Eric didn’t want to let Logan in on Anya’s problems with her father. He’d let Logan know only when a time came when he had no other choice than to tell him.
“Anya’s fine.”
“Did she speak to her parents?”
Eric hesitated, not wanting to lie directly to Logan, while unable to tell him the full truth. “She told her mom, and Saara Bergman was surprisingly okay about the whole thing.”
“That’s great. And if you ever want to set up that photo shoot we discussed, you know where I am.”
“Thanks, Logan. I appreciate that. The idea has played on my mind. It would be an amazing shoot. But I would need to discuss it properly with Anya first. It’s something she would need to be fully into.”
“Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t expect anything else.” Logan hesitated and then said, “Well, stay in touch, buddy.”
And he hung up.
Eric lowered his cell. The driver had already pulled up outside the hotel where Mr. and Mrs. Bergman were staying. He fought down his nerves. He had every right to be here, to challenge her father. The man had hit him, for God’s sake. He should be the one wanting to apologize to Eric.
But deep down Eric knew there was no chance of such a thing happening. Anya’s father might even refuse to see him.
He smoothed down his shirt and squared back his shoulders, lifting his chin. If he went in there cowed, he’d as good as already lost the argument.
Eric approached the desk. A pretty young woman saw him coming and flashed him her brightest smile. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”
“I need you to call up to Mr. and Mrs. Bergman’s room, and let them know Eric Rutherford is in the lobby waiting for Mr. Bergman.”
“Are they expecting you?”
“No, but he’ll want to know I’m here.”
She placed the internal call, and gave him an awkward smile while they both waited. The time stretched on too long. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said eventually. “He doesn’t appear to be in.”
Eric kicked himself mentally. Of course there was a good possibility he wasn’t even in the hotel room. New York was a big city. Eric should have gotten Anya to call ahead to check where her parents were, but he’d not wanted to put her through any more altercations with her father. Never mind. If he wasn’t in, Eric would simply wait until he returned. And he would return. Trent Bergman wouldn’t leave this city, not until he’d torn Eric and Anya’s work to pieces.
“No problem,” he said to the receptionist. “I’ll wait in the lobby.”
“Of course. The bar is right across there if you’d like any refreshments.”
He didn’t trust himself with alcohol, so he ordered a coffee, keeping his eye on the lobby at all times. He sat, sipping his drink, watching and waiting for the Bergmans’ return to the hotel.
Finally, a tall figure with white blond hair, and a smaller blonde at his side, strolled through the lobby.
Eric leaped to his feet and rushed out. “Mr. Bergman?”
Trent turned at his name, caught sight of Eric standing there, and scowled. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came to talk about your daughter.”
Anya’s mother nodded at her husband, pushing him encouragingly toward Eric. At least they had her on their side.
“Can I buy you a coffee?” Eric offered, trying to be civil.
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“Very well. Let me ask for something from you. Just five minutes of your time. Surely your daughter is worth that much to you?”
Trent’s face began to turn puce, but Saara stepped in. “If you won’t talk to him for Anya, do it for me,” she told her husband. “Unless you want to lose a wife as well as a daughter?”
Trent scowled at her, but said, “Fine.”
He stalked into the bar where Eric had been sitting, and flagged the waiter before ordering a scotch. He didn’t make any effort to ask Eric if he wanted anything—not that Eric cared.
Trent flung himself into a chair and sat forward, his elbows rested on his knees, his fingers laced together. “Let’s get this over with.”
“I’m here for Anya,” Eric said. “I love your daughter, Mr. Bergman, and I wouldn’t do anything to cause her harm.” He experienced a momentary stab of guilt as he remembered fucking her above shards of broken glass. “Once more, I want to offer you the chance to come and view the photographs before they go on display, so you are at least prepared for the exhibition and the reports that will follow.” Eric risked half a smile. “You never know, you might even be surprised.”
“Surprised is the last thing I want to be. I don’t even want to think about what you’ve made my little girl do, never mind see them! The only reason Anya is doing this is because she is in love with you. If she didn’t care for you, she would never show off her body in such a way.”
“You’re wrong. Anya is an artist. She knows exactly what she is doing.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you know my daughter better than I do? How long have you known her for, exactly? A couple of weeks?”
“I’m saying there might be parts of your daughter you don’t know as well as you think you do.”
He snorted. “I think you want to make sure the entire city knows my daughter’s parts.”
“It’s art,” Eric snapped, starting to feel like a broken record.
“If you continue with this exhibition, I will make sure you never work again. I’ll let everyone know that you pressured my daughter into taking these explicit photos. I’ll go to every paper, every art magazine and online review site. I won’t let this rest, Mr. Rutherford.”
Eric shook his head in dismay. “You’re supposed to be an art critic. Is there no way you can look at this objectively? Come and support Anya and see the pictures and how beautiful she is. Appreciate the art she’s been a part of creating.”
“I’ll die before that happens.” He pointed a finger at Eric. “And let me remind you that Anya is my daughter. I have raised her for twenty-two years, and if you think you can strut in here as if you’re something important in her life, you’re going to get a hell of a shock when she comes to her senses, turns around, and tells you you’re no longer able to exploit her body.”
