Mister Romance (Masters of Love #1)

by Leisa Rayven

  He pulls his phone out of his pants. “Pocket dial. Not very sophisticated, but it got the job done.”

  I shake my head and let out a bitter laugh. “I should have listened to my instincts. I knew there was something off when you claimed to be interested in me and not my sister.”

  That makes something flash behind his eyes. “For the record, Kieran was very taken with you. He had zero interest in your sister.”

  “You are Kieran.”

  “Not really. He’s a version of me, and to be honest, I preferred the way you looked at him. There was far less glaring.”

  God, I want to smack him. And the most infuriating thing is, I’m certain he knows it and is getting a kick out of it. How dare he be so smooth in the face of my fury?

  I ramp up my death-stare. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t walk out of here right now and write the most damaging story I can about you and your little harem.”

  He runs his fingers through the condensation on the outside of his beer glass. “I’ll give you three good reasons. First, despite your tendency to be prematurely judgmental, I believe you are a true journalist, and walking out just because you’re pissed and want payback isn’t your style. Two, you’re genuinely intrigued by me and want to learn my story, even if you have to fight the urge to hit me. And three, you know you’re onto a scoop here, and you’d like nothing better than to prove to your boss that your talent is being wasted on mind-numbing click bait.” He leans back in his chair. “How’d I do?”

  I hate how spot-on he is. I don’t like smug people at the best of times, but he takes it to a whole new level.

  “You do realize there’s a fine line between being confident and flat-out obnoxious, right?”

  He shrugs. “Obnoxious only applies if confidence is misplaced. Mine rarely is.”

  “Confidence in your ability to annoy me? You’re right. Not misplaced at all.”

  He gives me a slow smile. “You didn’t seem too annoyed ten minutes ago when you practically begged me for sex. I’m confident I could have taken you in that hallway if I was so inclined. Is that an obnoxious statement? Or the cold, hard truth?”

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I’m so turned around right now, I can’t find my equilibrium. I liked Kieran, a lot. And yes, I was attracted to him in profound ways and would have very much liked to have fucked him. But Kieran doesn’t exist, and now Max is sitting there with his face and body like a goddamn evil twin, and my hormones are having a hard time knowing the difference.

  I don’t think of myself as someone who’s ruled by her emotions, but tonight’s events have me hot, bothered, and confused. I have a suspicion that’s exactly what Max intended. His entire shtick revolves around getting certain reactions out of women, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be a good little sheep and play along. I’m more than happy to fight his romantic bullshit every step of the way.

  I take a few more breaths and try to let go of my tension. When I open my eyes, I find him sitting patiently, staring at me. It’s clear he’s enjoying my struggle.

  “Feeling better?” he asks.

  “Much. Thank you.” I pull out my phone and bring up the voice memo app. “I assume you’re okay with me recording this conversation for the sake of accuracy?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” I hit record. “Interview with Mister Romance. 8:57 p.m. Friday May fifth.”

  “I’d rather you call me Max. Or Mr. Riley, if you want to be formal.”

  I place the phone between us on the table and give him a pointed look. “So, Mister Romance ...” I pause. “Wait, Max Riley? As in M.R.?” I think back to the note he gave me and the emails about Mason Richards stables. “I thought M.R. stood for Mister Romance.”

  “No. My clients came up with that title. I’ve never referred to myself that way. I’d ask you not to, as well.”

  “Very well. So, Mr. Riley, how did you get into the business of screwing women for cash?” He opens his mouth to object, but I hold up my hand. “Sorry, let me rephrase – screwing with women for cash.”

  I give him a blithe smile. He gives one back. “I didn’t go into this with a business plan, if that’s what you think. It happened slowly, over time. I realized I had an ability to help women feel good about themselves, and –”

  “Decided to bleed them dry?”

  Unexpectedly, Max leans forward and turns off the recording. “Okay, we’re done here.”

  As he gestures to our waitress for what I’m assuming is the check, I start to panic.

