She’d asked around but while nobody really seemed to know the man, many people seemed to know of him.
Her mom, who made a point of knowing as much as she could about everyone, had lots to say. A rich guy from back east, according to her, who’d bought the old Lewis placefrom Carrie’s Uncle Robert, then proceeded to demolish it all and put up a McMansion, complete with privacy fences. Privacy fences! And guard dogs!
Carrie smiled. Cathy Logan didn’t like it when she couldn’t see into people’s backyards.
The road was narrow and would probably be impassable with the first snow of winter. She wondered if Mr. Nash had his own plough. Or perhaps he really did just wait it out, not worried about being cut off from the rest of the world.
There’d be a certain freedom in that, she thought, wistfully.
At the end of the driveway she came to a gate. As rumored, the yard was fenced, but it was a tidy split-rail fence, no razor-wire or electricity or attack dogs or armed guards in sight. It figured. Feed Mom a local rumor, add a few small-minded gossips and assume a fifty percent exaggeration of the truth.
She leaned out the window of her SUV and pressed the button.
For a long moment, there was no response.
Then, the tinny sound of a voice behind a microphone.
“Yes?”
“It’s Carrie Logan,” she said. “I have an appointment.”
The voice did not answer, but she heard a click and the gate began to swing open. She drove through and that’s when she picked up the faint sound of barking.
Okay, so he had a dog.
She followed the circular driveway, then slowed as the house came into view. Far from being a cookie-cutter monstrosity, it was instead an elegant structure of timber and glass, modest in size and perfectly suited to the landscape.
Even her mother would have to admit it was beautiful.
But her heart thudded in her chest as she pulled to a stop. Bluebeard’s castle had been beautiful, too.
The sounds grew louder, clearer.
Not just one dog.
Lots of them. Lots and lots of them. A pack, by the sound of it.
This part of the rumor did not sound exaggerated one bit. Even people who liked dogs would think twice before opening their car door to dogs that sounded like this.
Not that Carrie didn’t like dogs, she reminded herself. She just liked them… in moderation. Small. And one at a time.
She turned off the ignition but didn’t undo her seatbelt. Ethan Nash would have to come to her.
Ar-ar-ar-ar. Big, deep voices. But where were they?
She tried not to listen, focusing instead on what she could see.
Minimal landscaping, tasteful. Lots of negative space.
Ar-ar-arrrr. Growling, too.
She clutched her bag to her chest and made sure her doors and windows were locked.
His garden was a mess. The rosebushes alone made her want to cry.
Was no one hearing this? The barking continued, almost frenzied now, but still she saw no sign of the animals themselves.
Suddenly, like a knife cutting through the air, the barking stopped. Silence rushed into the vacuum, vivid enough that she could hear the whoosh of blood in her ears and the ticking of her cooling engine.
Then the front door swung open heavily, as if the metal grommets studding the dark wood were made of lead. The figure in the doorway was nothing more than a still, shadowy silhouette.
Carrie cracked her window but didn’t open her door. She watched movies. She knew about the Too Stupid To Live Heroine and baby, that was so not her.
He moved forward into the light.
Oh, mama, she thought. You didn’t mention this.
Tall, dark and dangerous, personified. She swallowed hard and her throat clicked. Emphasis on the dangerous.
Two dogs stood on one side of him, a third on the other. They were tall enough to reach his hip, with upright ears like German Shepherds but taller, thinner, rangier. Their tails were at half-mast, neither wagging happily nor poised to attack. Simply waiting, as if for a command they knew was coming, but weren’t sure when.
He snapped a word she didn’t recognize and the dogs sat. Then he walked down the shallow stairs toward her, his face and figure coming into view with each step closer.
Ebony hair, black eyes, olive complexion, the scruffy shadow of beard on his chin. Heavily built and all muscle. Big eyebrows drawn together in a frown on his forehead.
“You afraid of dogs?” he said. His voice was low, gravelly, like perhaps it didn’t get used much.
She lowered the window further.
“Dogs, no. Ravening wolves, yes.”
His full lower lip twitched. He barked another command and the trio leaped down from the landing, tails wagging wildly this time. They hovered around her door, whining and shoving each other, their pink tongues lolling over big white teeth.
“Back away, boys. They’re Belgian shepherds. Malinois. Come on out and say hi,” he said.
Yeah, she thought. Do that.
Carrie took a deep breath, pushed open her door and stepped down into the yard. Immediately the dogs approached, whining and sniffing her enthusiastically. They didn’t jump or even push her but the sheer mass of them, so intense, no near, had her backed up against her door, hands up, face averted, before she realized it.
She hoped she hadn’t gasped audibly, but she wasn’t sure.
“Here!” snapped the man.
The dogs backed away but continued to pant and wag, as if she was a choice bit of steak tartar they couldn’t wait to taste.
“You said you weren’t afraid of dogs.”
The animals circled around to flank him again. He must have given a subtle hand gesture because all three suddenly sank to their haunches.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Still stuck on the ravening wolf thing, I guess.”
He nodded once. “My apologies. They’re very friendly, I assure you.”
