Twelve military heroes.

Twelve indomitable heroines.

One UNIFORMLY HOT! miniseries.

Don’t miss a story in Harlequin Blaze’s

12-book continuity series, featuring irresistible

soldiers from all branches of the armed forces.

Heat up your holidays with A Few Good Marines…

DEVIL IN DRESS BLUES

by Karen Foley

October 2011

MODEL MARINE

by Candace Havens

November 2011

RED-HOT SANTA

by Tori Carrington

December 2011

Uniformly Hot!—

The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell!

Available wherever Harlequin books are sold.

Dear Reader,

When I was younger, I briefly worked as a reporter for a daily newspaper, but dreamed of becoming an investigative journalist. However, I soon discovered that getting into people’s faces when they were at their most vulnerable wasn’t something I was very good at.

When journalist Sara Sinclair stumbles across a salacious story that could catapult her own fledgling career into the limelight, it requires her to get into the face of one seriously badass marine who is anything but vulnerable. But somebody will stop at nothing to prevent her story from being publicized, and she must depend on Sergeant Rafe Delgado to keep her safe, or risk losing everything…including her heart.

I love writing sexy stories about military heroes and the women who can’t help but fall in love with them. I hope you enjoy Sara and Rafe’s story!

Happy reading!

Karen Foley

Devil in Dress Blues
Karen Foley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Karen Foley admits to being an incurable romantic. When she’s not working for the Department of Defense, she loves writing sexy stories about military heroes and heroines. Karen lives in New England with her husband, two daughters and a houseful of pets. She loves to hear from her readers, and you can visit her at www.karenefoley.com.

For my girls, who want to write.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

1

Nothing good ever happens after midnight.

At least, that’s what her mother always said, and Sara Sinclair was inclined to believe her. Glancing at the digital clock on the dashboard, she saw it was just twenty minutes before that fateful hour. And for the last few miles, she’d been following a sports car along a dark stretch of country road, keeping a safe distance as it careened crazily from one side of the road to the other, narrowly missing the guardrails. She had no trouble believing the driver was drunk, but the amorous attentions of his female passenger were probably more to blame for his erratic driving—Sara watched as the woman’s head bobbed over the driver’s lap, popping up briefly before disappearing again below the dashboard.

She gave a snort of disgust, and reached for her cell phone to call the local police. The driver was fortunate that he hadn’t caused an accident on the winding road. At any other time, she might have found the lovebirds amusing, but not tonight. All she wanted was to get home, strip out of the confining evening gown she wore, and curl up with a warm blanket and a mug of hot chocolate. A mere six hours ago, she’d been vibrating with suppressed excitement at the prospect of attending the annual Charity Works Dream Ball, a $750-per-plate black-tie dinner to raise money for injured marines. But now that it was over, she felt empty and disappointed. Not with the event, but with herself.

Someday, she’d learn to be more assertive and speak her mind, instead of worrying about what others might think. She chanted the mantra silently: Be more assertive.

The glittering charity ball was one of the most-attended social events of the autumn season in Washington, D.C. Sara had been thrilled when her senior editor had invited her to go, especially since she was only a junior contributor on the writing staff of American Man magazine. She spent hours debating what to wear, fantasizing about what adventures the evening might hold. But try as she might, she couldn’t figure out why she had been selected to attend the prestigious event, rather than one of the senior writers. Even when the guest of honor had stood up to speak, she hadn’t clued in.

Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Rafe Delgado had been dazzling in his formal dress blues, and Sara hadn’t been the only woman in the ballroom unable to tear her gaze away from his broad shoulders and sinfully handsome face. The man was simply stunning, and his voice could only be described as intoxicating, like dark, smooth whiskey…

“That’s the guy I want you to interview,” her editor whispered in her ear. “I’ll introduce you after the speeches are over. Delgado is a bona fide hero, and I’m counting on you to get an exclusive interview with him for the magazine.”

Sara turned to her editor with disbelieving eyes. “Because he supports a charity that benefits his Marine Corps brothers?” She arched an eyebrow. “It’s noble, but I wouldn’t call it heroic.”

American Man magazine featured stories about prominent and powerful men across the country, and while Sara had interviewed men from all walks of life, she’d never been asked to do a story on a guy simply because he’d supported a good cause. Not unless he’d backed that good cause with millions of his own hard-earned dollars, and Sara was pretty sure that kind of contribution was way above a gunnery sergeant’s pay grade.

The older woman gave Sara a tolerant look. “For someone who claims to be a journalist, you’re remarkably uninformed. Sergeant Delgado is the marine responsible for rescuing the three American aid workers in Pakistan.”

Sara couldn’t prevent a small gasp of astonishment. “That was him?”

Lauren Black gave a small shrug of concession. “Well, him and his team. But Delgado was the mastermind. Don’t let his pretty face and fancy dress blues fool you. From what I hear, that guy is one tough son of a bitch. Smart, too. He speaks about a dozen different languages.”

Sara stared hard at the other woman. “How do you know this? None of the news reports ever identified who the soldiers were.”

Lauren smiled and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s just say I have reliable sources in very high places.”

Slowly, Sara turned her attention back to the man in dress blues. This was the special-ops soldier responsible for carrying out the spectacular rescue of the aid workers? She recalled the incident from the previous month, when the workers had been taken hostage by Taliban forces. Like so many others, she had been riveted by the story of their dramatic rescue. But through it all, the five men credited with the brave act had never been identified. Two of the soldiers had been seriously injured during the rescue operation, yet they had still managed to bring the three women to safety.

After the speeches were over and the dancing had begun, Lauren expertly steered Sara through the crowds until they reached Sergeant Delgado’s side. Engaged in conversation with a group of tuxedoed men, he didn’t immediately notice the two women. Sara took the opportunity to get a good look at him, and something fisted low in her abdomen as she studied his chiseled profile.

He’d been gorgeous from a distance, but she hadn’t been prepared for the raw masculinity the man exuded up close. On a scale of one to ten, Sergeant Delgado was a ten to the tenth power. He was taller than she’d realized, and the cut of his dress uniform did little to hide the powerful musculature of his body. If anything, the short navy jacket and gold cummerbund only drew attention to his flat stomach and lean hips.

Sara was contemplating the neat fit of his trousers across his delectable backside when he laughed, and the deep sound caused delicious pinpricks of sensation to rise up on her skin. Her heart began to thump heavily in her chest in anticipation of actually meeting him, of having his attention focused on her. She must have made a noise, because all the tuxedoed men looked at her questioningly.

Then Sergeant Delgado turned toward her, and Sara went a little weak beneath the full force of his scrutiny. His black eyes drifted slowly and deliberately down the length of her body, and she didn’t miss the heated interest that had flared in their depths.

“Lauren, it’s good to see you.” One of the men reached out to take her editor’s hand. “Lauren is a senior editor with American Man magazine,” he explained to the group.

“And this is Sara Sinclair, one of my best feature writers,” Lauren gushed, pulling a reluctant Sara forward. “Her stories are garnering excellent reviews.”

As Sara watched, Rafe Delgado’s expression grew shuttered and remote before he flicked his gaze over her one last time. Sara had the sudden sense that she’d been scanned in much the way a laser beam would read a barcode. He’d examined her, identified her and dismissed her. The only indication that she’d made any impression at all was a tightening of the muscles in his lean jaw.

It took all of Sara’s self-control not to inspect herself for physical flaws. She knew she looked good. Better than good, actually. She’d borrowed a cobalt-blue Carolina Herrera gown from a friend and had styled her hair in a loose, elegant up-do. She’d kept her jewelry to a minimum, opting for a pair of glittering faux-diamond earrings and a matching bracelet around one wrist, and had taken extra care with her makeup—but the way Sergeant Delgado looked at her, she might as well have been wearing burlap. A part of her wanted to turn and walk away, not only because she suddenly felt gauche, but because she knew instinctively in that moment that he would refuse to give her an interview.

