Devil in Dress Blues (6 page)

“Okay,” he said easily. “If it makes you feel more comfortable, I want you to take your own car.”

She looked at him doubtfully, and he could almost see the resistance ebb from her body. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Do you have a GPS, just in case you lose me in traffic?”

“Yes.”

He gave her the address and then stowed her gear in the back seat of her sedan. He would have preferred to have her in his car with him. If someone did decide to follow them, it would be harder to lose them if Sara was in a separate vehicle.

“You have my cell phone number,” he reminded her. “My place is about forty minutes from here, near the Quantico base, so if you lose me in traffic, don’t hesitate to give me a call. I’ll pull over until you catch up.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Believe it or not, I can look out for myself. I don’t need a man, even one as big and capable as you, to take care of me.”

As Rafe watched her climb into her car, he very much doubted it. Sara Sinclair had no clue how much she needed him.

6

A
S IT TURNED OUT
, Sara managed to keep up with him as he drove along the darkened streets of the capitol and merged onto the highway that would take them south to Quantico. Most of Rafe’s military buddies lived on the base, but Rafe had chosen to rent a place in the nearby town of Triangle. He preferred the quiet neighborhood that bordered a vast swath of protected forest to the noisy energy of the Marine Corps base. His entire life was the Corps, and while he wouldn’t have it any other way, he appreciated the solitude of the townhouse when he returned home from overseas deployments and missions.

Although he worked as part of a five-man Special-Ops unit, he had a reputation for being something of a loner, which didn’t bother him. While the other guys on the team had formed some pretty tight friendships, he tended to remain a little detached. He’d give his life for any one of them, even the newest and youngest member, Corporal Josh Legatowicz, or Lego, as the team called him, who was far more cocky than he had a right to be, but Rafe preferred to keep to himself when he was on leave.

He turned on to the road that led to the small townhouse complex, watching Sara’s car in his rearview mirror. The neighborhood was quiet, and he didn’t see any signs that car had been followed, although he wouldn’t take the chance of her car being spotted in his driveway. Pulling up to the curb in front of the three-story townhouse, he motioned to Sara. She came alongside and rolled down her window, peering up at him in the gloom.

“Pull into the garage,” he directed her, indicating the one-car space on the ground floor of the townhouse.

“But what about your car?” she protested.

“It’ll be fine,” he assured her.

He carried her two bags into the townhouse, acutely conscious of her standing beside him. While her apartment had been neat, his was positively Spartan, with gleaming hardwood floors and walls that were almost entirely bare of pictures or artwork. There was a rug on the living-room floor, but the only furniture was an ancient distressed-leather sofa and club chair that he’d inherited from an uncle, a side table and matching coffee table and a lamp. There was a gas fireplace on one wall and a built-in flat-screen television over the mantel. He had a decent sound system and some pictures of himself and his Marine Corps buddies on a shelf, but looking at his home through Sara’s eyes, he realized how empty the place must look. His mother had sent him some decorative pillows and throws, but they were still packed away somewhere. He needed to dig them out, he thought absently.

“There’s a guest bedroom at the top of the stairs,” he said, and led the way up the staircase to the second floor. He opened the door of the spare room that doubled as his office and flipped on the light switch. There was a queen-sized bed with a Red Sox bedspread under the windows, and a desk where he kept his computer and electronics. “It’s pretty utilitarian, but the bed is comfortable and you have your own bathroom.”

Walking into the room, he showed her the small bath. “I keep extra towels, shampoo and soap in the closet, so help yourself to whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, and watched as he deposited her bags on the bed.

He needed to get out of the bedroom because he was starting to have images of her lying across the Red Sox logo. Naked.

He’d never felt this way before, as though he was on the brink of losing control. Sara stood watching him from the center of the room. Did she have any idea of his thoughts? Could she sense how close he was to ignoring the warning sirens going off in his head and doing something they would both regret? Raking a hand across his hair, he turned and walked out of the room. Away from temptation, but not away from his imagination, which continued to roll Technicolor images of Sara in his house. In his shower. In his bed.

She followed him down the staircase and through the living room. “Geez, what time is it?” she asked, walking into the kitchen to pull out a stool from the center island and climb up. “I’m starving.”

