THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY Read online

  Sebastian tore his lips from hers. "I'm sorry, we'll go slower next time. Now, I can't take any more." He raised his chest from hers and reached over to the nightstand. Jerking open the drawer, he grabbed a condom. Then he sat up on his knees while Lauren panted and watched him roll the latex down the length of him, and while he watched her watch him.

  Then he was back on top, his hand moving between her legs. She opened wide when she felt the tip tease the entry to her body. He slowly eased farther, and pulled out, only to move farther in again. It was good, so good she thought she would die.

  But she didn't. Instead she found herself dying for more. She shook her head and placed her hand on his back. "I want you deeper." She wrapped her legs around the backs of his thighs and raised her hips. "Deeper."

  And he gave her more. Cradling her hips with one arm, he raised her off the bed and plunged to his full length. Harder, faster, he rode her, their bodies coated with a light sheen, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.

  Lauren felt the tremors build deep within. She had climaxed on the chair, but now she felt like she was coming apart, coming undone. She went to hold back from the force, but he wouldn't let her. He dipped his head and, sucking on a nipple, drove toward the very core of her being.

  And then there wasn't any core, just a phenomenal shattering of matter and nerves and emotions that ripped a stunned outburst from her lips, to be followed by an even louder one from his.

  Afterward, they lay limply in each other's arms, breathing—barely breathing—until Sebastian stumbled to the bathroom, leaving Lauren momentarily to herself. As the exhaustion slowly crept from her body, the realization of what they'd just done replaced it. Which made Lauren wonder, wonder if it was possible for your life to alter just like that? Because just like that, her life seemed to have changed in some fundamental way.

  Whether that was good or bad, she wasn't sure. Yes, the sex had been good—truly, madly, fabulously good—but the aftermath? Was she supposed to just go on coolly working with—let alone sleeping with—this guy who had trouble believing she wasn't out to double-cross him? She pulled the sheet up defensively and covered her body. Maybe it would be better if she reconsidered the wisdom of staying in his hotel room and braving the new experience of opening her heart to him?

  But then Sebastian walked back in the room, and with his eyes on her, moved toward the bed—only to trip over her small duffel bag in his path.

  "Ow." He hopped on one foot and stumbled onto the mattress. "So much for my manly entrance." He brought his arms around her, turning her back into his stomach, and snuggled close. He rubbed the side of his face against her hair and kissed the top of her head. "You need anything?" he murmured, cuddling closer.

  A man who knew how to snuggle was also a rare commodity in her neighborhood. Lauren felt his penis stiffen as it wedged against one cheek of her bottom. This was going beyond cuddling. She wiggled around and faced him. "How's your toe?" Maybe it was time to explore outside the neighborhood?

  He frowned. "It hurts, but I'll live—live to fight another day."

  She placed her hand on his chest. "Actually, I was thinking about other things besides fighting." Her fingers found one of his nipples and she scraped her nails across its puckered surface. Now she was good and ready to linger.

  Sebastian woke with a start, sensing he had missed something—in addition to his dinner. He turned his head to the side, and as soon as he did, he caught a whiff of something intoxicating. He smiled at the memory of making love to Lauren—the first feverish time when they'd gone at each other like hormonally driven teens; the second, when they'd lavished careful attention on each other. Yes, sirree. Sebastian wet his lips when he thought about the comprehensive attention Lauren had lavished on a particularly sensitive area. Talk about sublimely intoxicating. He would have almost called it a divine experience, except his body was still humming in a way that could only be described as carnal.

  And speaking of carnal— He turned to the center of the bed and reached out with his arm, only to find a rumpled sheet and an indented pillow.

  He looked around. The sun had long since set, and the light from outside street lamps slanted shadows across the already darkened room. But at the writing desk, he spied the glow of a computer screen. Hunched over in front of it, with one of the hotel robes seductively sliding off one shoulder, was the object of his current affection.

