MisMatch (A Humorous Contemporary Romance) (2 page)

As an art authenticator for Banes Insurance,
re-acquisition wasn’t usually in Eli’s job description. But in this
case, he’d known the piece well since he’d done the original
authentication. Not to mention, he’d known the fences who’d be
looking to unload a piece like it, so he’d volunteered for the
duty. And the daughter’s ex-boyfriend had practically shouted, “I
stole the painting, I stole it,” when she’d been questioned.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll call him back.” As he
hung up with Trevor, Eli spotted the shadow lurking on the edges of
his peripheral vision, and he instantly palmed the knife at his
ankle, his senses on alert. He didn’t need this kind of
trouble.

“No need to call me back.” Eli’s passenger
door opened, and Vincent Del Monaco climbed in.

Eli released his hold on the weapon. “Jesus,
Vince. You know that could have ended badly for you.”

Vince shrugged. “Not likely. What’s that
about bringing a knife to a gun fight?”

Eli rolled his eyes. “How the hell did you
even find me?”

“I‘m an FBI agent. I have excellent
investigational skills.” Vince grinned and added, “Trevor gave me
your GPS coordinates.”

“Big Brother at its best. So what’s so
important that you called me at the office and now you’re stalking
me?”

He handed Eli a file. “You think it's our
guy?”

Eli grabbed the folder and studied the
images of what looked like a very expensive Picasso. Normally, Eli
didn't spend his time speculating on something as important as art.
But in this case, he shared the sentiment with his partner. “Yeah,
I think it’s him, Vince. But he's smart. Based on the way he’s been
getting in and out of these homes, I don’t think it’s just some
forger testing his skill and getting some jollies. This is a
professional team. This asshole's good.” There were photos of
several jewelry pieces, too. One item in particular, a gold
bracelet that looked like a sting of diamonds had been woven into
it, caught his attention. “These are related I assume?”

“Yeah. These pieces were also copied and
replaced. I’ve got my precious gems and metals guys on it. But we
haven’t had a lead on the jewelry pieces in years. It’s like our
guys figured precious stones were too risky.”

Eli rarely missing anything. It was
important for him to focus on the details, and he loathed feeling
like he was missing the bigger picture. His thoroughness was the
reason Vince came knocking on his door six months ago looking for
help on this case. Over the years, he’d garnered a reputation for
being the best and being meticulous. And given his past, forgers
were sort of his specialty.

Vince nodded absently. “I know that
look.”

Eli frowned. “What look?”

“The one that tells me you’re about to be
obsessive on this case and start taking it personally that we’re
not already far enough along. We’re here because of you.”

Eli gave a harsh chuckle. “You mean
nowhere?”

“Well, those art school wannabes I was
dealing with before at the bureau couldn't tell that half these
paintings were forgeries.”

“That's why you brought me in.” They'd
worked together on enough cases in the past to understand how the
other operated. Vince was a classic white hat kind of guy. Good and
evil, black and white, home team versus visitors. He never wavered.
Which is why Eli liked working with him. It made things far less
complicated.

“I wish I had more to go on. This guy's got
skills not to mention he's got the funds behind him to get what he
needs to produce these fakes. He can age his canvases and use the
right paints. Any expert authenticator could tell you that much.”
Vince's dark brows drew down over his forehead. “But you, you’re
able to tell by brush stoke technique and usually just by looking.
It’s spooky.”

Eli cracked his neck as he massaged his
nape. He'd been crammed inside this car for most of the day doing
surveillance. He also didn’t want to clue Vince in to the nature of
his forgery knowledge. He was in no kind of mood for show and tell.
“Yeah, random lucky knowledge. You see enough forgeries, and you
start to piece it together.” Never mind that he’d once thought
himself an artist. But that was a long time ago. He’d made a choice
and left that behind.

“Strange being you, isn't it? Your whole
life is about spotting fakes.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I sound
nice and cynical.”

Vince's dark brows shot up. “Aren’t
you?”