“Why don’t I run out and grab us a pizza?” he offered, anxious for an excuse to get away from her and get his head together. “There’s a great little place just outside the base. If I go pick it up, I could be back in a half hour.”

“Mmm. That sounds good.” She slanted him a teasing look. “But is it okay for me to stay here without you? I mean, technically, our 24/7 agreement means I should go with you, right?”

Rafe felt his lips pull into a reluctant smile. “You’ll be fine here without me. Just lock the door behind me, okay?”

R
AFE REALIZED HE HAD NO IDEA
what kind of pizza Sara liked, so he ordered a plain cheese, a meat-lovers, and a veggie, and then stopped at a convenience store and grabbed a six-pack of beer and a bottle of Chianti, and then on impulse, a box of hot chocolate mix. By the time he returned to the apartment, he realized he’d been gone for over an hour.

Unlocking the door to the townhouse, he didn’t see Sara in the living room or in the kitchen. He deposited the pizza and groceries on the kitchen island and walked to the foot of the staircase, intending to knock on her door to let her know he had returned, when he heard the shower going. He backed away, the former images of her rushing back through his head.

“Oh, man,” he muttered. “I am losing it big-time.”

Granted, it had been a while since he’d had sex, but he didn’t think he’d reached the point where he would jump a woman he barely knew. A woman who’d trusted him when he’d promised that he had no ulterior motives in asking her to spend a week in his company.

Walking back into the kitchen, he cracked a beer and was in the process of putting the remaining bottles into the fridge when his gaze fell on Sara’s purse sitting in the living room. He could still hear the water running in the guest bathroom. Moving quickly, he brought the handbag over to the kitchen island and began methodically to go through the items inside. He needed to know why someone was following her, why someone would deliberately tamper with her balcony in a manner that could have easily resulted in her death.

Pulling out her cell phone, he skimmed through her recent calls and text messages, but didn’t see anything suspicious. He set aside a small pouch of cosmetics and a disk of birth-control pills and flipped through the small notepad she had used during their brief, failed interview. Aside from the few notes she had scribbled during their conversation, the notepad was blank.

Finally, he pulled out a small black date planner. Setting it aside, he ran his hand along the inside of the empty handbag to ensure he hadn’t missed anything. Feeling a small lump, he opened a zippered side pocket and found a computer memory stick. Normally, he would access the stick and look at the information it contained, but his computer was in Sara’s room. There was no way he would go in there while she was in the shower. Maybe later, if the opportunity arose. Replacing the memory stick, he picked up the planner and thumbed through it, scanning the hand-written entries.

“What the…?” he muttered aloud.

Rafe read several of the entries at the beginning of the book, and then flipped rapidly through the pages. He’d seen and done things in his life that would horrify most decent people. In fact, he’d thought he was long past the point where anything could shock or even surprise him, but he realized he’d been wrong.

He closed the book, a deep disquiet settling into his soul. He knew damned well what the entries meant and what the book implied, yet he couldn’t reconcile the reality of it with what he knew about Sara Sinclair. She’d disappointed him when she’d pressed him for information about the rescue of the aid workers, but he at least understood her reasons for doing so.

But this…

Never in a million years would he have thought a woman like Sara Sinclair would be capable of selling her body, of engaging in sex with complete strangers for money. Reluctantly, he picked up the little book again and reread several of the sordid entries. He closed his eyes against the unwelcome images that swam through his mind, but all he could picture was Sara—sweet, clean, wholesome Sara—with some sweating, panting animal on top of her, subjecting her to whatever deviant sexual desires he had. The bleakness of it made him feel ill. Curling his hand around the book, he struggled to control his rising anger, when all he really wanted to do was to destroy something, to lash out and smash something.

Anything.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such impotent rage. Sucking in a deep breath, Rafe forced himself to relax and think logically. He couldn’t let emotions rule his actions. As the red haze began to subside and he considered what he had seen, doubt began to replace his anger. There was something about the book that didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Turning back to her pocketbook, he began digging through it once more, looking for the notepad she’d used during their interview.

“What are you doing?”