Eric clenched his fists and spoke in a low, measured tone. “Anya is in love with me, Mr. Bergman. Do you remember what that is like, to be so utterly in love with someone you will literally do anything if it means being with that person? You will lose her if you continue to treat her this way. You can emotionally blackmail her as much as you want, but she wants to do the exhibition.”
“No. You’ve made her think she does, that’s all. She’ll realize what a huge mistake she’s making and come back to her family.”
Eric shook his head. “If you make her choose between you and me, you will lose.”
Trent Bergman picked up the shot of whisky he’d ordered and drained the glass. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Rutherford. When you’re alone and your career is lying in tatters at your feet, we’ll see who ends up as the loser.”
He slammed the glass back onto the table, got to his feet, and stormed from the bar.
Eric let out a sigh and ran his hand through his hair, sinking back into his seat.
Anya had been right about him not speaking to her father. He had a feeling he had just made things one hundred times worse.
Chapter Twenty
Anya
Anya wandered from one part of Eric’s apartment to the other, unable to figure out what to do with herself. She tried to watch Eric’s tastefully small flat screen, but everything on television felt fake and irritating.
She lay back down on his bed, but couldn’t get back to sleep, despite not having slept almost the whole previous night. Her mind kept turning over the argument with her father and what she was going to do.
In the end, she found herself sitting on his couch, chewing at her thumbnail while she stared out of Eric’s beautiful floor to ceiling win
dows which looked out onto the skyline of New York. As each moment passed, she imagined where Eric was and if he’d approached her father yet. She wanted to feel confident in Eric’s proposal to set her father straight, but he barely knew her father, whereas she’d known him her whole life. She should have trusted her own instincts before telling her father the truth, but she’d allowed herself to be persuaded. She couldn’t help feeling like she was also allowing history to repeat itself by letting Eric try to talk to him ‘man to man.’
The door buzzed and she sat up straight, turning toward the sound. No one could get up here without her buzzing the person in, unless someone else let them into the building. This was a possibility—it was something she’d done herself.
The door buzzed again. Could it be Eric? Had he taken a key? She couldn’t say for sure.
Her stomach churning, she got to her feet and headed over to the door. She reached out and pressed the button for the intercom. “Hello?”
A male voice came back. “Oh, hi. My name’s Jonathan Turner. I’m here from the arts department of the New York Journal. I have an appointment with Mr. Rutherford.”
Oh, damn. Eric must have forgotten.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Turner. Eric—I mean Mr. Rutherford—isn’t here right now. You may have to call him to reschedule.”
She heard the man tut and huff a sigh of annoyance. “You know, this really won’t do, Miss ...”
“Anya,” she said.
“Anya. Can I come up and wait for him?”
She chewed her lower lip. “Umm, well, I don’t know how long he’ll be. I think he has his cell on him. Could you try calling him direct?”
“I don’t have his cell number.”
“Hang on. I’ll try for you.”
Quickly, she ran to where she’d left her purse on the counter and found her phone. She dialed Eric’s number, hoping she wasn’t interrupting some opinion altering conversation with her father. But the cell simply rang until the voicemail picked it up.
“Hi, you’ve reached Eric Rutherford, leave me a message.”
“Hi, Eric. It’s me. You had an appointment with a guy from the New York Journal. Can you call me back and let me know what you want me to do with him? Hope everything is going well. I miss you.”
She hung up and went back to the door. “I’m sorry, but he’s not answering.”
“He might be on his way back then.” His tone grew hard. “I really don’t appreciate a wasted journey, Anya.”
Shit. She didn’t want the guy to write bad things in his newspaper just because she had handled things badly. She imagined Eric arriving home at any minute, staring at her in confusion, asking why the hell she’d sent the reporter away.
“Okay,” she relented. “I’ll buzz you up.”
She felt awkward, wearing only Eric’s t-shirt and a pair of his Jockey shorts. She’d have liked to have been more presentable, but she wasn’t showing any unnecessary flesh. She peered out of the spy hole, waiting for the elevator doors to open. As soon as they did, she opened the front door.
Jonathan Turner was in his early forties, with glasses and receding, graying hair. His suit appeared too big for him, hanging off his narrow shoulders. Anya wondered if he’d lost a lot of weight recently and hadn’t bothered to replace his clothes. She juggled her cell in her hand, praying Eric would call, and fixed a smile on her face.
“Mr. Turner. So sorry to keep you waiting. I’m sure Mr. Rutherford won’t be long.” He swept past her into the apartment and dumped his bag on the coffee table. “Can I make you some coffee?” she offered.
“Yes, please. Black, one sugar.”
She nodded and headed to the kitchen area, filling the coffee machine with fresh water and switching it on.
“So are you his P.A. or something?” Turner asked.
“Umm, no. Not quite.” She was surprised he’d think such a thing considering her outfit.
“But you work for him?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
He shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Her cheeks heated. “I do some modeling work for Eric.”
“Oh, I see.”
They sat in uncomfortable silence while the coffee finished brewing, and then she got back to her feet and brought his cup over and placed it on the table in front of him. Anxiously, she glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall.
