The Truth About Harry. Tracy Kelleher

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