He whirled from the counter to see Sara standing several feet away. Her wet hair hung over her shoulders and she’d scrubbed her face clean of all cosmetics. She’d changed into a pair of jeans and a green pullover sweater, and she looked absurdly young. She was staring at him now with a mixture of confusion and dawning horror, and Rafe knew how it must look. He had one hand inside her open purse, and half of the contents were still on the counter. Worse, he had the little black planner clutched in his other hand. So much for covert operations.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed.

She darted forward and tried to snatch the book from him, but he held it out of reach.

“How dare you?” she demanded, her voice low and furious. “How dare you go through my personal things? What gives you the
right?
”

“How about you telling me what the hell this is all about?” he asked grimly, indicating the planner. “Jesus, Sara! Please say that this is a joke.”

“No,” she bit out. “It’s not a joke.”

This time, when she reached up for the book, he let her take it. He watched as she scooped up her belongings and shoved them back in her pocketbook. Then, throwing him a level, hostile look, she marched back up the stairs and he heard the door to her room close with a decisive
click
.

“Goddamn.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and debated between going after her or giving her some time to cool off. But he was unprepared when she came back down the stairs wearing her jacket and carrying her overnight bag and laptop case. She cast him one defiant glare before stalking past him.

“Whoa,” he said and caught her by the arm, halting her progress. “What’s going on? Where are you going?”

She stared pointedly at his hand on her arm. “Let go of me. I can’t stay here with you. Not for a week. Not for another minute.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Because I discovered your secret?”

She looked at him, then, her eyes flashing. “You went through my
purse
. Why would you do that?”

“Because I knew you were hiding something.” He nodded toward her handbag. “And I was right.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Oh no? How do you explain what’s in that book?”

She was silent for a moment, and he could see her struggling to form a response.

“What’s the matter?” he asked softly. “Cat got your tongue? Or did you forget that you have an
appointment
tonight?” He squinted and pretended to think. “Let’s see…is it with the guy who likes it rough, or the one who likes to do it doggy-style while feeding you caviar? Is that how you met your ‘reliable source’? You know, the one who told you I was involved in the rescue of the aid workers?”

“What?” She stared at him, her expression bemused. “You think…oh, my God.”

To his astonishment, she started to laugh and then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth.

“What’s so funny?” he growled. “I don’t think there’s anything particularly amusing about high-risk sex.”

He watched as warm color seeped up her neck and into her face. “You actually think that I’m capable of doing the things written in that book?” she finally asked. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”

“Trust me, I didn’t mean it as a compliment. But the reality is, I don’t know what you’re capable of.”

“Not that!” she exclaimed, and set her bags on the floor. “Rafe, the planner doesn’t belong to me. I didn’t write those entries, and I would never do those things.” A smile quirked one corner of her mouth. “At least, not with just anyone.”

Rafe’s body responded instantly to the images her words conjured up—Sara, doing those things with
him
. Driving him crazy. Making him lose control.

Pushing the erotic visions aside, he realized it was the first time she’d addressed him as anything other than Sergeant Delgado, and he wished he didn’t like the way his name sounded coming from her mouth so much.

“So if the book doesn’t belong to you, then why do you have it?” he asked brusquely.

She studied him for a moment, obviously debating whether to trust him. Finally, she walked over to the kitchen island and opened her handbag, pulling the little black book out and laying it on the counter. “I only know that it belongs to a woman named Colette. I gave her a ride home after the charity ball the other night, and she must have dropped this when she was getting out of my car. But until that night, I’d never seen her before.”

Rafe came to stand beside her. The top of her head came to his chin, and he could smell the ginger-honey scent of her shampoo. Her hair was beginning to dry in soft, curling tendrils around her shoulders, and he had to fight the urge to pick up a strand and rub it between his fingers.

“May I?” he asked, indicating the small notepad that rested inside her purse.

She handed it to him, and he opened it to where she had taken notes during their brief interview. Opening the little black book, he placed them side by side on the counter. Whereas Sara’s writing was neat and elegant, the entries in the planner were written in a loopy scrawl and embellished with smiley faces and hearts.

“Definitely not the same writing,” he mused.