  Was affection the right word? Certainly it was a word he'd never associated with himself before. Sebastian shrugged. He preferred to think of the term "current," and her soft, pliable body sitting within easy reach. He pulled back the covers and strode over, oblivious to his nakedness.

  "Hard at work?" he asked, stopping to peer over her shoulder. He could see that Lauren had called up an art history search engine and was looking at paintings by Caravaggio.

  "Hmm?" Lauren scrolled down the page and jotted some notes on a steno pad.

  He propped his naked hip on the corner of the desk. "Expanding your knowledge of Italian art?"

  She rubbed the side of her temple without looking over. "Just trying to find out what the stolen items look like. Your commission's site didn't post any photos, but since the artists produced other stuff, I thought I'd try to get a feel, put the pieces in some kind of context." She made some more notes on the Caravaggio works before tapping in Nicola Pisano's name. Bent on her task, she seemed oblivious to Sebastian's presence.

  Which frankly, yes, somewhat insulted his ego. Even though he assured himself his ego—as well as everything else—was quite nicely intact. In fact, something other than latent insecurity was starting to dance around in his brain. "And you just happened to remember the names of the artists in question?"

  "I remember lots of things." Lauren didn't seem aware of his discomfort. "Jeez." She whistled. "Will you look at that marble altarpiece! What my parents' church wouldn't give for that beauty. Of course, they had trouble just raising enough money to fix the roof over the rectory last year."

  "You were saying that you remember a lot of things?" Sebastian crossed his arms and leaned closer to the computer screen.

  Lauren couldn't help but notice. She glanced up, finding herself within easy examining distance of the dark hairs on his muscled forearms. Her mind immediately brought into focus the picture of him holding her hips as he lowered his body to sink into her. She shook her head. "What's that?"

  "I was wondering how you remember a lot of things, especially things like artists? Not your usual beat, as you informed me."

  Lauren averted her eyes from his arms and tried to focus on something neutral. She landed on his chest—his very unclothed chest. No, no, that was definitely not something neutral.

  She swung her eyes back to the screen. "It's an old memory trick I learned as a student. I go through the alphabet, and when I hit a certain letter that is the first letter in a name, it triggers the rest of it. Sometimes it doesn't have to be a letter. It can even be a sound-alike word that signals the name I'm looking for. I know it sounds kind of lame, but you can't believe how helpful it can be at times—and not just for things like press conferences. I mean, it's really kept me on Donna's good side, which—let me tell you—is no mean feat."

  Sebastian narrowed his eyes. "Donna?"

  "You remember. The elevator? The majordomo of the supply closet? The president of the Engelbert Humperdinck Fan Club?"

  Sebastian nodded slowly. "Oh, that Donna."

  "When the need arises, I can even mention favorite songs of his."

  "You have favorites?" Sebastian appeared even more dubious.

  "Well, not my favorite songs, but songs that are considered Engelbert Humperdinck's favorites, you know, hits. Here, I'll show you." She closed her eyes and started to recite the alphabet. "A—'After the Lovin', B, C," she mumbled. "Okay, L—'The Last Waltz'—"

  Sebastian put his hand on her shoulder—the one that the robe had conveniently left bare. "It's fine. I believe you."

  Lauren contemplated his han
d. "Do you? And I don't mean about Engelbert's oeuvre. About me? And the art?"

  Sebastian rubbed her shoulder blade with just the right amount of pressure. "If I believe anyone, I believe you."

  Lauren wet her lips. "Okay, that's probably the best I can ask for at this point. But tell me, as long as we're sharing our professional secrets, why are you so keen to track down stuff like this?" She waved her hand at the photos of the priceless art on the computer.

  "Because it's my job."

  Lauren shook her head. "Not buying that. No one is that intense about his work just because it's a job. It has to be a passion. I mean, why would I wake up after the best sex of my life—" whoops, that just slipped out and Lauren hoped it passed beneath Sebastian's radar screen, but somehow she didn't think anything passed beneath his radar screen "—to look at art pictures. Because tracking down the story, digging out the truth is my passion. So what's yours? Is it solving the mystery? Wanting to right a wrong? I mean, really, what makes Sebastian run? Really?"

