A Total Mismatch

by Madelaine Grant

  “I won’t argue with you. How about my bet? If you’re so sure of yourself, there’s nothing to lose.”

  “Oh, all right. You’ll end up paying my way.”

  “Let’s shake on it then,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She laughed. “It’s a good thing you made a modest bet. I should up the ante to two movie tickets at least.”

  “Two tickets it is then.”

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time Sam returned home from her yoga class at the Y, it was close to nine at night. She hadn’t bothered to eat dinner. The Greek lunch was a large one. Of course, the message light was blinking red when she entered the house, and her cats were meowing in unison.

  “Okay, okay,” she muttered, dropping her gym bag just inside the door and hurrying to the refrigerator to unearth the can of cat food. “Here, guys, you must be starving.”

  She was hungry, too. A dish of ice cream came to mind. An image of Jordan flashed through her head at the same time. She’d end up as fat as a house if she ever got involved with him. That thought didn’t stop her from raiding the freezer and preparing a sumptuous sundae. She sat at the kitchen table with those gorgeous roses in front of her and daydreamed what a relationship with him would be like. He was definitely a man who loved food, which was a plus. He was also an exercise nut, which was not an asset. Why was she bothering with those speculations?

  Thoroughly annoyed, Sam finished the ice cream and glanced at her answering machine. She should check to see who’d called. There was always a chance Beth might leave a conciliatory message. Then again, if she’d seen that Gazette article, it would probably be a nasty one.

  There were four messages. Three of them were from her mother, who threatened to drive down to talk to her if she didn’t hear back that evening. The fourth was a strange message from someone named Max Beltzer, who wanted to talk to her about a possible job. He didn’t specify what the job was or how he’d gotten her phone number. Annoyed, Sam deleted it, and with an inward groan, punched in her mom’s number.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Karen is hosting a bridal shower for Andrea on Sunday and I expect you to be there. You’re not working at the gallery on Sundays, so you have no excuse.”

  “A bridal shower? I don’t believe it. Don’t tell me Andrea wants more stuff. After two bridal showers, there isn’t anything she needs. What are people supposed to bring?” Sam couldn’t help the sarcasm in her tone.

  “That isn’t the point,” her mother retorted. “It’s customary to have a shower for the bride, and I am determined that this wedding will be done the right way. Karen sent out invitations, but she’s already phoned most of the people who’ll be there. She expects at least forty women. Of course, it will be catered. Aunt Jean and Aunt Evelyn are coming in from Boston, and several of your cousins from Philadelphia will be there. I do hope you have a decent outfit to wear.”

  Sam let out a huff of annoyance. “Don’t worry about it. I have appropriate clothes.”

  “Good. I’ll see you there at noon. Just don’t bring something from your gallery. Andrea and Ben have more conservative tastes.”

  With a supreme effort, Sam didn’t bother to answer. There was no point in trying to convince her mother of anything. She’d given up years ago.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jordan spent the afternoon and evening at his desk, trying to concentrate on the pile of work-related issues. His mind kept wandering to his lunch with Sam. He couldn’t fathom her resistance to seeing him again. What could have turned her off? She’d mentioned one marriage was enough. Evidently, she’d been burned by the experience. Had the guy been abusive or something? He brooded over that possibility for over an hour until, disgusted at his lack of focus, he banished the subject from his thoughts.

  He’d taken a copy of the Gazette back to the office. As he munched on a roast beef sandwich with a side of fries for dinner, he reread the story. Would anyone recognize him from the photo the paper printed? It would have to be someone who’d been at the same table and seen him dance with Sam. Then again, most people didn’t read The East Village Gazette, a thought that brought him some relief. While he pondered the matter, the phone rang. Scott Madden’s name came up. For a second, Jordan deliberated about answering. He finally picked up the phone.

  “Didn’t expect to hear from you this evening,” he muttered.

  “I thought you might want to reconsider my offer to represent you, gratis of course. Don’s wife, Julie, had lunch today at the Blue Monkey with her sister. Guess what the main subject of conversation was?” He let out a raucous laugh.

  Damn. Jordan swore under his breath. It didn’t take much imagination to speculate about the topic. Keeping his tone neutral, he said, “Probably the story in the Gazette.”

  “Yup. How did you manage to get into a brawl like that? She’s one hot dame, I’ll admit, but not worth a public fight. Of course, everyone with us that night knows the whole story, and I’m sure your ex-girlfriend does too. If I were you, I’d cut my losses and take an extended holiday somewhere, like the Caribbean or maybe South America. By the time you return, the whole thing will have blown over.” He started laughing again.

  The sound grated on Jordan’s nerves. Before too long, his sisters would know about the story in the paper. There was nothing he could do except put on an indifferent façade. “I’m sure people have more important things to think about. Thanks for your offer, though. It’s much appreciated.”

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you to get out of town.” Scott gave another loud guffaw before hanging up.

  Jordan sat there for several long moments while his mind tried to grapple with Scott’s analysis of the Gazette story. The thought of going away for a relaxing vacation on some deserted island with Sam whirled around in his brain for several tantalizing minutes. Shaking his head in disgust, he pulled himself away from that tempting scene and back to the legal brief he was reading. There was no point in worrying about anything until it actually happened.

