The Truth About Harry. Tracy Kelleher

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