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 number, although she didn’t recognize the area code. She doubted that Colette would leave her own telephone number in the book, but what if by some chance the number did belong to her? Retrieving her cell phone, she quickly dialed the number. A woman answered on the third ring.
“This is Juliet.” Her voice was low and cultured.
“Hello,” Sara responded, her heart beating fast. “I’m looking for Colette.”
There was a brief pause. “I’m sorry, who is this?”
“My name is Sara Sinclair. I met Colette last night.”
“Really?” The voice sounded amused. “And what makes you think that I know your friend, or her whereabouts?”
“Well,” Sara explained, “your number is written in the back of this little black book that she left in my car. I don’t know Colette, but I gave her a ride home last night, after she and Edwin Zachary were involved in a car crash. You recognize that name, I’m sure. I can’t help but think that Colette might want this particular book back, since it lists her appointments for the next several months. In great detail, I might add. You wouldn’t believe what she wrote about Mr. Zachary. Shocking, really.”
There was another brief silence and this time, when Juliet responded, her voice was chilling. “I want you to listen carefully, Miss Sinclair. I recommend you burn that book and forget you ever met anyone named Colette. Now be a good girl and hang up the phone right now, and don’t call this number again. I’m telling you this for your own good. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
Her words caused goose bumps to rise up on Sara’s arms, and there was a part of her that was more than tempted to do as the woman directed. She was in over her head.
“Who are you?” she finally asked. “And what are you involved in?”
There were several seconds of silence, when Sara thought the other woman might actually hang up on her. “Who I am isn’t important,” she finally said. “What is important is that you destroy that book and forget whatever you saw written inside.”
Sara’s glance flicked to the book. She recalled the incident with Edwin Zachary. There was no way she could ever forget what had happened, or how he had tried to bribe her into silence. She might not be an investigative reporter, but every instinct told her she needed to pursue this. Lauren would never forgive her if this story ended up on the evening news courtesy of another reporter. As distasteful as she might personally find the situation, and as much as she might want to take Juliet’s advice and hang up the phone, the journalist in her couldn’t do it.
“The thing I find most interesting,” she mused, as if the other woman hadn’t spoken, “is that Colette used initials to identify each of her…appointments. I’m pretty sure that I could figure out whose initials they are. By the way, did I mention that I’m a feature writer for American Man magazine?”
There was another silence, longer this time. “I can meet you Tuesday afternoon,” Juliet finally responded.
Sara quickly checked her calendar and realized that she’d already agreed to meet with Rafe Delgado on Tuesday afternoon at three o’clock.
“I’m free for lunch on Tuesday, if that works for you,” she countered. “How about one o’clock at the Pavilion Cafe? It’s located at the west entrance of the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden.”
“I know where it is. Unfortunately, I’m on a tight schedule and won’t have time for lunch. I can meet you at two o’clock, but I can’t stay long.”
Sara breathed a sigh of relief. At least her meeting with Juliet wouldn’t conflict with the time she’d already allotted for her interview with Rafe Delgado.
“That would be fine.” She paused uncertainly. “How will I recognize you?”