  ~ ~ ~

  The phone rang Thursday morning just as Sam was ready to head out the door. For a moment, she was tempted to let it ring. Then again, it might be Peter calling. Sometimes he asked her to make a stop on her way down to the gallery for office supplies or something.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Samantha Peabody?” a male voice asked.

  It definitely wasn’t Peter. “Who’s calling?” She should’ve let it ring. The man’s voice sounded vaguely familiar. Could it be that strange call on her answering machine?

  “This is Max Beltzer. I left a message on your phone yesterday. I’d like to discuss a possible spot for you on a television ad I’m producing. What’s your schedule like today? Are you doing your dance routine anywhere locally? I’d love to see you perform, and we can talk about my proposal.”

  Her dance routine? A television ad? What in the world was going on? “I’m not interested,” she replied. “By the way, who gave you my phone number?”

  “It’s a lucrative offer,” he countered. “Can we meet at the Blue Monkey where you perform? Actually, we could shoot the ad right there. I’m sure the owners wouldn’t mind. The publicity will bring in more customers.”

  Sam was ready to hang up on the guy. “Listen, I am not the least bit interested in your offer. And please don’t phone again.” She slammed down the receiver and walked out the door. The nerve of the guy! He’d probably seen her name in the Gazette and bribed one of the waiters or the bartender at the Blue Monkey to give him her number.

  Riding the bus downtown to the gallery, she wondered how many people read the Gazette. Following that idea, how many would connect her name with that of the Finch/Peabody Gallery? She fervently hoped the story would die a quick death before any more strange calls came her way.

  Chapter 10

&
nbsp; “Do you know a guy named Max Beltzer?” Peter asked when Sam entered the gallery Thursday morning.

  She inhaled sharply while a strange foreboding came over her. “Did he call? I told him I wasn’t interested in his proposal. I thought that would be the end of it.” With a grimace, she walked over to her desk and sat down. She’d hoped no one would connect her name in the Gazette with the gallery.

  “He seemed pleasant enough. What does he want? I thought he might be a possible customer, someone you met and talked to about the gallery.” Peter perched on the end of her desk with an expectant expression.

  Sam folded her arms over her chest. “I had a message from him last night, and then this morning he phoned just as I was leaving the house. He says he produces television ads and wanted to see one of my belly dance routines for a possible job. I told him I wasn’t interested and hung up. Frankly, I was hoping no one would associate my belly dancing with the gallery.” She shook her head in disgust.

  “I’m afraid your name is unusual enough for people to remember. Don’t worry. They say even bad publicity is better than none. Remember when that art critic in the Gazette slammed one of our artists? We had more people in the gallery that month than usual. They all wanted to see the paintings the critic panned. If you recall, we sold most of his work.”

  “I don’t know why that happened,” she replied. “But in this case, I’m not promoting my belly dancing. I do it more for fun than anything else. Beth and I have always enjoyed working together. I don’t think we’ll ever be close again. She’s not happy about what happened at the restaurant and blames me for refusing to go home with Brice that night.” Sam rested her chin in her hands, elbows on the desk, a pensive expression on her face.

  “Hmmm. Maybe it will blow over.”

  “I doubt it. Beth wants me to give her the name of the man who flipped Brice onto the floor. I can’t do that. She claims Brice was injured and Sean wants to sue the guy.”

  “Uh oh. They’re really upset then.” He was silent a few moments. “Would a cash settlement to the restaurant smooth things over? If so, maybe you should listen to this Beltzer guy’s proposal. If it’s a lucrative offer, you could give the money to Beth and Sean to compensate for the bad publicity. What do you think?”

  Sam’s head shot up. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging me to do this.”

  He shrugged. “What’s the problem? As I said before, there’s nothing wrong with publicity. I’ll even offer the gallery as a setting for the ad. You never know what’ll bring customers in.”

  Peter was an astute business man. If he thought she should consider this proposal, then maybe it was a good idea. “Let’s see if he calls again. If he does, I’ll talk to him and listen to what he has to say.”

  It was close to noon when the gallery door opened and a short, stocky man with dark hair and mustache strode in. He glanced around, and after catching sight of Sam he walked toward her. “Samantha Peabody?”

  Instinctively, she knew who he was. “Yes. Can I help you with anything?”

  He sent her a broad smile. “You sure can. I’m the guy who phoned you earlier today. Max Beltzer.” He stuck out his hand.

  For a split second, she hesitated. Then she extended her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Well, that’s a bit more encouraging than our last conversation.” He gave her a once over, head tilted to the side. “I can see why those two guys were fighting over you, and I haven’t even seen you perform.”

  Sam couldn’t help blushing. This was all new to her. She wasn’t used to receiving compliments from the male sex. She remembered the hairdresser’s prophecy, and Peter’s strange comments about wedding bells. But it didn’t feel real. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Can we sit down and talk somewhere?” He looked around the gallery.

  “Let’s see if my partner can cover for me.” She went in search of Peter, who was working in his office.

