Devil in Dress Blues (2 page)

“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

S
ARA 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 images 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, images 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.

S
ARA 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.