Then Lauren Black worked her magic, talking with knowledge and enthusiasm about the Semper Fi Fund and the way it was changing the lives of injured marines and their families. Sara watched Sergeant Delgado’s eyes sharpen on the editor, but when Lauren asked if he would consent to an interview for American Man magazine, he inclined his dark head in assent.

“Fine,” he said curtly.

“Thank you,” Sara replied. She extended her hand to him, but he either didn’t see the gesture, or deliberately chose to ignore it. After an awkward second, she dropped her hand and curled her fingers into the fabric of her skirt. For a brief instant, their gazes clashed and Sara floundered in the depths of his dark eyes. Flustered, her breath caught when he shifted his attention downward and focused on her mouth, and she was unable to prevent the warm rush of heat through her veins.

He broke the contact first, withdrawing a card from his wallet and handing it to her. “I’m on leave beginning tomorrow. Call me and we can work out a time.”

And then he all but turned his back on her. Sara stood mute with dismay at his rude dismissal of her, but before she could find the words to tell him that she had no interest in writing a story about him, Lauren had dragged her away.

“We did it,” she crowed once they were out of earshot. “This will be the pièce de résistance for the December issue! Make sure you call him first thing tomorrow to arrange the interview. Don’t give him a chance to forget who you are or what he agreed to do.”

Sara barely contained an indelicate snort. She was completely certain that Rafe Delgado never forgot anything and there was no way she’d call him in the morning. He’d probably expect her do so, and a perverse impulse made her want to do the opposite. Besides which, she wasn’t exactly looking forward to the interview, not when they’d tricked him into agreeing to it in the first place.

“He thinks we’re interested in doing a story about his charity work with the Semper Fi Fund,” she hissed to Lauren. “How is it going to look when I begin asking about the hostage rescue, especially when he’s never publicly acknowledged his involvement?”

Lauren popped the olive from her martini into her mouth and winked at Sara. “Why do you think I selected you?” she asked, chewing on the garnish. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You could pass as Nicole Kidman’s younger, sexier sister. He’ll be so busy thinking about your amazing cleavage, he won’t care what you ask him. Just make sure you wear something that puts those girls on display.”

Sara blinked and looked away to hide her confusion. Had she really been invited to the ball because of her breasts? Had Lauren been lying when she’d made the comment about Sara being one of her best feature writers?

From the time she had been twelve years old and an investigative journalist had paid a visit to her elementary school, Sara had wanted to be a reporter. She had been fascinated by the stories that the woman, a White House correspondent, had told, and had imagined herself in the nation’s capitol, uncovering scandals at the highest levels. She’d never wavered in her dream and had majored in journalism before pursuing career opportunities in Washington, D.C. Unfortunately, despite her success as a journalism student, she hadn’t been able to break into coveted publications such as the Washington Post. Instead, she’d been offered the position as a junior writer for American Man magazine. Now she wondered if she’d only been hired because of her looks. She turned back to her editor, determined to say something.

Seeing her expression, Lauren made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, pish. Don’t look so offended. You have great boobs, and don’t think he didn’t notice. And anyway, this is Washington—information leaks occur every day. He’ll just think you’re an astute journalist to have made the connection between him and the hostage rescue. Why else would you want to talk to him?”

Um, maybe because he was one of the hottest guys Sara had ever seen? Maybe because any woman in the room would give her left arm to be alone with him? Sara bit her tongue, but decided to make her escape from the ball as soon as she could. The magic of the evening was lost, somehow, upon discovering she’d only been invited on account of her breasts. Okay, that wasn’t strictly true. The sparkle had dulled when Sergeant Delgado had looked right through her. Not that she’d expected him to fall at her feet—but to look at her as if she’d been invisible? In that regard, Lauren had been wrong; he hadn’t noticed her or her breasts. Why hadn’t she called him out on his rudeness? Or made a clever rejoinder? Why had she been silent?

And why did she even care?

She didn’t know the first thing about the guy. For all she knew, he could be married with kids, but somehow she didn’t think that was the case. A guy like Sergeant Delgado was married to the marines. Which was a shame, really, considering he had the most compelling eyes she’d ever seen and a body to die for….

Sara gasped, dropped her cell phone, and stomped hard on the brake pedal as the car in front of her veered sharply across the road and over an embankment and then slammed head-on into a tree with a sickening crunch. She came to a halt, her heart slamming hard in her chest. There was no movement from inside the other vehicle, although the interior lights were on. Steam hissed out from beneath the hood in soft, swirling plumes.

Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw that the road behind her was dark and silent. They hadn’t passed another car in almost ten miles. Unbuckling her seat belt, Sara groped blindly on the floor of the car for her dropped cell phone, swearing softly when she failed to locate it. Sitting up, she looked at the mangled car and drew in a deep breath. She’d find the phone later; right now she needed to find out just how bad the accident was and if there were any injuries.

Flicking her hazard lights on, she climbed out of the car, lifting her long skirts carefully above her ankles as she picked her way over the embankment toward the vehicle. What if they were both dead? Or worse? She wasn’t squeamish by nature, but recalling what the couple had been doing in the seconds before the crash, she had no wish to see if the driver had been…dismembered, so to speak.

Biting her lip in fear of what she might find, Sara approached the passenger’s side and cautiously peered through the window. Both the driver and passenger airbags had deployed, and beneath the billowing fabric, Sara saw both occupants scrambling to adjust their clothing. She turned away to afford them some privacy, hugging her arms around herself in the chill autumn air. When the driver’s door opened, she turned around gratefully.

“I’m sorry,” she began, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you hurt or…”

Her voice trailed off in shock as she recognized the silver-haired man who stood pushing his shirt into the waistband of his pants, bleeding from a cut over one eye and looking both aggravated and shaken. What in the world was Edwin Zachary, senior advisor to the President of the United States, doing out here at this late hour?

Suddenly, Sara wished that she hadn’t stopped, that she didn’t have to witness this event, because without even looking inside the car, she knew his female companion couldn’t possibly be his wife. Diane Zachary was one of Washington’s most beloved women, a philanthropist and generous patron of the arts, and a renowned hostess to diplomats from around the world. Sara couldn’t imagine her doing anything improper, never mind going down on her husband while driving.

As if to confirm her thoughts, the passenger door of the car swung open and a young woman practically fell out, laughing a little as she struggled to her feet, pushing her long, dark hair out of her face. She wore a miniscule strapless dress that barely covered her breasts, and based on the creases and wrinkles across the front, Sara was certain that just minutes earlier, the silky fabric had been shoved down around her waist. Definitely not Diane Zachary.

“I told you to keep your hands on the wheel,” she admonished, her words slightly slurred. “That was the agreement. Ohmigod, Eddie, you’re bleeding.”

“Colette.” Edwin’s voice was tight and controlled as he gave the woman a meaningful look. He turned his attention to Sara. “Thank you for stopping, Miss…?”

“Sinclair,” Sara replied automatically. Her voice sounded small. “You are bleeding.”

He touched the area with his fingers, grimacing as they came away smudged with blood. “It’s nothing. A scratch.” His voice was brusque as he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a slim, leather wallet. “I wonder if I could impose on you to do me a favor, Miss Sinclair? I don’t want to keep this young lady waiting in the cold until a tow truck arrives. Would you mind driving her home? I’ll compensate you for your time and gas, of course.” Pulling out several bills, he extended them toward Sara. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this…incident…to anyone. Higher insurance rates and all that—I’m sure you understand.” He gestured for her to take the money.

Appalled, Sara took a step back, raising her hands to indicate she had no intention of accepting the cash. “No, that’s not necessary, really.” She glanced at the other woman, who swayed unsteadily on her feet. “I’m happy to drive your friend home, but I can’t accept your money.”

