Page 83 of Dirty Shots

“He’s managed to keep it under control for a while now—the meds help, as does the exercise and making sure he gets enough sleep—but the extra pressure of this exhibition must have put him into another spiral.”

She thought of the times they’d been making love all night and working all day. “It’s my fault. I should have given him more space.”

“No, not at all, Anya. You didn’t know. I’m more to blame for making him think running this exhibition so soon was a good idea. I should have known better, but I thought I’d just keep an eye on him and watch out for any signs. I didn’t expect it to hit him so quickly.”

She thought back to the times he hadn’t eaten or slept. She’d assumed it was all to do with her, and their relationship, and the exhibition, but actually it had been a sign he was going into another manic episode.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“We’ll go and see him. He just needs to increase his medication. He’s been in this place before, and we can level him out again.”

“Thanks so much, Logan. I don’t know what I’d do without you right now. Eric is very lucky to have you, too.”

“Eric’s my best friend,” he said. “I wouldn’t be without him. I’m glad he’s got you, too.”

“When can you come and see him?”

“We’ll go now.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” she asked.

“I have an assistant. She can handle things for a few hours. This is more important than the gallery. Just give me ten minutes.”

Anya nodded. “Sure.”

He left her for the moment, and she wandered slowly around the gallery, her mind only half admiring the latest collection, the other half focused on Eric. It seemed crazy that, after tonight, all of these paintings would be removed, and photographs of her would be replacing them. Nerves churned inside her. Would there even be an exhibition if Eric was ill? They might have to cancel the whole thing.

Strangely, the thought of canceling filled her with disappointment. After all their hard work, and going through such emotional turmoil, to not see this through to the end felt like failure. For the first time, she truly wanted to experience the night of the exhibition. She wanted to be here, at Eric’s side, as people walked around, admiring their photographs. She wanted to learn what people would make of the images—though she knew it wouldn’t all be good. Perhaps some would be shocked, like her father, but she was also certain some people would see the beauty in the photographs.

Eric was a genius at what he did. Even if it wasn’t to everyone’s taste—and truthfully, what art was?—no one could deny he was good at what he did.

A hand touched her elbow, making her jump.

Anya turned to find Logan smiling at her. “Ready to go?”

She nodded.

They left the cool interior of the art gallery and stepped out onto the New York street. Someone was walking in as they headed out, and the person stopped abruptly.

“Anya?”

She blinked in surprise as she took in the sight of the familiar figure. “Dad! What are you doing here?”

Her father’s gaze moved to Logan. “I came to see Mr. Blanc, actually. I hear this farce of an exhibition is still going ahead.”

Logan lifted his chin. “Of course it is, Mr. Bergman. I’m expecting a full house.”

“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it,” her father snapped. “If this gallery shows photographs of my daughter in a couple of day’s time, I will make sure you go out of business.”

Logan laughed. “I’d like to see you try. You’re simply one art critic—one voice among what will be hundreds on Saturday night. I’ve seen the photographs of your daughter, Mr. Bergman, and they are exquisite. People will be talking about Eric Rutherford’s new collection for months to come, and having you complaining about them will be like a whisper in a storm. It won’t surprise me if the collection ends up on tour, and I expect Anya will be fighting off invitations from magazines to be photographed and interviewed.”

“For every article my daughter does, I’ll make sure there’s another explaining how Eric Rutherford coerced and manipulated her into doing those shoots.”

Anya’s heart lurched, her mind swimming at the idea. “Dad! Please, stop...”

Her cheeks burned, humiliation washing over her that they were having this conversation standing out on the street, random strangers catching snippets as they passed by. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes at the realization her dad still clearly hadn’t come around to her way of thinking.

“I believe that will be slander, Mr. Bergman,” Logan continued. “Anya is an adult and more than capable of making her own decisions.”

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