Eli chose not to answer. He checked his
watch and handed Vince the file back. If he didn’t hurry, he'd miss
his brother’s show. Samson might not mind, but Eli would. His twin
brother, in a club, with alcohol and all kinds of illicit drugs—now
that was a recipe for disaster. Not that Eli could stop Samson from
using if he chose to, but Eli felt like if he could act as a
deterrent and buffer the cravings he could help keep Sam on the
path to recovery. Plus he’d made a promise to Samson to help get
his career back on track, and there was no way he was letting his
brother down. He owed Sam too much. He’d invited several managers
and agents to the show tonight, so hopefully one of them bit.

“I’ll check you later, Vince, I have a
thing. I'll give you a call after I take another look at the
original fakes we found this weekend. Maybe I missed something.”
The fuck he did. He was meticulous about finding fakes, but it
never hurt to look with fresh eyes.

“Where you off to?”

And there it was—the bulldog thing that took
Vince from a good agent to a great agent. He had a way of sniffing
out evasion.

“I told you, I have a thing.” Eli started
the engine. “Besides, I don’t really want to be here when Ferrari
guy realizes the Degas is gone. I don’t think he made me, but you
never know.”

Vince grinned at him. “And I asked where
you’re off to? How come you never invite me along to your secret
parties? You off to meet a girl?”

Ahh, if Vince Del Monaco had an Achilles
heel it was women. He loved women. Any kind of woman. Big, thin,
beautiful, homely—it didn’t matter. As long as Eli had known Vince,
he'd always had some woman in his life. He seemed to have no
discernable type, except that they all had sizable racks.

“I play a good wingman.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “My brother has a
thing. I promised I'd be there.”

Deep lines etched on Vince’s dark brow.
“Your brother? I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Eli almost chuckled. What Vince meant was
that the file the Feds kept on him didn't show he had a brother.
And that's the way Eli liked it. No need to draw any kind of
attention to his past, or worse yet, Samson's. He’d taken many
steps to keep their past private. The least of all being changing
Samson’s name. In Eli’s line of work it would be career suicide to
have an ex-forger for a brother. “Guess it never came up.”

And he preferred it that way. After their
parents’ divorce, his father had taken Samson and his mother had
taken Eli. His mother had changed their last name to her maiden
name, Marks, and had tried to get by with seeing Samson every other
weekend. Not getting custody of the both of them had killed her,
and it had killed Samson, too. Even though Eli tried to act out the
big brother role from afar, he’d had less and less influence as
they’d grown older. By the time Samson had started getting into
trouble, they’d drifted further and further apart. Finally, the one
thing that had tied them together—art—had eventually torn them
apart. Samson had been only seventeen when the feds had picked him
up for conspiracy, forgery, and grand larceny.

Jail hadn’t suited him and he’d eventually
gone from recreational drug user to full blown addict. By the time
he’d gotten out at twenty-two, he’d been a shell of his former
self. Unable to paint, unable to create. All he cared about was his
next fix.

Eli had spent the next several years chasing
after him trying to get him clean. His mother had tried too,
spending every last dime she had putting him into rehab program
after rehab program. They’d all failed because the one thing Samson
needed to survive was his art, and back then he believed he needed
to be high to paint.

It was only after their mother’s death that
Eli had been able to get Sam clean and keep him that way. He’d
stopped being an artist himself and chosen a safer path. One that
could provide for the both of them. Surprisingly, he’d been good at
it. He could spot a fake in a glance. Probably because he’d spent
years pouring over Sam’s supposed fakes, trying to find a way to
prove his brother innocent. But Sam hadn’t been innocent.

Vince’s voice broke Eli out of his reverie.
“C’mon man, we can have a beer or two, and you can introduce me to
your brother.”

“He's not particularly sociable.” Not true,
but Eli couldn't very well tell Vince that Satan would be pulling
reindeer before he intro'd him to his brother.

“You two are a matched pair then.”

“You could say that.”
In
more ways than one
. Eli might be older by four whole
minutes, but in all other respects, he and Samson were completely
identical—down to their a-little-too-long-to-be-respectable
haircuts. Growing up, their similarities had irked Eli, and he'd
wanted to have one thing he could call his own. Then everything had
changed.

