Mister Romance (Masters of Love #1)

by Leisa Rayven

  When the printer finishes, I staple my articles together and march into Derek’s office.

  He doesn’t even look up as he mutters, “Get out.”

  “Derek, I have something I want to –”

  “No.”

  “But I –”

  Now he looks up, and his expression isn’t happy. He points to the papers I’m holding “Is that your completed feature on Mister Romance?”

  “No, but –”

  “Then get the fuck out. I’m not interested.”

  I clench my jaw to stop the bitch goddess inside of me from picking up the pretty chrome chair and smacking him in the face with it. Instead, I slap the articles on his desk so forcefully, he jumps.

  “I wrote these last night,” I say. “Read them. They’re good.” He scowls before picking them up and scanning through the pages. “If you finish them and don’t think I deserve a chair on the features desk, then –”

  He throws them back across his desk to me. “They’re shit. Not only have they already been reported by at least three major news outlets, but they’ve been covered better and expressed more eloquently. What the fuck are you playing at, Tate? Where’s the Mister Romance piece?”

  “It’s proving more challenging than I thought.”

  “So, what? You’re giving up? How can you call yourself a journalist?”

  “Derek, you don’t understand.”

  He slaps his hand on the desk. “No, I fucking don’t! You begged me for this story. You guaranteed me you could get it and that it would be an exclusive scandal-bomb that would blow the underwear off my advertisers. Then you tucked a thousand bucks into your bra for fucking ‘expenses’, and what? Completely failed to deliver? Not on my watch, Tate. Your bullshit doesn’t play with me. Either you walk out of here to finish that story, or your keep walking to the unemployment line. Which will it be?”

  God, I’m so tempted to just tell him to shove his job up his miserable ass and start afresh, but I don’t have enough money to cope with being out of work, even for a week. So I swallow my pride, and my fears about Max, and accept my fate. Still, I promise myself that someday, somehow, I’m going to pay Derek back for being such an almighty asshole.

  “I’ll get the story,” I mutter and take back my articles.

  “I should fucking think so.” Derek picks up his tablet and jabs at it. “This company is in enough goddamn trouble without you screwing up our most promising scoop in years. And don’t you dare think you’re not going to give me names. I mean you’re not stupid enough to cut a deal promising him you’ll protect his clients, right?”

  Oh, shit.

  “He’s reluctant to name them, unless I can protect their identity.”

  “Then you do the same as I do when I deal with my ex-wife you – tell them whatever’s necessary to get your way then do whatever you want.”

  He’s divorced? What a shocker.

  “And if I’m not comfortable doing that?”

  “Then you don’t have a story. Or a job.”

  “Derek, what happened to journalistic integrity? The right to protect our sources?”

  He throws his tablet onto his desk and leans back in his chair. “For Christ’s sake, Tate, we live in a society where ethical journalism is going the way of the dinosaurs. These days, any asshole with an internet connection and an opinion can become a ‘journalist’. People don’t give a shit about integrity. Every major news corp. in the country is struggling, because people only want to read stuff that either doesn’t challenge their current belief system or makes them feel superior to others. Do you think we’re going to gain any readers by tiptoeing around the precious celebrities involved in this scam? Fuck, no. And even if you play Mother Teresa and keep the whole thing anonymous, some asshole at a competing agency will dig up the truth anyway, and then they’ll get the scoop. So, if you’re going to do this, it’s all or nothing. Am I making myself clear?”

  I grit my teeth and nod. “Yes. Crystal clear.”

  “Good. Then tell me something that will make me think I didn’t make a mistake in trusting you. Do you have anything new to tell me at all?”

  I’m really not in the mood for this conversation, but what choice do I have?

  “I went on a date with him last night,” I say, gripping the back of the chair in front of me. “A fake date, of course. Rock star fantasy.”

  He sits forward. “And?”

  “And ...” I swallow. “I suspect he may be drugging his clients.”

  Derek goes totally still. “Are you screwing with me right now?” When I shake my head, he says, “He rapes them?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s more about relaxing them. Making them feel ... uh ... good.” I clear my throat. “Aroused.”

  He chews the inside of his cheek. “Still a crime if he’s doing it without permission. Do you have proof?”

  “No. I’ll get the results of my blood test this evening.”

  Derek stares at me, and I can feel his excitement growing.

  “You’d better hope that test comes back positive, because this is what’s known as a bombshell, Tate. It could blow this whole thing wide open. Lover boy is not only a petty conman, but also a criminal? Nothing would make me happier.”

  Sometimes, I really hate the vampiric nature of mass media. “Can I go?”

  He nods. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. Let me know when you hear from the lab.”

  Deep breathing helps me remove myself from his office without shoving the paper I’m holding down his throat. When I get back to my desk I crumple up my articles, toss them into the trash, and slump into my chair where I rest my head in my hands.

  Well played, Monday. Well goddamn played.

  I grab my phone and text Asha.

 

  After everything that’s happened, I need to refresh and reboot, and that means finding myself a male-shaped palette cleanser to remove the taste of conman from my body and mind. By tomorrow morning, I want to have had enough sex with anyone who’s not Max Riley, I can’t walk straight.

