Mister Romance (Masters of Love #1) Page 3

“Oh.”

  I lean over his shoulder to see what he’s looking at, but the screen is just a big bunch of code. “Please translate, ‘Oh’ for me, Tobes. Is it good news or bad news?”

  “Both. She’s using an email account that’s totally different from her public one. Maybe this is how she hides her activities from her husband.” He laughs and looks over his shoulder. “Goodwife69 is her handle. Ironic.” He goes back to tapping keys. “Okay, secret and possibly filthy emails – come to Poppa.”

  He works for a few more minutes, and then a blue progress bar appears on the screen. He stands and gestures for me to take the chair. “Done. Wait for that to download, and you’ll have a duplicate of her entire email account. If the questionnaire exists, my guess is it’ll be in there.”

  I hug his arm. “You rock my world, Tobes. You really do.”

  He shrugs as color blooms in his cheeks. “That’s what all the ladies say. Just remember, if the feds come knocking, you did all of this by yourself, and you don’t know me. Now, is it okay if I get back to my own work?”

  “If you must, but I’m taking you to lunch later to say thank you.”

  “Deal.”

  After he leaves, I sit and nibble at a stray cuticle on my forefinger while the progress bar fills up. When it’s done, I make myself comfortable as the dashboard of Marla Massey’s email account opens on the screen in glorious color.

  “Okay, Mrs. Massey. Let’s see what we can find.”

  I’m aware that what I’m doing is highly illegal, not to mention immoral, but this story is my ticket to a better life, so I suck up my hesitation and dive in. Even so, I remind myself to only search for emails related to her boyfriend. If Marla has other dark secrets, they’re not my concern.

  I type Mister Romance into the search bar. Predictably, nothing comes up. With what I’ve heard about this guy living in some sort of ghost universe, I didn’t really expect it to be as easy as that, but a girl can always hope.

  Next I try gigolo, manwhore, and escort. I come across some promotional emails regarding romance books, but that’s it. In fact, from what I can tell, most of her inbox is filled with receipts for online purchases and subscriptions. Maybe Marla opened this account to hide that she has a compulsive shopping problem. She wouldn’t be the first to do that.

  After a few more minutes of scanning the inbox, I’m starting to think Toby was wrong about clandestine communication, but then a subject line catches my eye: Thank you for thoroughbred referral. I click on the email and scan the content.

  Dear M,

  Thank you so much for recommending that magnificent thoroughbred from the Mason Richard stables. Gorgeous creature! It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of spending time with such a magnificent beast. You have my gratitude, my friend. I feel ten years younger.

  C x

  It’s from someone called CJ872.

  I read it again. Mason Richard stables ... M.R. Could that be our elusive Mister Romance? It’s a stretch, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the praise could equally describe a horse or a man. Perhaps the ladies talk in code to protect his anonymity.

  I’m about to do a more exhaustive search when my phone blares with Only the Good Die Young by Billy Joel. I cringe when I see UR LOVING GRANDMA!!! on the screen. I never should have allowed her to program in her own number and ringtone.

  I’m not in mood to talk to Gran, or Nannabeth as she prefers to be called. Without fail she’ll ask about my love life, and when I fail to provide confirmation that I’m seeing an amazing man who’s serious about settling down, she’ll go on a well-intentioned rant about how I should want to find that special someone as soon as possible, because, “let’s face it, muffin, you’re not getting any younger.”

  I sigh and reject the call. I feel bad for doing it, because I love Nannabeth dearly, but fending off her constant relationship pressure is draining, and right now I don’t have the energy.

  To relieve my guilt, I shoot her off a text.

 

  A few seconds later, I get a reply.

 

  I laugh. Whatever letters she saves by forgoing vowels and correct grammar is made redundant by her love of excessive exclamation points.

  Duty done, I turn off my phone and go back to the emails. Now that I know what I’m looking for, I type thoroughbred into the search bar. Several other emails show up, all about a gorgeous stallion courtesy of Mason Richards, and the language used cements my suspicion that the stallion is Mister Romance. After a few more minutes, I find an attachment on one of the emails, and when I open it, I let out a squeal of triumph when I see it’s the elusive questionnaire.

  Toby’s head pops up. “Success? Or do you have the hiccups?”

  “Success,” I say with a grin. “I found the questionnaire.”