  “Sam, why don’t I sit in on the meeting with Beltzer? I’ve had experience with these things, and I’d like to make sure everything’s handled in a legal and professional way.”

  “Thanks, Peter.” Sam was relieved he wanted to be involved.

  After an hour of back-and-forth discussion, Peter was convinced Max Beltzer’s proposal was satisfactory, and more importantly, a lucrative one.

  “You haven’t mentioned much about the business sponsoring the ad, except that it’s a fairly new brewery located nearby,” Sam remarked. “Why are they interested in having a belly dancer promoting their product?”

  “Well, for starters, Hassan and Omar Berdoga are two Moroccan brothers who’ve recently opened a production plant in the East Village to produce craft beers. They frequent the Blue Monkey and saw your performance Saturday night. When the Gazette story broke yesterday, they phoned me with the idea of having you do your routine in one of their TV ads. If this one works out, I’m sure there might be others. Who knows? You could become the symbol of the East Village Brewery.” Max sat back in his chair with a pleased expression.

  “Sam, I’ll bet you’ve never thought of yourself in that context,” Peter said.

  “You’re damn right,” she retorted, but she couldn’t help smiling. The whole scenario was bizarre, but something about it appealed to her sense of humor. “And I don’t even like beer. I much prefer wine.”

  “Don’t tell that to Omar or Hassan,” Max cautioned.

  “By the way, the belly dance costume I wear is at the restaurant. Fortunately, I wore the black wig home so I can retrieve that.”

  Max waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. I can obtain any type of garment or prop you need. As far as where to film the scene, I’ll have one of my associates scout the area. You said the Blue Monkey was off limits?”

  “The owners, former friends of mine, are not pleased about the brawl at their restaurant. I’m sure they were furious when they read the story in the Gazette,” Sam confided.

  “Silly people. Any publicity is worth it, negative or positive. I’m surprised they don’t know that,” Max asserted.

  Peter looked smug as he turned to Sam. “See, what did I tell you?”

  Later in the day, Max and his film crew shot the scenes they wanted inside the art gallery. They brought special lights and a backdrop with a blow-up photo of the East Village. Sam had several belly dance costumes to choose from, plus castanets and a few black wigs as well. A makeup artist was on hand to give her face the final touches.

  Before the cameras started rolling, Sam experienced her usual anxieties. Would she remember all the steps? A fluttering in her stomach made her question whether this was such a good idea. However, when the music began, she forgot everything but the pleasure of moving to those seductive strains.

  Small tables were set up in the front room of the gallery to suggest a night club atmosphere. Peter persuaded some of his artist friends to sit at the tables drinking East Village Amber Ale, the craft beer promoted in the TV ad. Sam stopped at each table to do her routine and several men joined her in the dance, the way Jordan did at the Blue Monkey. Once she became accustomed to the lights and cameras, she found it an exciting experience. When it was over, Peter sent out for pizza and drinks for everyone.

  It was only afterward that Sam had second thoughts. Would anyone recognize her? She didn’t think so, but the possibility of that happening was sobering.

  “Peter, did Max say when the ad would be shown? He mentioned a local TV station, but I wasn’t paying much attention. I don’t want anyone in my family to get wind of this. They’re such a conservative bunch, you know.” She could just imagine what her staid banker father would say about her scanty costume and provocative hip movements on TV. Her mother would be upset too.

  Peter shot her a penetrating look. “Are you afraid of what they’ll think of you? I thought you we
re beyond that sort of thing by now.”

  “It’s not that,” she murmured, “but with this big wedding coming up in a few weeks, I don’t need any more hassling from them. I can’t wait ’til it’s all over and done with. There’s a bridal shower on Sunday, plus all sorts of events the weekend of the wedding. I’m supposed to attend everything, of course.” She blew out a frustrated breath.

  “Who’s escorting you to the wedding? If you’re stuck, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  “Would you? That’s so sweet. I haven’t thought that far ahead, but thanks for the offer.” She’d been planning to ask him but hadn’t gotten around to it.

  “No problem. I have a tux in the closet for just such occasions.”

  She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You are the nicest man I know.” And she meant it.

  ~ ~ ~

  Late on Thursday afternoon Jordan’s secretary, Amelia, poked her head into his office. “Your sister Diane phoned while you were on that conference call. She wants you to call her back before six, as she’s going out for the evening.”

  Preoccupied with writing notes, Jordan nodded. He preferred making personal calls from home, but he hadn’t heard from Diane in weeks. Did she know about the Blue Monkey incident? If she’d talked to Lori, she probably knew all the nitty-gritty details. With a grimace, he punched in her number and sat back in his comfortable black leather chair.

  “What’s up?” he asked when she picked up the phone.

  “Haven’t heard from you in ages. Since I have to be in town for Andrea’s bridal shower on Sunday, I thought we could meet that evening for dinner. Lori, Amy, and I are going to the shower together because we all chipped in for a gift. The shower begins at noon and will probably last until three or so. Vance, Greg, and Carl are watching sports on TV all afternoon. Why don’t you pick up Lara and meet us at Lori’s apartment for drinks around four? We have lots to catch up on.”