Page 4 of Dirty Shots

Chapter Two

Eric

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His cell rang a little after eight a.m. the following morning as he was about to leave the gym he frequented in downtown New York. He glanced at the screen, but didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello, Eric Rutherford.”

He recognized her voice, with that slight European twang, as soon as she spoke. “It’s not too early, is it?”

“Anya!” He dropped his workout bag on the floor and turned around to lean against the wall as he spoke. “No, it’s not too early. I’m just leaving the gym, in fact.”

“You work out,” she said, no question in her tone.

“I like to keep fit.”

“I thought so.”

In truth, his routine gym visits—every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday mornings at seven a.m. sharp—were a way of keeping himself in check. It was too easy to lose track of time when he was working, to lose himself in the piece only to emerge several days later realizing he’d not slept or eaten.

He hesitated. “So ... did you give my job offer any more consideration?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to be paid.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure he’d understood what she was saying. “But you want the job?”

“Yes. I would like you to photograph me. Naked, like the women in the pictures.”

Her voice was like something exotic, jasmine-scented honey. The way she spoke made his groin tighten, blood rushing to his cock. He bit down, forcing the reaction away. He couldn’t photograph her if he had that reaction at the idea of her being naked. It simply wouldn’t work. He’d only embarrass them both.

“Why don’t you want to be paid if you’d like to do the work?”

“I don’t need the money. Copies of the photographs would be enough.”

“I see.” He needed to be careful. He wanted her to be his model, but she needed to understand the rules. “You realize if I let you have copies of the photographs, you wouldn’t be able to distribute them anywhere.”

She laughed and his heart tightened at the sound. “Of course not, Mr. Rutherford. Why would I want to distribute pictures of myself like that? But what about yourself? If these are going to be images of me, will I have any say in what happens to them?”

He chose his words carefully. “I’d like to use the images for my portfolio, for my website. I’m a photographer and an artist, Anya, but these images won’t be sold.”

“They’d just be for you.”

A thrill went through him. When he spoke, his voice came out hoarser than he’d anticipated. “Yes.”

“Okay, then. When would you like to start?”

Eric glanced at his watch out of habit. He already knew the time. “Are you free after lunch? Say, two o’clock at my apartment?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you later.”

Eric hung up, surprised to find his heart beating harder than normal, his stomach churning in anticipation. He had a couple of meetings that morning—a newly refurbished five-star hotel who wanted to commission a set of huge landscape photographs for their lobby and then another appointment with a wealthy couple who wanted to have their family portrait done. It was comparatively mundane work, but it paid the bills and left a respectable amount over to play with. Then, that afternoon, he would have the opportunity to indulge in his new project.

He struggled to concentrate during his meetings, his mind wandering to Anya, with her porcelain complexion and innocent look. He wondered how far she’d allow him to go, if she’d spread her legs for him and allow him to photograph her most intimate folds close up. He wanted that desperately, to photograph right into the depths of her body, into what made her a woman.

***

Eric paced the floor ofhis apartment, checking his watch every two minutes. It wasn’t like him to be nervous, and the emotion sat uneasily on his broad shoulders.

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