  “Hell yes! Now, we’re cooking with gas.”

  I hit print, and as page after page spits out into the document tray, I feel like Sherlock Holmes on the scent of a new, intriguing case. The buzz of anticipation in my stomach tells me the game is most definitely afoot.

  THREE

  Private Eyes

  I squint through the viewfinder of my camera and adjust the focus on the man walking into the Pack N’ Ship. The plate glass windows allow me a great view of the interior of the building, and I hold my breath as I wait to see if he collects mail from box number 621.

  He doesn’t.

  Dammit.

  I’ve logged over fifty people coming in and out of the building in the past four days, but there’s been no sign of anyone collecting mail from Mister Romance’s box. It’s convenient that there’s a cafe right next door, so I can survey the area in relative comfort, but still ... I was expecting to find something out by now, if not hear from the man himself. God knows I spent enough time filling out his required questionnaire; the damn thing was twelve pages long. It seems our industrious escort wants to know everything about his clients, from boyfriends during high school and college, to favorite movies, music, and books. There was even a personality test. Why on earth he needs all that information is beyond me. Surely, all a fantasy boyfriend needs to know is what women want from him. And yet, nowhere did he ask about my romantic fantasies. What’s that all about? Does he just choose the fantasies for which he owns the costumes?

  Apart from using a fake name, I was truthful while answering the questions. I figure that when he takes me on a ‘date’ it will be easier to remember the truth than lies, and I’d hate to lose his confidence over factual inconsistencies. Of course, I had to pretend I was way more financially blessed than I am. Can’t have him knowing I grew up dirt poor while Mom worked two jobs. It wouldn’t really fit with my society lady cover.

  I’m tracking another dead-end package picker-upper when a shadow falls over me. I look up to see my waiter.

  “Oh, hi. Perfect timing. Could I get another espresso?” I’m on my seventh for the day. I may be a little wired.

  “Sure,” he says as he hands over a thick envelope. “And a guy asked me to give you this.”

  Puzzled, I take the envelope and look inside. It contains my thousand dollars in cash, along with a typewritten note on thick paper:

  Dear Ms. White,

  Thank you for your inquiry, but I’m afraid I’m unable to take you on as a client at this time.

  Please accept my sincerest apologies.

  Warmest regards,

  M.R.

  I look around the cafe then turn to the waiter. “Who gave you this?”

  He shrugs. “Some guy. Tall. Dark glasses.”

  “Where did he go?”

  He points down the street. “That way. But you won’t catch him. He slipped me a twenty to wait fifteen minutes before passing it. He’s long gone.”

  I lean back in my chair and sigh.

  Dammit! This is not how I saw my maste
r plan going down.

  How the hell did he know I was here? More importantly, what the heck do I do now?

  “You still want that coffee?” the waiter asks.

  “No. Just the check, please.”

  “You got it.”

  As he leaves, I rub my eyes. There must be another way to play this. I just need to think of it.

  I call Toby and tell him about the new development.

  “Well, crap,” he says. “That sucks.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  “Can you find out who the box is registered to? Maybe I can track him down that way.”

  He sighs. “More crime? My God, lady, you’re a bad influence.” I hear rapid key tapping in the background.

  “But you’re doing it anyway?”

  “Eh. It brightens my otherwise dull day. Stretching my hacking muscles is always kind of exciting.”

  “Will this take long?”

  “Maybe. Some of these private companies have more security than others. I’ll call you when I have it.”

  “Cool. Thank you, Tobes.”

  I hang up and examine the note once more. He signed it M.R. Seriously? He even refers to himself as Mister Romance? Man, that’s cheesy.

  I write up some notes while waiting for Toby to call me back.

  Why is M.R. so paranoid? Is he just concerned about protecting his clients? Or himself?

  Why did he reject me? And how did he know I was here today, watching for him? I assume he’s onto me, but how?

  My phone buzzes with a text from Toby:

 

  The waiter deposits my check, and I throw down some cash before shoving my computer into my bag and checking my watch. It’s only 3pm. Might as well head to the gym while I’m waiting.

  I grab my stuff and head toward the subway.

  I need to do something to work off all of this caffeine in my system, or I’ll start bouncing off the walls.

