MisMatch (A Humorous Contemporary Romance) (3 page)

He raised an arm, and something arced out
from his fingertips, landing directly on the model’s breasts. She
arched her body even more. Jessica could swear she heard the woman
moan, but that was impossible with the music. Unless moans had been
worked into the track.
Smart, Samson, very
smart.
She didn't know who this guy was, but she liked the
way he thought.

Jessica scanned the crowd. There wasn’t a
single person in the room not transfixed by what was happening on
the stage. In that moment, she knew, even if this guy had no
talent, he understood how to command a crowd without even saying a
word.
Nicely done.

With a few more well-placed arcs of his
hand, something sprayed from his fingers again. Jessica could only
assume it was paint. This time arcing and splattering on the
model’s stomach, then her—
Oh
. Immediately,
Jessica clamped her thighs together. What an interesting place to
get paint.

Flushing, she surreptitiously watched the
crowd. Judging by the sharp intakes of breath and the parted lips
of nearby female patrons, she wasn’t the only woman in the place to
all of a sudden be thinking about her nether region.

Again and again, Samson used the model like
a canvas. With each arc, he splashed the model with pant.
Occasionally, he'd draw in close to her and deliberately dribble
paint on a specific body part, her nipple, her forehead, a very
specific spot right below her pubic bone. Jessica’s skin flushed as
heat suffused her skin. Just watching him made parts of her ache
that she hadn’t thought of in months. This guy was good. If she
could represent him, he would make the perfect fit for her gallery.
Judging from this crowd, they'd pay anything to see him and his
artful little strokes again.

Breath shallow, Jessica pressed forward
through the crowd as people pushed her in an effort to get closer
to the stage. The collective crowd took a breath. Don Juan de
Picasso put the brushes down and worked over the model—with his
hands and his mouth. He leaned over the woman and placed his lips
over hers. Through the curtain, the crowd could see his hand stroke
her breast.

Transfixed, Jessica watched as the model’s
legs parted to let Samson between them, and he slid up over her
hips. Unable to stop herself, Jessica stopped and stared. Jaw open,
she watched as Samson appeared to rock into the painted model with
his hips, using his hands to slip up her torso over her breasts.
Holy shit.
Was he naked? Were they
actually—

Jessica shook her head.
No
. They couldn’t be—

Not to mention they'd be breaking about a
million public decency laws. It all had to be part of the show, and
she'd fallen for it. All around her, couples started pairing off,
some swaying in time to the music as they watched, others clearly
in full grind mode, leaving nothing to the imagination about what
they would be leaving the club to do later.

Through the speakers, she heard those moans
again. Louder this time, but still laced through the music. She
could almost swear she heard the model say Samson's name as well.
Then she tossed her head back again, and her body went limp. Samson
stood at that point and pulled out what looked like a sheet to
cover the model’s body. He caressed strategic areas, then tore off
the sheet. What the—?

The MC's voice through the speakers broke
the trance. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you again for joining us
to witness another Samson Marks masterpiece. We will be taking bids
on the canvas he created. Just see Gabe for details.”

Excitement coursed through Jessica's body.
Sexual and otherwise. For the last thirty minutes, she'd lost time,
been entranced, and been sexually excited as well as frustrated.
And she knew this was supposed to be a performance piece. If she
turned Samson Marks loose on the too-rich-for-their-own-good set,
she could make his career. Jessica wanted Samson Marks for her
roster and would do just about anything to get him.

“Holy shit, your brother is like some kind
of Pied Piper for snatch.”

In that moment, Eli regretted inviting
Vince. The last thing he wanted to hear was Vince’s musings on
Sam’s purported pussy prowess. What Eli cared about was Sam’s life.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

“No, for real, you to need to be milking
this whole twin thing for everything it's worth.”

If he had time for women, maybe. But for the
most part, Eli’s time was spent trying to keep Sam out of jail or
worse.
Then why did you suggest these
exhibitions?
He didn’t bother to answer his own question. He
knew why. Because Sam was ten times the artist Eli would ever be
and painting was like lifeblood to him. It had saved his brother
from the brink once before, and Eli hoped it would continue to save
him. But if it didn't, then he'd be there to catch Sam, as always.
“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have a problem with
women.”

