Page 64 of Dirty Shots

“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?”

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