Colette picked her way with exaggerated care across the grass and draped her arms around Edwin’s neck. Her dress barely covered her curvy rear end. Reaching out, she plucked the bills from his hand. “I’ll take care of this for you, Eddie. After all, I think I’ve earned it.”

Edwin relinquished the money without argument. “It’s, uh, getting cold and my On-Star alert will have notified emergency responders of the accident.” He disentangled himself from Colette’s grasp. “You should get going.”

“We’re leaving,” Colette assured him, tucking the money into the small purse that dangled over one shoulder. Stretching upward, she pressed a kiss against his jaw. “I hope we see each other again soon.”

Sara turned away, uncomfortable. “I’ll wait for you in my car.”

Through the windshield, she watched as Colette walked unsteadily over the embankment toward her. Edwin Zachary had pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and was holding it over his head, trying to find a signal.

“Well, this is awkward,” Colette said as she climbed into the car and shook her hair back. She gave Sara a sidelong look, taking in her evening gown and jewelry. “You look like Cinderella running from the ball. Where’s your Prince Charming?”

Sara smiled, surprising herself. She thought of Sergeant Rafe Delgado, who certainly had looked like a prince, but couldn’t be called charming by any stretch of the imagination. The Prince of Darkness was more like it. She shivered as she recalled the way his black eyes had swept over her.

“There is no Prince Charming,” she replied lightly. “Where am I driving you to?”

The address that Collette gave her wouldn’t put Sara too far out of her way. Glancing at the digital clock on the dash, Sara guessed she could drop the other woman off and still be home by midnight. Cinderella, indeed.

They drove for several miles without speaking. Sara cast a furtive glance at Colette, who was humming softly beneath her breath. This had to be the strangest night of her life. “So…you’re friends with Edwin Zachary, huh?”

Colette shot her a sharp glance. “You know him?”

Sara focused on the dark road and tried to keep her voice neutral. “Well, no, I don’t know him. But I recognized him—he’s one of the president’s senior advisors.”

There was a brief silence. “Would you believe me if I told you he’s my uncle?”

Sara gave the woman a tolerant look. “Uh…no.”

“Really, I can explain—”

“Please,” Sara interrupted, putting up a hand. “You’re both adults. What you do is none of my business. I’m not sure I really want to know, anyway.”

“Turn left here,” Colette said, indicating a side street that led into a neighborhood of brick apartment buildings. “You can let me off at the next building.”

When Sara pulled up to the curb, Colette reached for the door handle and then paused. “Listen,” she said, turning to Sarah, “you seem like a nice person. I know this looks bad, but it’s not really a big deal. Men will be men, you know?”

“Sure.” Sara nodded in agreement, just wanting the woman out of her car so she could go home. She forced a smile. “Have a good night.”

Colette sighed, and then pushed the door open. “Thanks for the ride.” As she tried to climb out of the car, the long strap on her purse caught on the emergency brake between the seats. With a small noise of frustration, Colette gave it a sharp yank, but the purse snapped open and spilled its contents across the seat. Colette swore softly.

“Here, let me help you,” Sara said, and leaned over to scoop money and cosmetics back into the pocketbook before handing it to the other woman.

“Thanks,” Colette murmured, still leaning into the car. Her eyes met Sara’s across the seat. Her voice was low and urgent. “Listen…about tonight… Forget what you saw, okay? Go home to whatever upscale little community you come from and go on living your fairy-tale life.” She glanced at her watch. “But you’d better hurry, Cinderella. It’s after midnight.”

2

SARA WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING with gritty eyes and a nagging headache. She’d spent a restless night, the events of the evening replaying themselves over and over again in her head. And when she did finally fall into a restless sleep, sometime around 3:00 a.m., her dreams had been filled with disturbing pImages** of a darkly handsome man, his body moving over hers with strong, sure movements. She’d wanted to protest, to push him away, but there had been no denying the promise in his eyes or the way he’d made her body respond. She’d woken up hot and achy and unfulfilled.

In the kitchen, she flipped on the small television over her counter and mechanically went through the movements of making coffee. She was reaching for a coffee mug when she went still and then closed the cupboard, her attention riveted on the television. A Washington reporter, elegant in a tailored suit and chic hairstyle, stood in front of the emergency entrance of a local hospital.

“Senior White House advisor, Edwin Zachary, was brought here just past midnight last night with minor injuries, after falling asleep and crashing his car on Post Road. He was treated and released early this morning. There were no other occupants in the car at the time of the accident.”

Sara gave a huff of disbelieving laughter. “Fell asleep, my ass,” she muttered, and went into the hallway to retrieve the little evening bag she’d carried last night. She couldn’t wait to call Lauren and tell her about the incident. If anyone would understand the ramifications of what she had witnessed, Lauren would. Sara might not approve of everything Lauren did to get a story, but the woman took her job as an editor very seriously. She would know the best way for Sara to proceed.

Inside the evening bag she found her wallet, a lipstick, and Rafe Delgado’s business card, but no cell phone. It was only then that she recalled dropping it as she’d slammed on the brakes following the accident. Grabbing her keys, she slipped her feet into a pair of flip-flops, opened the door to her fourth-floor apartment and made her way swiftly down the staircase.

Her car was parked just a few doors down from her building, and she unlocked it, crouching to check the floor on the passenger side. The carpeting was black, making it difficult to see anything. Ducking her head to peer beneath the seat, Sara caught sight of her cell phone, wedged between the seat and the center console. Stretching her arm, she was straining to reach the phone when her fingers closed around what felt like a small book. Pulling it free, she saw it was a pocket-sized day planner. She retrieved the cell phone and locked her car, and then carried both items back to her apartment. Dropping the planner onto the kitchen table, she quickly dialed her editor.

“Hi Lauren, it’s Sara Sinclair.”

“Sara!” The other woman’s voice sounded groggy and surprised. “You do realize it’s barely eight o’clock on Sunday morning, don’t you?”

“I know. I’m sorry if I woke you up,” Sara apologized. “But I was watching the news and there’s a breaking story I thought you should know about.”

“Go on.” Lauren’s voice sounded slightly less sleepy.

“Edwin Zachary, the White House advisor—”

“I know who he is,” Lauren interrupted. “What about him?”

“He was in a car accident last night. A car accident that I witnessed and stopped to help.”

“What happened? Is he okay?”

Sara tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and reached again for a coffee mug. “He was taken to hospital for some minor injuries, but he’s going to be fine.”

There was a brief silence. “I assume there’s a reason you’ve called to tell me this?”

“The news reports say that he was driving alone and that he fell asleep at the wheel.”

“O-kaay…”

Sara could hear the barely veiled impatience in her editor’s voice. “Well, that’s not what happened. He wasn’t alone and he most definitely did not fall asleep at the wheel. He was with a young woman who was definitely not his wife. After I stopped to help, Mr. Zachary asked me to give her a ride home and not to say anything about it. He even tried to give me money to keep quiet.”

“Really.” Lauren sounded wide-awake now.

“And the reason he crashed his car wasn’t because he fell asleep at the wheel, as the news reports claim,” Sara continued. “The reason he crashed his car is because the woman was giving him a blow job.”

There was a pause, and Sara could almost see Lauren rolling her eyes. “He wouldn’t be the first Washington powerhouse to be caught with his pants down. So what are you saying? That you want to expose him?”

Sara frowned. “Lauren, this is big news, especially considering that Edwin Zachary is one of Washington’s biggest proponents of family values. He was the first one to publicly denounce Senator Baldwin for having an extramarital affair. Zachary has a serious shot at the presidential candidacy, and yet he’s running around doing this? It’s incredibly hypocritical. I think this story is worth pursuing.”

Lauren sighed. “I agree. Do you know who the woman was? Can we get her to corroborate your story?”