  He’s leaving? Dammit, Eden, you had to push him. You and your stupid wounded pride.

  “Max, wait ...”

  He holds up his hand to shush me as our waitress arrives, and then pulls out a billfold and peels off four hundreds before handing them to her.

  “I’m sorry, but something’s come up and we have to go. Could you please box up our meals and take them over to the homeless shelter on West 41st Street?”

  He’s vetoing our food, too? Goddammit! I’m starving.

  “Max, come on. I’m –”

  Once again he holds up his hand as the waitress leans down and whispers, “Sir, I can’t take your money. Your meal has already been paid for by Miss Tate’s sister.”

  He pushes the cash into her hand. “Then this money is for your cab fare to the shelter and back, as well as your time and the inconvenience to your employer. Please make sure those folks get the food while it’s hot. Thanks.”

  As the girl takes the money with a bewildered expression and walks away, Max pushes back his chair and comes over to my side of the table.

  “Up, Miss Tate.”

  “Max, please sit down. We haven’t finished the interview.”

  “And we’re not going to.” He pulls back my chair and urges me to stand. “Not here anyway. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere we can relax. I know a place.”

  He puts his hand in the center of my back to steer me away from the table, but I stand my ground. “What if I don’t want to go somewhere else with you?”

  He turns to me, and even though there’s tension in his face, his voice is quiet. “Listen, Miss Tate, I’m sorry I deceived you, and I’m also sorry I then baited you. I shouldn’t have been a dick. It was petty and unnecessary, and it put you in a bad mood that you’re having trouble shaking. This was never my intention. I’d like to wipe the slate clean and start over.”

  “We can’t do that here?”

  “Neither of us is comfortable in this environment. Let me take you to a place where you can kick off those shoes, and we can just be ourselves and talk.” When I continue to hesitate, he moves closer. “Please. You need this interview, and I need to convince you I’m not the asshole you believe me to be.”

  He stares at me expectantly as I consider his proposal. It’s true I’d get down on my knees and fellate Satan if I thought he could take away the pain in my feet, and I’m not proud of how I’ve behaved tonight. I never thought I’d be guilty of letting my emotions get in the way of my professional duty, but here we are. Perhaps a change of scenery will help me put my feelings aside and treat this more like a job and less like a ruined date.

  “Does this place you’re talking about have food?”

  He puts his arm around me again, and this time I let him guide me toward the exit. “Yes. Amazing food. And unlike here, we won’t have to auction off body parts to be able to afford it.”

  * * *

  I doubted Max when he said he was taking us to a place where I could remove my shoes. After all, bare feet in a restaurant isn’t usually a thing. However, as a short Greek man leads us down a long hallway of plush carpet lined on both sides by pale, chiffon curtains, I’m indeed carrying my shoes. So is Max. I snort when I notice the tiny pattern on his black socks is a whole bunch of multi-colored jelly beans. It doesn’t gel with his suave, sexy image.

  In the middle of the hallway, our guide stops and pulls back the curtains to reveal a s
pacious area featuring a square wooden table, close to the ground, surrounded by brightly colored cushions. It reminds me of something out of a movie, and even though I can hear the faint murmur of other diners over the gentle background music, the space still feels isolated and private.

  And here I thought Verdi’s was romantic. This place makes it look like a tacky shopping mall food court.

  “Here you are, Mr. Riley,” the man says with a flourish as we enter. “I hope this is to your liking.”

  “Thank you, Georgios.” Max shakes the man’s hand, and I hear the faint crinkle of money between their palms. “I appreciate you fitting us in on such late notice. Would you please organize a serving of all the entrees as soon as possible, followed by the lamb platter? Also, a bottle of the Breakwater Merlot. Thanks.”

  After Georgios bows deeply and exits, Max takes my shoes from me and places them in the corner next to his, then gestures for me to sit on one of the cushions. “Make yourself at home.”

