SEVEN

Maximum Max

There have been few times in my life I’ve been angrier than I am now.

The artist formerly known as Kieran sits across from me, looking the same as he did five minutes ago, but sounding and acting completely different. I can’t believe he duped me so completely.

Pig.

“So,” I say. “I guess my asshole detection ability is still running at a hundred-percent accuracy, then. Good to know.”

He sips his beer and smiles. “Why so angry, Miss Tate? Because I lied to you? Or because you enjoyed it so much?”

“For the record, I don’t enjoy being lied to. No woman does.”

“No, but you enjoyed Kieran. A lot. In fact, if I didn’t have strict rules about physical interactions on dates, I have no doubt you would have enjoyed him all night long. Am I right?”

He knows damn well he’s right. Even though we haven’t eaten yet, Kieran was most definitely on my menu for dessert. Now, facing the serene asshole opposite me, I have no idea what I was thinking.

“I’m glad you’re amused by this,” I say. “Perhaps I was wrong. It’s not money that motivates you after all. It’s your pathological need to manipulate people and laugh at their reactions.” I white-knuckle my glass. “So, Kieran was just a ploy to make me feel like an idiot?”

“Not at all. He was a way of getting to know you without your guard being up. I needed to be convinced I could trust you.”

“So, you betrayed my trust to prove I was trustworthy. Wow. Your reasoning is astounding. How long had you planned ‘running into me’ at the gym?”

“Technically, you ran into me. But to answer your question, I’d been tailing you since I received your questionnaire.”

“Tailing? You mean stalking.”

“You tell me, Miss Tate. You were the one perched outside my P.O. Box with the telephoto lens. Is it only acceptable when you’re the predator and not the prey?”

God, I need another drink. I down what’s left in my glass and glare at Max. He looks as cool as a cucumber. Of course he does. He’s not the one who just made a complete fool of himself.

“So, big Irish Pat the pool player,” I say. “Not your best friend, I take it.”

“He’s a friend, and an actor. I have a stable of people I use from time to time.”

“What about the phone calls you made to me during dinner? Did you have a person for that as well?”

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 spacious 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.”

“Are they all like what you did with me at the gym?”

He gives me a half-smile. “I knew you wouldn’t respond to traditional romance tropes, so with Kieran I took a more ... realistic approach. Most of my dates involve a fantasy element. Larger-than-life characters.”

I grab a bowl of rice and spoon some onto my plate before offering it to Max. “So, like, costumes?”

He takes the bowl and helps himself. “Yes, as well as more extreme situations than they’d usually find themselves in.”

“Will you do that for my dates?”

He puts the bowl on the other side of the table and shrugs. “Perhaps. I haven’t planned your dates yet. Why? Are you eager to get started?”

“Not really,” I say, determined to not let on that I’m intrigued about what he’d choose for me. “Just trying to understand what to expect. I should probably warn you that if you come at me with some crazy, unrealistic scenario, I’ll probably laugh my ass off.”

He gives me a knowing look. “Miss Tate, the only time you’ll laugh while I’m romancing you is if I tell a joke.”

I lean toward him. “You really don’t know who you’re messing with, Mr. Riley. I’m not that easy to pleaser.”

He passes me some bread. “That sounds a lot like a challenge.”

“Take it however you like.”

He distributes more food between us, and I find myself watching as he eats. The way the muscles in his jaw move is fascinating.

“So,” I say, to distract myself from staring. “How far do things go on these dates?”

He wipes his mouth with his napkin and picks up his wine glass. “Talking, light touching, nothing too explicit. If the date goes well, a natural progression will lead to kissing and light intimate contact.”

“What do you define as ‘light intimate contact?’”

I’m shocked when he reaches over and cups my face, before grazing a thumb across my cheek and down to my mouth.

“Something like this,” he says quietly. I stop breathing as he continues to stroke my skin. The sensation is intoxicating.

As he continues to stare, he seems to glaze over for a few seconds before he blinks and clears his throat. “It depends on the situation.” He pulls back and looks away.

I try to act like I’m unaffected, but I have no control over how fiercely I blush. “Are ... uh ... women allowed to touch you back?”

“Yes, within reason.” He adjusts his position. “Areas not covered by underwear are fine.”

“And if they go for the underwear areas?”

He looks at me and a muscle in his jaw jumps. “The date is immediately terminated, and the client is blacklisted.”

“Wow. Harsh.”

He pours us both more wine. “I’m not a whore, Miss Tate. It’s important to make that clear.”

