The Truth About Harry. Tracy Kelleher
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?
Not that that deterred Phoebe. “Well, it’s not every day I get to meet the grandson of one of our obituaries.” She smiled broadly, displaying the dazzling effect of diligent dental care.
Sebastian smiled smoothly. “And it’s not every day that you get an obituary like my grandfather’s, either, is it?”
“You’re darn tootin’,” Ray greeted them, his enlarged waist preceding the rest of him by a second or two. “Well, I see you’ve already met the little lady who wrote the story.” He nodded to Lauren.
She closed her eyes and told herself she would not lecture Ray on his choice of words.
“I would hardly call Ms. Jeffries little in terms of her capabilities,” Sebastian said.
That opened Lauren’s eyes.
Phoebe’s eyes were already locked on Sebastian’s in killer seduction mode. “I bet your capabilities aren’t little, either—in any terms.”
Sebastian raised one eyebrow. “You know, I’m beginning to wonder why I never met a Lifestyle editor before.”
Lauren went back to rubbing her forehead.
“Maybe I can run a feature on you?” Phoebe offered, stepping close enough to discern the warp and woof of his suit jacket. Woof was right.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ray wagged a finger at Phoebe. “You’ve got a luncheon to go to or whatever it is you do.”
“I only fill six pages on weekdays and a half section on Sunday, but then, don’t mind me,” Phoebe huffed before turning to Lauren. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” On the last word, she looked pointedly at Sebastian and inhaled loudly before sauntering off in regal fashion.
“Is she for real?” Sebastian asked as he watched Phoebe depart, her long legs striding and her narrow hips swaying around the corner.
“I sometimes wonder myself,” Lauren admitted. “I think it has something to do with going to too many cotillions at an impressionable age.”
“Ray—Ray, we’ve got a situation.” Huey Neumeyer bounded over—definitely not a pretty sight in Lauren’s opinion. Here was a man who wouldn’t know a cotillion if he tripped over one. Actually, tripping was his usual mode of entrance.
“We’ve got reports of a hostage situation at the State House, but I’m here because of the press conference and not in Harrisburg to cover the story,” Huey panted. A rivulet of perspiration meandered down his right cheek, and a distinct whiff of body odor mixed with Aramis.
Lauren smelled a story—among other things. “I’ve got a source in the State House. And I have his cell phone number,” she volunteered. The minority leader’s chief of staff had been the best man at her brother’s wedding, and during the rehearsal dinner they’d shared a few too many tequilas, along with several wet kisses and a quick feel. Since all the action had stayed above the waist, it meant he was still a reliable source.
Huey stamped his foot. “This is my beat.”
Sebastian wisely sidestepped Huey’s little hissy fit. “Not that I want to get in the way of a pressing news story, but I was ever so hoping to meet up with Ms. Jeffries.” He turned his southern drawl up another notch.
“Huey, pull yourself together and go to my office,” Ray barked, his face turning an alarming shade of red. Lauren wondered if she should send him an e-mail suggesting the merits of a stress test. “I’ll get the governor’s press secretary on the phone and the spokesperson for the Pennsylvania State Police. You can head out with a photographer as soon as we know what’s happening. And you, Jeffries—” Ray jabbed an index finger in the air in front of her sweater “—take Mr. Alberti to the conference room. And don’t even think about calling your source and muscling in on this story.”
Forget the e-mail, Lauren thought as she watched him lumber down the hall. She spun around and was immediately aware that she was alone with Sebastian.
“I believe you were going to show me the conference room?” he asked.
A sense of foreboding overcame her. She nodded toward the hallway. “This way.” She didn’t bother to linger and, instead, quickly clomped down the linoleum floor to the open door at the end. She sounded like a Clydesdale. Maybe clogs weren’t the best shoe choice after all.
“Here we are, Mr. Alberti.” She pushed the door open. “Is that your real name, by the way?” She waited for him to go through first.
Sebastian paused in the doorway and thought, now’s the time to bring out the truth, at least, carefully edited portions of the truth. “Please, as a Southerner and an Italian, custom prevents me from preceding a lady through the door.” He waited. “And my name really is Sebastian Alberti. Actually, Sebastiano Alberti, but I anglicized it years ago.”
That was only one of the changes he’d made when he was young—not that change solved everything.
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