Mismatch - By Nana Malone Page 0,5

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.

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