Tracy Kelleher - The Truth About Harry

“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.”

“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?