Carrie was not assured.
He gestured to each of the dogs in turn.
“Ashur. Mars. Gun.” As he said their names, each of them held up a paw.
Oh, she thought, putting a hand to her throat.
“Polite ravening wolves, then.”
The man cracked a brief smile. “Go on.”
On shaky legs, she approached and tentatively touched each paw.
“P-pleased to meet you, Ashur. Mars. Gun.”
The dogs wagged and wiggled like puppies but stayed seated, aiming their big, white, toothy grins at her, and despite herself, she was charmed.
“Good boys.”
Carrie straightened up to find him standing right next to her, close enough that she could see that his deep dark eyes were more espresso than black, and that they were bracketed by faint lines.
“Ethan Nash. And you’re Carrie Logan. Welcome.”
Embers glowed in the depths of those dark eyes, warming her, smiling at her, though his face remained impassive. She felt the rumble of his voice resonate in her breastbone, like the sound of a drum calling over still water.
“Thank you,” she said faintly.
“We’ll talk in my office,” he said, putting a hand on her elbow and guiding her up the stone steps to the dim interior of his castle.
The cap sleeve top she’d chosen that morning meant that his fingers were on her bare skin, and she felt his touch sear through her skin, down to the bone. An outsider, a recluse, suspicious, mysterious.
And charming as all get out.
Bluebeard, she thought as she walked inside on numb legs. Maybe she was too stupid to live, after all.
Chapter Three
‡
Ethan shooed the dogs around the corner to their beds in the great room, and led Carrie to his office. It was only a few steps from the front door, but he could feel the hesitance in her steps.
Great. Another woman who was afraid of him.
The tilt of her chin caught his attention, though, making him think
twice. Her shoulders were tight and she held that bag as if it was a spare parachute, but she kept her head high.
“I’m going to make us some coffee,” he said, walking down the short hallway to the kitchen. “Would you like to dial nine-one while you wait? You can hold your finger over the last one until you’re safely off the property again, if it would make you feel better.”
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “I’m not worried. I’ve got a pearl-handled 9mm in my secret pocket.”
That jolted a laugh from him. “Right.”
So it wasn’t fear he was sensing, then. He watched her surreptitiously while he put the coffee on, enjoying the interest she’d piqued in him.
“I could have a gun,” she said with a frown. “You don’t know me.”
He didn’t, but he wouldn’t mind changing that. Shiny hair, smooth skin, toned muscles touched lightly by the sun. There was a lot to interest a man.
Right, he thought. A sweet thing like this no doubt had a pleasant-faced, mild-mannered boyfriend or husband in the background somewhere.
Or maybe not. Few women used the missus title anymore and she wasn’t wearing a ring, but if anyone looked like she ought to be married, it was this woman. She had Good Girl written all over her.
“Is this a typical start to your business meetings?” she asked, glancing around herself. “Dogs? Kitchen? Coffee? Terror?”
“No,” he said. “But you’re not my typical client. And you’re not terrified. Of me or my dogs.”
She sniffed and quirked a full, pink lip.
“What kind of clients do you usually see?”
He paused, surprised by the question.
Once upon a time, his work had involved not just creating and implementing new security programs, but neutralizing cyber-attacks on multi-million dollar corporations, with the occasional homeland security consult thrown in, to keep things interesting.
Now, out of sheer boredom, and on a much smaller scale, he continued to offer that vaguest of services: security. As if such a thing could be bought and paid for.
But he’d rarely met clients in person. Being approached by an individual, a civilian, a small business owner, a woman, this was all new.
Intriguing.
“Billionaires searching for missing cufflinks,” he said. “Starlets and sex tapes. That sort of thing.”
She raised her eyebrows but didn’t respond. Instead, she crossed her arms and sucked in a breath. She’d done that a few times, he noted. And each time, it drew his attention to the smooth skin of her throat and the collarbones that were all that was visible above the neckline of her shirt.
She also kept gripping and releasing her hands and that pretty, pink bottom lip was slightly chapped, as if she’d been biting it a lot lately.
“I’m not a billionaire or a starlet,” she said. Her voice was tight and clipped. “And mine is more of a virtual problem.”
Fidgety, pale, breathing too quickly. She hadn’t responded to the sex tape comment, which was interesting. Though by the look of her, she was probably just too embarrassed to say the words.
“As you mentioned in your email. You drink coffee, yes?”
Brandy might be a better choice but he could hardly offer her that at this time of day.
“Yes. Black. I don’t have a lot of time, Mr. Nash.”
“And I don’t waste mine, Ms. Logan. You’re having a full-fat latte. I don’t want you passing out in my foyer.”
The espresso machine started sputtering just as she did, sparing him her indignant response. He put a swirl through the foamy head and handed her the mug.
“Thank you.”
Her hands shook slightly, making a rise of foam slip over the lip of the mug. He gave her a paper towel, then led her to the office.
“Sit. Please,” he added. He spent too much time with the dogs.
He gestured to one of the upholstered guest chairs sitting opposite his massive desk and she lowered herself into it, carefully watching her beverage.
“So, what version of virtual cufflinks have you lost?”