“What time did you say your appointment was?”
“Oh ...” She caught his eyes flicking to the clock as well. “About two-thirty.”
Wouldn’t he know an exact time?
“So what kind of modeling do you do for him, exactly?”
She frowned. “That depends on what Eric’s working on.”
“I hear he’s been working on a new line of photographs, heading in a new, riskier direction.”
Something turned uneasily inside her stomach. “I think I’ll just try Eric’s cell again.”
She got up and turned away. As she dialed his number again, she caught sight of the reporter lifting his own phone, and a flash went off.
Her heart lurched. “What are you doing?”
Eric’s voice came through the phone. “Anya?” Her focus moved back to Eric. “Oh, Eric, thank God. You had an appointment with a reporter today. You must have forgotten about it.”
He hesitated. “Umm, no, I didn’t. I don’t have any appointments.”
She glanced over at the man sipping coffee. “Well, there’s a man here waiting for you.”
“What? Waiting where? Not in the apartment?”
She lowered her voice. “Yeah, I let him in. Was that wrong?”
“Just hang tight, Anya. I’m almost with you.”
She turned back to find the reporter getting to his feet. She frowned, her body tensing.
“I should really get going,” he said.
“That was Mr. Rutherford. He’s almost here. Don’t you want to keep your appointment?” Her tone was ice cold.
“I’ve wasted enough time already. I can’t afford any more.”
He started to head toward the door, but she slipped in front of him, blocking the way. “Seriously, Mr. Turner. He said he was right outside. Why else were you waiting for him unless you wanted to keep your appointment?”
“Please, young lady. I’m asking you nicely to move out of my way.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You sure you don’t want to take any more photographs while I’m standing here?”
He spluttered. “Photographs? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Show me your phone, then. I saw you take my picture.”
“I did not!”
The door burst open behind her and Eric flew into the room, his face flushed, breathing hard. He didn’t even acknowledge Anya, but instead focused on the other man in the apartment. “Jonny Turner! What the hell do you think you’re doing in my home?”
“I want to talk to the lovely Anya. I hear she’s the model for this new collection you’re exhibiting.”
“That’s none of your concern. Now get the hell out of my place.”
The reporter lifted his hands in surrender. “Willingly. I was just leaving anyway.”
“He took my photo,” Anya said.
Eric’s eyes blazed. “Is that true?”
He shrugged. “So what if it is?”
Eric held out a hand. “Give me your cell.”
He scoffed. “No chance.”
Eric stepped forward, his shoulders squared. “Give me the phone or I will take it from you.”
“Are you threatening me? Because I’m going to have a far more interesting story to write if you threaten me and perhaps destroy some of my personal property.”
Anya put a hand on Eric’s arm. “Leave it, Eric. My photographs are going to be everywhere in a few days anyway. We have more important things to worry about than this scumbag.”
He glanced at her and then back at the reporter. “I’m letting you go because of her, not yo
u. If you come anywhere near either us again ...” He left the threat open-ended.
Eric opened the door and Jonny Turner skulked out. He gave Anya a snide grin before the elevator doors shut him from view.
Anya shivered. “That guy gave me the creeps.”
Eric rounded on her. “Never let anyone else into the apartment, no matter what they say to you. Understand?”
He voice was hard and she wilted under his stern stare. “Sorry, Eric.”
“I mean it, Anya. Those sons of bitches have no souls. That guy ripped me to pieces when I was having a tough time. He printed every bad moment I had, spoke to everyone I knew, and made it his business to make my dark times everyone else’s business. They will stop at nothing to get a story, and if they can embellish it with some good old fashioned dirt, even better.”
“Sorry, Eric,” she said again.
His expression softened, and he stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. He kissed the top of her head. “No, I’m sorry. There was no way for you to know. I should have warned you that this kind of thing happens.”
“Well, he’s gone now, and I know for the future.”
He kissed her and she let her mind be absorbed by the taste of his mouth and the feel of his skin against hers. She wanted to lose herself in him, but a question nagged at her mind.
She broke the kiss. “How did it go with my father?”
He gave his head a slight shake. “Sorry, Anya. It wasn’t much better. He’s still not happy about the exhibition.” He paused and then said, “Worse than not happy.”
She gave a shrug, though her heart sank to the pit of her stomach. “It’s okay. I knew that would be the case. I just keep letting myself hope, you know?”
He kissed her again. “Maybe I shouldn’t have given you that hope?”
“No, I appreciate that you tried. It means the world that you’re willing to put yourself out like that for me.”
He hesitated and then said, “So, you still want to do the exhibition, despite your father?”
It occurred to her that Eric had another reason to make her father change his mind that wasn’t just about her feelings.
“I meant what I said, Eric. I want to have a future in this business. I want to be an artist—I always have—I’ve just never known what kind. Now I feel like I’ve found my passion, and I don’t want to let that go. Nothing else will live up to it. Even if my father disowns me, which I think he’s already done, I won’t live my life on his terms. Nothing will be the same. Everything else has just faded into gray. I want this more than anything.”
Dirty Shots Page 17
