Desperate Enemies 3 by Adam Carpenter (latest ebook reader .txt) 📕

S.F., here to buy something new for their summer home in Monterey, Carmel, up in Sonoma, etc, so forth and beyond. All seemed eager to buy something. Even his neighbors on Eldon Court were impressed with his previously hidden talent, with Dane and Sawyer—both artists in their own right, in film and fashion—complimented him on his use of color, of expression, and Jack and Edgar, his direct neighbors and good friends, appeared ready to take out their checkbook. Paolo stuck close to Marc, which he appreciated, but Marc had to wonder: what was going on with Paolo's lover, Aaron, who was spending most of the night hovering in the corner, drinking too much wine and acting very anti-social. Paolo waved it off, saying he'd explain later, let Aaron have his mood.

“It Rich doesn't get here soon, I'm going to have my own mood,” Marc said.

The door to the crowded Healy Gallery opened, and Marc, eager, anxious, turned, only to be disappointed when he saw the new arrivals. That pig Danvers Converse, with his constant aide Russell Allen.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Jack asked, sidling up next to Marc and Paolo.

“Beats me.”

“Lauren probably had no choice but to invite him,” Edgar offered. “We may be opposed to what he's trying to do to us, but she's a businesswoman in Wonderland and so she has to play nice.”

Indeed, both Lauren and LeeAnn, her companion and their friend, rushed up to Danvers, welcoming him, shaking his hand, plying him with wine. Russell just stood behind him, dutiful, silent. Converse waved off their attempts at sucking up to him, claiming he wasn't here to party. “In fact, I have come for business purposes only, and I believe it is one that will make our talented artist very happy—and wealthy.”

Danvers Converse's bold comment quieted the bustling room, and even Mrs. Whomever who had already placed her eyes on two of Marc's paintings drew a shocked breath.

“I'm not sure what that means, Mr. Converse,” Marc said, stepping forward, “but with all due respect, I would appreciate it if you just left. This is a private function. We are trying to enjoy ourselves and your presence here is not helping. Perhaps we could discuss your interest in my work at a later date, a meeting perhaps next week?”

Converse looked amused. “Mr. Anderson, I realize you are an artist and as such, are, uh, sensitive,” Converse said pointedly, “so I suggest you leave the business side of things to Ms. Healy; you too are a guest in her gallery. Shall we just keep things civilized?”

“No, we cannot.”

A fresh voice added itself to the growing mix. Aaron Walters, noticeably agitated, had joined the fray by squaring himself directly in front of Danvers Converse. He towered over the little bald man, but it was clear to all that Converse still wielded the power. In fact, Aaron, his face sweaty, looked a bit uncertain, or maybe drunk. Paolo tried to usher his lover away, saying, “Come on Aaron, now isn't the time. I know, this bastard just fired you from the Bayside Hotel, and now he thinks he can just party with us like nothing happened. . . but you know as well as I do, people like Danvers Converse get what's coming to them.”

“Well said, Mr. Bautista,” Converse said, “so, I will make my exit. But not before I come for what I wanted.”

Russell spoke up. “Ms. Healy, would you kindly inform your other potential buyers that there is no further need of their presence—or their checkbooks? Mr. Converse is the only buyer you will need.”

Marc sent a confused look Lauren's way. “What's he talking about?”

“Mr. Converse, we agreed. . . you could have what goes unsold.”

“I've changed my mind. I want them all.”

“Excuse me?” Marc asked. “You want to buy all my artwork?”

“Indeed,” Converse said, and this is when his sick grin widened to one of pure evil. He was clearly enjoying himself immensely. “Yes, I plan to hang your fine paintings all over the Wonderland Palaces.”

It was like he had slapped the faces of every resident of Eldon Court with his words, all of them reeling at the horrible irony. Their homes would be taken from them and converted into a luxury resort and a piece of them—Marc's paintings—would hang on their renovated walls like some beautifully crafted, cruel twist of fate. Marc was at a loss, and at that very moment he had never needed Rich more, and where was the bastard?

“I'm here, I'm here, what the hell is going on here?”

“Yeah, I thought this was supposed to be a party. Looks like a wake.”

The tittering, nervous crowd turned to watch as Rich North entered the gallery, nearly out of breath, and right behind him, surprisingly, was Parker St. John. Marc felt a lump lodge in his throat as he wondered just where these two had been, what they had been doing, and damn if his heart didn't already know, even if right now he didn't want to picture them sweating, heaving, thrusting, crying out as orgasms hit them. . .

“Rich, Converse says he's buying all my work, and. . .”

“It'll never happen,” Rich said, moving directly in front of the offending party. He poked a finger into Converse's face. “Since the moment you threatened to take our homes, you've been nothing but a fucking thorn in our sides. Using whatever tactics you could think of to scare us off Eldon Court, trying to bribe us, blackmail us. Well, I'm here to tell you, it's all over. The Wonderland Palaces will never happen. . .”

“Yeah, and I'm going to make sure.”

It was a tipsy Aaron who thrust himself into the confrontation, and he wasn't alone. He had somehow produced a silver-plated gun from his pocket, and he was waving it around with abandon. People screamed, the room parting with fear, the desire to protect themselves. As they scrambled away, only three people stood in the center of the room, Rich, Aaron, Danvers.

“Aaron, put the gun