Devon Hartford - Painless

I ended the call. The thing that amused me about Brandon was that he was never predictable. Never entirely an asshole, but never your best friend. It worked well for a business relationship. The long standing, vaguely personal relationship between his family and mine never got complicated. It was always business first.

I went to the office to warn my grandad that Wentworth was coming.

“No shit,” my grandad said. “I haven’t seen Stan in years.”

“Yes, shit,” I quipped. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to say hello.”

I went back to the studio.

Isabella stood in front of one of the French doors, bathed in soft light. She truly was ridiculously beautiful, even in her short butt length robe. Her hand rubbed her neck as she did neck rolls. Maybe she actually had a stiff neck. “Christos,” she murmured, “you massage now?”

“No time, Isabella. We’re going to have some special visitors.”

“Who?”

“Brandon is bringing a famous art buyer to the studio in an hour. Guy’s name is Stanford Wentworth. He’s going to want to see me working.”

“I work better after massage.”

Poor thing. Weren’t there any eligible men where Isabella lived in Los Angeles? Maybe I’d have to turn her loose on Lucas or Logan Summer. I owed them a solid after they’d help me move Samantha into the house. That gave me an idea. “Isabella, you know I have a girlfriend, right?”

Isabella pouted, but nodded acknowledgment.

I walked up to her and pulled my phone out. “Check this out.” She watched expectantly as I thumbed through my photo gallery until I landed on a picture of Lucas and Logan smiling like idiots. “See these two guys?”

Isabella’s face lit up in a smile. “Oooh, handsome. Are they friends of you?”

“These guys are brothers. Lucas and Logan Summer. Both of them are single. I’ll make you a deal. You do what I tell you while that guy Wentworth is here, and I’ll set you up with Lucas or Logan. Take your pick. Or pick both,” I snorted a laugh, “it’s up to you.”

She frowned, but was still smiling at me. “For true?”

“Yeah. For true. Deal?” I held out my hand for her to shake.

She slid her tiny hand into mine and shook. “I meet your cute friends?”

“Totally.”

“Ok.”

“Awesome. I gotta get stuff ready before Wentworth gets here. Hang tight. And do more neck rotations and shoulder shrugs. It’ll help.”

When Stanford Wentworth arrived with Brandon, my grandad answered the door. I could hear them chatting in the foyer from the studio where I was painting Isabella. It sounded like Wentworth had brought someone with him. I didn’t recognize the voice.

I wanted to look busy working when Stanford walked into the studio, so I left them to their small talk and concentrated on painting Isabella.

You couldn’t miss Wentworth’s voice. He sounded like he belonged behind a podium with a teleprompter and an audience of five thousand adoring constituents.

“Spiridon Manos,” Wentworth said. “Always a pleasure. It’s been years, if I’m not mistaken?”

“It has,” my grandad said.

“Mr. Wentworth just flew in this morning,” Brandon said.

“Oh, then you must be tired from traveling,” my grandad said. “Would you like something to drink, Stanford?”

“Since my assistant Fredrick will be doing all the driving today, I think I’ll indulge. What have you got with some tooth?” There was a tinge of amusement in Wentworth’s voice.

“Let’s stroll over to the bar and see,” my grandad said.

I heard some shuffling around and clinking of glasses in the living room. I knew that Stanford Wentworth was in his seventies. The story went that he’d made his fortune investing in computers before it was the obvious thing to do, and he’d gone into cable television big in the 1980s. For the last 25 years, he’d devoted all of his time and money to the world of art, where he’d enjoyed further financial success.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen any of these paintings before,” Wentworth said. He was referring to all of my grandad’s landscapes hanging in the living room. None of them had ever been displayed in any gallery shows.

“No,” my grandfather answered. “This is my private work.”

“It all looks fabulous. Have you considered selling them?” Wentworth asked. “The Private Collection of Spiridon Manos?”

There was a long silence while I pretended to work in the studio. Isabella was posed naked in front of me, but I was too worried about what Wentworth might do or say to get any real painting done.

“I’m too old for the art business,” my grandad sighed. “It’s a young man’s game.”

“Balderdash,” Wentworth said. “I’m older than you, Spiridon, and I’m still in it.”

“But we’re on opposite sides of the game board, Stanford.”

“Touché. I’ll make it easy for you. I’ll give you seven million for everything in the room.”

I think I could hear Brandon gulping all the way from where I sat at my easel.

“Thank you, Stanford,” my grandad said, “but no. The memories in these paintings are worth ten times that. Many of them were painted when I was a young man, or when my son was but a child, or when I had my grandson sitting on my knee. I couldn’t part with them.”

“If you change your mind, give my office a call. But I promise, my offer will have changed, and not to your advantage, I assure you.”

Nice. I hadn’t yet met the guy, and already I didn’t like him.

“Enough of that,” Wentworth grumbled. “Now, shall we see the young artist at work?”

“If he’s not too busy,” my grandad said a bit defensively.

“I’ll go check,” Brandon said. He rushed into the studio a moment later, a pained expression on his face. “You ready for the dog and pony show?” he whispered.

“Do I have a choice?” I mumbled.

“No,” Brandon said sharply.

Fan fucking tastic.

Stanford Wentworth ambled into the room, flanked by his assistant Frederick, Brandon, and my grandad.

Wentworth was a large, tall man with a thick head of tightly maintained aerodynamic silver hair. He wore an expensive suit and imposing tie.

Frederick was similarly slickly suited. Wire rimmed glasses were attached to his face and a cellphone earpiece was attached to his ear. He raised his hand to his earpiece and pressed a button. “Frederick Whitlock speaking?” After a pause, he said, “He’s busy at the moment.” Pause. “I’ll check. Mr. Wentworth, it’s Couteux Galerie in Beverly Hills. They want to know if you’re coming by this afternoon?”

“Tell them I’ll come by if I come by,” Wentworth barked.

Nice. Wentworth sure had a winning personality.

Frederick relayed the message over his earpiece way more politely than Wentworth had said it. I had no doubt Frederick more than earned whatever Wentworth paid him.

I pretended to paint as they walked toward my easel, mixing paint on my palette. Isabella briefly glanced at them, but maintained her pose. I had explained to her earlier in detail that we should continue working while everyone walked in and watched.

I noticed Wentworth blatantly eyeballing Isabella’s nakedness. He positioned himself to get the best possible view of her exposed breasts. His overt desire was as subtle as a volcano. He slid his hands into his pockets and arched his back, thrusting out his pelvis. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he started jingling his change like he had a jackhammer running in his pants. Total douche. I liked him better and better. Not.

I would’ve thrown the guy out except for the fact he could ruin my art career with the snap of his fingers. The one downside to selling paintings for ten grand or fifty grand or more was that you were always dealing with rich shitheads.