by Nana Malone
“I understand, and you won’t be sorry. Why don’t you come by tomorrow to see some pieces?”
***
After Jessica and Samson dispensed with the contract and he left, Izzy didn’t waste any time. “Girl, you weren’t kidding when you said he was good-looking.”
“I'm telling you, I couldn't have made him up if I tried.” Jessica followed Izzy back into her studio.
“And holy charming. I thought Jason ‘On’ was a sight, but that guy takes the cake. Makes me fantasize about all kinds of things.”
Jessica smacked Izzy on the arm. “You already have your too-good-looking-for-words bad boy. Let me ogle mine.”
Izzy shrugged. “Just saying. I'm married, not dead.”
Jessica frowned. “There was just something a little off about him.”
“Really?” Izzy raised an eyebrow and put a hand on her hip. “You discover that after you sleep with him?”
“No, not like that. Remember, I have excellent crazy-dar. If they are crazy, then I immediately want to have their babies.”
Izzy laughed then got back to work. “So what's the problem?”
Jessica reached for the fleeting thread of what was bothering her, but apparently it had been slathered in bacon grease, and she couldn't grasp it. “Ah, I wish I knew. It's like he was too slick and charming. On Friday, he was super controlled. It's kind of why I even gave him a shot. I wanted to mess him up. He seemed so still.” Until he danced. “Today, he was just so loose and slippery. Less intense somehow. Does that even make any sense?”
“Yeah, actually it does. It's kind of like Jason in the early days. There was this kind of persona he put on for the public world, but in private he was very different. It used to give me whiplash. But obviously, he had a good reason for it. Too many people get close, then you start to feel exposed.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“You okay with managing him?” she asked as she went back to unpacking her latest piece from her last show.
“He's good. Like really good. And he works the crowd like a rock star. All without anybody even seeing that pretty boy puss of his. Maybe that's part of the appeal. To separate himself from the artist. Cause you should have seen all the crazy women there trying to get a piece of him.”
“All that without seeing him?”
“Yeah.”
“Then looks like you have the makings of a star on your hands.”
“Let's hope so. I need to see the actual work he produces first. It would be ideal if it was actually good and not just shocking and provocative. I can market the performer, but I can sell the artist. May—” The front office bells chimed again interrupting her. “He probably forgot something.”
She told herself that she didn't stop in the hallway to recheck her lipstick before going out to see him again. It was all about the little lies she allowed herself.
“What did you forget? You already have my last name this ti—” She halted at the sight of her stepfather standing in the foyer. “Karl, what are you doing here?” Running up in her bare feet, she hugged him. “God, it's good to see you. It’s been like three months. Every time I come by to check on you, Mom says you're traveling or out of town.”
He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “Hey, Jesse. How's my favorite graduate student turned artist manager?”
“She’s great. She actually just landed a new client that should blow up the art scene. Now how come you didn't call to tell me you were coming? I could have taken you to lunch.”
“Actually, Jesse, I can’t stay. I’m here to drop off a check for the benefit. I won’t be in town for it.” Jessica’s father had run an artist’s endowment and upon his death, she’d taken it over. Along with her mother, she was throwing a benefit party for the endowment. If things went well with Samson, she hoped the board would make him a featured artist. The full effect of the Stanton name behind him would catapult him into the rich and famous category.
“What? No. The Stanton Endowment for the Arts annual benefit isn’t for another two months.” Of all her stepfathers, Karl had always been her favorite. The one most like what her dad had been in private moments. And the one who wanted nothing from her mother other than her love. “Surely you can change your plans. Who do I have to call and yell at?”
“I'm sorry, sweetheart. I actually leave in a couple of days.” He proffered the check.
“Thank you, but you know you could have just had Mom bring it. And you're always too generous.”
This time, she saw a tiny frown before he could mask it. “Jesse, when was the last time you actually spoke to your mother?”
She had to think about that one. With her mother, she preferred to text. It was easier that way. When they spoke, there was almost always some kind of squabble revolving around Jessica's love life, appearance, lack of good prospects, et cetera. “A couple of weeks ago, I guess. Why?”
He rolled his eyes. “Then I guess she didn't tell you. Your mother and I are separated. She left two months ago.”
Ice settled into Jessica's bones. “She what?”
Karl shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I'm sorry, Jesse, I thought she told you.”
“Karl, this is ridiculous. You can’t be serious.” But with the flatness of his lips, his slightly pinched brows, she knew he wasn’t kidding.
“I wish I was.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of this. I swear. You know how she is.”
“I don’t think there's much you can do about it.”
She smiled. “A wise man once said it would be wise not to cross me when I have a plan in motion.”
After saying a hasty goodbye to Karl, she grabbed her jacket and car keys, even as she called her mother.
Chapter 8
Jessica didn’t bother knocking when she got to her mother's house. As she opened the door to the Tudor-style home, the smell of lemon cleaner greeted her.
The maid was so startled she barely had time to compose herself. “M-m-miss Stanton. I—let me get your mother.”
Jessica barreled past. “Don’t worry about it, Angie. I’ll find her.”