“I know her name is Colette, and I know where she lives.”

“Okay. Get her side of the story and then we’ll talk. Without that, all we have is your word against his.”

Sara nodded. “I’ll get it.”

“And Sara? This has the makings of a good story, but it’s not a done deal. Your interview with Sergeant Delgado? That’s a clincher, and that’s your priority right now. I don’t want you spending a lot of time on the Zachary story. Are we clear?”

Sara barely resisted the urge to hold the phone away from her ear and stare at it in bemusement. She sensed a real reluctance on Lauren’s part to pursue the lead, but she didn’t understand why. American Man magazine wrote about strong men, but they didn’t limit those stories to feel-good features. The publication prided itself on showing the good, the bad and the ugly side of power. And Lauren was known to be ruthless when it came to uncovering political scandals. At least, she usually was. Why should this be any different? Sara didn’t get it. “I’ll call Sergeant Delgado today,” she promised.

Which was the last thing she wanted to do, she thought as she hung up the phone. Sara poured herself a cup of coffee and retrieved his card from her evening bag, sitting down at her kitchen table to contemplate it moodily. The dreams she’d had of him were still too fresh in her mind. If she closed her eyes, she could actually feel his lips on hers, warm and hard and demanding. She shivered and opened her eyes.

As business cards went, his was simple and straightforward: heavy white vellum with the Marine Corps logo in one corner and his name, rank and telephone number in bold lettering across the front. Drawing in a fortifying breath, Sara picked up her cell phone and dialed the number. It wasn’t yet eight-thirty, and Sara had the perverse hope that she might wake him up.

He picked up on the second ring. “Delgado.”

His voice was crisp and alert without the slightest hint of grogginess. The guy had probably been awake for hours. Unbidden, pImages** of him climbing naked out of a rumpled bed swamped Sara’s imagination. She could picture it clearly—smooth, tawny skin over sleek muscles, stubble shadowing his strong jaw and throat as he absently rubbed a hand over his corrugated abdomen—

“Hello?” Impatience sharpened his voice, jerking Sara out of her reverie.

“Yes, hi, Sergeant Delgado. This is, um, Sara Sinclair. We met last night at the charity ball?” She winced, wishing she’d used a more authoritative tone, wishing she had waited until later in the day to contact him. He no doubt thought she was desperate, calling him so early on a Sunday morning.

“The journalist.” His voice deepened. “I remember.”

“I wanted to set up a date—er, an interview—with you for the magazine, and I was wondering when a convenient time might be.”

“That all depends,” he drawled. “How long do you need?”

The question was perfectly legitimate, yet Sara’s rampant imagination imbued it with all kinds of double meaning, no doubt fueled by the dreams she’d had of him. She felt her face grow warm and was grateful that he couldn’t see her.

“I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me,” she finally managed, and nearly groaned at her choice of words. “I mean, however long it takes to get the story. But even if you only have an hour, then that’ll be fine, too.”

There was a brief silence, as if he were considering. “How does Tuesday work for you?”

Sara hadn’t realized until that moment that she’d been holding her breath and now she let it out in a rush of relief. “Yes, that’s perfect.”

Reluctant to meet Rafe in the intimate setting of a restaurant, she gave him the name of a popular café located at the edge of the sculpture garden on the grounds of the National Mall. The place had a lovely outside seating area, guaranteed to be pleasantly crowded. They agreed to meet there at three o’clock for coffee. Sara hung up and sat back in her chair, considering the prospect of seeing Rafe Delgado again. How would he react when she switched from discussing the Semper Fi Fund to the hostage rescue? She shivered, wishing that the story wasn’t so important to Lauren. Wishing that Lauren hadn’t asked her to conduct the interview.

Her gaze fell on the little black planner that she had found in the car. Frowning, she picked it up and thumbed through it, not recognizing the handwriting scrawled on the pages. The only explanation was that the book had fallen out of Colette’s handbag the previous night. The other woman’s apartment complex wasn’t all that far away. Placing it back on the table, Sara decided she would drop it off later that morning. While she’d been looking forward to a relaxing Sunday of doing nothing, she realized she could use the excuse of returning the book as a perfect way to obtain more information about Colette’s involvement with Edwin Zachary. No matter what Lauren said, Sara was certain there was a story there.

SARA STOOD ON THE STEPS of the building where she had dropped Colette off the night before and quickly scanned the list of residents posted near the entry, but didn’t see the name Colette or even any beginning with the letter C. She was unsure what to do next, when an older woman came up the steps.

“Can I help you, dear?” she asked.

Sara turned to her in relief. “Yes, thank you. I’m looking for a—an acquaintance. She left a personal item in my car and I’d like to return it to her, but I’m afraid I only know her first name.”

The older woman smiled. “That’s no problem. I know everyone in this building and most of the other buildings, as well.” She gave a rueful chuckle. “When you’ve lived here as long as I have, well…let’s just say I make a point of getting to know everyone. What’s your friend’s name?”

“Colette.”

“Hmm. Colette.” The woman considered for a moment and then finally shook her head. “I don’t know anyone here who goes by that name. Are you sure you have the right address?”

Sara nodded. “Yes. I dropped her at this door just last night. She’s about twenty-five years old, my height, with long dark hair. Very attractive.”

The woman gave her an odd look. “You do know that this is an over-fifty community?”

Taken aback, Sara was momentarily at a loss for words. “No. I had no idea.”

“Trust me when I say there are no women in this complex who match that description. The youngest woman here is still twice the age of your friend.”

Sara frowned. “Are you sure? I mean, I dropped her off right at this door.”

“Did you see her actually enter this building?”

Thinking back, Sara realized she hadn’t. She’d been so anxious to get Colette out of her car and get home that she hadn’t waited around for the other woman to actually enter the building.

“No, I guess I didn’t.”

“Well, there you go.”

Sara blew out a breath. “I guess so.” She forced a bright smile for the other woman. “Well, thank you for your help.”

Sara walked back to her car as the older woman disappeared inside the building. With a sigh, she tossed the planner onto the passenger seat and began rummaging through her pocketbook for her keys. She was just getting ready to start the ignition when the planner caught her eye. It had fallen open to the previous day. At the top of the page, in neat handwriting, were the initials E.Z.

Edwin Zachary.

Intrigued, Sara picked the planner up and studied the entry. “What in the world…?”

E.Z.—Prefers relinquishing control. Likes B.J.s, red lipstick, sexy dresses, no panties. Fantasy is sex in public places.

Sara turned the pages until she reached the next weekend, and read the entry for Friday night.

W.W.—Dominant alpha. Likes bondage and rough play. Bring blindfold and silk stockings.

She raised her eyebrows and moved to the next entry.

P.D.—$$$$. Only Four Seasons Hotel. Champagne and caviar. Red-carpet gown with open-toed stilettos. Craves attention/pampering/full-body massages. Foot fetish. Likes doggy-style.

And so it went, entry after entry, weekend after weekend for several consecutive months. Sara returned to the date of the car accident and read the entry once more. Thinking back on what she had witnessed in the car in the moments before the crash, she realized the notation regarding E.Z’s preferences was accurate in every detail, right down to Colette’s red lipstick. Stunned by the implications of what the little book contained, Sara sat back against the seat and stared blindly through the windshield. No wonder Colette—if that was even her real name—hadn’t wanted Sara to know her true address. The law tended to frown upon women who provided sexual services for money, especially when those services were rendered to one of the most powerful men in Washington.

Opening the book again, Sara studied the initials of Colette’s other appointments and wondered how many of them were also political powerhouses. The journalist in her shifted restlessly, wanting answers. Wanting to know everything. Did Colette work alone, or was she part of a bigger operation? Had she realized that her planner was missing, and if she did, how badly did she want it back? She must be a little frantic at the thought of it gone. Even now, the reporter in Sara considered the possibilities of pursuing the information, of exposing not only Edwin Zachary, but the other clients in the little book as well.

