MisMatch (A Humorous Contemporary Romance) (8 page)

Vince sat down in his chair and made himself
at home. “Then I'm guessing now would be a bad time for me to tell
you we've got another forgery for the Millionaire Doubles
case.”

Eli frowned. “The what?”

“That’s what the bosses are calling it.”
Vince shrugged. “I just call it the sneaky bastard case.”

“This can’t be the sneakiest shit you've
ever seen.”

“And you'd be right about that. I’ve been
chasing this one con man around for two years. Slippery bastard.
Identity crimes con who amassed a huge fortune by conning rich
women out of their life savings. Oh yeah and check fraud. I mean,
who writes checks anymore, right?”

“What's the case?”

“This one came in from the Marshalls.”

Now this was getting interesting. “One of
them has a hidden Picasso on his wall?”

Vince ignored him. “They have some rich
bastard in Wit Sec who rolled over on some powerful friends. At any
rate, he made the classic mistake of calling home to an old
girlfriend, and they had to move him again. This guy has a taste
for the finer things in life; they found a Picasso exactly like the
one we have for the Millionaire Doubles.”

“The Femma a La Toilette?”

“Yep, that's the one.”

“If it is the same piece, then we need to
start adjusting our point of view here. We’ve been making
assumptions that we're dealing with a ring of forgers, since the
pieces were so different. It takes years of practice and talent to
be able to learn the techniques to pull this kind of thing off. And
even then, to pull off a genuine classic would require time and the
same steady hand. If the two forgeries are the exact same, it’s
unlikely two different people could have painted them. I want to
see the piece in person.”

“I already have a team bringing it
over.”

Eli stared back at his evidence wall and
shoved up the sleeves of his knit sweater. “We’ve been working from
the angle that there is one mastermind and several forgers;
operating on the assumption that given the breadth of work, he'd
need a few people with a few different skills. What if he only
needs one?”

“You think one person painted all these?”
Vince's brow furrowed. “That would need someone with mad skills
right?”

“Right.”

“How many people have the kind of skill to
do that kind of thing?”

A cold chill slithered over Eli's skin. “Of
legitimate artists living now in the world? To pull them off so
effortlessly, I'd say you're looking at a handful. And two of the
ones I can name. One is in jail and the other had a stroke. He
couldn’t be our guy. We need to start working some black market art
dealers and see who they flush out.” One of the handful included
Sam.

“All right. I'm sending the painting to you.
Please don't break it. And in the meantime, I’ll go rattle some
cages. We have that black market dealer from a case in Miami. Let
me go see what he has to say.”

As Vince walked out, Eli's cell phone buzzed
in his pocket. He answered without even looking at the caller ID.
“Yeah, Sam.”

“That's it? I’m waiting to hear on my career
as an artist, and all you have to say is, ‘Yeah, Sam?’”

“Sorry.” Eli swallowed a knot of guilt.

“Well, how'd it go?”

How the hell was he supposed to put this
exactly? “You remember the other day when you were all over me
about some chick?”

“Dude, can we talk about your love life
after we talk about my career? This is supposed to be all about
me.”

“Yeah, well, the incidents are related.”

Sam went silent for a heartbeat. “What do
you mean related?”

“I mean, I went as you to the restaurant to
meet the manager, J. Stanton, and ran into the woman from Friday.
She was the artist manager.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’re telling me.”

“You told me there wasn’t a woman,” Sam
said, clearly irritated.

“Yeah, I lied.”

“Nice. So how the hell do we get around
it?”

Eli rubbed the back of his neck, trying to
force the words out. Of all the conversations he didn’t want to
have with his brother, this was at the top of his list. “Not up for
discussion, Sam. She took one look at me and you can guess what
happened. She seems to think there’s a conflict of interest or
something.”

“Shit, were you bad? I mean you’re my twin.
It’s genetically impossible for you to be bad in bed, right?”

Sometimes he wanted to kill his brother.
“Don’t be a dumb ass. She’s not into sleeping with her clients, so
she’s unwilling to work with me—you—whatever.”

“Fuck, Eli.”

“Yeah, I know. I tried talking her into it,
but she wasn't hearing it. I'm sorry, man.”