“So you’ve never had sex with a client?”

“Never.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

He pauses for a moment then says, “Next question.”

I file that piece of information away for further investigation.

“So,” I say, “Light intimate contact is all you offer? Or can ladies bribe you for more?”

“Just so there’s no confusion ...” He picks up my phone and holds it up to his mouth. “I do not have sex for money.” He puts the phone back down. “However, if ladies would like something more intense, they can pay extra for a more immersive experience.”

“Oh, so you take them scuba diving?” He stares at me, unimpressed. I drop my smile and move some food around with my fork. “Please, continue.”

“Tier two involves the client also taking on a different character. It’s popular with ladies who want to escape their everyday lives.”

“Will you do that with me?”

“I’d like to, yes. I think you’d gain a lot from stepping outside of yourself for a while.”

It grates that he’s so self-assured about what I need. “You barely know me, and yet you think you know what’s good for me?”

He runs his forefinger over the table cloth next to my hand. “We all have issues we’re trying to overcome, Miss Tate. Everyone wants to feel special, whether we admit it or not. And loving without limits and allowing ourselves to be loved in return is what life’s all about. Or at least, what it should be about. Everything else just gets in the way.”

I want to refute him, but I’ve never been in love, so I have no idea if he speaks the truth. What I do know is that I have disdain for women who fall apart over men. Surely they’re not stupid. They’ve heard the songs and seen the movies. If you buy a ticket on the Love Express, it comes with compulsory stops at Painville, The Isle of Co-Dependence, and Betrayal Central, so why get onboard in the first place?

I think Max is waiting for me to contradict him, and when I don’t, he gives me another of those goddamn enigmatic smiles.

It’s off-putting how confident he is. I mean, I’m used to men who are as attractive as he is being egotistical dicks, but this is something else. He possesses a self-assuredness that has nothing to do with what he looks like and everything to do with who he is. Or at least, who he believes himself to be. He has a Zen-like calm that’s somehow wildly exciting.

As if he senses my thoughts, the corners of his lips curl. I have a horrifying image of me attempting to find out if those lips taste as good as they look, but I quickly push it away.

As I try to get back on topic, I form what I hope is an expression of barely suppressed boredom and clear my throat. “Okay, so the big question is, why no sex on dates?”

“Sex is for the body. Romance is for the soul.”

“Nice catchphrase. You should sell T-shirts. What does it mean?”

“Sex complicates things that should be kept simple,” he says. “I can make my clients feel more special if mutual attraction doesn’t escalate into the bedroom.”

“And how do you do that?”

He gives me a knowing smile. “Never underestimate the power of a good kiss.”

I try to disguise my intense skepticism. “A kiss? You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all. Haven’t you ever had a truly life-altering kiss?”

“Not one that could compete with a good hard fuck, no.”

He leans forward and studies me, and I struggle to maintain my composure under his intense scrutiny.

“A lot of men think the way you do,” he says quietly. “And that’s why so many of them take their women for granted. Guys see kissing as the first rung on the ladder to sex.” He draws an arc in the air. “Kiss ... grope ... strip ... penetrate. It’s a straight line for them. But kissing is most powerful when it’s a circle. A long, meandering journey of sensation.”

God, his voice. His stupidly resonant, sexy-as-hell voice. Even without the Irish accent, it’s devastating.

He leans forward, and he’s too close for me to ignore how his body sets mine on high alert. I lean back to compensate, but his expression tells me he knows exactly what I’m doing.

“Miss Tate, you might think that a kiss is nothing special, but kissing a woman with no intention of it leading to something else? That’s how you discover the meaning of sensuality. I can find an ocean of pleasure in every inhale and moan; every soft, slow sweep of her tongue. The taste of her lips. The shape of her face beneath my hands. The way her body curves into mine as she stops thinking and finally gives herself over to how she feels.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but every word vibrates through my skin and into my bones.

He gazes at my mouth with open fascination for several long seconds before coming back to my eyes. “You can live and die within the lifetime of a decent kiss. Trust me on that.”

He seems to wait for my reaction, but I’m so mesmerized, all I can manage is, “Uh huh.”

“You have to understand that most of the ladies who engage my services haven’t been kissed properly in years. Their partners do it to initiate sex, and they’ve forgotten how to make their women feel loved instead of merely wanted.”

I squirm under his intensity, hot and viciously aroused. “I don’t see the difference.”

He goes back to staring at my mouth, and every single trace of his smile has vanished. “Maybe one night I’ll kiss you properly to help you understand.”