Breaking this story would certainly guarantee that her name would become nationally known, but suddenly the prospect of being that journalist had her heart beating faster. While she’d dreamed of one day uncovering a story of this magnitude, she’d never actually considered the human element behind the headlines. Sex scandals weren’t uncommon in Washington, but something like this could destroy a lot of people. Could she accept that kind of responsibility? Did she really want her name connected with that kind of notoriety?

On the other hand, a story like this one could be her ticket to her own byline on any number of major publications. This was the kind of lead that could make her career.

With a small groan of frustration, Sara was about to close the book when she glimpsed handwriting on the inside of the back cover. Peering closer, she realized it was a telephone number, although she didn’t recognize the area code. She doubted that Colette would leave her own telephone number in the book, but what if by some chance the number did belong to her? Retrieving her cell phone, she quickly dialed the number. A woman answered on the third ring.

“This is Juliet.” Her voice was low and cultured.

“Hello,” Sara responded, her heart beating fast. “I’m looking for Colette.”

There was a brief pause. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“My name is Sara Sinclair. I met Colette last night.”

“Really?” The voice sounded amused. “And what makes you think that I know your friend, or her whereabouts?”

“Well,” Sara explained, “your number is written in the back of this little black book that she left in my car. I don’t know Colette, but I gave her a ride home last night, after she and Edwin Zachary were involved in a car crash. You recognize that name, I’m sure. I can’t help but think that Colette might want this particular book back, since it lists her appointments for the next several months. In great detail, I might add. You wouldn’t believe what she wrote about Mr. Zachary. Shocking, really.”

There was another brief silence and this time, when Juliet responded, her voice was chilling. “I want you to listen carefully, Miss Sinclair. I recommend you burn that book and forget you ever met anyone named Colette. Now be a good girl and hang up the phone right now, and don’t call this number again. I’m telling you this for your own good. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

Her words caused goose bumps to rise up on Sara’s arms, and there was a part of her that was more than tempted to do as the woman directed. She was in over her head.

“Who are you?” she finally asked. “And what are you involved in?”

There were several seconds of silence, when Sara thought the other woman might actually hang up on her. “Who I am isn’t important,” she finally said. “What is important is that you destroy that book and forget whatever you saw written inside.”

Sara’s glance flicked to the book. She recalled the incident with Edwin Zachary. There was no way she could ever forget what had happened, or how he had tried to bribe her into silence. She might not be an investigative reporter, but every instinct told her she needed to pursue this. Lauren would never forgive her if this story ended up on the evening news courtesy of another reporter. As distasteful as she might personally find the situation, and as much as she might want to take Juliet’s advice and hang up the phone, the journalist in her couldn’t do it.

“The thing I find most interesting,” she mused, as if the other woman hadn’t spoken, “is that Colette used initials to identify each of her…appointments. I’m pretty sure that I could figure out whose initials they are. By the way, did I mention that I’m a feature writer for American Man magazine?”

There was another silence, longer this time. “I can meet you Tuesday afternoon,” Juliet finally responded.

Sara quickly checked her calendar and realized that she’d already agreed to meet with Rafe Delgado on Tuesday afternoon at three o’clock.

“I’m free for lunch on Tuesday, if that works for you,” she countered. “How about one o’clock at the Pavilion Cafe? It’s located at the west entrance of the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden.”

“I know where it is. Unfortunately, I’m on a tight schedule and won’t have time for lunch. I can meet you at two o’clock, but I can’t stay long.”

Sara breathed a sigh of relief. At least her meeting with Juliet wouldn’t conflict with the time she’d already allotted for her interview with Rafe Delgado.

“That would be fine.” She paused uncertainly. “How will I recognize you?”

“Don’t worry,” Juliet said drily. “I’m sure I’ll have no problem finding you. I’ll just look for the woman who looks especially…hungry.”

As Sara ended the call, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just made a fatal mistake.

3

SARA ARRIVED AT THE CAFÉ thirty minutes early on Tuesday afternoon, still trying to convince herself that she didn’t feel the tiniest bit paranoid or nervous about meeting the mysterious Juliet. She chose an outdoor table where she had a clear view of the walking paths that meandered through the gardens and an easy escape route over the decorative chain that separated the tables from the passersby, if required. She told herself that she was being overly imaginative, but if Juliet really was involved in something illegal, there was no telling what she might be capable of, especially if she considered Sara to be a threat.

The afternoon was clear and cool, scented with the fragrant aroma of freshly brewed coffee from the café. Sara ordered a steaming mug of hot chocolate and sipped it as she watched the people walking past on the sidewalk. A gust of wind rustled through the small trees along the nearest path, catching a handful of golden leaves and swirling them along the ground. Sara’s gaze followed them, until her attention was arrested by a man standing beside the nearest garden. He was leaning against a decorative lamppost and was studying what looked to be a Washington, D.C., guide book, but Sara had the distinct impression that he was watching her from behind his dark glasses.

Unsettled, she picked up the menu and pretended to be absorbed in reading it, feeling conspicuously alone despite the comfortable buzz of people all around.

“Miss Sinclair?”

Sara looked up and saw a woman standing by her table. She was older than Sara, probably in her mid fifties, but was one of the most elegant women that she had ever seen, with sleek black hair pulled into a ponytail, and exotic dark eyes. She oozed wealth, wearing boots and a pair of fine woolen slacks, and a leather coat that looked buttery soft.

“Yes, I’m Sara,” she said, rising to her feet to take the other woman’s extended hand. “Please, sit down.”

When Juliet had ordered a cup of coffee, she turned to look at Sara with a shrewd, assessing gaze. “You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”

“And you’re older.”

A smile touched the other woman’s lips. “Touché. But age is no deterrent to a youthful spirit.” She glanced at her watch, an expensive piece of jewelry that glinted with what looked like real diamonds. “Shall we cut to the chase? I have a plane to catch this afternoon and I don’t want to be late.”

“Of course.” Withdrawing the small black book from her purse, Sara laid it on the table, but kept one hand on the cover. “This is the book that Colette left in my car, after she was involved in a car accident with Edwin Zachary. It contains detailed descriptions of Colette’s appointments. Salacious descriptions.”

Juliet’s eyes gleamed. “Were you also involved in the car crash?”

Sara shook her head, watching Juliet closely. The other woman didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the fact that Colette’s book contained potentially damaging information. “No, I wasn’t involved. I was driving behind them and let’s just say there was a reason why Mr. Zachary was unable to concentrate on his driving,” Sara said drily. “Considering what Colette was doing to him, it’s a miracle neither of them were killed.”

Juliet didn’t look surprised or shocked. Instead, a knowing smile curved her lips. “I can only imagine.”

Sara picked the book up and as Juliet sipped her coffee, opened it and began to thumb through the pages. “No, I don’t think you understand. Here, let me read a sample entry to you.”

She flicked her gaze to the other woman’s face. Juliet looked patiently composed, but Sara didn’t miss how her hands curled tightly around her mug. She gently cleared her throat and began to read.

“‘T.F.—Prefers group activities with toys, likes to watch g-g action.’” She slid Juliet a blandly innocent look. “I assume that means girl-girl action.”

Juliet briefly raised one hand from her mug. “That’s very nice. I’ve heard enough.”

“Wait, there’s more. ‘Sometimes brings a friend to watch.’” She turned to the next day and quickly scanned the entry. “Oh, this is a good one. It involves food items. I wonder who L.P. is? Hey…isn’t there a cabinet member named Lawrence Palmer? Of course, he’s pretty old, but you never know…”

“Okay, stop.” Juliet leaned across the table, and although her smile never wavered, her dark eyes glittered dangerously. “I don’t need to hear anymore.”