“Eli, there has to be a way to fix it. Do
you know what her family has done for artists like Weller and Mike
Gant? Those guys are famous on the international level. I mean she
isn’t part of the Stanton Foundation, but she’s a Stanton. Her name
alone is worth its weight in Picassos.”

As if he didn’t already feel like shit.
“Look, Sam, I’ll try calling her again. I'll just tell her about
our switch, she'll understand.”

“No, don’t. If she’s already that pissed
off, then she'll really refuse to work with me. I'll go talk to
her.”

A flare of possession burst in Eli’s chest,
so hot he figured he'd see smoke wafting off him in a second. “Sam,
leave it alone. We'll find you something else.”

“You were right. I never should have asked
you to go. I should have gone myself. But I’ll fix it now.”

“Sam,” he said in a firm tone. But his
brother had already hung up

Jessica attempted to drown her sorrows with
Hershey Kisses. One by one she plucked them from the bowl,
unwrapped, sucked on the tip, and then unceremoniously popped each
one into her mouth. Rinse, repeat. Talk about disaster. If nothing
else, these last two days proved she should not be allowed to be in
charge of her life. Full stop. Do not pass go, do not collect two
hundred dollars.

“Is the pity party over yet, or do you have
room for one more?”

“Did you accidentally sleep with a potential
client?” Jess tossed Izzy a Kiss.

“No. But I did put the kibosh on Phillip
Trainer’s attempt to have me photograph dog feces as art. Boy did
he have a tantrum.” Izzy wrinkled her nose as she plopped herself
onto the guest couch in Jessica’s office.

Jessica took an exaggerated whiff. “I knew I
smelled bullshit in the air.”

“Make that dog shit, and you’d be right.
God, you warned me about him, but I thought I’d be able to harness
his creative energy. He’s brilliant, and I was excited to
photograph an artist at work, but he’s completely off his rocker. I
thought he might actually start throwing shit at me.” Izzy smoothed
imaginary wrinkles out of her linen pants. “I’m too cute to be
covered in shit. Even I have to draw the line at working with the
totally cray-cray.”

Jessica grinned as she and Izzy immediately
broke into giggles. It felt good to laugh. It was a damn sight
better than bitching herself out for her stupidity.

“Philip might be having a tantrum now, but
he’ll call in a week and beg you not to abandon him. Then you’ll
have three solid days of him behaving for your photos, and we’ll do
this all over again. This is all part of his process.”

Izzy sighed. “God save me from the creative
types. Especially if it means getting shit thrown at my head.”

Jessica giggled. “It’s not like it’s the
first time, is it?”

“No. But Kara is my daughter. Diaper
flinging, while disgusting, is still somewhat cute given her
chipmunk cheeks and miniature stature.”

“Don’t tell Philip that, or he’ll gain three
hundred pounds to see if he can get away with it.”

Jessica’s phone rang as they both popped
Kisses into their mouths. She ignored it. The ringing seemed to get
more and more shrill as they both contemplated their clients or
lack thereof.

“So there’s no hope of getting Samson
Marks?”

Problem was she’d already had him. “Yeah
it’s a no-go. And I’m the total fuck up.”

“Cut yourself some slack. He’s still new to
the scene. If you haven’t seen one of his exhibitions, you wouldn’t
have known him from a hot guy in the club.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. But I did see the
exhibition at the club. He does it behind an opaque sheet. Dammit.
It took me forty-five minutes to get through the crowd to try and
see him. How was I supposed to know he had a penchant for wearing
thousand dollar suits? A habit, by the way, which is way expensive.
He must have a rich sugar mama or something. Or come from money.
The guy has no digital footprint either, so I can’t Twitter or
Facebook stalk him to find out.” Her phone continued to ring.

Izzy frowned. “Are you going to answer
that?”

“Nope. It might be Samson. I’m just going to
let it ring. Eventually, whoever it is will get the message that
I’ll talk to them when I’m damn well good and ready.”

Izzy pursed her lips. “If you say so, but
you know it’s better to deal with problems before they go
nuclear.”

Jessica shook her head stubbornly. “Nope. I
prefer to run and hide.”