  I’m grateful the dress Asha chose has a floaty skirt, and I manage to sit cross-legged without flashing my underwear.

  “Comfortable?” Max asks, looking down at me as he pulls off his tie and shoves it into his jacket pocket.

  “Yes.”

  He slips off his jacket and places it on his shoes. Then he pops the top button of his shirt, followed by the second.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Did we need to be this secluded so you could perform a full striptease, or ...?”

  He gives me a slow smile. “Not at all, but it’s interesting that’s where your mind went. Would you like me to strip for you?” He unclips his cuffs and starts to roll up his sleeves.

  The truth is, just watching him reveal his delicious forearms is enough to make me feel warm in interesting places. With the amount of alcohol that’s still effervescing in my system, I may lunge at him if he reveals any more flesh.

  “I doubt I could afford your stripper services,” I say with a shrug as I pour myself some ice water from the carafe on the table. “I’m still not sure if I’m going to get a bill from you for the whole Kieran thing.”

  I sip my water and try not to stare at his arms.

  “No money is going to pass between us, Miss Tate,” he says. “But even if it did, I assure you, my rates for stripping are very reasonable. Lap dances, however –”

  I almost spit out my water, partly because I didn’t expect him to admit something like that so freely, and partly because I have a mental image of women throwing cash at him to get a good, hard look at his good, hard body. I saw parts of it at the gym. I know damn well it would be worth the money.

  When he sees my expression, he chuckles as he finishes rolling up his sleeves. “I’m kidding. I never strip for clients. And I’m sorry if removing my jacket got you excited, but I’m simply getting comfortable. Suits aren’t my usual thing, and I always feel like an imposter when I wear one.”

  “But then again, don’t you make your living out of being an imposter?” He flashes me a look, but I hold up my hands in defense. “I’m not being a bitch. That’s a legitimate question.”

  I pull out my phone and start recording again.

  Max eyes the device as he walks back to the table. “How much do you know about what I do?”

  I’m surprised when he sits adjacent to me instead of on the opposite side. Is he torturing me on purpose with his stupid pheromones?

  As much as I hate to admit it, having him this close is distracting, so I adjust my position to put a little more space between us.

  “Well,” I say. “I’ve heard you act out romance novel scenarios. Play different characters and whatnot.”

  He presses his lips together. “I guess if you break it down into basic terms, that’s accurate, but it’s not as simple as throwing on a dime-store costume and saying lines. A lot of planning and research goes into every encounter.”

  “Is that why prospective clients have to fill out a questionnaire thicker than some books?”

  He nods. “That’s a big part of it. Learning about a client’s life history and what she’s passionate about helps me predict her behavior. And sometimes figuring out what it is she’s not telling me is most important.”

  “So, they don’t just stipulate that they want you to be a sexy cowboy, or biker boy, or whatever?”

  “They can, but that doesn’t mean that’s what they’ll get. Their favorite books and movies tell me a lot about what they crave from their escapism.”

  “Uh huh. So, what did my list say about me?”

  He chuckles. “A lot. In fact, it’s what tipped me off that you weren’t who you said you were. Not a big believer in happy endings, are you, Miss Tate?”

  “No, because I’m a grownup, and I know damn well the only real happy endings are those that occur in certain massage parlors.”

  “I’m not disagreeing, but most of us like to escape the dark reality of our existence through entertainment. But not you. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many books that deal with a bleak, dystopian future on one list before. It makes me wonder what you do for fun.”

  “You don’t think I have fun?” He gives a non-committal shrug, which immediately puts me on the defensive. “Oh, I have fun, Mr. Riley. Believe me. You’d be surprised by the amount of fun I have.”

  “When was the last time you had some?”

  I start to say the other night when we were playing pool, but it will be Turtleneck Tuesday at Hooters before I admit that I enjoyed being with him.

  I ignore his question and move on. “Tell me about your fee. It’s kind of outrageous, don’t you think?”

  He takes a sip of water. “We all need money to survive. I’m not deceiving anyone about the price of my services.”