Eli opened his mouth to shoot Vince down one
more time then assessed the disappointed look on Vince's face. He
would probably live to regret his decision.
Shit
. Sam would probably have his hands busy with
groupies anyway. And he had said not to come, so he wouldn’t be
looking for Eli in the crowd.

Eli exhaled. “Okay, fine, but you gotta lose
the cheap suit jacket, and you have to promise you'll lay off the
whole finding me the love of a good woman thing. It gets old.
Follow me in your car. I need to drop off the Degas first.”

Vince grinned, and Eli could see why women
flocked to him. He had the grin of a big kid. He kept in shape. At
six two, they were the same height, though Vince probably had forty
pounds on Eli. Eli kept himself fighting trim with Krav Maga and
running workouts. Vince liked his bench-press and a bulkier
look.

Vince shrugged. “I'm just saying. There are
few things in life that can’t be solved with a woman.”

Eli ignored his partner. The last thing he
needed was to have to take care of someone else in his life.

Jessica surveyed the crowd of wannabes and
starlets as Will.I.Am and Britney Spears blared from the speakers.
Everywhere she turned, groups of girls jumped up and down quoting
the words. Jessica couldn't help an eye roll. Was that what Izzy
meant by being a grown up? Had she grown up entirely in the process
of trying to start her business? Was she old now? Somehow
uncool?

She glanced down at her fuchsia, backless
dress and black spiked heels with pink bows. Whatever, she looked
fierce. And she was only twenty-four, for the love of God. Besides,
as long as she knew who was on the radio, she was good.

The DJ kept the dance music flowing as
Jessica moved through the crowd. Given her small stature, it wasn’t
an easy feat. She only narrowly escaped drink-on-dress-itas by a
narrow margin, but she had a target in mind, and drunk, mindless,
post-pubescent wannabes weren’t going to deter her.

In the center of the room hung an opaque
sheet. She frowned as she studied it. Was this guy some kind of
aerialist? How the hell would she market that? Her mother hadn’t
told her anything about the guy. Just that she needed to go see one
of his shows, and she'd be forever changed. Granted, her mother
always said things like that. How would her mother survive when
something life changing actually did happen?

The DJ changed the tunes to what sounded
like the newest single by the hottest new pop star, but with a more
synthesized base beat, and he slowed it down just a hitch, too.
Hmmm, maybe it's show time
. Nervous energy
buzzed over Jessica’s skin. Laugh as she might, there was nothing
as exciting as meeting a new artist. It was all about the
possibilities they could bring. What they could actually create.
She wasn’t holding her breath on this one, but it didn't mean the
excitement wasn’t there. She was her father’s daughter when it came
to art. She never had the talent herself, but she loved beautiful
things. Things people created with nothing but their imaginations.
It fascinated her.

The lights dimmed and transformed. Gone were
the flashing strobe mixers. Instead, they were replaced by more
targeted spots that highlighted the center stage.

Half the women in the club crowded the tiny
viewing area directly in front of the stage, and Jessica watched
them carefully. They weren’t the usual party-goer types. Their
gazes were set, transfixed on the stage. They were well dressed,
sporting designer names, and none were anywhere near borderline
trashy. These people had money. These were the people she could
reach with this artist. She made a mental note and tucked the
observation away for later.

The volume of the music dropped, and the
emcee’s voice came out of the speakers. “Ladies and Gentlemen,
Sphinx Nightclub is proud to bring you Samson Marks.” The women in
front cheered loudly. One of them looked like she might actually
pass out. Who the hell was this guy, and what was he doing to these
women?

Then she saw. Through the opaque curtain,
she could make out a woman on a settee or chaise. Her head was
tossed back, and her breasts were pertly on display, nipples at the
ready. Was she—?

She can’t be naked? Can
she?
Jessica strained to decipher if the model was, in fact,
naked. She chuckled to herself as she realized this was probably
part of the fun of the show, then she spotted the taller shadow to
the left. A man—well-built from his shadow, but she couldn’t see
any muscle definition thanks to the sheer fabric.