Vince barked out a laugh and held up his
hands as he chewed on his cocktail straw. “Okay, okay, fair enough.
You’re a good lookin’ dude. And I’m comfortable enough with myself
to say that,” he added. “You have that good dresser swagger thing
going for you. I mean, your jacket costs more than my entire suit.
And that whole terse, shrewd thing is probably mysterious to the
ladies, but man, I gotta tell you, in the five years I’ve known
you, not once have you mentioned a woman. Never brought anyone to
the parties I invite you to, nothing.” Vince shrugged. “I assumed
you were gay.”

“What?” Eli frowned. “No. I like women.
Those parties are work.” And the hell he'd bring the women he dated
anywhere near his professional life or people he knew long term.
That would suggest a certain kind of permanence he wasn’t
particularly interested in.

“You know what your problem is? You need to
learn to relax a little, have some fun. I mean we’re in a room full
of beautiful women, and all you’ve done is brood over your
brother.”

“I have plenty of fun.”
Yeah right
.

Vince chuckled. “Is that why you've been
glaring at that curtain and playing with your drink? If you wanted
scotch and water, you shouldn't have asked for ice.”

Eli glanced at his glass. Vince was
right—the ice had almost melted. All that remained of the cubes
were tiny slivers. He deliberately took a long draw of air. “Just
been preoccupied.”

“With what?”

“What are you, my shrink?” Eli scowled.

Vince shrugged. “Well, how about you
consider me a friend or something? I know it’s a stretch.”

Eli nodded in the direction of the curtain.
“Baby brother used to have a pretty ugly drug habit.”

Vince's good-natured expression immediately
sobered. “Shit. I didn't know.”

Eli chuckled ruefully then shrugged. “It
nearly killed him. So these days, when I know he's around
temptation, I try and show up for a little moral support.”

Eli was impressed with how quickly Vince had
morphed into concerned friend. “How long has he been clean?”

“Five years. Mostly he's solid, but he only
started getting back into his art again this year. I’ve been
helping him out with money and stuff, but he hates it. He thinks I
don’t notice, but he's going to more meetings, and he’s edgy.”

Every time Sam disappeared for a few hours
to think or work through something with a piece, Eli couldn’t help
thinking the worst—Sam had slipped into his old habits again and
was using, or just as bad, making necessary ends meet by forging
the work of others just so he wouldn’t have to take money from his
brother. Eli didn’t want that to be his automatic headspace with
his brother, but they’d spent years fighting Sam’s demons. And
Sam’s incredibly lucky ability to always come up with the money for
bills at the last minute just awakened all the old ghosts. Venues
like this came through, but when Eli stopped to think about it, he
never could quite tie everything together.

“That's rough man, but you know he's not
your responsibility, right?”

He’d heard that before. Everyone always
tried to tell him that. They didn’t know he was the reason Sam had
spun out all those years ago. “Yeah, I know. But he's still my
brother. A little support never hurt anyone.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Eli studied his partner. Maybe Vince was a
better friend than he'd ever given him credit for. “So you’re
telling me you didn't have anything better to do tonight?”

“You mean besides obsess over this case? No.
If I went home tonight, I'd be shitty company for Carla, and I'd
eventually head into my office and stare at my wall, trying to
piece it all together. Better I'm sparing her.”

Eli nodded his understanding. He had the
same obsessive tendencies. On a case, he was like a woman with a
box of truffle chocolates; he’d shoot anyone who would try to
separate them. “I appreciate the company.”

“We gonna hug now?”

Eli rolled his eyes. “You're the one who
went all Oprah with your tell me your fee—” He stopped mid-sentence
when he spotted a woman in a hot pink dress and lavender wig.

“Eli, you okay, man? What the hell are yo—”
Vince stopped talking when he caught what had Eli’s attention.
“Holy shit, man. That one looks like trouble.”