  His hand stopped.

  "Please, don't keep from rubbing just because you're deep in thought," she added.

  Sebastian smiled and squeezed playfully. "That's what I like about you—focused on the essentials." He bent down and planted a light kiss on her shoulder blade. Then he sat up. "You want to know the answer, really? I guess it's a desire to return the works to their rightful places." He placed the tip of his tongue behind his top teeth. "No, it's more than that. It's about finding a true home. Art goes to the soul of people's identities. It's more than a commodity. It provides an emotional, intangible anchor—a sense of belonging, a cultural touchstone. Does that make any sense?"

  As he spoke, Lauren couldn't help but notice that his kneading had become more insistent. There it was again—that theme of "home." She had obviously struck a chord, but she had the good sense to refrain from emitting a jubilant "Aha!" Because deep down, she had the feeling that Sebastian Alberti was far more comfortable about baring his body than baring his soul. Though, in making love this evening, Sebastian had bared some of his soul whether he had been aware of it or not. The actual verbalization would come eventually, with her patience and with his trust. And she would gain the latter, she knew, by revealing more about herself.

  Meanwhile, speaking of bodies, she slanted her head and enjoyed a very nice eyeful. And this time she didn't bother to search for something neutral to focus on when she spoke. "Do I know what you mean about a sense of belonging?" Her eyes drifted from PG- to R- and on to X-rated zones. "I don't know, sometimes when I think of my family and the neighborhood, I kind of wish I didn't have so strong a sense of belonging. But not to change the subject—but to change the subject—there's something else I should do before I forget." She scooted around in the chair and placed a hand on his thigh. The skin was warm, the muscles hard. It would be hard to forget.

  "You need to call the cop who works in Camden?" He observed her hand.

  "Yeah, I need to do that, but that wasn't what I had in mind at the moment." She made a slow circle on his skin with her index finger.

  "You need to call room service for something to eat? I realize we missed dinner." Sometimes his gallantry astounded him.

  "No, I'm fine."

  Sebastian tweaked a smile. "I should have known food wasn't on your mind. After all, you're the woman who keeps her files in her oven."

  "Hey, don't knock my filing system. It thwarted a thief this afternoon. Don't forget, that's where I found my notes on the real Harry Nord."

  Sebastian recalled the ransacked apartment. "I'm still remembering." He searched her face to see if she was still upset.

  "Well, forget remembering—with or without the aid of the alphabet and sound-alikes. I have other things in mind." She tugged at one of his hands and rose.

  Sebastian slipped off the desk and draped an arm around her shoulders. "Is that so?"

  "You bet. I think it's about time you introduced me to the wonders of the Rittenhouse's high-end plumbing—and I don't mean the bidet."

  Sebastian lowered his hands and undid the knot at the front of her robe. He watched as she let the terry cloth garment ease off her arms and puddle on the floor. "Darlin', for you I'm willing to manipulate every spigot, every hose and every faucet in any number of pleasing ways. And if you think of any way that I've missed, I'm more than ready to be open-minded."

  * * *

  7

  « ^ »

  Lauren hung up the phone and pressed her fingertips to her temples.

  "Another brouhaha down at the school board?" Phoebe asked. She was propped up against Lauren's desk. The straight skirt of her suit fit snugly but perfectly over her narrow hips, and the material was some tweedy mixture of lime green, pink and cream, with gold thrown in for good measure. In theory, it should have looked like the remains of a ticker tape parade. In practice, it looked great. Go figure.

  "If only it were the school board." Lauren stared at the phone and wondered what shoe would drop next. "Seems there's a three-alarmer at Broad and Master in North Philly."

  Phoebe rested her palms on either side of her hips for support. "Don't tell me someone torched the Freedom Theatre?" Phoebe looked horrified at the thought of the country's largest African-American playhouse going up in flames.