“Why is your number written in the back of this book?” Sara glanced around to ensure they couldn’t be overheard, and lowered her voice. “Are you running a sex ring?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what is your connection to Colette? You can’t deny that you know her.”

“Colette does work for me,” the other woman acknowledged, “but it’s not what you think.”

“Then explain it to me, please, because from where I’m sitting, it certainly looks like she was selling her services.”

Juliet sighed and then sat back in her chair to consider Sara for a moment. “I run a business that caters to an exclusive clientele, men who are willing to pay outrageous sums of money to have their fantasies come true.”

Sara raised her eyebrows. “Sexual fantasies?”

Juliet gave a dismissive wave of her fingers. “Don’t be ridiculous. That would be illegal. We sell fantasies, but our services only include role-playing. Our clients pay a fee for us to create a realistic illusion of romance or seduction, but the girls are expressly prohibited from having sex with the clients.” She shrugged. “And if they do, it’s strictly consensual and has nothing to do with the business arrangement.”

“What’s the name of this fantasy-come-true business?” Sara asked drily.

“I called it the Glass Slipper Club,” Juliet replied. “Appropriate, don’t you think?”

Sara smiled faintly, recalling Colette’s observation that she had resembled Cinderella running from the ball on the night of the car crash. “You’re speaking in the past tense.”

“Yes, I am. I’ve wanted to travel for some time now, and I’ve decided to put the fantasy-come-true business behind me.” She gave Sara a meaningful look. “It’s not worth ruining my life for.”

Sara looked at the other woman, noting the fine webbing of lines around her dark eyes. While there was no question that Juliet was still a beautiful woman, she wasn’t getting any younger. Despite her composure, there also seemed to be a vulnerability to her, as if she’d been through some tough times. Did she really want to publicize a story that could destroy her life? Who was Sara to pass judgment on what occurred between consenting adults?

She sighed deeply and passed a hand over her eyes, undecided. After a moment, she pushed the little black book across the table toward Juliet. “Look, why don’t you take this?”

Juliet’s eyebrows lifted, and Sara thought she saw grudging admiration in their dark depths. “Really? Why would you want me to have it? After all, you could have some of the most powerful men in Washington eating out of your hand with the information this book contains.”

Sara gave a self-deprecating smile. “Let’s just say that I’m not as hungry as you believed me to be.” She gave the book a small nudge. “Please. Take it.”

To her astonishment, Juliet pushed back from the table with both hands raised. “Oh, no. Thank you very much, but as I said, I’m putting the fantasy-come-true business behind me.”

Sara frowned. “Because of me?”

Juliet laughed. “Goodness, no.” She sobered. “I have people much scarier than you to worry about. People who tap my phone and watch my townhouse from the comfort of their big, black sedans.”

Sara felt a frisson of alarm shoot through her and she was helpless to prevent herself from glancing over to the spot where she had seen the stranger. He was still there, but now he was talking on his cell phone and looking out over the gardens. Had she imagined him watching her? Was he just another tourist, or did he have a more sinister reason for lingering near the café?

“Who do you think is watching you?” she finally asked, dragging her gaze away from the man.

Juliet shrugged. “The Feds, most likely.” Sara watched as she opened her pocketbook and reached inside. “Which means it’s time I put the Glass Slipper Club behind me and move on with my life. But you’re involved, now, whether you want to be or not.”

Sara gave an astonished laugh. “I’m not involved with anything, trust me.” She picked up the planner and thrust it toward the other woman. “And if you’ll just take this back, I’m going to pretend none of this ever happened.”

But Juliet refused to touch the book. “Darling, you became involved the moment you called my number. Even if you hadn’t provided your name, the people who are monitoring my phone will have traced the call back to you.” She gave Sara a sympathetic smile. “Trust me—you’re involved. As for that book, I really don’t want it, and since it’s unlikely I’ll ever see or hear from Colette again, there’s really no point in giving it to me.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late and I have a plane to catch.”

She rose to her feet and Sara did the same. “Where will you go? And what should I do with the book?”

“Personally, I’d love to see the contents of that book printed on the front page of the Washington Post, but that’s just me.” Seeing Sara’s expression, Juliet gave a small laugh that had a bitter edge to it. “Don’t look so scandalized. Why shouldn’t the men involved bear some of the censure? History has shown that it’s never them who suffer when their indiscretions are exposed, it’s the women.” She drew in a deep breath. “As for where I’ll go? Someplace far, far from here. I’m sure you recall what happened to the last madam who threatened to expose the names of her clients. Well, that’s not going to be me. I’ve no intention of being found hanging in some backyard shed.”

Juliet reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a set of keys, but they slipped through her fingers and dropped onto the flagstoned terrace. Sara bent to retrieve them in the same instant that Juliet also crouched down, and as she reached for the keys, the other woman thrust something into her hand.

“Take this and put it somewhere safe,” she whispered fiercely. “A safety deposit box, perhaps.”

Sara opened her fingers to see a small computer memory stick in her palm. She frowned. “What is this?”

Juliet smiled and picked up her keys. “Consider it a form of insurance.”

“Insurance for what?”

Standing up, Juliet pulled her purse over one shoulder, watching as Sara pushed to her feet. “For your life, my dear.” Without another word, she turned and made her way across the crowded terrace and disappeared through the front exit of the café.

Slowly, Sara sat down at the table and considered the memory stick. What secrets did the small device hold, and why did Juliet want to share them with her? She considered Juliet’s claim that the Feds were watching her. Were they now watching Sara?

Involuntarily, her gaze slid back to the man in the sunglasses. The late-afternoon sun had dipped just low enough to slip beneath the edge of the patio umbrella, and Sara had to shield her eyes to see where he stood. He was still there, but he’d been joined by a woman and a little girl. Even as Sara watched, he lifted the child into his arms, wrapped an arm around the woman’s shoulders and walked away, following the graveled path deeper into the gardens.

Sara gave a huff of laughter, feeling a little foolish over her earlier suspicions of being watched. She was letting Juliet’s flair for the dramatic get the better of her. There was nobody watching her. Her life was in no danger. Leaning over, Sara opened her handbag and tucked the memory stick into a small, zippered side pocket where it wouldn’t get damaged or lost. She’d take a look at it later, when she got back to her apartment.

“Miss Sinclair?”

Snapping upright, Sara blinked and found herself staring at the imposing silhouette of a man. For just an instant, her heart froze in dread. With the sun directly behind him, his features were shadowed, but there was no mistaking that deep voice.

“Sergeant Delgado!”

Sara couldn’t keep the relief out of her voice, and she stood up to greet him. With the sun no longer in her eyes, his dark features came into sharp focus and her breath caught. He wore a black T-shirt with white lettering beneath a black leather jacket, and a pair of jeans that hugged the outline of his muscular thighs. With his tawny skin and raven hair, he looked more than a little dangerous, and Sara was glad she’d chosen the open patio for their interview.

“You looked surprised to see me,” he said, and one eyebrow arched inquiringly. “Did I get the time wrong?”

“No, no. I’m just surprised that it’s already three o’clock.” She indicated the chair that Juliet had recently vacated. “Please, sit down.”

He did, indicating her empty mug, and the half-empty coffee cup in front of him. “You’ve been here for awhile, and I’m apparently not your first appointment.”

Sara sat down and signaled to the waitstaff. “I met up with a…friend, but she had to catch a plane. You just missed her.” She smiled brightly at him. “What would you like? Coffee? Or maybe a beer?”

“Coffee would be great,” he said to the waiter. “Black. And another hot chocolate for the lady.”

“How did you know…?”

His eyes fastened on her mouth and he lifted a finger to his lips. “You have a little chocolate, right here.”

“Oh!” Mortified, Sara ran her tongue over her lips, and then used her napkin to get rid of the evidence. “Is it gone?”

