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 may have been soft as silk, but the fabric of the body underneath was as solid as marble, and as well-chiseled as a Rodin statue. Sebastian Alberti might be a phony, but there was nothing insubstantial about him.
Lauren attempted one of those cleansing breaths that relaxation gurus are so fond of. To say that inner calm was hard to achieve when her nose was pressed into a silk tie and her nostrils were filled with the heat and woodsy scent of a drop-dead gorgeous male was something of an understatement. Still, calm, or the illusion of calm, was absolutely essential if she had any hope of rescuing her career—and her sanity.
She pulled her head back and looked up, her eyes level with a half-Windsor knot. “Sorry, I didn’t see you coming.”
Sebastian Alberti rubbed his chin, then dropped his hand and smiled a heartbreaking, melt-in-your-mouth-and-on-the-gray-industrial-carpeted-floor smile. “That makes two of us.”
Lauren nearly sank back into him with more than her nose. But propelled by an even stronger sense of professional decorum, she mustered what little self-control she still had and took a step back. “Yes, well, um…” Words were supposed to be her forte. “You might not realize this, but we’re actually supposed to see each other in Ray’s office.” She gulped. “I’m Lauren Jeffries, the reporter who wrote your grandfather’s obituary.” The dramatic emphasis could have registered as far south as Baton Rouge.
Her words seemed to ruffle—albeit momentarily—his composure. Was it a flash of surprise or sexual interest?
Foolishly, Lauren was hoping that sexual interest would win out. She shook her head. Foolishly was right. She hadn’t been foolish since she’d cooed over the engagement ring that Johnny Budworth had given her when he’d proposed at an Outback Steakhouse. She’d actually believed that the sparkling brilliant had been genuine and not cubic zirconia from the Home Shopping Network.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me, as the saying went. Lauren looked up at the small cleft in Sebastian Alberti’s chin—such a nice cleft, by the by—and said out loud the obvious. No, not that she found him amazingly attractive and would desperately like to throw caution to the wind and check into the Four Seasons and have wild, abandoned sex and use all the bath towels. But rather, “I think it’s safe to assume we have much to discuss about our situation here.”
He arched a brow. “You think?”
“I know and you know,” she said emphatically, with a lot more confidence than she was feeling.
He crooked up the corner of his mouth. “Meaning that our involvement makes us both—”
“Liars?” she offered.
A sexy dimple appeared in his right cheek as his smile broadened. “And here I was going to say soul mates.”
Lauren looked into Sebastian Alberti’s dark eyes—up close they were a deep, sinfully dark, chocolate brown. If they were supposed to be the windows to his soul, then she was in real trouble.
She swallowed. And was saved from coming up with some witty, sophisticated reply by a loud rapping from the other side of the ladies’ room door.
Phoebe maneuvered her head around the corner. “Is it safe to come out yet?”
“It 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
