the rest of the dog and pony show?”
Phoebe nodded, and they slipped out of the closet—so to speak.
“I am especially pleased that the Sentinel is able to have yet another scoop,” Lauren heard Ray announce when they got back to the large lobby. “And with that in mind, it is my great pleasure that I am able to introduce to you today—”
Lauren went up on her tiptoes and strained to see the front of the room.
“Sebastian Alberti.”
“Who?” Lauren looked to Phoebe who had abandoned her customary sangfroid and was violently fanning herself.
“The grandson of Philadelphia’s own hero, Harry Nord,” Ray declared.
Just as the Red Sea parted for Moses, so too the bodies in the lobby miraculously opened up, and for the first time Lauren got a good look. At Ray. No, forget Ray. At the man standing next to Ray.
She was stunned. No wonder Phoebe had gone gaga. Men like that simply didn’t live in Philly. They didn’t even visit Philly. They certainly didn’t walk through the front door of the Sentinel’s lobby.
And nothing against Phoebe’s judgment, but Sean Connery, even younger and with hair, couldn’t hold a candle to the man in front. Tall, with broad shoulders and a trim build, Sebastian Alberti wore his charcoal-gray suit as if it were made for him. Lauren peered more closely—it was probably made for him. Still, even though he looked perfectly at home in Savile Row tailoring, he was definitely no wimpy clotheshorse. Not when his confident posture managed to simultaneously radiate ease and tension.
And that face. Lauren shook her head. Face was too prissy a word. His collection of chiseled features—the prominent cheekbones and square jaw—his raven-black hair, deep-set eyes and slashing eyebrows. No question about it, the whole package spelled B-A-D. Hot bad. Hot, HOT bad.
With some coaxing, Sebastian Alberti stepped to the microphone and smiled. At which point his features altered perceptibly, and a collective sigh could be heard from among the female members of the audience and even some of the guys, though not the boys from production. Right in front of their eyes, Mr. Bad Boy was transformed into Mr. Bad Boy With A Heart.
Lauren would have succumbed then and there along with all the others duly affected in the room. Would have—except for one glaring problem. Harry Nord, real or otherwise, didn’t have a grandson.
Sebastian Alberti—or the heartthrob claiming to be Sebastian Alberti—leaned into the microphone and ducked his head down, just like someone not used to talking in front of an audience. Lauren could feel the tension as all the mothering types held themselves back from going up and adjusting the angle of the mike just so.
“I’m honored to be here today. Thank you, Ray.” He nodded politely, and Ray lifted a hand and pretended to be humble. “I never thought anyone would write about my grandfather that way.” Unlike Double-O-Seven and his Scottish burr, Harry’s supposed grandson spoke in a subtle southern drawl. But it definitely contained a license to kill. Hearts, that is.
“My late mother, a product of war-torn Italy—” a chorus of “oohs” chimed in here “—would have been so pleased that her father was finally recognized, given his generosity to her small village. Babbo, as I always called him, never talked about his past. ‘True giving,’ he always said, ‘should be anonymous.’”
There was a chorus of “amens.”
“It’s like watching a revivalist minister in an Armani suit,” Lauren said out of the side of her mouth.
“Well, I could easily become a convert,” Phoebe nearly panted.
“So, given how difficult it must have been to unearth this story—”
“Not that difficult,” Lauren whispered.
“I find myself just wanting one thing—”
Lauren saw Donna Drinkwater instinctively step forward.
“And that’s to meet the intrepid reporter who uncovered my babbo’s story.” He lifted his chin and scanned the crowd. His eyes quickly honed in on the back corner of the room, the back corner where Lauren was crushing her foam cup and trying to look even smaller than she already was.
Phoebe coughed. “Tell you what. As long as we’re making things up, how about I be you? For him, I’m ready and willing to be totally screwed.”
2
“CAN YOU BELIEVE RAY didn’t announce the guy’s name until the very end? Talk about burying the lead!” Lauren complained into the mirror of the ladies’ room. She had to lean to the right because the notice to buy Tupperware from Elaine in Accounting was taped smack in the middle of the glass.
“Forget Ray’s journalistic failings.” Phoebe rummaged through a small Fendi pouch containing makeup. “You’re on the verge of possibly being fired. There are far bigger issues to worry about. Apricot or pink?”
Lauren looked at the two tubes in Phoebe’s hand. “You criticize me for discussing journalistic competence when you’re debating the merits of lip gloss?”
“This is not simply a matter of lip gloss. We’re talking about your image as you’re about to face Ray and Harry Nord’s grandson.”
“Phoebe, how many times do I have to tell you? Harry Nord never had a grandson.”
“Are you sure?”
Lauren nodded. “According to the press release from the funeral parlor, the real Harry Nord had no family survivors.”
“Well, the fake one—the one you invented—appears to have acquired one, and, trust me and my little heart, which is still going pitter-patter, he is very real.”
Lauren tipped her head. “You’re right.”
Phoebe surveyed her with an arched brow. “And frankly, even though you are one of my nearest and dearest, you are hopeless in the image department. I mean, really, that ersatz-graduate-student look of chinos and clogs is so passé.”
Lauren held her hands out wide and looked down at herself critically. Okay, not that critically. “And here I thought wearing an eggplant mock turtleneck sweater was daring. What did I know?”
“Obviously, not enough. Darling, extreme décolletage is daring.” Phoebe thrust a tube toward her. “Here, take the pink. We’ll simply play up your baby-fine blond hair—capitalize on that innocent look of yours.”
Lauren stared at the lip gloss and did as she was told. Innocence was a rare commodity these days, as she knew only too well. She tossed her cold cup of coffee into the trash, turned to Phoebe and, holding herself erect, declared, “I can do this.” She punched the air and pushed open the bathroom door—
And ran smack into trouble, aka Sebastian Alberti. To be more precise, the top of her head plowed into his pronounced and very hard chin. Which left her momentarily stunned. She put out a wobbling hand and connected with something hard, very hard. And it wasn’t the door.
The material of his designer suit