  * * *

  The music blares from the jukebox as I dance my ass off and work what God gave me. There are several candidates here tonight auditioning for the role of ‘man I’ll be riding later’, but I’m leaning toward the Wall Street douche in the pin-striped suit who’s already asked me about the color of my underwear. Sure, he’s blonder than any man should be, and clearly plucks his eyebrows, but the main reason I like him is because if Max was on one side of the hotness see-saw, this guy would be his perfect opposite. Not too attractive. Not too bright. Not too sexy. In other words, perfectly mediocre. Exactly how I usually like my men.

  Asha says most of the guys I sleep with are like Fast and the Furious movies – they’re fun for a couple of hours, but hard to remember the next day.

  My soon-to-be inside-trader is named Brick, and it’s kind of perfect considering how thick he is.

  “You dance so good,” he says as he flails to the music like he has some sort of palsy. “You’re like ... hot. So fucking hot. Are you a real redhead? Does the carpet match the drapes?” He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I bite back a groan.

  Ugh, shut up, dude. There’s fun-dumb, and then there’s just plain dumb-dumb. He’s quickly veering into the latter.

  “It’s hard to hear you over the music,” I say, pointing at my ear. “Probably best not to talk.”

  He nods enthusiastically and moves closer, dancing in that weird way so many men think is sexy where they lead with their crotch. It must be some throwback to ancient mating rituals or something, but I doubt females ever found it appealing. It’s right up there with unsolicited dick picks as the top way to turn women off. Having known the delightful Brick for less than half an hour, I would bet money on him having a whole folder of dick pics on his phone, all photoshopped larger than life and ready for some poor, unsuspecting girl’s eyeballs. I pray it won’t be m
ine.

  We dance for a bit longer, and just when I’d given up hope that Asha’s going to join me tonight, she shows up on the edge of the dance floor looking like the cat that caught the canary. When I’d called her earlier, she was just about to go into a late meeting and didn’t think she could make it. I’m so glad she was wrong.

  She mimes the drinkies gesture and points to the bar, and I nod. I don’t really feel like talking about the whole thing with Max, but just being with her always makes me feel better.

  I lean into Brick and put a hand on his chest. “Let’s take a break. I need to talk to my sister.”

  “Cool,” he says. “Gotta spend some time hanging with my homies, anyway.” Ugh. He calls his bro-dudes homies? He’s getting less attractive by the second.

  Before I can escape, he leans in so close I can smell the delicate aroma of Budweiser on his breath. “I’ll be down the end of the bar when you need me, hot stuff.”

  I smile, but as soon as he turns away, I drop the pretense and head over to the bar.

  God, why am I being so intolerant tonight? Brick isn’t any more heinous than most of the men I’ve hooked up with, and yet my eye-rolling has gotten so severe, I can feel a headache coming on. I rub my temples as I make my way over to where Asha is waving to Joe and ordering our usual drinks.

  “What’s up?” I say, giving her a quick hug. “The meeting wrapped up quickly.”

  “Actually, I’m just on dinner break, but I needed to come here first and tell you my amazing news in person.”

  I gasp in mock surprise. “O.M.G.! You and bass boy from the Stoners are getting married, and you want me to be chief bridesmaid for your wedding? Oh, Ash! Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!”

  She rolls her eyes. “As if. He was hot, but it turns out he’s as dumb as a post. After the concert, I started talking to him about his songwriting process, because, you know, his lyrics are half the reason my panties melted in the first place. Well, it turns out he pays some other guy to write the lyrics, and then he takes credit for it.”

  “What?” Joe delivers our drinks, and I take a sip. “Why would he admit that?”

  “Because,” she says, stirring her cocktail, “he was drunk, and dumb, and more than a little high. Apparently, I should have been rubbing myself all over some guy named Caleb Sykes.”

  I cough on my drink, and Ash pats me on the back. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I take a breath. “Really? Caleb, huh? Wow.” I grab some napkins and dab at the mess on my chin.

  “Wasn’t he playing at the Rock Shop last night? I heard his name announced, but I was too busy lusting after an imposter to catch his set.”

  Seems like lusting after imposters is something we have in common at the moment.

  “For all I know,” Ash says, “he looks like one of the less attractive cousins out of Deliverance. I mean, you just know that anyone named Caleb is a total hillbilly, right?”

  I cough again and nod. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. He’s probably ... you know ... totally gross.” My whole body lights up just thinking about how not-gross Max was as Caleb.

  Dammit! For a while there, I was doing so well. I know I should level with her about Caleb’s real identity, but I honestly just want to put last night behind me, and if I tell Ash about how Max made me feel and that it was possibly chemically induced, we’re not getting off the topic any time this year.

  “So,” Ash says, swiveling around to face me. “How about you? Hook up with anyone I know?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. Just some random musician. It was pretty forgettable.” At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

  “Anyway,” Ash says, “my amazing news has nothing to do with boys and everything to do with my job. Guess which junior editor has been chosen to go with the head of publishing and the foreign rights director to the European Book Fair next week in Paris?”

  My mouth drops open in shock. “No way!”