  “So you think you’re worth five-thousand dollars per date?”

  Something flashes in his eyes, and it looks a lot like shame.

  He gazes down at the table. “I’d like to tell you money isn’t important to me, but it is. I’m not going to apologize for that.”

  Max goes quiet and stays that way as Georgios and four waiters bring in a selection of platters and plates, as well as our wine.

  After everyone’s gone, Max pushes a plate overflowing with chargrilled meat and vegetables toward me. “Go ahead. I can feel how hungry you are.”

  He’s not wrong. I’m salivating so hard right now, I have to swallow several times before I open my mouth to reply. “Do you want to pause the interview while we eat?”

  He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me. I don’t think you’re going to end up publishing this article, so I’m easy either way. It usually only takes one date for a woman to fall for me. I stipulated three for you, because I’ve discovered you’re completely closed to the concept of romance enriching your life. Three gives me a little more time to crack you.” With that, he pops a chunk of bread into his mouth.

  “Wait,” I say, gobsmacked. “You think I’m going to fall in love with you?”

  He chuckles. “No.” He takes a sip of wine and smiles. “I know it.”

  I’m rendered speechless by his ridiculousness, and that just makes him smile even more.

  “If you think I’ll be easily swayed by your charms,” I say as I spoon food onto my plate, “you’re going to be disappointed.”

  He closes his hand over mine, and I take in a tight breath as he gently strokes my skin. “Are you forgetting your reaction to Kieran? If you think you’re immune to my charms, you’re fooling yourself.”

  I pull my hand away and ignore how fiercely it tingles as I place it in my lap. “So, you don’t think any woman can resist you?”

  “I’m sure plenty of women could. But you? No. You’re so starved of romance in your life, you’re like an emotional skeleton. I intend to put some meat back on your bones. Make you believe in something other than a bleak apocalypse.”

  I’m filled with a sudden and fiery determination to prove him wrong. God, how dare he? Does he think he’s the first man to push my buttons? He has
no clue how many inflated egos I’ve smacked down in my life. His will just be one more.

  “Well, I guess we’ll see soon enough,” I say.

  “I guess we will.”

  We eat in silence for a while, and even though I’m still fuming over his outrageous assumptions, I can’t deny he did well with the choice of restaurant. The food is delicious, and I manage to demolish a full plate in less than three minutes.

  When I look up, I find Max staring at me.

  “What?” I ask, my mouth half full.

  “You don’t care what people think of you, do you?”

  Embarrassed, I take stock of myself hunched over my plate like a barbarian, shoving food into my mouth as quickly as I can to stave off my hunger pangs. I sit up and daintily dab at my mouth with my napkin, but I’m pretty sure the damage to my ladylike image has already been done.

  “Sorry. I was hungry.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. It was a compliment, not a criticism.” He scoops more food onto his plate then adds some to mine. “Plus, that little moan of pleasure you make in the back of your throat every now and then is ... stimulating. Feel free to do that as often as you like.”

  The way he says it sends a flash of goosebumps over my skin, but I keep my face impassive. “If that’s an example of the cheesy lines you’ll be hitting me with on our ‘dates’, I’ll go ahead right now and say you don’t have a chance in hell of winning me over.”

  He stops what he’s doing. “Miss Tate, you’ll soon discover I don’t have any ‘lines’. Generally, I say what I think, whether I’m in character or not. I rarely lie.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I maintain my cynicism about that.”

  “Sure. I get the feeling your cynicism is your security blanket in most situations, so go for it.”

  That statement takes me by surprise, and even though it raises my hackles enough to want to find out what he means, part of me doesn’t want to know.

  I wipe my hands on my napkin and grab my wine glass. “So, tell me, how do these dates work?”

  Max swallows his food and takes a sip of wine. “Well, with a new client, after I get a handle on their personality and work up several scenarios, I choose the one I think will be most effective and arrange to ‘accidentally’ run into them somewhere.”