His attention remained fixed on her mouth with an intensity that made Sara shift uncomfortably in her chair. Something knotted low in her stomach.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “It’s gone.”

Sara cleared her throat and struggled to compose herself.

“Thank you for meeting me. I really enjoyed listening to you speak at the charity ball.”

He inclined his head.

Sara withdrew a small tape recorder and notepad from her pocketbook. “I’m just going to take some notes as we talk, do you mind?”

He shrugged, and Sara thought she detected a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “Not at all. What would you like to talk about?”

“Why don’t you tell me about your work with injured marines and the Semper Fi Fund?”

Rafe leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his flat stomach. The zippered opening of his leather jacket fell apart and Sara could read the white lettering on his T-shirt.

You can run, but you’ll just die tired.

Unbidden, an image flitted through her head. Rafe pursuing her. Rafe capturing her. Rafe doing things to her that she’d only ever fantasized about. She might die tired, but she’d die happy.

Disconcerted, Sara bent over her little pad of paper and pretended to take notes. The T-shirt was an immediate and vivid reminder of what this man did for a living, what he was committed to. She’d heard the stories about what the men who’d rescued the aid workers had been doing in Pakistan before the kidnapping. While the military had claimed the unit was in the country to provide security for the opening of an all-girls school that the Marine Corps had helped to finance, if the rumors—and Lauren—were to be believed, Rafe had actually been hunting some of the top Taliban leaders as part of an operation so covert the White House denied any knowledge of it.

“I have good friends who were killed or injured in Afghanistan and Iraq,” he said, his voice so low that Sara had to strain to hear him. “The Semper Fi Fund helps their families by providing financial assistance when they need it the most.”

“But you do more than just provide financial support, isn’t that right?”

“We provide emotional support both to the soldier and to his family, that’s correct.”

Sara listened as Rafe told the story of one soldier who had been severely injured by an improvised explosive device, and had nearly died. To keep his spirits up and offer encouragement, his entire unit lined up each Sunday in Iraq to call him on the telephone.

“That’s a wonderful story,” Sara agreed. “During your speech at the charity ball the other night, you mentioned that you do work over at the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Can you tell me about that?”

A sardonic smile lifted one corner of Rafe’s mouth, but didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t share that information because I’m looking for some kind of validation or recognition. What I do over at the hospital I do because those men are my brothers. They’re the true heroes. I just want to raise awareness about their situation.”

“You raise money to help their families pay their bills. You spend time with those men and you spend time with their families. I’d say you’re the true hero.”

Sara didn’t miss how his jaw tightened. “Don’t mistake me for a nice guy, Miss Sinclair. I’m no hero. If you had any idea what I do for a living, you wouldn’t even be sitting here with me.”

Drawing a deep breath, Sara didn’t allow herself time to think about her next words. If she did, she’d never find the courage to broach the subject. “I think there are three aid workers who would disagree with you. I’m sure that to them, you’re the epitome of a hero.”

To his credit, his expression never changed. The only indication of his surprise was a barely perceptible tightening of his muscles and a palpable tension in the air between them that Sara couldn’t miss, as if his entire body had tightly coiled. The subtle change in him was both frightening and fascinating.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was quiet.

Sara held his dark gaze, although her insides were trembling and her palms were moist. “I think you do. You and your men were in Pakistan last month, presumably to guard dignitaries at the opening of a girls’ school in Peshawar, but we both know you were part of a covert operation to hunt the Taliban. Lucky for those women, you were also in a position to bring about their rescue.”

Unlacing his hands, Rafe placed them on the table, palms flat against the surface, and leaned forward. Sara found herself trapped in the unyielding blackness of his eyes, unable to look away. When he spoke, his voice was soft and whiskey-rough. “I don’t know where you got your information, Miss Sinclair, but if I were you, I’d get your facts straight before publishing a story that has no basis in fact, and could end up being an embarrassment to you and your magazine.”

Only the hard glitter in his dark eyes betrayed the fact he was completely and seriously pissed off. Not that Sara could blame him. If her editor was right and Sergeant Delgado really had been involved in rescuing the aid workers, her story could blow his cover as a covert Special-Operations soldier.

“I have a reliable source who says you were the mastermind behind the rescue,” she blurted. “It would make an amazing story if you’d be willing to talk about the rescue. And of course, the magazine would give a huge plug to the Semper Fi Fund.”

Rafe stared at her in astonishment for a moment and then laughed softly. “Jesus. I must be getting soft,” he muttered, and then pushed to his feet. “The interview is over, Miss Sinclair.”

Sara felt her heart drop and she stared at him in dismay. “Wait. What do you mean it’s over?”

He was angry. Sara could see it in every pore of his being. But when he spoke, his voice was almost gentle.

“I make it a policy never to speak to journalists, but you seemed so sincerely interested in talking about the Semper Fi Fund that I went against my better judgment and decided to meet with you.” He gave a snort of disgust. “But you’re not really interested in the injured marines, are you? You’d rather publish a story that’s not only classified information, but could put other marines at risk.” He stepped back from the table and pushed the chair in. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Sinclair, but you’ll have to get your dirt from someone else.”

Sara rose hastily to her feet. “No, wait,” she implored as he turned away. He angled his head toward her, his expression unfathomable, and waited.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to put anyone in danger. If I promise to keep your identity a secret, would you reconsider?”

His gaze swept over her once more, traveling down and back up her body to rest briefly on her mouth. For an instant, Sara thought she saw something like regret in his face.

“Goodbye, Miss Sinclair.”

She watched as he wended his way through the crowded terrace and then disappeared onto the main street. Realizing she was still standing and that several people at nearby tables were watching her with interest, Sara sat back down. The waiter appeared with a small tray and set a mug of hot chocolate down in front of her.

“Don’t bother with the coffee,” Sara muttered with an apologetic smile. “He’s gone.”

What had made Lauren think that he would ever agree to talk to her about the rescue? Worse, why had she agreed to ask him about it this way?

She groaned, wishing she could redo the interview, wishing she’d followed her instincts and not pretend to be interested in his charity work. What must he think of her? That she was a dirt-grubbing journalist who would do anything she could to get a story? Sara sighed. She couldn’t blame him for walking away. She’d have done the same thing had she been in his shoes. But what was she going to tell Lauren? Her editor had been counting on her.

The fragrant mug of hot chocolate steamed invitingly, but Sara was no longer interested in drinking it. She felt sick to her stomach as she contemplated Lauren’s reaction to her disastrous interview. She’d be furious. She’d certainly never invite Sara to another gala event like the charity ball. Instead, she’d be relegated to the ranks of the other junior contributors, writing trivial little articles with no substance.

Gathering up her notepad and the little black book, Sara was preparing to leave when she had the distinct sensation of being watched. Straightening, she glanced at the other patrons, but couldn’t find one person who seemed remotely interested in her. Still, the short hairs on the back of her neck tingled with awareness. Trying not to appear obvious, Sara searched the pathways and gardens beyond the cafè, but aside from the normal tourist traffic and business people enjoying the late-autumn afternoon, nothing struck her as unusual.

Still, the feeling of being watched persisted. Unsettled, Sara shoved the book and pad of paper into her pocketbook and placed some money on the table. She didn’t look around, but made her way through the cafè and out the front doors. Only when she found herself standing on the busy sidewalk did she breathe a little easier. Nobody was watching her; it was just her over-active imagination. But as she walked in the direction of her car, she couldn’t prevent herself from throwing a quick glance over her shoulder.

4

RAFE NEEDED A DRINK. Badly.

Leaving the Pavilion Cafè, he strode along Constitution Avenue until he saw a small pub and ducked inside. He ordered a Guinness and stood at a table near the windows, replaying the interview with Sara Sinclair again in his head.