She finally found her mother in the study in close confidence with a man Jessica didn’t recognize. Her mother stood so close to the man with the dark, salt and pepper hair that they looked like they might start making out at any moment. Gross.
“You know, Mom, I got the most interesting visit today.”
Her mother sprang up out of her seat, sending her not quite blonde, not quite gray locks flying around her shoulders. “J-Jessica! Darling, you should have called. I’m right in the middle of something.”
“Right, sorry to interrupt, but apparently you have something to tell me.”
“Jessica, maybe we could talk later. As you see, I have a guest.”
Jessica plastered a fake smile onto her lips and sidestepped her mother. “Ah, yes, your guest.” Striding toward the older man, she assessed him as he stood to greet her. Nearly six feet tall, trim body. Old man worked out. He was also impeccably dressed, in a designer sweater vest and slacks.
“Hello, I'm Jessica, the daughter. You’ll have to forgive my intrusion. You see, I assumed she was still married to my stepfather and that this was my home, but apparently that's not true, so I unwittingly interrupted your little rendezvous.”
He didn’t respond to her jibe and instead stuck out his hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Jessica. Your mother has said so much about you.”
Jessica eyed his offered hand but didn’t take it. “That’s interesting. I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you. You can imagine my surprise.”
He didn’t miss a step. “I can imagine it must all be a shock to you, your mother and I. But don’t be angry with her. I wanted some more private time before we went public with our relationship.”
Jessica stuttered over the word. “Re-relationship. Right.”
Her mother chimed in. “Sweetheart, this is Michael Fenton, my new—friend.” Her
mother beamed. “He’s an art financier.”
Jessica glared at her mother. “Mr. Fenton, could you please give Mom and me a minute?”
For a moment, Jessica wondered if he'd continue to stand there gawking at both of them, but he eventually made himself scarce.
“You know, Jessica, that was really very rude.”
“You mean like you not telling me about Karl? How could you not tell me that you’d left him?”
A blush spread from her mother’s neck to her cheeks. “When I met Michael, things moved so quickly. And well, I got caught up in the fun and escapism. But Karl, while he was always there for me, he’s just not that exciting.”
Jessica had always thought of her mother as a pretty bird. Always looking for the bright and shiny. Michael was just the shiny new toy. That’s how her mother found most of her husbands, by seeing something more exciting, then shedding the previous husband. “Mom, he loves you.”
“And he’s lovely. But I want to feel alive. With him, I was starting to feel like an old lady.”
“Jesus, Mom. You are an old lady.”
“I want to travel more.”
“You’ve been everywhere in Europe. Twice.”
“Well I want to travel on the path less traveled. Karl likes to stick to the tourist areas. You wouldn’t understand. I need some excitement in my life.”
Jessica understood only too well; her mother wasn’t looking to be tied down. A sentiment Jessica knew well. The difference was her mother didn’t care about who she hurt in the process. “Mom, you need to be careful with Michael. We don’t know who he is. I don’t want you hurt.”
“Jessica, is it so hard to believe that someone would be interested in my for more than money?”
“No of course not, it’s just—”
“Because he knows you control the trust and the estate. He doesn’t care about that. He wants me.”
He didn't care about the trust or the estate, which, at last measure, was valued at nearly a hundred and fifty million? Yeah right. “I’m sure he does. But it’s my job to protect you.”
Her mother crossed her arms over her chest. “I am not a child, Jessica.”
Then why did she feel the irrational need to ground her mother?
She spent another ten minutes trying to get her mother to agree to see Karl and maybe work it out, but her mother wasn’t having it. And the extra time did nothing to soothe Jessica’s anger. She was going to get rid of Michael Fenton. Her mother might be fooled by him, but she wasn’t. He wasn’t the first guy to come looking for a sugar mama, and he wouldn’t be the last. This reason alone was probably why her father had put her in charge of the estate. Her mother was soft. Sweet, but naïve and malleable.
As Jessica placed the call to her private investigator, she impatiently tapped her nail against the gearshift in her car. When he answered, her instructions were straight to the point. “I need a rush job. Can you find me everything you can on a Michael Fenton? The dirtier the better. He’s late fifties to mid-sixties, claiming to be an art financier. I need the full work up.”
***
“You’ll be happy to know that the situation with the manager is resolved.”
Eli looked up from his makeshift work table in his living room to glare at his brother. “I really have to change my locks.”
Sam shrugged. “Don’t give me a key if you don’t want me to let myself in.”
Eli rolled his eyes and went back to the photos of the counterfeit paintings. There was no discernable link tying any of them together, and he'd hit a dead end. “So did you find someone else you want me to vet out for you?”
“No. Jessica Stanton is perfect.”
The growl bubbled up in Eli's throat before he could pull it back. “You went to see her?”
Sam put his hands up and backed up a step. “Whoa, easy, bro.”
Furious, Eli slammed down his magnifying glass. “What the fuck were you thinking, Sam?”
“I was thinking that for once I have a legitimate manager in my grasp who doesn’t know anything about my past and who can actually help me. That's what I was thinking.”