She sipped her coffee, then set it down with shaking hands and put a small, portable drive on his desk.
“I’m a photographer, Mr. Nash,” she said, looking down at her hands. “I take pictures of family gatherings, weddings, school events, that sort of thing.”
“Yes. And?”
She hesitated, then looked up. “But I used to have a different specialty.”
Her cheeks were flushed but she met his gaze evenly.
“I’m guessing it’s not professional poker,” he said, hoping for a smile. He didn’t get it. “Continue.”
“Mr. Nash.” She took another deep breath. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a flash of anger underneath the discomfort. “This may be a small matter to you, but to me, it’s extremely important. Cherry Lake is my home. My family is here. I’ve lived here almost my entire life. I realize you wouldn’t understand this, but that means something to me.”
Ethan flinched as her mild barb struck a very sensitive nerve. She wasn’t the only one to make sacrifices for family.
“I’m not a mind-reader, Ms. Logan. Nor do you, or anyone in Cherry Lake for that matter, know me.”
She blinked, then shook her head lightly. “You’re right. I apologize. This is… difficult for me.”
He felt like he’d just kicked a puppy. He got up from behind his desk and pulled a chair next to hers. He touched her hand lightly.
“No. I apologize. How about we start again? How can I help you, Ms. Logan? Or is it Mrs. Logan?”
Pathetic. He was pathetic.
“I’m single, if that’s what you’re asking.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “And you might as well call me Carrie.”
“Carrie,” he said. “I’m Ethan. Pleased to meet you.”
Her eyes were very blue, he noticed, unable to look away. He liked blue eyes.
“Yeah, we’ll see,” she said, making a face. “I guess I’ll just have to show you. May I?”
She gestured to his laptop and he swivelled it around so it faced them both.
“Do a search on my business,” she instructed. “Forever Yours Photography.”
He typed in the name and watched as a string of results appeared. The first few were obviously her business site but the others looked different.
He heard Carrie’s breath catch in her throat as the first image filled his screen and as soon as his brain processed the picture, he understood why.
The girl in the photo stood in a doorway, facing three-quarters away from the lens, her face in profile. She was naked, except for a length of gauzy fabric that draped from shoulder to hip, then down her legs to puddle at her feet. One leg was bent slightly at the knee, her heel propped against the opposite ankle, allowing a shaft of light to shine between her thighs. Her arms were crossed above her head, her long blonde hair tumbling down over her back, her head tipped up, her eyes shut as if in ecstasy. Her lips curved in a slight, secretive smile.
In the background, on a table beside the window, stood a large piece of chipped blue crockery. A single rose lay on the table, its petals past their prime, beginning to fall. The over-saturated red of the petals was repeated on the lips and toenails, contrasting with the color of crockery. The rest of the image was stark black and white.
He zoomed in, wishing she wasn’t here to witness his reaction. Because, no man alive could look at these pictures without having a reaction of the most intimate kind.
“They were taken when I was in art school,” she said. “In San Francisco. A long time ago.”
Ethan cleared his throat. “So I see.”
He tried to reconcile the image on the screen in front of him with the sweet, good, proper Carrie Logan seated stiffly beside him. Her hair was the same honey blonde, smooth with a bit of wave, but the woman next to him wore it shoulder length and clipped away from her face. Her posture was almost military-like. Or maybe she was a dancer. She was thin enough.
The
girl in the photo was definitely her, but she had a lushness to her, soft curves and easy lines. There was a come-hither expression combined with laughing innocence that made him think of birds and flowers and puppies and kittens.
Other images lent context, adding atmosphere and setting to the collection. The open window and ugly blue vase lent a homespun feel to the scene that turned the nude model’s flirtatiousness shockingly, unbearably erotic. He sensed heavy summer air, thick with electricity and anticipation, the deep thud of bass music, the velvet of rose petals, the smell of cloves and nutmeg, the taste of chili peppers and lemon.
He gave his head a shake.
All that from a photo?
“They’re beautiful pictures,” he said.
She gave him a disgusted look. “Here’s the information to access the back end of my website,” she said, writing it on the back of an envelope.
He hastily minimized the page in question and opened a new page, typing in the username and password she’d given him. Immediately, he could see where the problem had originated. She’d likely built the site herself, on a basic template. The security plug-in was useless to begin with, and she was three upgrades behind.
He continued his examination of her online presence. So many photos. So many smiles and friends and happy events. Carrie Logan was a well-loved person who enjoyed her life in this tightly knit community.
The question wasn’t how the photos had gotten out; it was why it hadn’t happened sooner.
“Your website,” he said, “is a sieve and your social media accounts ripe for the plucking.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“About this?”
He clicked back to the picture of Carrie and the blue vase but she reached out and closed the laptop.
“The rest is just more of the same.”
Mother of God.
He cleared his throat. “Others.”
She pursed her lips. A shame.
“I took those myself, Mr. Nash. For an assignment. But there are others. Of other women. I haven’t found any of them yet, and I sincerely hope they don’t appear. It’s bad enough having my photos loose.”
Her Secret Protector Page 3
