When I go to touch him again, he grabs my hands and spins me around so my back is against the wall. “Miss Tate, please stop. Perhaps now is the appropriate time to explain the dos and don’ts of our upcoming interactions.”
For a full five seconds, I blink in confusion. Kieran’s sexy accent has suddenly vanished, and his voice is now deeper and more resonant, if that’s goddamn possible. “Wait, what?”
He lets me go then runs his fingers through his hair to push it back into place. “I’m sorry for the deception, but I had to get to know you, so I could be prepared for what I’d be dealing with.” He straightens his tie. “We have a lot to talk about. Shall we go back to the table? And please, call me Max.”
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.”