  “Yes, way! I leave on Friday. We have a whole bunch of meetings lined up in London the week before the fair, so I’ll be gone for just over two weeks!”

  “Oh, my God, Ash! That’s amazing!”

  “I know, right?!”

  I pull her into a hug, and after she almost squeezes me to death, I hold up my glass in a toast.

  “To my baby sister. May she have a wonderful trip and find a hot Frenchman to romance the bejesus out of her.”

  “Oh, hell, yes!”

  We clink glasses, and after Ash sips her drink, she puts her hand on my leg. “Will you be okay dealing with Nannabeth by yourself for a while?”

  “Don’t worry about it. As long as Nan stays out of my love life, we’ll be fine.”

  Ash laughs. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

  For a few minutes, we chat about everything she wants to do in Paris, and I’ve almost put everything with Max out of my mind when she looks off into space and says, “So, what’s going on with the whole Mister Romance thing? When are you going on those dates with Max?”

  Again, I’m tempted to tell her about the whole rock star debacle, but I just don’t have the energy right now. I’ve finally gotten my blood pressure down to healthy levels. No need to spike it again.

  “I don’t know, Ash. Derek’s breathing down my neck about the whole thing, but I’m not sure I even want to go through with it, anymore.”

  “Well, I think Max wants you to go through with it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She points over my shoulder. “Because he’s heading straight toward you.”

  I swivel around, and sure enough I spot Max, looking very much like Caleb in jeans and a snug Clash t-shirt, striding over to me. I immediately tense up, and every step he takes winds me a little tighter. By the time he’s standing in front of me, I’m lightheaded and full of conflicting emotions.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at my sister. “Asha, nice to see you again.”

  “Uh, hi.” Asha’s expression tells me she’s contemplating the fastest way to extricate herself from this awkward threesome. “How are you, Max?”

  “I’m great, thanks.” He gives my sister the briefest nod before turning to me. “May I speak with you, Miss Tate?”

  I hate the way he can make a formal greeting feel intensely intimate.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, Mr. Riley.”

  “I do.” He turns to my sister. “Asha, would you please excuse us for a minute?”

  Taking the opportunity to bail, Asha swallows the rest of her drink and grabs her purse off the bar. “Sure. In fact, I have to get back to work. No rest for the wicked. I’ll be late, Edie, so I’ll see you in the morning.” She smiles at Max as she books it toward the exit, and I silently curse her for looking so gleeful about leaving me alone with him.

  I take a sip of my drink and try not to look at him. “What do you want, Max?”

  “We need to talk about last night.”

  “Why? So you can try to excuse it? I trusted you.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. That’s not how I usually like to operate.”

  I let out a short laugh. “Oh, really? That was just for me? I’m honored.”

  “It wasn’t intentional, I assure you. I jus–”

  “Not intentional?” I put my glass down on the bar. “How on earth do you spike someone’s drink by mistake? Are you saying it’s not a normal part of your routine? Please. It’s easy to make women fall for you with a designer love potion helping you along, right? Guaranteed success.”

  He stops dead and stares at me. “What are you talking about? You think I spiked your drink?”

  Now that I’m on a roll, it’s easy to let my anger drive me. “Of course you did. I just can’t figure out when. It had to be at the Rock Shop with that first beer you gave me.”

  He’s now looking at me like I’m speaking another language. “And what, exactly, do you think I put into that sealed bottle of beer which I opened in front of you?”

  “I’m no
t sure. Some sort of GHB or Molly. Strong stuff, too. It had me rolling for hours. If I wasn’t so goddamn angry, I’d ask you to give me the name of your dealer.”

  His stare intensifies. I try to maintain eye contact, but he’s making that difficult. “Why on earth do you think I drugged you?”

  I waver under his scrutiny. “Because I’ve had that stuff before, so I know what it feels like.” I check points off on my fingers. “Overstimulation. Heightened senses. Dizziness. Sensitive skin. I had it all.”

  “So did I. Are you saying I spiked my own drink as well?”

  That stops me in my tracks. “Uh ... you did?”

  “Yes, I did.” Now, he looks beyond furious about what I’m accusing him of.

  “So you’re saying you didn’t –?”

  “Commit a goddamn felony? Of course not!” His eyes flash with anger, and the serene, Zen-Max I’m used to is nowhere to be seen.

  “But ...” I say, feeling the need to backpedal. “When I left last night, I mentioned it and you looked guilty. And you just apologized about how you –”

  “I was talking about something else. Jesus Christ ...” He steps forward and lowers his voice. “Do you honestly think I’m the kind of man who would use a date rape drug on you, Miss Tate?”

  “Well ... to be honest, I don’t know you that well.”

  “Yes, you do.” The certainty in his tone takes me by surprise. “You know me better than you’d like. And that’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re looking for a reason to dislike me. To continue believing I have immoral methods, because whenever you’re with me, you’re terrified of how I make you feel. I could see it every time I touched you last night, and I can see it now.”

  “No ... you’re ...”

  He steps closer, so we’re almost touching. In an instant, every hair on my body stands on end, and he looks at the goosebumps on my arm before leaning down to whisper in my ear.