Page 35 of Dirty Shots

“Wouldn’t it have? Really?”

He dug deep, trying to figure out his own emotions. Would he have been as open with her if he’d known? He’d like to think he could have been, but doing such things to Trent and Saara Bergman’s daughter, knowing he’d want the art world to see the photographs eventually ... would he have truly expressed his art in the way he’d wanted? He’d have been editing himself, knowing whose daughter he was photographing so intimately.

His chin dropped, his eyes closing briefly. “You should have told me,” he repeated.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I just wanted this so badly—wanted you so badly. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, and I hoped you wouldn’t need to find out.” She took a breath. “It’s the reason I told you I didn’t want to be paid. I thought as long as you didn’t have to see my real surname because you weren’t writing a check or transferring money into an account, then you would never even need to think about who I was.”

He let this sink in. He felt as though he had the right to be angry—she had deliberately deceived him, but she was too important to him to lose over some stupid thing like a name. They needed to find their way past this.

Eric moved back slightly in the bed, so he could look directly into her face. “You’re going to have to tell your parents.”

Her eyes widened in fear. “No, I can’t do that! I told you, they will never speak to me again.”

“Then you should have thought of that before!”

“What about if you don’t use any of the pictures where you can see who I am? And then I just won’t go to the exhibition.”

“No, Anya. The photographs where we can see your face are the best images. Even Logan Blanc said so. He thought exactly what I did, about how you have this ethereal quality, while still looking so sexy.”

She looked horrified, withdrawing farther from him. “No, you can’t!”

“I have to use the photographs with your face in them, Anya. Can’t you see?” He reached out and touched her cheek, but she jerked away. “It’s your face that brings such an innocent quality to the photographs. Yes, they are erotic, but the photographs that show your face stand head and shoulders above the rest. You look like an angel.”

She sat up, swinging her legs off the side of the bed so she sat perched on the edge. “So what are you saying? That you’re going to go through with the exhibition, no matter what I say?”

“You must have realized other people would see the photographs, Anya.” He was starting to get angry now, his voice restrained but heated.

“Yes, but I hadn’t realized it was all going to be quite so ... public.”

“I’m a photographer, and photographers display their work. I promised you I wouldn’t sell the images, and I meant that. I have no intention of allowing your naked form to be hanging in some other man’s house for him to enjoy anytime he wants, but I do want my art to be appreciated.”

She stared at him, angry tears beginning to well in her eyes. “But my parents? They don’t even believe in sex before marriage.”

“What do you want me to do, Anya? Am I supposed to never show any of your pictures? Destroy them and hire a new model to do the work all over again?”

Her face paled at the mention of a new model. “You would replace me?”

His emotions were in a whirl. He was so confused right now. He was furious with her, yet he cared about her more than he wanted to admit. He hated how her innocent face was tightened to the point of looking as though she might shatter into a million pieces. He wanted to comfort her and tell her it would be all right, but at the same time a voice in his head yelled ‘all that work!’ If she wouldn’t allow him to show his photographs, then there was almost no point in all those hours he’d spent agonizing over them.

Maybe this was his fault. He should have been more specific in the contract, made her understand that, though he had no intention of selling the work, so no one else would have her beautiful face or body hanging on their walls, he always intended for the work to be seen. Perhaps then the implication of who her parents were would have stood more soundly in her mind.

What was the point in creating art if no one was allowed to admire its beauty?

“What else am I supposed to do, Anya? Please, tell me. I don’t want to hire anyone else, but you can’t expect me to give up my work for you.”

She stared at him, her lips pressed tight together, the tears in her eyes trembling. “Fine,” she finally managed. “Hire someone else. Fuck her, too, if that’s what you want. See if I care.”

With that, she climbed from his bed, clutching the sheet to her chest, and ran from the room. She grabbed her discarded clothes as she went, pulling the items on. The buttons on her shirt had popped off when he’d torn the shirt from her body, so she had to clutch it together to cover her breasts. Without another word, she headed to his front door, not even looking at him, her face white with anger.

He opened his mouth to call her back and then closed it again. What could he say? He lifted a hand, gripping it in his hair. “Fuck,” he hissed. Then louder, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He didn’t want to lose her, but he was stuck.

Did he have to choose between the work he loved and the woman he was quickly falling for?

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