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“Did she use you?” his aunt asked.
“No.”
But doubt clouded his vision as he handed the phone back to Aunt Lou. Sadie had been clear that her career came first. He’d respected her choice, welcoming the barrier to a serious relationship. And he knew her family and her childhood motivated her to succeed. He’d admired that about her. But he’d never considered how far she’d go to accomplish her goals. She’d told him point-blank that she’d tipped off a reporter who’d taken her picture in New York. But this? She wouldn’t push these images out into the world. Would she?
“I need to talk to her,” he said. “I’ll come find you at the house. After.”
Aunt Lou nodded. “I’m sorry, Logan. If I’d known who she was, I never would have rented her the guesthouse.”
“I knew. And I trusted her.” He shook his head, turning to the guesthouse, the bright sun mocking his foul mood. He needed to hear from Sadie that she hadn’t done this.
Ten paces from the door, his cell vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, planning to ignore the call, thinking it was someone, probably a teammate, calling to ask what the hell he’d been thinking.
He glanced at the caller ID. It was someone calling to ask that question—the one person he couldn’t ignore, his commanding officer.
“Colonel.”
“Since when does the definition of ‘lying low’ include getting pictures posted on the internet of some writer servicing you in a goddamn bookstore?” Lieutenant Colonel Walt Johnson barked.
Logan froze. He’d pictured the end of his career. More than he wanted to admit recently. But he’d assumed he’d be discharged for failing to do his job and getting his teammate shot, not for receiving a blow job.
“Did you know who she was when this happened?”
“No, sir.” No lie there.
“This is a PR nightmare. Thank your lucky stars, son, that this online tabloid does not know your name or rank. If you are identified as a ranger, as one of the horse soldiers, you can kiss your career goodbye. Christ, you could face a court-martial
for conduct unbecoming.”
“Yes, sir.” A court-martial, dishonorable discharge, all because a damn photographer had made a consensual, private moment public. And because he’d been too wrapped up in lust to ask the right questions. But, hell, who asked a writer visiting her pregnant sister if she expected photographers to follow her every movement?
“Get your ass back to base by eleven hundred tomorrow. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” The line went dead and Logan lowered the phone. He had one shot to keep his job and it all depended on Sadie shutting down this circus.
Logan marched up the front porch steps and knocked on her door. A second later, she answered, wearing her bathrobe. Beneath it, he saw her marines T-shirt peeking out. But her legs were bare and he guessed she wasn’t wearing much else. An hour ago, before he’d seen those damning pictures, he would have scooped her up and carried her back to bed. He would have made love to her. Now, the idea seemed laughable.
“Logan.” She stepped back, holding the door open. “Come in.”
“Put on some pants, Sadie. We need to talk.” Hands shoved in his pockets to keep from reaching out and touching her, he walked into the living room.
She closed the door. “I’ll be right back.”
A minute later, she reappeared wearing jeans and a fresh blue T-shirt. She’d drawn her long hair back in a tight bun.
“You’ve seen the pictures.”
He nodded.
“Logan, I’m so sorry. I—”
“Did you know?” he ground out. “Was this all part of your plan to gain more publicity? Further your career?”
“No!”
“That photographer followed you for days, Sadie. And you never noticed?”
“He followed you, too,” she shot back.
