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
