Mister Romance (Masters of Love #1)

For a few minutes they try verbal instructions, but when Hertzog can’t understand them, they jump down off the dock to point to the map. Hertzog walks them away from the truck as he struggles with their directions, and as soon as they’re at a safe distance, I make my move. Running as quietly as I can, I dash to the dock, climb up, and duck inside the roller door. The urge to commando roll hits me, but I have no time for that right now.

As soon as I step inside the warehouse, I’m hit by the sheer size of it. For the most part, it’s a massive empty space that would make a fantastic mega skating rink. Then I notice that to my left are some overhead lights illuminating a stack of furniture and boxes, and the end of the area is blocked off with wire fencing like a security cage. I can see a collection of old office furniture in there, including bookcases that are being used for storage.

I quickly run down to the end, and when I discover the door on the cage is unlocked, I scoot inside and hide behind what looks like a tall clothing rack, covered in a dust cloth. Toby must have taken off, because I can hear Dyson and Rosco’s voices clearer now as they come to grab more furniture.

“We’d better hustle,” Dyson says. “Max will shit if we keep the old lady waiting for this stuff.” Not a hint of Irish today. He sounds like he’s from Queens.

“Where’s he been, anyway?” Rosco asks. “He’s missed poker night two weeks in a row.”

“He’s freaking out about some reporter who’s been sniffing around. I guess he’s trying to get rid of her or whatever.”

I take in a sharp breath.

Those words cut through the parts of me that had begun to trust Max. The parts that wanted to believe what he felt for me was more than just a con. Of course, the bitter side of me that’s been trying to avoid falling for him this whole time feels vindicated my mistrust was founded.

“Come on,” Rosco says. “Grab the end tables first, and we’ll come back for the credenza.”

“What the hell is a credenza?”

“That big thing with the drawers.”

“Then just say ‘that big thing with the drawers’. What are you? The King of England?”

I sit cross-legged on the floor as they finish loading the truck and try to tell myself that knowing Max has been playing me doesn’t hurt.

See? This is exactly why I don’t put myself out there. Men lie. They flatter and flirt and kiss you stupid whenever it suits them and fucking lie to make you feel things. And then they break you, the same way my father broke my mother. I shouldn’t be surprised that Max is no different from the rest of them, but I am. Surprised and more disappointed than I’ve ever been in my life.

I close my eyes and push down the hurt. It only fuels my determination to find out what the hell he’s so intent on hiding.

At last the guys finish up, and the warehouse is plunged into darkness as they turn out the lights and close the door. When the rumbling of the truck fades away, I grab my phone and turn on the flashlight.

“Okay, Max. Let’s see what all this stuff is.”

The first thing I do is find the light switch and turn the lights back on, so I can take a quick inventory of what’s underneath the dust cloths. Even after the Dyson and Rosco removed a truck full of furniture, there’s still some left, and from what I can tell, Max has a pretty swanky collection. It leads me to wonder why he’d want to sell it for cash with my Nan, when he could probably get more money through a dealer. He said he inherited it, but from whom?

Alongside the furniture are some cardboard boxes. I open the closest one and look through the contents. There are several trophies with the name Max Roberts on them–baseball, football, and even one for music. So, I guess the guy I spent the evening with yesterday was the real Max after all. I’m not sure how I feel about that, considering I’ve never felt so intensely intimate with someone before. Beneath the trophies is a certificate for achievement in music made out to Max Riley Roberts.

So, Riley is his middle name.

At the bottom of the box I find a few crumpled photographs of Max in high school. It’s strange, but the boy in the pictures looks quite different from the Max I know. Grown-up Max might be a little too smug for my liking, but young Max looks flat-out arrogant. And more than a little aggressive. In most pictures, he seems to be scowling, not smiling.

I go to another box. It contains files and some printouts of news reports about something called Fulcrum Financial. As I rifle through the faded articles, one of the headlines jumps out at me. Carl Roberts Faces Fraud Charges Over Fulcrum Financial Collapse.

I scan through the article. From the picture of the handsome middle-aged man below the article, I assume Carl was Max’s dad. None of the other articles tell me what happened to him, so I do a quick search on my phone.

“Oh, shit.”

Seems like Daddy Dearest got hit up on a class-B felony for embezzlement and insider trading and was sentenced to eight years. The date indicates it was three years ago, and I’m guessing that was around the same time Max dropped out of college.

I spread the articles on the floor and photograph them. They may come in handy for background info.

Checking the time on my phone, I realize I need to speed this up or risk Nannabeth’s wrath, not to mention getting caught. I quickly put the boxes back where I found them and move into the fenced-off area. When I lift up the dust cloths draped over the clothing rack, I discover it’s filled with dozens of costumes. Max wasn’t joking when he said he had a cowboy hat and chaps. And yes, he also has a white navy uniform, similar to the one Richard Gere filled out so nicely in An Officer and a Gentlemen. I can see that would be a popular fantasy.

He also has costumes for a firefighter, biker, and army dude, among others. I wonder if he’s used all of them. Then I get powerful flash of jealousy at the thought of him playacting with other women.

Goddammit.

Why couldn’t I just resist feeling anything for him? Liking someone I’ll never have isn’t a feeling I’ve ever wanted to experience.

At the side of the room, there’s a small set of mahogany drawers sitting on a table. When I open the top drawer, I gasp. It’s shallow and lined with black velvet, and inside is a collection of stunning jewelry. By the looks of it, the stones are real.

“Whoa.”

This must be where he got the necklace he gave me last night.

All of a sudden, a horrible possibility occurs to me. Could Max be using his position of trust with these rich women to relieve them of their finery? A little involuntary tip for his services. Is that his big secret?

God, no. He wouldn’t.

The thought makes me queasy. I know I’m just speculating, but I can’t discount it as a possibility. His father was a thief and a criminal. Maybe Max is following in his footsteps.

I’m so focused on scanning my memories for further proof of corruption, I jump when I hear, “They were my mother’s.”

I whip around to see Max there, standing a few feet away with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. His expression is one of supreme disappointment. He looks like I feel, which is sick to the stomach.

“I’m not a thief, Eden.”

There’s so much raw emotion in his voice, I’m taken aback. “I didn’t think you –”