I struggle to keep my breathing even as he continues to stare. There’s no way I’m letting him know how stupidly attracted to him I am right now.

“I didn’t agree to be kissed as part of our deal.”

“You agreed to the dates. Kissing is part of the package.”

“Then I’d like to order the non-kissing version. The dates I can pass off as research, but I’d never live it down if my editor found out I was macking on the subject of my exposé.”

I think I see a flash of disappointment in his expression, but that’s more likely a projection of my own regret.

“Are you sure that’s how you want to play this?” he asks.

“I am.”

He gives a small shrug. “Okay, I’ll hold back from kissing you. But for the record, if you kiss me, all bets are off.”

“That’s never going to happen.”

He smiles and goes back to his meal. “If you say so, Miss Tate.”

* * *

After polishing off enough food to satisfy a handful of NFL teams, Max and I watch in sated silence as Georgios leads a brigade of waiters in clearing the table. When he places the check between us in a fancy leather wallet, I’m quick to grab it before Max can.

He isn’t amused. “Hand it over, Miss Tate.”

“No,” I say. “You paid at Verdi’s. I’m paying here. This isn’t a date. It’s a business meeting.”

He removes his hand and shrugs. “As you wish.”

I grab some cash from my purse and slide it into the wallet. “Besides, that thousand dollars you refunded was company money, so really my boss is paying for this, not me.”

“From what I’ve learned of your boss, he’s not the easiest man to work for.”

I close my purse. “Not easy to work for is probably the nicest thing anybody’s ever said about Derek. For someone who doesn’t seem to be packing much in his pants, he’s certainly the biggest dick I’ve ever known. It doesn’t help that he hates me.”

Max stands and holds out his hand to help me up. “Then go somewhere else.”

I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. “I intend to, but I can’t until I have some frequent headline miles under my belt. This story will help me achieve that.”

Before I can move away, he brings his hand over mine and says, “Miss Tate, until you write your final piece on me, I’d ask you not to give Derek too many details about what we discuss. In fact, the fewer people who know about me, the better, at least until the article is published. Can I trust your discretion?”

“I can try to keep everything on the down-low as much as possible, but if Derek pushes me, it’ll be hard to deny him. I’ll do my best, though.”

We’re quiet as we slip back into our shoes and head out into the street. Max loops his jacket over his arm and shoves his hands in his pockets as we amble in the direction of the west river. It’s a cool night, but right now walking off the metric ton of food in my swollen belly seems like a good idea.

Seemingly at random, Max passes behind me, so he’s nearest the curb before continuing on.

“Superstitious?” I ask, amused.

He points to the water lining the road. “Trying to protect you from a dry-cleaning bill if someone drives too close.”

“Do you get your moves from an eighteenth-century edition of A Gentlemen’s Guide to Chivalry or something?”

He glances at me, his expression darkening. “If you knew how ungentlemanly I’ve been in my life, you wouldn’t say that.”

“Sounds like something I should investigate further. Care to explain?”

“Not tonight, no.” His tone suggests we’re done discussing it.

As we continue, walking beside him feels bizarre. Going to dinner with a man to whom I’m attracted, followed by heading to a destination that isn’t a bedroom isn’t usually my thing. The strangeness of it makes me shiver.

“Are you cold?”

I shake my head, but already Max is unfurling his jacket and draping it over my shoulders. “You don’t have to,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“It’s no trouble.” He stands in front of me and pulls at the lapels until it’s securely wrapped around me. “Besides, you look better in it that I do.”

He gives me a look that’s almost affectionate, then seems to realize he’s not with one of his fawning fans and clears his throat before going back to his place beside me.

When I look at my phone, I’m surprised to note it’s nearly one a.m. The past few hours have flown by. I should be thinking about heading home, but I still have so many questions running through my mind, I don’t want to lose the opportunity to ask them, just in case Max rethinks his decision to talk to me and disappears.

“So,” I say, “I know this is probably a silly question, but do you have a girlfriend?”

Max looks down and chuckles. “Yes. Several. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“Excluding clients.”

“Well, in that case, no.”

“Have you ever? Since you’ve been doing this?”

He puts his hand on my lower back as we cross the street. “Once. Didn’t last long. It seems sharing a man with other women can be a relationship killer.”

“Did you love her?”

“Honestly? No. She was more an experiment than anything else.”

“In?”

“My ability to practice what I preach.”

