MisMatch (A Humorous Contemporary Romance) (23 page)

“She's feeling shy.”

He stroked her knuckles with his thumb.
“Why?”

“Because I have a feeling you’re going to
matter.”

Dread clenched Eli’s gut. He couldn’t
continue lying to her. He had to tell her the truth.

***

Eli didn’t know why, but the moment he
walked in the door still carrying his overnight bag from Malibu, he
headed straight for the spare room and sat down at his work table.
The soapstone was smooth and cool to his touch. His tools were even
cooler but quickly warmed as he handled them. He wasn't sure how
long he sat there, but when he finally put his chisel to rest, a
woman’s body had started to emerge from the stone. Just her back so
far, but he already knew there would be etchings on her back—if he
could get the tattoos to appear properly into the stone.

Exhausted, he leaned back against his seat.
He'd eventually have to talk to Samson properly. They needed to
really talk. Not that bullshit attempt they’d already had. There
was no way Eli could explain how it felt to think his own brother
was lying again. But until they all had some answers about who was
behind the Millionaire Doubles pieces, Sam would always be a
suspect. And short of aiding and abetting, there wouldn't be too
much to be done about keeping Sam out of jail.

The lights faded from dim to dark, and the
hairs on Jessica’s arms stood up. This was it. Sex time. Er, show
time. She wondered if the effect would be the same, now that she
knew the artist. Would her blood heat the same way it had when
she'd first seen Samson perform? Would it roar in her head and make
her think of being hot and sweaty with someone dark, dangerous and
oh so wrong for her?

The deep bass began, and to her surprise, it
wasn't thrashing rock like the last show she’d seen of his. It was
something from the islands. Reggae but faster. Izzy had introduced
her to island music by always playing it around the studio, but
this wasn’t a song Jessica recognized.

This wasn’t dancehall. Nor was it the
thrumming laziness of a Bob Marley song. This was darker, deeper.
Mixed with something more primal. Before a minute was up, Jessica’s
heartbeat followed the thrumming drum chord. And her blood beat
thick and hot.

When dim lights lit up the center box,
Jessica was already holding her breath and swaying toward the
display. She licked her dry lips and tried to see through the
opaque fabric like she'd done that first night, but she couldn't.
The illusion was there that she'd be able to see just enough, but
not enough to identify him. No wonder she hadn’t had any idea that
she'd taken the artist home that night. Jesus, this part of the
exhibition art was pure magic.
And totally worked
to get the artist laid.
A fact that made her want to growl
at the over-forty, educated, MILF crowd that had flocked to the
event.

No use being pissed off at Eli though. Hell.
She was as gullible as the audience. She’d been a little seduced by
it that first night. But the man she met was so different than the
persona. Hotter. Eli was right. This mystery—that was Samson. She
had Eli. That was even better than the illusion. He was
real
.

With an abrupt halt to the music,
silhouettes stood on the stage, the clearly female form with
voluptuous breasts and curvy hips lay prone on the settee with her
back arched as if waiting for her lover to arrive and ravage her.
The masculine frame stalked around her as if accepting a gift on an
altar but deciding which delectable piece to try first. Through the
shear fabric, Jessica could see Eli cocking his head as he did
every time something confused him or didn’t work quite as
expected.

The music began again as quickly as it had
stopped. Accompanying it was the first slash of paint. Every woman
in the audience jumped about a foot as the paint arched then
appeared to hit the woman right between her legs.

They all leaned in, Jessica included as she
stood on tip-toe to get a better look. And she'd seen the bloody
show before. God, she needed help.

For the next thirty minutes, Jessica watched
with a tight fist clamped around her champagne glass as Samson
carefully arced paint over delicate feminine parts. Eventually, she
couldn't even watch. She knew how it went. She turned away and made
it to the back of the venue where most of the husbands of the
wealthy patrons had congregated.

They were no dummies, they knew better than
to get in the way. They also knew enough to purchase every single
piece of art in the joint. Her phone kept pinging with every sale.
Shit, so far tonight, she'd already made Samson one hundred thirty
thousand dollars, and that was just for eleven pieces. She'd found
the perfect artist for her gallery. Or at least to buy her enough
time to fill it with other artists so they didn’t run into the same
problem again. To keep the project up.