He hadn’t wanted to meet with her, hadn’t wanted to be sucked in by the radiance of her smile or the guilelessness in her blue eyes. He’d told himself that nobody could be that sincere, and he’d been right. Sara Sinclair wore her open-faced, Ivory-girl looks like a mask, deceiving those around her into believing that she had only their best interests at heart, while hiding her true nature. In that regard, she was exactly like Ann Lonquist, the woman who’d turned him off journalists.

He could still recall the night he and his men had infiltrated the compound where she and the other aid workers had been held by Taliban forces. Up until that point, the rescue mission had gone smoothly. His team had neutralized the guards positioned around the compound, and within minutes they had found the workers locked in a room deep inside the building.

He and his men had swiftly evaluated the women’s physical condition. They were exhausted and frightened, but unharmed. The youngest woman, Ann Lonquist, had clung to him, and Rafe had felt his protective instincts kick into high gear. For just an instant, he’d imagined himself as the big he-man hero and her as the helpless damsel in distress. Then his professional training had kicked in and he’d pushed the fantasy aside. They’d begun working their way out of the compound, using their own bodies to shield the women, when they’d encountered a top Taliban leader. The man had been walking almost absent-mindedly through the corridor, turning an expensive camera over in his hands. The expression of horrified surprise on his face when he rounded the corner and saw Rafe’s team of Special Ops soldiers might have been comical if their situation hadn’t been so perilous. There was no question in Rafe’s mind that he could have eliminated the man without making a sound or rousing any of the other Taliban, but Ann had given a low cry of outrage.

“That’s my camera!”

She’d darted forward, but had been restrained by one of Rafe’s men. Cursing, Rafe had launched himself at the enemy, just as the man jerked a gun out of his belt and fired wildly in their direction, striking Staff Sergeant Brody in the upper leg.

Then all hell had erupted.

They still might have gotten out unscathed had Ann Lonquist not stopped to retrieve her camera and snap several photos of the now-dead Taliban leader. Rafe had hauled her upward by her arm and literally dragged her alongside him, firing his weapon with his free hand as insurgents pursued them, while she continued clicking the shutter.

“What the hell are you doing?” he’d roared.

“Documenting the rescue,” she’d gasped, squirming in his grasp.

Rafe had responded by yanking the camera away and shoving it into a pouch on his belt. “Now move your ass,” he’d growled at her, “or I’ll damned well leave you here.”

Her pretty blue eyes had widened, but she’d snapped her mouth shut and allowed him to shove her ahead of him through the corridors. As he and his men hurried the women toward the exit, gunfire had erupted all around them, and a second man, Sergeant Hager, went down with a muffled cry. Rafe had hauled him up by his flak jacket and supported his weight as they’d made their escape. They’d planted several explosive devices around the compound hours earlier, and now Rafe’s men began methodically detonating them. In the ensuing confusion, the team managed to slip into the surrounding darkness with the aid workers, and they hadn’t stopped until they were several miles into the surrounding mountains.

Rafe had been forced to carry Hager across the rugged terrain. By the time they’d reached a safe spot to rest, Rafe’s entire body had ached with effort. After he’d set the man down, he’d fished through his pouch for his first aid kit, removing Ann’s camera and setting it on the ground nearby. The bullet had struck his friend just below the edge of his flak vest, in the side of his abdomen.

“We need to stop the bleeding before we can head to the extraction point, or he’s not going to make it,” he’d said grimly. “How is Brody doing?”

“I’m fine,” Brody had replied, as another team member wrapped a tourniquet around his injured thigh. “Just a scratch.”

A series of blinding flashes had sent Rafe surging to his feet, his weapon drawn. Fury seethed through him when he saw that Ann Lonquist had grabbed her camera from where he’d placed it on the ground, and was busy snapping pictures of their hasty triage. Had he really thought her attractive? With a feral growl, he’d advanced on her.

“Are you that much of an idiot?” he’d hissed, as she backed away. He snatched the camera out of her hands. “What the hell are you doing?”

“D-documenting.”

“Just who the hell are you?”

“I—I’m a relief worker.” Her voice had sounded high and thin, and Rafe had known she was lying.

“Bullshit. Tell me the truth.”

“Fine. I’m a photojournalist,” she’d acknowledged in a small voice. “But how else was I going to get my story? I never thought we’d be kidnapped and held hostage.”

“Your thoughtless actions nearly got my men killed,” he’d said softly, “and now you’re determined to advertise our exact location with your fucking camera flash.” In disgust, he’d opened the camera and retrieved the small memory card. “What did you plan on doing with these photos?”

He could see from her expression that she’d fully intended to publish them in whatever magazine or newspaper she worked for.

“Jesus,” he’d breathed in disgust. “You’d put all our lives at risk for the sake of your story.”

“I risked my own life for this story,” she retorted. “I’ve earned those photos.”

“The hell you have,” he’d snarled.

He hadn’t spoken to her again, not during the hike to where a helicopter was waiting to airlift them out, and not when they arrived back at Bagram Air Base. He could barely bring himself to look at her when she’d stiffly asked for the return of her camera. He’d handed it to her—minus the memory card—and then he’d turned and walked away.

His men had survived, but Sergeant Hager had suffered so much internal damage from the bullet he’d taken that he’d been forced to leave the Marine Corps on a medical discharge. Rafe blamed Ann for the fact that he’d lost a good man.

He told himself again that he shouldn’t be so surprised—so goddamned disappointed—to realize he’d been right about Sara Sinclair. But he was. There was something about her that appealed to him on a primal level, and it was more than just the ripe lushness of her mouth or her curvy body. There was a kind of innocence to her, a sweet vulnerability that couldn’t be hidden no matter how hard she tried to come across as sophisticated and independent. He recalled the look of confusion in her eyes when he’d refused to accept her hand at the charity ball. The memory still made him cringe. He’d behaved like a dick, and all because she’d reminded him a little too much of Ann Lonquist, with her big blue eyes and guileless smile. His initial reaction to Sara had been too reminiscent of his reaction to Ann, only on a bigger scale. He’d been rendered momentarily brainless. He might have rejected her handshake, but he’d spent the night of the ball wondering what it would be like to have her lips on his body, and to fill his hands with her amazing breasts.

He took a hefty swallow of the dark stout, telling himself again that he was an idiot. He might find Sara sexy as hell, but he wasn’t stupid enough to get involved with her.

A journalist. A freaking reporter.

Go figure.

He wondered again how she had discovered his involvement in the rescue of the aid workers in Pakistan, and who her source was. There were only a select few people who knew about his role in the rescue, and aside from his own men, most of them were in the higher echelons of the Pentagon.

Rafe was in the process of taking another swig of beer when he paused, the glass raised halfway to his mouth. Sara Sinclair strode past the window of the pub, her coppery hair swinging over her shoulders, her breasts gently bouncing beneath her blue sweater. Rafe barely resisted the urge to press his face to the glass and watch her retreat down the sidewalk. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he raised his glass again and then paused, the motion arrested by what he saw outside on the sidewalk. A man followed Sara, and as Rafe watched, he gestured to someone on the other side of the street.

Rafe’s heart rate kicked up a notch and he swiftly set down the beer and threw some money on the table. Even as part of his brain argued not to get involved, that it was none of his business, he was out the door of the pub before he’d fully realized it. The gesture had been swift and subtle, no more than several flicks of the man’s hand, but Rafe recognized the hand signals. He’d used them himself numerous times during close engagements in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

Follow. Intercept. Stay out of sight.

The hand signals were used almost exclusively by the military or law enforcement, but instinct told Rafe the man following Sara was neither. Glancing down the sidewalk, he saw the first man striding purposefully along, keeping five or six pedestrians between himself and his target. Across the street, Rafe saw a second man working his way swiftly through the crowd, presumably to head Sara off.

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