  "Luckily, no. A warehouse a few buildings down. Still, there were people inside, so I can't just do a call-in." Lauren pulled out a desk drawer to grab another of her steno pads and a minitape recorder. After all her years in Metro she had become inured to most of the stupid and craven things people did to each other. But not fires. The sight of a burn victim was something she could not easily forget.

  She stretched her hand toward the mug that held her stash of pens, twisted her hair up and stuck in a ballpoint pen to keep it all out of her eyes. Then she glanced down at her calendar to check that she wasn't going to miss any meetings while she was out in the field. Miraculously, there was nothing urgent other than her four o'clock in Camden to meet a fence—not the chain-link variety, either.

  The call to Walt Mahoney, the former pride of Xavier's basketball team and Ricky's suggestion for whom to contact regarding the scumbags of Camden, had struck pay dirt. Well, maybe.

  "Listen, Laurie," he'd said on the phone between bites of a soft pretzel, "if you're looking for offloaded art, the most likely source is Slick Frankie. Usually he deals more in silver and jewelry, but from time to time he's been known to trade in stuff like paintings—paintings not necessarily coming through the normal channels, which does not endear him to the art establishment. To put it another way, the Philadelphia Museum of Art does not regularly invite him to their black-tie gala."

  "So how do I contact him?" Lauren had asked, barely able to contain her enthusiasm.

  "Frankie lurks, but you might be able to get him on his cell phone." Walt rattled off the number.

  Lauren copied it into her notebook. "Thanks, I owe you one."

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Hey, I hear from Ricky that you and what's-his-name are no longer an item."

  Lauren shook her head. "And did Ricky also mention my place had been burglarized, too?"

  "Yeah, he said something about it."

  Great, pretty soon the whole of her old neighborhood would know, including her mother and father, "Walt, it's been great talking to you, but I'm on deadline here, so I gotta run."

  She'd hung up and looked at her watch before calling her mother to preempt any gossip. No big deal. This time of day, her mother was undoubtedly at the family's dry cleaning business, doing the books. So as casually as possible, Lauren left a message that since the locks were being changed in her building, she was temporarily staying with a visiting colleague at the Rittenhouse. No need to mention the colleague was a man.

  Instead she'd recited the phone number and hung up. Next she dialed Slick Frankie the Fence. What a ridiculous name. He suggested meeting at the Camden Aquarium by the shark tank at four. "I find them relaxing," he'd whispered and abrup
tly broken the connection. Sure, whatever.

  Right now, Lauren had a fire to cover. She opened the drawer and pulled her wallet out of her bag. She had just enough money for a taxi up there and could probably thumb a lift back from another reporter. She looked up. "I don't suppose you'd let me borrow your car for a few hours?"

  Phoebe's vintage Jaguar was a thing to behold, and about as reliable as a twenty-year-old gigolo.

  The thing practically required a full-time mechanic. And Phoebe had a full-time mechanic.

  Lauren shook her head. "Never mind. Forget I even asked." She stuffed the bills back into her wallet and jammed her notebook and pens in her bag.

  Phoebe watched critically. "Why not let Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome drive?"

  Lauren glanced up. "That's right. Tall, Dark and Handsome. I almost forgot." She reached for the small pad next to the phone and hurriedly scribbled a note to Sebastian, giving her whereabouts and a rough idea when she should be back in the office. That would give them plenty of time, she relayed, to make the four o'clock appointment over at Camden Aquarium with Slick Frankie, and either before or after, check out 38 Roebling, the address of the burglary reported by Bernard Lord. Lauren knew it would be too much to ask that Bernard lived there currently or even recently—reporting was rarely that easy—but maybe there'd be a neighbor who remembered him.

  When she was just about finished, she looked over at Phoebe. "Thanks for reminding me. How could I have forgotten?" She looked into space. "Really, how could I have forgotten?" Lauren's voice had the dreamy quality of an ingénue in a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical—an ingénue after she'd just gotten laid, or was dreaming about getting laid. No, come to think of it, Rogers and Hammerstein was not the right metaphor.