Mister Romance (Masters of Love #1)

by Leisa Rayven

  I grip the edge of the bar to keep my hand from acting out. “I have the impression you wouldn’t be starved for company even if I wasn’t.”

  “Maybe not, but out of all of the lottery tickets in the world, there are very few jackpots.”

  “You think I’m a jackpot?”

  “I think you’re all the jackpots.”

  Warmth runs through me, and okay, I’ll admit it. I get why he’s so popular. I doubted him being able to take a contrived situation like a rock star romancing a fan and make it convincing, but his commitment is extraordinary. He has me believing every word he’s saying, and I really don’t want to. I can only imagine how he affects women who are into all of this romantic crap. I guess I can understand that it’s nice to feel less insignificant for a while.

  “What’s it like to have all those women lusting after you?” I ask, studying his face. I’m talking about his clients, but it works in Caleb’s context as well. “Does it ever get old? Having them project their fantasies onto you.”

  He keeps his eyes on me, but there’s tension in his jaw. “We all need fantasies now and then. Sometimes believing our lives can be different is the only thing that keeps us going.”

  “And what fantasies keep you going?”

  For a second he just stares at me, and for the first time since I met Max, I see his rock-solid composure slip.

  “Discussing my fantasies right now isn’t a good idea. I’m trying hard to be a gentleman tonight, and telling you everything I’m thinking would ruin that.” He sips his beer. “How about you? Care to confess your current fantasies?”

  He expects me to come up with a coherent answer when I can barely focus on anything that’s not him? I search for something vaguely intelligent. “I fantasize about ... being a successful journalist.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He moves closer. “You’d like to be a successful journalist, sure, but that’s not what you fantasize about. Fantasies are what we desire, whether we like it or not.” He puts down his drink and places his hand over my eyes. I tense as my whole body flushes. “Now, tell me what you see.”

  I take in a sharp breath as I’m bombarded by images.

  Him, peeling off my shirt and kissing a line from my jaw to my chest. Him wrapping me in thick, painted arms, groaning in need as he tears off my underwear.

  “Tell me,” he whispers.

  Him, sweeping the bottles off the bar, so he can lie me down and mount me and have me screaming in pleasure as I come, and come, and come –

  I pull his hand away and walk to the other side of the room. This attraction is getting out of control. Apart from Justin Timberlake, I’ve never fantasized about a man in my life, sexually or otherwise. And these fantasies were so powerful, I can feel an echo of his hands on parts of me he’s never touched. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “You okay?”

  I nod and press my cold glass against my cheek. “Just feeling a little dizzy from the alcohol. I’ll be fine.”

  “Come sit on the couch ‘til it passes.”

  “No, thanks. I’m good.” The last time I sat on a couch with him, I lifted my shirt and showed him my bra. In my current state, I can only imagine what would happen.

  He walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge before coming over and replacing the alcohol in my hand with a cold bottle of water. “You may be dehydrated. Sip this until your head clears.”

  Ugh. Again with the sweetness. Doesn’t he understand that until he stops with that, my head is never going to clear?

  I take a sip of water then put some distance between us by wandering over to look at the piano. I’m still shaky, but it’s easier to cope when he’s not near me.

  “It’s a beauty.”

  “Take a seat,” he says. “She does more than just look good.”

  I put my water on the floor and wipe my hands on my jeans before grazing my fingers over the keys. “I’ve always loved the piano. I’m jealous you can play.”

  “Wow,” he says, deadpan. “I’ve never met a woman before who has pianist envy.”

  When I groan, he smiles.

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “I do envy you. I wanted to learn piano when I was a kid, but there always seemed to be more important things to do.”

  Max comes over and sits beside me on the wide stool, and his thigh presses against mine. “More important than music? There’s no such thing.”

  He plays a few jazz licks, and I realize why I’m having such a hard time with this date; well, apart from being so goddamned turned on, I can barely see straight. My issue is this: there’s nothing in Max’s manner or speech that seems even a little bit insincere. He sings and plays the guitar like a pro. Right now, he’s playing the piano like he’s done it his whole life. And I have zero doubt that if I asked him to break out some hot violin or rock-and-roll tuba, he could do that, too. Surely he hasn’t learned all of this just for his business. It seems too natural. In fact, if someone told me that Caleb is his real personality and Max is the fake one, I’d believe them. His acting is impeccable.

  Why the hell he’s wasting his time being an escort in New York instead of getting on the first flight to L.A. and landing a movie deal, I’ll never know.

  He stops playing and looks at me. “Okay, your expression is hard to read. Do you just hate jazz or ...?”

  “The jazz was great. I’m just thinking that with all your talents, you should be on a Hollywood billboard somewhere.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not going to deny that getting a record deal is my dream. Maybe it will happen one day.” Once again, I’m not sure if this is Caleb or Max talking. I make a mental note to ask him about his real-life musical aspirations in our post-date interview.

  “Will you play something for me?”

  He smiles. “I have a better idea. You play something.”

  “I doubt your ego could withstand my epic rendition of Chopsticks. It’s twelve minutes long, and I perform part of it with my nose. You’d be shamed beyond belief and never play again.”

