Devil in Dress Blues

“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.

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