The cold, icy bucket of guilt was enough to douse the angry fire in Eli’s veins to mere simmer. “Okay. How did she take it?” Now that Jessica knew he wasn't Sam, maybe he could give her a call. She'd made it clear that she wanted things to be simple and uncomplicated. But now that she knew he wasn’t her client then maybe—
“What are you talking about? How did she take what?”
Eli narrowed his gaze. “You didn't tell her that I'm the one she met at the club? I thought you said you explained everything.”
Sam wrinkled his nose. “No, not exactly what I said. I said I'd fixed it and convinced her to take me on. I didn’t mention you or us collectively. I thought it was better.”
“How is that better?” Eli threw up his hands.
“Look. She wasn’t particularly happy to see me, and she was already thinking about not taking me on as a client, so I figured it was better to not tell her.” Sam paused, studying his brother a moment as Eli tensed. “Eli, I need this.”
“Fuck, Sam.” Eli hung his head. “How do you think she's going to react when she finds out?”
“Look. It’s only for a couple of weeks until this opening she was telling me about. Once she sees my work, and that I’m sellable, I’ll tell her. We'll tell her.” He amended quickly. “I’ll have had a chance to prove my work is good. She'll see that I’m more than just a flash in the pan performance artist, and I’m someone to take seriously.”
Eli ground his teeth. The idea of Jessica and Sam working together in close quarters didn’t exactly fill him with the warm and fuzzies. “No, Sam.”
Sam mimicked him. “Yes, Eli. Come on, she's perfect and you know it. You vetted her yourself. You've been talking about me getting my second chance for two years. I finally have that chance. I can’t do anything to fuck it up. And that includes telling her we switched places. It'll piss her off, and I think we both know what she looks like pissed off. I fuck up, and I lose my chance for God knows how long. She's got a big name in the industry and can trash me anywhere.”
Shit. This was the last thing either of them needed. Certainly the last thing that Eli needed, but Sam had a point. If Jessica found out before Sam could prove his bankability, she'd drop him. “Fine, but I want you to keep your fucking hands off of her.” As much as he loved his brother, Sam was like an alley cat when it came to women.
Sam winced. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Eli sighed and nodded as he picked up his magnifying glass again. Trying to diffuse the tension, he asked, “Did you need me for anything else?”
Sam studied him for a long moment before shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it on a dining room chair. “I can’t just come over and see my brother?” His stomach grumbled as if in an attempt to belie his sincerity.
Eli raised an eyebrow. Sam never just popped by. He always came over to use Eli’s laundry or raid his fridge. It was one of the reasons Eli didn’t keep any booze in the house. “You make enough money to stock the studio with food, so why don’t you? Not to mention, I even hired someone to do the grocery shopping for you since I know you forget when you’re painting.”
Sam shrugged. “I have food. Just none of it is cooked.”
Eli rolled his eyes. “You know where everything is. There’s fettuccini, broccoli and chicken in the fridge. I made it last night. Try not to make a mess.”
Sam didn't wait to be told twice. “God, you know how to make an artist sing, don’t you?” As he grabbed a plate and got to work, he nodded at the dining room table. “What are you working on anyway?”
“Just this case.” Eli rubbed his jaw as he stared at each painting.
“Yeah, I gathered that. What's that case?”
Eli hesitated. Given Sam’s past this wasn’t the kind of thing he really wanted to discuss with him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh c’mon. Maybe you need a
different perspective.”
Eli debated what to tell him. “This case of forgeries across the country. These millionaires will acquire priceless artwork and have it authenticated and insured, only to come back from an extended vacation and realize it's a forgery. Sometimes they don’t figure it out for months, if ever.”
Sam tapped his fork on the black granite countertop as he waited for the microwave. “What kind of art?”
“That's the thing, no rhyme or reason. We’ve got some classics with a Picasso or two. We’ve got some modern pieces. We've also got some pop art pieces. Hell, we even have some sculpture and jewelry.”
“How are they switching the pieces?”
Eli narrowed his eyes. “Don’t know.”
“How many forgers are you dealing with?”
He crossed arms wondering where Sam was going with his questioning. “Why all the questions, Sam?”
Sam shrugged. “I’m trying to help. You see me work all the time. I never get to see what you do.”
Eli answered cautiously. “Again, don’t know, but given the skill level, I’d say one. From what we’ve seen of the paintings, these guys are good. They’re aging the canvases expertly; the technique is near perfect; there’s nothing out of place. To the untrained eye, there would be no way to know. I mean they faked a Picasso twice.”
The microwave beeped, and Sam dragged out a heaping plate of steaming fettuccini. Around a hot mouthful, he asked, “What’s the signature?”
Eli frowned. “I just told you there isn’t one.”
“Check again. I know I couldn’t help myself. I had to sign my work. Mark it somehow.”
Eli worked his jaw. Any revisit of Sam’s past made him edgy. As if by talking about it, Sam could end up back there at the lowest point in his life.
“Sam.” Eli shouldn't be talking to his brother about this.