  He chuckles. “Maybe you should play something less impressive.”

  “Sorry. Impressive isn’t a choice for me. I was born this way.”

  “That’s becoming more evident each moment I spend with you.” He stares for a few moments then clears his throat. “Still ... maybe I can help with your pianist aspirations. Stand up.”

  When I stand, he slides over to the center of the bench and pulls me to sit on his lap. When I hesitate, he whispers, “Trust me. I promise I won’t violate you. Well, not unless you ask me to.”

  Gritting my teeth against the flood of lust I feel, I perch on his thighs, and he moves his arms forward and places his fingers on the keys. “Put your hands on top of mine.”

  I do as he asks and line my fingers up with his. The spark of his skin against mine makes my heart race and my breath quicken, and a gust of warm breath skates over my neck as he leans forward.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, fine. I’m just not used to this.”

  “What? The piano?”

  “No, sitting on a man while fully clothed.”

  There’s a beat before he chuckles. “Well, I’d invite you take off your clothes if it would make you more comfortable, but that would annihilate my concentration, so ...” He moves his fingers over the keys, and my fingers follow. “What do you want to play? Old-time rock and roll?” He plays some Jerry Lee Lewis. “Or some pop.” I laugh when I recognize Britney Spears. “Or perhaps you’re more of a classical girl. Mozart?” He launches into something complicated and pretty, and I’m amazed how proficient he is.

  The Mozart morphs into some slow, contemporary chords. “So, what’s your choice?”

  “Did you write the music you performed tonight?”

  “Yes. Some of the songs were collaborations, but they’re mostly mine. Why?”

  Note to self: Also, ask him about his songwriting abilities tomorrow. “How do you even do t
hat? Create something out of nothing?”

  “It always starts from something. An emotion. An image. Something you’ve seen painted on someone’s skin.” He plays a couple of more chords then softly sings:

  “Screw you, and all the reasons you wouldn’t love me.

  Screw you, and all the ways you didn’t care.

  You’re the one who killed my heart in stages …

  every time I found that you weren’t there.”

  His lyrics send goosebumps up my spine. How can he just do that? Pull out phrases that are the exact shape of my pain?

  He keeps playing as he whispers, “Now, it’s your turn.”

  “I can’t.” I don’t have his talent for lyrics or emotional awareness.

  “Just try. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be how you feel.” He plays the chord progression again as I close my eyes and think. There are so many memories I usually suppress. It feels strange to let them come to the surface.

  I can’t even open my mouth. The only place I ever sing is in the shower, and even then, not loud enough for my neighbors to hear.

  “I don’t care what you sound like,” Max says. “Just take the plunge. It will feel good, I promise.”

  I take a breath and try to follow his melody in my mediocre, quavering voice.

  “You taught me love was like a weapon.

  You made me see-through from the start.

  Now all I have is faded pictures,

  and this hard, bomb-shelter heart.”

  Max sings the chorus again, and I join him, my voice stronger when melded with his. He finishes the song with a slow run up the notes, and when he’s done, we both don’t move. For three breaths we stay silent, and then he opens his fingers to allow mine to slide between them.

  “I don’t know about you, but I thought that left Chopsticks for dead.”

  I close my eyes as I try to shut the floodgates on my emotions. “How many women have you done this with?”

  “One. You.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not. The thing onstage? Yes, I’ve done that with others. This? Never before. Only you.”

  His words and his convictions do something strange to me. I feel ... special. And then a lump forms in my throat, and I push down an urgent and disturbing need to cry.

  I know he’s just playing a part, but it still feels good to hear that. Way too good.

  I stand, and he pushes back the stool as he follows. Before I can move away, he places his hands either side of me on the piano.

  “Wait, what’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Was it me? The song?”

  “No, I loved the song.” And that’s true. It’s like that song pierced some of the anger I’ve carried around for most of my life and softened it, but I don’t think that’s a good thing. “The song was amazing.”

  “Then, what?”

  I shake my head and try to regain my equilibrium. “I’m sorry. This isn’t like me.”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry.” He pulls me into his arms, and stupidly, I let him. “There’s no judgment here.”

  I press my cheek into his chest as he tightens his arms around me. Why does this feel so good? Why do I feel so safe with him?

  When he strokes my back, the sensation makes me moan. This is unnatural. I want to tear his shirt in half, so I can press my cheek to his bare chest. I want to bury my nose in his neck and overdose on his scent. I want to straddle him, and ravage him, and have him ravage me in return, and I want it all right the hell now.

  I dig my fingers into his back as my common sense fights my animal instincts. None of what I want to do to him is appropriate, and yet part of me thinks it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. I’m dizzy, and blurry, and...

  Oh, my God.

  Realization hits me like a lightning bolt from a clear blue sky.

  I’ve only felt like this once before, and it was anything but natural. Asha once dragged me to the after-party for an off-Broadway play, and we unknowingly downed test tubes filled with shots of Molly, otherwise known as liquid ecstasy. I’d felt like this then. Too full of sensation but desperate for more. It turned me on so much, I hooked up with a geeky guy in glasses who was on the stage crew. I nearly destroyed him. That night I was insatiable, and that’s exactly how I feel with Max. Like I could go ten rounds with him in the Sexcathalon and still be left wanting more.

