Lovely Trigger(5)

Finally, Bronson approached me directly. I tensed up sure he’d caught the resemblance between me and my mother, who he’d obviously known well.

That wasn’t why he approached. Well, I suppose it was a twisted version of that. Marta was apparently his type, and being close to the spitting image of her, I suppose I was too.

His smile dripped with greasy charm even before he opened his disgusting mouth.

Before he even got a word out, I had the thought: Oh God, no. My own father is about to hit on me.

Please, please, please, I thought, make this not actually be happening.

Who the f*ck else had this kind of luck?

I didn’t even catch the first little bit that he said, more heard his tone, my mind reeling in horror.

It was just too much. Even I couldn’t maintain my usual professional demeanor as I stood there and had the man that had sired me tell me how hot I was.

He didn’t even have good lines. He’d been relying on his fame and money for way too long.

“So what do you say?” He reached into his pocket, pulling out what looked like a hotel room key card. “I keep a regular room at The Beverly Hills Hotel. I can meet you there in three hours. In the meantime, feel free to make yourself comfortable, order some drinks. Charge it to the room.”

He said it all like it was just a forgone conclusion, even when I knew that the look on my face must have told him that I liked him about as much as something particularly smelly that had just gotten stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

He was that oblivious.

“You are just stunning. Where do you get that coloring from? A bit of Asian in there, right? I’ve always been a fan of the Asian girls. But the black hair with those pale eyes.” He whistled long and low. “So very striking. What a beauty. Hot little body on you too.”

I had to restrain myself from slapping him across the face. My voice was not quite steady when I finally found it. “What is your heritage?”

“I’m mainly Danish and English. Your turn, babe.”

My mouth shaped into a sharp smile. “My mother is Japanese and Russian, and my father is apparently Danish and English, though I just this second found that out.”

He gave me a strange look. “How so?”

“Bronson Giles, my mother’s name is Marta Markova. I assume that rings a bell?”

He at least had the decency to turn green then. “My God,” he whispered.

“I can see where that would be a problem, knocking up so many women that you can’t keep track of your offspring. And by the way, Bronson, you are way too old for me. Even if I wasn’t your daughter.” I made a face. “That’s just gross. If you’re going to be a philandering pig, at least be more age appropriate about it. Especially with all of the random women you must have gotten pregnant over the years. Maybe stay away from women that are young enough to be your daughters, or hell, your granddaughters.”

“My God,” he said again. “Do you want money from me or something?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” I told him furiously, my voice low and mean. “Not one thing. I manage this gallery. You are the one that came up to me, or did you not realize that?”

He blinked a few times, turned on his heel and strode away.

Dermot, who’d been about a dozen feet away for the whole thing, sent me one probing glance and followed him.

I thought that was the end of it, but about an hour later, Dermot was back.

He sought me out, waiting while I handled a sale. He smiled and held out his hand when I was free. “I’m Dermot,” he said warmly.

I smiled tentatively back, shaking his hand. “Danika.”

“I just wanted to apologize for my father. He’s…a throwback, and it looked like he came on a little strong back there.”

I studied him. “I’m not sure why you’re apologizing. You didn’t do anything.”

“I just didn’t want you to think I was like him. He’s my father, but I’ve known since I was a kid that he’s a creep when it comes to women.”

I nodded. That he was, and I didn’t know what to say about it.

“Listen, this is an embarrassing way to meet, but I’d love to make it up to you sometime. How does dinner sound?”

I made an effort not to smack my own forehead.

Seriously?! What the f*ck did I do to deserve this?

I realized then and there that I had to tell him, had to bite the awkward bullet and just get it out. “The fact that your father is old and married isn’t the only thing that offended me about his come-on,” I told him, my tone matter of fact.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, smiling like I was about to tell him some funny joke.

Oh yeah, it was a real hoot.

“Bronson Giles is my biological father.”

His eyes widened comically, his mouth dropping open.

“I have no proof, though if I needed it, his reaction to me telling him who my mother is would have been enough. But if you don’t believe me—“

“No, no, I do. I just-I-I-I’m shocked. I am so sorry. I wasn’t hitting on you. I meant like a platonic dinner.”

He hadn’t, but I grasped onto that lame ass excuse just as strongly as he did. “Of course. I didn’t think you were.”

In spite of that less than promising beginning, we did sort of hit it off after that.