Wide blue eyes met Eli’s from across the
crowded dance floor. In that four-second stare, his heart thudded
faster and blood roared in his ears. There was a look of
determination in her gaze that made him go rock hard. That
determination, mixed with the sexy, pseudo-bad girl package had him
wishing for somewhere more…private. Peripherally, he was aware of
Vince saying something, but he kept his eyes glued to the woman.
Leaning back, he flagged down the bartender from the other end of
the bar. When Gabe came over, he shouted to be heard over the din.
“Hey, Gabe, can you close out my tab? And tell Sam I was here, but
to call me tomorrow.”

“Sure thing, E.”

Vince's voice finally pierced Eli’s
concentration. “That’s all right, man, I wasn’t counting on hanging
out, doing buddies night or anything. Just ditch me for the hot
chick, why don’t you?”

Eli tore his gaze away from the woman to
give Vince a what-the-fuck stare, only to find his partner laughing
his ass off.

“Don’t be a moron. Go get her.”

Eli turned back to find her, but she'd
vanished into the crowd.
Well shit.

***

Jessica shifted uncomfortably under the
scrutiny of the strange man’s jade green gaze.
Tsk Tsk Jessica, you’re just horny from watching sex d'art.
Poindexter isn't even my type
. At least that’s what she told
herself. But she was powerless to tear her gaze away from his. With
dark hair to contrast the jade green eyes, and an angled jaw to
make male models jealous, he was handsome enough to draw any
woman's attention.

But he wasn’t her style at all. From the
looks of him, he was way too buttoned up. His suit, though
exquisitely tailored, was extremely conservative. Same for his
shoes—expensive but bland. He screamed,
I’m
repressed
. Except for his hair. Touching his collar and
curling at the ends, it was the only non-conservative part about
him. She preferred tattooed, too-skinny guitarist types. She was
willing to bet Poindexter didn’t have a tat anywhere.

All her misgivings aside, she couldn't tear
her gaze from his as she pushed her way toward the bar. He looked
like an accountant. No, strike that, too polished. Like a Wall
Street type, except he didn't have the air of smarm. Maybe it was
his too-direct gaze. There was nothing hidden in his eyes. Just
interest and lust. And it made the hairs on her arms stand up. God,
what was he doing staring at her? The uptight type generally
preferred too-thin models with no hips. Oh, and normal. They veered
away from alternative types.

As Jessica pushed through the crowd, his
gaze followed as if he were silently drawing her to him, willing
her to come to him. The way he insolently leaned against the bar
made him even more appealing. When he said something to the
bartender, she glanced at his companion. Also handsome, darker,
more olive-toned skin, bulkier, too.

The green-eyed devil had the build of
someone who worked out for the pure purpose of staying in shape,
not to bulk up.

Jessica dragged in a breath to calm her
racing heartbeat. She wasn't here for this. She was here for Samson
Marks. Unfortunately, so was every other woman in the room. Some
men, too. With everyone who wanted to talk to him, she’d already
been waiting forty-five minutes, and she wasn’t interested in
waiting any longer. She’d just leave her card with Gabe and try and
track him down if he didn't call by Monday. She wasn’t letting this
guy get away from her. If he could whip
her
into a sexual frenzy, he had something
special.

When she momentarily lost sight of
Poindexter, Jessica felt more like herself and less like a
throbbing, heaving-bosomed mess. What the hell was wrong with
her?

She finally made it to the end of the bar
and made eye contact with the bartender. Over by the other end, she
caught sight of her mystery man. She might be here to work, but
what would it hurt to play a little? It had been a while. Okay,
longer than a while considering the last two guys she'd dated she
hadn’t even bothered sleeping with.

“What can I get you?”

“Are you Gabe?”

He grinned. “You want to bid on the piece
sight unseen?”

She grinned back. “Nope.”

He frowned. “You here to tell me I got a kid
out there or something? 'Cause I’m not particularly interested in
hearing that.”

“That happen to you a lot?”

“You’d be surprised.”

She laughed. “Tonight’s your lucky night.
I'm not here for that either. I need to get a message to Samson
Marks.”