  I pull back and look up at him. “Jesus, did you ...?”

  He pulls his body back, and I swear I see a flicker of fear in his eyes. “Did I what?”

  Disorientation floods me as I stare up at him. How the ever-loving fuck does he become more attractive with each passing second?

  “What was in that drink you gave me?”

  “Gin, tonic, lime. Why?”

  God, he plays innocent so well, but I know that what I’m feeling isn’t right, and whatever he spiked my drink with is powerful. Too powerful to fight. Is this his secret weapon? He was supremely confident he could make me fall for him. Could it be a little chemical helper has his back?

  Now that I think of it, this all started back in the club. He must have dropped something into the beer I had in his dressing room. Sly bastard.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  It has to be drugs. Nothing else makes sense. At least this way my hair-trigger emotions and arousal overload have a viable explanation.

  “Oh, you’re good,” I say as I put my hands on his chest and push away. I’m still dizzy from his proximity as I look around for my purse. Then I realize I didn’t bring a purse. “Just not quite good enough to fool me.”

  “Eden?” I head toward the door, but within three strides, he’s in front of me. “Hey, wait up. Where are you going? ”

  “Home.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. Do you think I’m stupid? That I wouldn’t figure it out?” I watch as his face morphs from confusion to realization, and finally lands on shame.

  “It wasn’t intentional.” I step around him, but he catches my wrist. “Eden, let me explain –”

  I look down at his hand then back up to his face. “I’m vetoing this date and you. Now, let me go.”

  With reluctance, he releases me then pulls the door open, and I give him one final glare before escaping.

  ELEVEN

  Manic Monday

  “Goddamn asshole!”

  I slap at the printer as I try to wrench my crumpled document from its stupid, electronic clutches. “Let ... the fuck ... go! Bastard!”

  Large hands close around my shoulders. “The poor, innocent printer was beaten so viciously by its human master, it never recovered, and it never forgave. And thus, the war with the machines began.”

  I slump in frustration. “Tobes ...”

  “It’s fine, Eden. Just step away from the equipment, okay? You’re in no state to handle this.” He gently moves me back then bends down to get a better look at the paper jam. “So, is this regular Monday-morning rage? Or is there something else going on?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine.”

  “Sure. That’s why you look like you slept here and have yelled at nearly everything that’s crossed your path, including your phone, the vending machine, and now the printer.”

  “I have not yelled!”

  When he turns to me and raises his eyebrows, I let out a breath and say much more quietly, “Okay. Maybe I yelled a little.”

  “Do I need to go grab some therapy brownies? Or does this have something to do with your story?”

  He gives a final tug, and the mangled remnants of my document pull free. He looks them over. “Wait, this isn’t what you’ve been working on. It’s the story on the street artist you were telling me about. The one who penises potholes.”

  I take it from him and ball it up before tossing it into the recycling bin. “Yeah. I thought I might be able to prove my worth to Derek with something other than the Mister Romance story.”
>
  “And you want to do that because ...?”

  I shrug and reload fresh paper into the machine. “He’s ... well, he’s an impossible man to deal with.”

  “Uh huh. Impossible in what way?”

  “All the ways.” I don’t tell him that I suspect he drugged me last night, or about my trip this morning to my friend who works in a lab, so he could test my blood. Saying it out loud would make it all too real, and don’t want it to be. I think some part of me was rooting for Max to change my mind about him, but this morning I’ve all but given up hope. I’ve rolled the events of last night around in my memory time and again, wondering if it’s possible my extreme reaction was all in my head, but I don’t think it was. Feeling that much for someone I hardly know can’t possibly be natural. I don’t think Max is a rapist or even sexually assaulting anyone, because God knows, he’s got more physical boundaries than a child care worker. But even if he’s just slipping his ladies something to relax them and make them feel good, it’s still wrong. And illegal.

  All of a sudden, the loyalty his clients display is understandable. They’re all drinking the Kool-Aid. Literally.

  I shove the paper tray back into the machine as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to see the fourth text Max has sent me this morning.

 

  “Nope,” I say and shove the phone back into my pocket.

  “Wow,” Toby says. “Who’s on your shit list?”

  “No one. Don’t worry about it.”

  “If you say so.” He leans over my laptop and prints the document again. “But if I were that guy and valued my balls, I’d steer clear of you for a while.”

  He walks back to his cubicle as I slump into my chair and watch the printer spit out my pages. He wasn’t wrong about me looking like I slept here. I hadn’t felt like facing Ash last night, so I came here and worked off my excess energy by writing.

  Fueled by my experience with Max, I pumped out six-hundred words on the Brooklyn parking fine con, and a thousand words on the pothole penises. I figured if I could use them to convince Derek of my value as a journalist and drop Max and his whole romance routine, I’d never have to see him again. Depending on the results of the blood test, I also have to decide whether to go to the police. All of his messages this morning tell me he knows he’s busted, but I don’t want to confront him until I have all the facts. Besides, I’m feeling too raw right now to even see him.