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.”
Had she put herself through school working for skin mags? Now that, he’d never have guessed.
“So these pictures,” he said. “They weren’t ever published?”
“Mr. Nash.” Her expression could have soured milk. “Early in my career I took what were once called boudoir photos. I don’t do that anymore. So can you help me or not?”
Little Carrie Logan was all vanilla cream on the outside, but underneath? The slow burn of white-hot coals. Who else, he wondered, knew this about her? And why was it so important that she keep it secret?
“The digital files are clearly linked to your site.” He turned to face her. “Ms. Logan. Carrie. I’m not sure how you think I can help. Once something’s on the internet, it’s out there. We can lock the barn door but that horse is already galloping over the county line.”
“You sound like my mother.” Her voice was chilly. “So why then, until now, have they been secure? I had them all on a separate, password-protected site, under a pseudonym. I’d more or less forgotten about them. What?”