Then why the hell did she feel so freaking
miserable?

There was a collective moan from the
audience. Oh great, he was touching the model now, gently caressing
her breasts. Massaging in the paint to display the picture he
wanted.
This is part of his job. This is part of
his job. This is part of his job.
She kept muttering to
herself, hoping it would sink in. His job or not, she was sick with
jealousy. It was one thing to have seen the show once and been okay
with it then. It was another thing to sort of know about the show
and the things he did to women in the show to make then come to
apparent orgasm.

A woman on Jessica’s far right muttered,
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” She fanned herself, but kept her eyes glued to
the center stage as if it was her lifeblood.

Fantastic. Right about now Eli had his face
buried between the model’s legs and was simulating giving her the
best oral sex of her life. “It’s not real,” she muttered to herself
again. Nope, still didn't help.

Having to actually watch her lover, the man
she was half in love with, simulate going down on another woman was
too much to endure. She couldn't take it. There was no way she
could do this. It hurt way too much. And Eli was too talented an
artist for her to pull the jealous girlfriend card and beg him to
stop. Shit, she loved his art too much to beg him to stop.

The music died down, and the crowd hushed.
All she could hear in the venue now was the model’s supposedly
faked orgasm. Jess knew what was happening now without having to
see it. Model du jour was doing porn stars proud and putting on a
good show. Samson was stepping back and staggering a little, as if
he were drunk off of the model's essence, then seeking something to
cover up his sacrifice, he'd throw a canvas over her. The model
then vanished from the tableau.

Several minutes later, the model, Stacy,
woke as if from a dream, wrapped in this canvas. She emerged from
the tableau naked, but strategically covered in paint. She held out
the fresh canvas.

Perfection. Then why did Jessica feel so
sick?
Because I’m a moron.

She knew the truth. She could never get used
to this feeling. The jealousy.
You can’t have
him
. He was meant to be enjoyed by the masses. Guys like
that were never meant to be with someone, at least not long term.
As always, she'd chosen the unavailable guy. Pain sliced deep,
nearly doubling her over.

Jessica’s eyes stung, and she swiped away a
tear that spilled down her cheek. Her phone had been steadily
buzzing. If all Samson's work wasn’t gone, it would be by now.
She'd priced his whole collection at four hundred and fifty
thousand dollars. With the sculpture being an extra twenty. It
would be a neat haul to take home, and he'd have to get going on
more work ASAP. She could do this. Take them back to a professional
footing. Didn’t matter what he smelled like, or how he touched her,
or how vulnerable he looked when he talked about his brother. He
wasn’t hers. She couldn't keep him. Even if she did love him.

***

Eli watched his brother from a corner in the
hotel suite. Samson looked ragged and replete, but he also looked
ecstatic. Standing there covered in paint and sweat and God knew
what else, Samson looked…happy. Even if he hadn’t already known the
answer in his bones, Eli would have known it then; there was no way
Sam would have jeopardized everything for money or drugs. He wasn’t
using again. He wasn’t forging again.

Pain and regret sliced through Eli with
enough force to carve him in half. He'd spent so many years trying
to look after his brother and failing.

“Sam, I—”

Sam dragged a breath in and braced an arm
against the tarp-covered bureau. “Don’t okay? Just don’t. I don’t
have the energy to fight with you tonight.”

Eli sat forward in the chair. “I actually
came to apologize.”

Sam's brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it's generally what you do after you
fuck something up. Open your trap and let an 'I'm sorry' make its
way off your tongue. I should probably try it more often.”

As Sam began wiping the paint off with hot
towels, he muttered, “I'm listening.”

Eli scrubbed a hand in front of his face. “I
should have trusted you. I'm sorry I didn't. My whole life is this
fucked up carousel where I look at beautiful things all day but
tell myself none of them will be real, so all I see is the ugliness
underneath them instead of the beautiful things they are,
regardless if they're real or not.”

“I thought
I
was a
mess.”

