced in the general vicinity of his waist, and for the first time she realized that there might be times when a stolen art inspector did more than analyze flakes of paint. "Okay, I get the message." She held up her hand. "Home, Jeeves."
* * *
5
« ^ »
It took a moment for the crowd of pedestrians to pass and give Lauren a clear shot at making it to the curb. When she did, she let out a low whistle. A black Mercedes SLK gleamed in the April sun. "Do international art theft investigators work on a commission or something?"
"Let's just say I like toys."
"I just bet you do. In your line of work I'm sure you get to use all types of macho gadgets—X-ray lasers, paper chromatographs. Who knows, maybe even Hummers painted in artisti
c camouflage colors—you know, to blend in with the stolen Raphaels and Michelangelos."
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Actually, I much prefer my tractor painted in classic John Deere green."
That gave Lauren pause. "Tractor? What do you do—furrow for clues?"
Sebastian grabbed the sides of his suit jacket and buttoned the middle button with greater care than Lauren thought was strictly necessary. "It's for personal use."
Lauren frowned. "You need a tractor in D.C.?"
Sebastian's head came up quickly. "What makes you say D.C.?"
Lauren rolled her eyes. "Oh, brother, talk about suspicious. You probably don't even trust your own mother."
He didn't hesitate. "I don't." His voice was flat.
And Lauren didn't think he was joking. She raised her hand to say something, but let it drop to her side. "I guessed you lived in D.C. because your ID card listed your organization as based there, and because the plates on your car come from the District. Okay?" She casually waved in the general direction of the bumper. "Should we get going then?"
Sebastian unlocked the car doors and opened the passenger side. "I'm surprised you didn't drive yourself today. Early spring mornings can still be mighty chilly."
She slipped into the leather seat. "Well, it's like this, if I don't walk, I take the bus."
"You take the bus?" He sounded aghast. He was aghast.
Lauren turned to face him as he got in on the driver's side. "I have my eye on the new Jaguar, but unfortunately the dealer is back-ordered on the color I want." Lauren shook her head. "Of course, I take the bus. On what the paper pays me, I'm lucky that I have my own place and don't have to live with my parents anymore."
"And that irks you? The low salary?"
"Money wasn't what motivated me to become a reporter. It was finding the truth, informing people to help them have a better grasp of the world and make more informed voting choices. And I wanted to be able to give them insight into their neighbors in order to build a sense of community and be touched in a unique way." She held up only to catch her breath.
"Thank you, Woodward and Bernstein. But the money irks you, right?" He rested his hands on the steering wheel.
"Of course it irks me. I'd like to hit the end-of-season sales at Asta De Blue as much as the next gal, but I've learned to tamp down my fashionista urges and live within my means."
Sebastian surveyed her clothes slowly. Though Lauren thought he was surveying something else, along the lines of her less-than-generous breasts and somewhat too-rounded hips. "Yes, I noticed," he said as he let his gaze travel back to her face. "But there are other urges that have nothing to do with fashion, you know?"
Lauren pursed her lips. She really did not want to parse the meaning of "urges"—not sitting within easy lap-straddling distance of the most delectable man she had ever seen on this side of the silver screen.
And then it hit her—he wasn't talking about sex. She spun around and shot him a furious stare. "Listen, I'm not so strapped for cash that I would succumb to the urge—or whatever you call it—to steal priceless works of art which are near and dear to a small town's heritage. I am really growing tired of these innuendos, and I don't know what I can do to convince you that we're on the same side."
Sebastian studied her with a steady gaze.
Lauren refused to flinch. "Well?"
He wet his lips.
She stopped breathing, momentarily mesmerized, seemingly a contradiction in terms given that she was frustrated as hell with him at the same time.
He stilled his tongue on the ridge of his teeth, allowing Lauren to surmise that he was just as aware as she that the temperature in the car had suddenly risen, despite the careful monitoring by the Mercedes' computer.
Finally he shut his mouth and swallowed, breaking his hold on Lauren and allowing her to turn away. "Maybe if you pointed me in the right direction of the thief, you wouldn't be a suspect," he offered.
She slanted him a glance and held out a finger. No, not that finger—her index finger. "In that case, get in the left lane after you pull away from the curb, and I'll tell you when to turn."
If it weren't for the traffic, Sebastian and Lauren could have made it to her place on Pine Street
in ten minutes. But that was like saying if the dog hadn't stopped to take a leak, he would have won the race.
Traffic jams were as much a part of Philadelphia as bodily functions were to canines.
