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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.
