“That girl never quits,” I sighed.

“Who? Isabella?” my grandad asked.

“Yeah. She keeps throwing herself at me.”

My grandad leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. A sly smile spread across his mouth. “Want me to handle her?”

“Go for it,” I chuckled. “I’ll be back in an hour?”

“An hour! I’ll need at least three,” he joked.

“Deal. But you have to finish my painting for me,” I joked. My grandad was fully capable of doing the work and making Isabella’s portrait look awesome. But he hadn’t picked up a brush in a long time.

“Hah!” he chuckled. “If I have to work for it, forget it, paidí mou.”

“All right, Pappoús. You’re off the hook for now. But if she throws herself at me one more time, I’m carrying her in here and dropping her in your lap. Naked. Can you handle that?”

He blurted a laugh as I walked out of the room.

Instead of going to the guest bathroom, I went out on the balcony attached to my bedroom to enjoy the view for a few minutes. I hadn’t needed to take a leak in the first place. While I was standing outside, my phone rang.

Brandon.

I rolled my eyes. He probably wanted to bitch about my unfinished paintings.

“What’s up, man?” I answered.

“Christos!” Brandon said enthusiastically. “I was beginning to worry about you. You haven’t answered my calls for the last five days.”

“I was busy painting.”

“Excellent. Can I assume you were busy completing some of your existing paintings?”

“Totally.”

“Which ones are done?”

“Most of them,” I said evasively.

There was a pause. “Okay…ahhh, it doesn’t matter which ones. Hey, are you at the studio right now?”

“Yeah. I’m painting Isabella today. Why?”

“How’s it coming along?”

“Great.”

“Mind if I come take a look?” Brandon asked, “and bring a prospective buyer with me?”

Great. The last thing I wanted was an audience while I was working. “Who is it? Mrs. Moorhouse?” She was always trying to stick her nose into art studios all over San Diego. It made her feel special. Whatever.

“No. It’s Stanford Wentworth. He flew in from New York to see your work.”

I grunted out a sigh. Stanford Wentworth was one of the richest art patrons in the world. He owned a vast collection of world renowned artwork ranging from the Pre-Renaissance iconography of the 14th and 15th centuries, to the Impressionists like Monet and Degas in the late 19th century, to living masters like Chuck Close and Julian Schnabel. Wentworth was always on the hunt for new talent. If he bought your work, he could make your name and your career for life.

I’m not surprised Wentworth wanted to investigate my work, considering that he’d bought a number of my dad’s paintings and my grandad’s over the years.

“Couldn’t you have warned me Wentworth was coming?” I asked.

“I didn’t know,” Brandon pleaded, “the man literally called me from the airport an hour ago. He flew in on his private jet and told me he wanted to see you at work. What was I supposed to tell him? Fly back tomorrow?”

I chuckled. I couldn’t blame Brandon. If you were an artist, getting a call from Wentworth was like getting a call from the President, or maybe the Queen of England. “Fine. You can come by whenever. When do you think you’ll be here?”

“Within the hour. Wentworth is already here at the gallery. He’s getting antsy. And you know the drill. What Stanford Wentworth wants…”

“Stanford Wentworth gets,” I finished. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll be here. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Oh, Brandon, one other thing?”

“What?”

“Did you kiss his right shoe or his left when he walked in today?”

“Both,” Brandon chuckled. “I’ll see you shortly.”

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.