The only thing worse than the traffic was the parking. Lauren directed Sebastian to one of the parking garages near Pennsylvania Hospital. From there, it was a short walk to the narrow brick row house where her top floor apartment was located. The recently renovated, well, partially renovated building—the landlord ran out of money before installing either the luxury bathrooms or granite countertops in the kitchens—exuded historical charm. Which was a good thing since the building to the left had a For Lease sign stuck at an angle on a boarded-up window. The building on the right had a sign more parallel to the pavement.
Sebastian stared up at the purple lettering and read out loud, "Elwood's Tattoos and Piercings. I see the neighborhood really attracts the most refined of businesses." He eyed her askance.
"I like to think we're on the cutting edge here in our little part of the world. Two blocks to the east is Society Hill. A couple in the other direction is Antiques Row. And don't knock Elwood. He promised to give me a discount on getting my belly button pierced."
Sebastian dropped his eyes. "And did you?"
Lauren frowned. "Did I what? Oh, you mean get my belly button pierced? Are you kidding me? Do you know how much my mother would freak out? It's bad enough that I moved out on my own."
"Your mother holds that much sway over your life?"
"Whose mother doesn't?" Lauren dug around in her bag for her house keys, not really expecting an answer.
She didn't get one. In any case, the noise of an ambulance whizzing past provided a temporary distraction. Sebastian watched it turn into the hospital. "How convenient for you and Elwood," he said. "And noisy."
"You get used to it. Besides, if I ever need an ambulance, they know where to find me."
"I'm sure that's a real selling point for luring prospective tenants."
"Be smug all you want. I'm proud to live here," Lauren retorted and turned to put her key in the front door lock. "That's weird."
Sebastian moved behind her. "What's weird?"
She swiveled around to look at him. Standing on the top of the marble stoop, she was eye to eye with him. "The door. It's unlocked."
He took the two steps in one stride and stood next to her. "You want me to go in first?"
Gee, having her own mysterious and sexy personal protector was like something out of a rerun of The Highlander. Lauren shook her head. Sebastian did not wear his hair in a ponytail, so she was safe. All right, it was raven black, but she could still deal with him and whatever was going on in her building.
"That's okay," she assured him, laying a hand on his arm to quell his protective instincts. Actually, that wasn't the best idea she'd had lately. Lauren never realized how even the most casual contact with rock-hard biceps could be so discombobulating. She whipped back her hand before she started doing something she'd regret—like yanking off his jacket and applying her lips to the pulse point on his wrist.
"Are you sure?" she heard him ask. And if Lauren didn't know better, she'd have sworn his rich baritone was a little tighter than usual.
She purposely avoided looking up, which was probably a good thing for a girl intent on regaining her composure. Otherwise she'd have noticed that the pupils of his eyes had dilated and his jaw was working overtime. But she hadn't.
Instead, she concentrated on the tips of her clogs and stammered, "You know what?" Her brain finally clued in to information not tied to her libido. "Probably someone was just carrying a whole bunch of things in and out and forgot to flip the lock back on."
Sebastian raised a doubting eyebrow, but
deferred to her judgment and let Lauren go through the door first. Since she could no longer stare at him, he actually had the chance to collect his composure.
From where in God's name had that protective he-man urge sprung? For a minute back there he'd felt like Rambo, ready to charge into the fray, and the next—when she'd laid her hand on his sleeve—he'd just about thrown her to the ground and had his way with her on the marble steps. Steps that really needed polishing, but not in a way that involved the type of activities he had in mind.
Jeez, for a man who prided himself on staying in control, analyzing situations and sizing people up, he suddenly seemed prone to rabid emotional impulses where Lauren Jeffries was concerned. It was one thing to indulge in extracurricular activities. It was quite another when they got in the way of your concentration.
Sebastian drew his brows together in a deep V and followed Lauren up the narrow stairway. She lived on the third floor of the building, and he had a prime view of her rear end in her khaki trousers as he followed several steps behind. With each lift of her leg, the material stretched across her rounded cheeks, allowing him to deduce in no uncertain terms that she wore thong panties.
He swallowed. With difficulty. Concentrate, he told himself.
Lauren trudged up the final flight of stairs and breathed through her mouth as she reached her apartment door. She'd moved in less than three weeks ago, and the trek upstairs was getting marginally better each time she came back. She reached up to unlock her door—but this time, Sebastian was the one to lay his hand on her.
"Don't." He uttered the one word in a whisper. He nodded toward her door, and Lauren saw for the first time that it was slightly ajar. She froze. "Go down the stairs and dial 911 on your cell phone," he said, his voice low.
Lauren gulped, telling herself now was not the time to panic. "I don't have a cell phone."
"A single women living alone in a city and you don't own a cell phone?" He shook his head. "Never mind. Use mine." He removed his hand from her sleeve and slipped it inside his coat. He held out the phone.
THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY Page 5
