Page 34 of Dirty Shots

Anya twisted in his arms to face him. “I never asked how your meeting went this morning.”

“Well. It went well.”

She laughed and playfully shoved his chest. “Come on. You can give me more than that. This friend of yours must have had something else to say.”

“He thought the photographs were beautiful. He warned me that I may get some backlash from the press and the art world because of their nature.”

“Because they’re so sexy, you mean.” She reached down and cupped his balls, but for once he didn’t respond to her.

Why was he struggling to tell her? The nervous energy he’d put down to the anticipation of the change in his career grew stronger. Perhaps he misread his own emotions. Was he actually anxious over Anya’s reaction?

“What’s wrong?” she asked, removing her hand, worry tightening her lovely features.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is.” She squeezed his hand in reassurance, and his unease deepened. “Come on. You can tell me. Did your friend not like them, really?”

“No, he did.” If he was going to go through with the exhibition, he had to tell her. Letting her find out because she’d seen a poster at college or an article in a magazine would not do. It wouldn’t do at all. Still, he had to force the words from his mouth. “The friend I saw this morning is Logan Blanc, the owner of the Blanc Art Space.”

She smiled and nodded encouragingly. “I know it.”

“He loved the photographs so much he wants us to have an exhibition there. One night only.”

She stiffened in his arms. “But I thought none of the photographs would be sold.”

“They won’t be. This is purely an exhibition. People can look but not buy.”

“And when is this exhibition happening?”

He took a breath. “In ten days.”

She pulled away from him, shock written on her expression, her blue eyes wide, her face pale. “What? Ten days from now?” Something fluttered over her expression and a hand went to her mouth. “No, it can’t be. My parents are in town that weekend.”

“Can’t you put off seeing them for one night? I want you to be there.”

“It’s not that! What if they want to see the exhibition? What if they recognize me?”

“They won’t see the exhibition. I can make sure tickets are sold only to people in the art scene who we know.”

“You don’t understand. My parents are Trent and Saara Bergman.”

Eric felt as if she’d punched him in the gut. “The art critics?”

She nodded. “They’re who I got my love of art from.”

“But your name? Your surname isn’t Bergman?”

“I use my mother’s maiden name of Rhinne. I didn’t want people at school to think I was getting a special deal because of who my parents are.”

“Jesus.”

Her eyes widened. “My father is Catholic. If he gets any hint of what I’ve been doing, he’ll probably disown me.”

“Anya, why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I didn’t want you to treat me different if you knew who my parents were.”

“As if it would have made any difference!”

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