at all. What would you like to talk about?”
“Why don’t you tell me about your work with injured marines and the Semper Fi Fund?”
Rafe leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his flat stomach. The zippered opening of his leather jacket fell apart and Sara could read the white lettering on his T-shirt.
You can run, but you’ll just die tired.
Unbidden, an image flitted through her head. Rafe pursuing her. Rafe capturing her. Rafe doing things to her that she’d only ever fantasized about. She might die tired, but she’d die happy.
Disconcerted, Sara bent over her little pad of paper and pretended to take notes. The T-shirt was an immediate and vivid reminder of what this man did for a living, what he was committed to. She’d heard the stories about what the men who’d rescued the aid workers had been doing in Pakistan before the kidnapping. While the military had claimed the unit was in the country to provide security for the opening of an all-girls school that the Marine Corps had helped to finance, if the rumors—and Lauren—were to be believed, Rafe had actually been hunting some of the top Taliban leaders as part of an operation so covert the White House denied any knowledge of it.
“I have good friends who were killed or injured in Afghanistan and Iraq,” he said, his voice so low that Sara had to strain to hear him. “The Semper Fi Fund helps their families by providing financial assistance when they need it the most.”
“But you do more than just provide financial support, isn’t that right?”
“We provide emotional support both to the soldier and to his family, that’s correct.”
Sara listened as Rafe told the story of one soldier who had been severely injured by an improvised explosive device, and had nearly died. To keep his spirits up and offer encouragement, his entire unit lined up each Sunday in Iraq to call him on the telephone.
“That’s a wonderful story,” Sara agreed. “During your speech at the charity ball the other night, you mentioned that you do work over at the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Can you tell me about that?”
A sardonic smile lifted one corner of Rafe’s mouth, but didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t share that information because I’m looking for some kind of validation or recognition. What I do over at the hospital I do because those men are my brothers. They’re the true heroes. I just want to raise awareness about their situation.”
“You raise money to help their families pay their bills. You spend time with those men and you spend time with their families. I’d say you’re the true hero.”
Sara didn’t miss how his jaw tightened. “Don’t mistake me for a nice guy, Miss Sinclair. I’m no hero. If you had any idea what I do for a living, you wouldn’t even be sitting here with me.”
Drawing a deep breath, Sara didn’t allow herself time to think about her next words. If she did, she’d never find the courage to broach the subject. “I think there are three aid workers who would disagree with you. I’m sure that to them, you’re the epitome of a hero.”
To his credit, his expression never changed. The only indication of his surprise was a barely perceptible tightening of his muscles and a palpable tension in the air between them that Sara couldn’t miss, as if his entire body had tightly coiled. The subtle change in him was both frightening and fascinating.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was quiet.
Sara held his dark gaze, although her insides were trembling and her palms were moist. “I think you do. You and your men were in Pakistan last month, presumably to guard dignitaries at the opening of a girls’ school in Peshawar, but we both know you were part of a covert operation to hunt the Taliban. Lucky for those women, you were also in a position to bring about their rescue.”
Unlacing his hands, Rafe placed them on the table, palms flat against the surface, and leaned forward. Sara found herself trapped in the unyielding blackness of his eyes, unable to look away. When he spoke, his voice was soft and whiskey-rough. “I don’t know where you got your information, Miss Sinclair, but if I were you, I’d get your facts straight before publishing a story that has no basis in fact, and could end up being an embarrassment to you and your magazine.”
Only the hard glitter in his dark eyes betrayed the fact he was completely and seriously pissed off. Not that Sara could blame him. If her editor was right and Sergeant Delgado really had been involved in rescuing the aid workers, her story could blow his cover as a covert Special-Operations soldier.
“I have a reliable source who says you were the mastermind behind the rescue,” she blurted. “It would make an amazing story if you’d be willing to talk about the rescue. And of course, the magazine would give a huge plug to the Semper Fi Fund.”
Rafe stared at her in astonishment for a moment and then laughed softly. “Jesus. I must be getting soft,” he muttered, and then pushed to his feet. “The interview is over, Miss Sinclair.”
Sara felt her heart drop and she stared at him in dismay. “Wait. What do you mean it’s over?”
He was angry. Sara could see it in every pore of his being. But when he spoke, his voice was almost gentle.
“I make it a policy never to speak to journalists, but you seemed so sincerely interested in talking about the Semper Fi Fund that I went against my better judgment and decided to meet with you.” He gave a snort of disgust. “But you’re not really interested in the injured marines, are you? You’d rather publish a story that’s not only classified information, but could put other marines at risk.” He stepped back from the table and pushed the chair in. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Sinclair, but you’ll have to get your dirt from someone else.”
Sara rose hastily to her feet. “No, wait,” she implored as he turned away. He angled his head toward her, his expression unfathomable, and waited.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to put anyone in danger. If I promise to keep your identity a secret, would you reconsider?”
His gaze swept over her once more, traveling down and back up her body to rest briefly on her mouth. For an instant, Sara thought she saw something like regret in his face.
“Goodbye, Miss Sinclair.”
She watched as he wended his way through the crowded terrace and then disappeared onto the main street. Realizing she was still standing and that several people at nearby tables were watching her with interest, Sara sat back down. The waiter appeared with a small tray and set a mug of hot chocolate down in front of her.
“Don’t bother with the coffee,” Sara muttered with an apologetic smile. “He’s gone.”
What had made Lauren think that he would ever agree to talk to her about the rescue? Worse, why had she agreed to ask him about it this way?
She groaned, wishing she could redo the interview, wishing she’d followed her instincts and not pretend to be interested in his charity work. What must he think of her? That she was a dirt-grubbing journalist who would do anything she could to get a story? Sara sighed. She couldn’t blame him for walking away. She’d have done the same thing had she been in his shoes. But what was she going to tell Lauren? Her editor had been counting on her.
The fragrant mug of hot