“And it didn’t work?” I catch my heel on an uneven bit of pavement and stumble. Max grabs me and keeps me upright. When I regain my footing, I expect him to let me go, but he doesn’t.

“Sometimes we confuse hormones with happiness,” he says. “I was guilty of that. Beyond some basic chemistry, we had nothing in common.”

His arms are strong around me, and looking up into his face makes me think I’m going to stumble again.

“Did she love you?”

He pauses. “You’d have to ask her that.”

“Okay. Can I have her name and number?”

He laughs and makes sure I’m steady before letting go. “You’re tenacious, Miss Tate. I’ll give you that.”

“Yes, I am, and I think it should be rewarded. How about some info on your upbringing? School, parents, friends–” He walks away from me, and I scramble to catch up. “No? Not even a tidbit?”

“You’ve exhausted my supply of tidbits.”

“You know you’re going to have to give me something about your identity eventually, right?”

“Maybe. But not tonight.”

When we get to the river, we walk south. I tilt my head to look up at the sky. As spectacular as the river view is, it’s hard to make out the stars in the city. Too much light. Whenever I’d give Asha shit about her quest for Mr. Right, she’d tell me that her prince is like the constellation of Orion – just because she can’t see him, doesn’t mean he isn’t there. Only my sister could make her girl-boner for true love sound like a creepy religion.

Max follows my gaze. “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, you know. The Cult of Love.”

“Cult?”

“Yeah. People who are in it won’t shut up about how wonderful and fulfilling it is, but after a while they realize it’s all borderline-crazy, and forever-happiness is a giant con. Getting through life is hard enough without the burden of carrying someone else with you.”

Max gives a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Every time I think you can’t get more cynical, you prove me wrong. I take it you don’t believe in marriage, then?”

“No.”

“Care to explain?”

“Do I even have to? Look at the world. Love fades. Couples break up. It’s part of growing and developing as people. It’s ridiculous to think that you should be attracted to the same person for decades, so what’s the point of standing up in front of your friends and family and swearing to love and cherish forever? Why not swear to stay together for a few years, and then, when the boredom and bitterness sets in, go your separate ways? That’s more realistic.”

He stops in front of me. “What about keeping a family together?”

“What about it? Some families are healthier apart.”

He looks out at the water. “I can’t argue with that.”

He seems to get lost in his own thoughts for a moment, but when an approaching cyclist rings his bell, he pulls me toward him, making sure we’re both out of the way. With his hand still on my arm, he looks down at me, and I see something in his expression. Something needful I’d seen earlier when he was pretending to be Kieran. It makes my stomach curl and my heart speed up, and I’m reminded that I’ve spent my whole life avoiding this kind of connection for good reason.

I step back, pretending to yawn. “Wow, it’s getting late, huh?”

He nods. “Yes. Far too late. I’ll get you a cab.”

I have more questions, but I guess they’ll have to wait for another time. I peel his jacket off as he steps into the street and hails a taxi. When it pulls over, he takes his jacket from me before opening the door and holding out his hand.

I shake it firmly. “Well, goodnight, Mr. Riley. Thank you for your time.”

He gives me a perplexed smile and tenses his arm to stop me from pumping his hand. “I want to hold your hand to help you into the car, Miss Tate. Still, now that I have it ...” He brings it up to his mouth and presses his lips against my skin. I restrain myself from full-on trembling from the rush of sensation that races up my arm. “Goodnight. I’ll see you soon.”

“When?”

“For our next interview? Or our first date?”

“Either. Both.” Jesus, do I sound as hyper as I feel? “I’m talking way too fast, aren’t I?”

He chuckles and helps me into the car, then leans through the door. “I’ll call you. And make no mistake, Miss Tate, by the time I’m done, you’ll have shed your cynical husk and be a romance junkie like the rest of us. Have a good weekend.”

Just as I’m about to tell him how wrong he is, he closes the door. I sigh in frustration and give the driver my address, and when we pull into traffic and head east, I lean my head back and think about tonight’s events.

On the one hand, I know without a doubt this story is going to be as hot as Hades when I get more details. On the other, my resolve about Max’s charms not working on me isn’t quite as rock solid as I thought. There’s no doubt he’s gorgeous, and he can certainly flirt when the mood takes him, but is that him being himself? Or him being the Max he wants me to believe is real?

Whatever the answer, I know I’m going to have to develop a tolerance for how he makes me feel, or I’ll end up as just one more giddy client on his roster. To that end, I conjure up negative thoughts about him all the way home.