Elaine, their new receptionist popped her
head into Jessica’s office. “Jess, thank God you’re here. I’ve been
calling you for the last twenty minutes. There’s a Samson Marks
here to see you. He refuses to go away until you speak with him. I
tried telling him you’re not to be disturbed, but he’s really
stubborn.” The young redhead put her hand to her throat, flushed a
little and added, “He’s really intimidating, too.”

Jessica gnashed her teeth. “That stubborn
idiot. Tell him I’ve left for the day. Tell him I’ve got Ebola.
Tell him anything, just don’t let him come back here.”

Izzy grinned. “Elaine. Please let Mr. Marks
come on back. I’m dying to meet him.”

Jess turned on her
former
best friend. “You’re a traitor.”

Izzy shrugged her slight shoulders. “I’m
interested in seeing the guy who’s got you twisted up. Sue me. As
long as we’ve known each other, it’s never happened. I want to meet
this chupacabra.”

The sound of a bass voice came from the
hallway. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but chupacabra has
never been one of them.”

When Samson appeared behind Elaine in the
doorway, Jessica gave serious consideration to hiding under her
desk. Izzy, curse her, went into full schmooze mode, standing up
and giving her best sugar and spice smile. Jessica scowled at her.
Would it be considered murder or self-defense if she shot Izzy?
After all, if Izzy was nice to him, he might not go away and that
would certainly be detrimental to Jessica’s health.

He skirted around Elaine, who managed to
look equal parts miffed and dazzled. “You must be Izzy Connors. I
am such a fan of your husband. That game he played against Nadal at
the Australian Open was legendary. And you are more beautiful than
your pictures.” Then he picked up Izzy’s left hand and kissed
it.

Izzy had the gall to grin at him and bat her
lashes. “You know, Jessica didn’t say a thing about you being
charming. And considering who I’m married to, that’s a feat.”

“I’m just now becoming acquainted with your
work. I heard you were doing a charity exhibit of your Homelands
pieces. If Jessica, erm Miss Stanton would have let me change her
mind, I would have loved the opportunity to work with you as
well.”

Izzy laughed and patted Jessica on the
shoulder. “Oh, he’s good.” Izzy shifted so she stood behind Samson
and mouthed, “Wow.” Then she flicked her hands together until her
fingers made a snapping sound, signaling that she thought he was
hot.

Jessica was going to be ill. If only she
could rewind the clock. “Mr. Marks, I thought I made myself clear
at lunch. I cannot be your manager.” She gave Elaine and Izzy
pointed looks, which she hoped they read as, “Go on. Get out of
here.”

Only Elaine paid attention. Izzy had the
nerve to sit back down like she was enjoying the show.

Samson smiled at Jessica, that same crooked
smile that—she studied him again. It was the same smile, but his
eyes were
different
. The intensity behind
them was gone. He was more relaxed. And that wasn’t all that was
different. As she looked closer, she could sense the differences in
him rather than see them. He still had a yin and yang tattoo on his
forearm. His voice sounded the same. But he was somehow lighter,
more buoyant.

He offered her a hand. She considered
refusing it, but that would be childish—and Izzy was watching.
Jessica didn’t need to be embarrassed in front of her friend. She
took his hand, bracing for the electrical charge of intimacy that
had almost brought her to her knees more than once. But—nothing.
Nada. Like all the crackling chemistry between them had evaporated.
Oh, he was still hot. Just not her own personal Magnetic North. And
his conservative gear was gone, too. Today he looked more the
artist. Dark jeans and a casual hunter green sweater became him and
brought out his eyes, but she wondered how she’d ever thought him
so intense.

“I understand what you said yesterday. But I
was hoping to talk you out of your decision. If you agree to take
me on, I promise to work my ass off and stay on my best behavior. I
need what you have to offer. I won’t let anything that happened in
the past get in the way of our working relationship.”

Jessica shook her head, unable to trust what
she was hearing. Even worse, she couldn’t trust what she was
feeling. She needed an artist, but the cost wouldn’t be worth it.
Would it? A few days ago, this guy made her panties wet just by
looking at her sideways. But now he only gave her a lukewarm vibe.
She couldn’t have worked with him yesterday, but he’d seriously
dialed down the sexed-up vibe. Yet that wasn’t entirely true. He
still had a sexed-up aura to him, but today it didn’t do anything
for
her
.