“Yeah, well,” Eli muttered. He was the one
lying to the woman he’d fallen in love with. “I should have trusted
you more. I guess I always see us as sixteen, me trying to do
anything to save your life, and you trying to do anything to
destroy it. I can’t see sometimes that you don’t need me
anymore.”

“Oh, shit, we're not going to do some
emo-hugging shit, are we? 'Cause I gotta tell you, that would ruin
your nice suit. And I happen to know that we have a very eager
agent out there waiting to talk to us. Me. Whatever.”

Eli smirked. “I’ll hug you later.”

“Oh, good, then I at least will escape that
humiliation. Seeing as I only shower about once a week, you'll have
to try and find me at some point I’m not covered in paint or
dealing with some crisis of the muse.”

“Maybe I’ll risk getting a little paint on
me.”

Samson chuckled. “Apology accepted, big
brother. Besides, it's not like I’ve made it easy on you. I do sort
of have a past as a forger and a drug addict, and a liar, and a
cheat, and a thief.”

Eli winced. “Easy, Sam.”

“Hey, it's part of recovery. We speak the
truth. I have been all those things. I might lie occasionally to a
woman or two, but I'm not that same guy now. You helped me change
that. And if Jessica's bouncing is any indication, I won’t ever
have to live hand-to-mouth again, thanks to your looking out for
me. You pulled me out of the gutter, and I can’t ever say thank you
enough for that.” He sniffed deep. “Shit, now you got me all emo
and shit. Well, at least I have an excuse. I'm the artist. You’re
the buttoned-up art authenticator.”

“Is this the part where you say, ‘I love
you, man,’ sniffle, and slobber all over me, and cover my nice suit
in paint and scent of woman?”

Sam grinned. “You know full well that I
don't actually touch any of the models while we're painting.”

Eli couldn't help grinning back at his
brother. “No one said anything about before the show, right?”

Sam grinned. “I have to do something to
relax.”

Eli chuckled as he shook his head. “Oh, hey,
one question, do you remember an art patron by the name of Michael
Fenton? I met him the other night and he said he was a huge fan of
your work in San Francisco.”

Sam frowned. “No. Never heard of him.
Why?”

Eli shrugged. “No reason.”

After leaving the hotel room, Eli made a
quick call to Vince before heading to Jessica’s suite. Voicemail.
Damn it. “Hey, Vince. I got a lead on the case. Drop me a line.” He
didn’t really have a lead, but at least he could sort of point
Vince in the right direction. Someone was trying to set up his
brother. He didn’t know who, but at least they had a starting
point. It had to be someone who knew about Samson’s past. And
Michael Fenton was a good place to start.

It would have to be one of Sam’s old
acquaintances. If they worked those leads, one of them would shake
something useful loose. The way that crew had been going, there
could only be a few of them out of jail anyway. They’d start
there.

Stopping in front of Jessica’s door, Eli
drew in a deep breath. This woman had him in knots. She was
confusing as hell, a stick of dynamite in bed, and so sensitive
sometimes it made him hurt. He had to tell her the truth. He
couldn’t be jumping all over Samson if he wasn't willing to fess up
himself. And truth be told, he liked being the artist in her eyes.
It was her type. Chemistry or not, she wouldn’t have given him a
second look if she’d been with “Eli.” She’d as much as told him so.
Sure, the charade had helped Samson, but it had helped
him
more.

Come clean time. Too bad it left a bad taste
in his mouth.

When she opened the door, her smile was
beaming, but her eyes were sad.

“What’s the matter?”

She blinked rapidly. “Are you kidding me?
Nothing’s the matter. That was an amazing spectacle you put on
there. The rich MILF crowd ate it up. I had a veritable bidding war
on some of your pieces.” She splayed her hands wide. “You do
realize we sold everything right? Every piece is gone.”

“All of it?” No wonder Sam had been in a
forgiving mood. He traced a finger down her cheek. “Then why the
sad eyes?”

“Nothing. I— Look, I know you said you
didn’t want to show it, and you didn’t think it was ready, and all
the usual bullshit artists use to never sell anything. But at the
last minute I put the sculpture piece in.”