“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