  * * *

  Led Zeppelin blasts through my ear buds as my feet pound the rubber of the treadmill. Even though sweat is streaming down my face and my lungs are burning, this is the part of my workout I like the best. My adrenal glands have switched into overdrive, and the resulting rush is making me feel more than a bit high.

  Ahhh, yes, come to me, sweet endorphins.

  At this time of the afternoon, the gym is mostly empty. It hasn’t yet been inundated with the after-work rush of image-obsessed princesses and muscle-bound posers, and that’s just how I like it. I tend to stick to the treadmill and stair climber, but I hate waiting for machines, and I especially dislike navigating around the Lycra-clad mating rituals that happen when this place is packed.

  Overall, I don’t approve of the gym as a pickup place. When I’m here, I want to feel free to be my worst self. That way, after I shower and put on makeup, I can pretend to be my best self. Trying to impress someone when I’m still in my caterpillar phase isn’t my idea of a good time.

  Having said that, I’m all for perving on prime pieces of gym meat, and there’s a perfect specimen a few feet away. In fact, the only other person in this part of the gym is the dark-haired hottie running on the treadmill two over. I’d seen him here earlier in the week, and I ogled him then, too. His arms are lovely. Thick and defined. Lightly tanned skin. Muscular chest and legs. And the way his dark hair flops over his forehead as he runs is sexy as hell.

  As I head into my cooldown, I sneak glances at him. The way he moves is both graceful and incredibly masculine, and I find the combination mesmerizing. I could watch him all day.

  Just as I’m thinking that, he glances over and catches me staring. I immediately look away. He’s not allowed to notice me right now. Not when I’m sweating from every pore and smell like landfill.

  On my arm, my phone buzzes with a call. I keep jogging as I answer.

  “Tobes! Hey.” Okay, talking and running while trying to breathe is a challenge. “What do you have?”

  There’s a small pause before Toby says, “Uh ... is this a good time?”

  “Yeah. I’m just at the gym. Why?”

  “Oh. Okay, it’s just there was heavy breathing and grunting, and I thought ... well, never mind. So, the P.O. box is registered to Reggie Baker of Greenpoint, Brooklyn. I’ll text you his address.”

  “Could this Reggie could be our guy?”

  “Sure. If this Mister Romance is a sixty-year-old retired teacher.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, that’s unlikely. Does Reggie have a family? Any sons in their twenties?”

  I hear keys tapping in the background. “Nope. Reggie and his wife have two daughters, Priscilla and Daisy, both in their thirties.”

  I lower the speed on the treadmill until I’ve slowed to a fast walk. “Well, that doesn’t give me much to go on, my friend.”

  “I know. Sorry. It would have been nice if the box had led straight to our guy.”

  “But of course it doesn’t. That would be too easy. Thanks anyway, Tobes.”

  “No problem. I’ll text the address details anyway. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  I sign off and pull my phone from the case on my arm. This story is going nowhere fast, so unless I want to lose my only lead, I guess I’ll have to wrap things up here and head over to pay Mr. Reginald Baker a visit. Perhaps speaking to him will yield some results.

  I shut down the treadmill and turn to step off it, but due to some weird superpower in human legs that takes over after running in one spot for a while, I launch off the rubber belt with way too much momentum to stay upright. With the girliest squeal that’s ever come out of me, I flail and drop my phone. But just as I’m preparing to faceplant into the concrete floor, strong arms close around me and pull me against a hot, hard body.

  “Whoa, there. Ye alright?” Warm male voice. Thick Irish accent. Smooth skin pressing against me as large hands set me back on my feet.

  I look up at my rescuer to find my hot, dark-haired treadmill neighbor looking down at me with concern. Of course I do. Because it’s not bad enough he had to witness my uncoordinated pratfall, he’s also doomed to experience my workout stench and gross perspiration pressed against his beautiful, muscled body.

  “Shit, sorry,” I say. Embarrassed, I pull back to step out of his arms. “Thanks for the save.”

  I expect to see him wipe his hands on his shorts, because honestly, I’m kind of slimy. But he doesn’t.

  Instead, he retrieves my phone from the floor and gives it a quick examination for damage. “No problem. I did the same thing the other day. It’s a good thing I was the only one here at the time, so no one witnessed me sprawl on the floor like a baby giraffe.”

  “I’m sorry I missed that.”

  “You should be. If you’d captured it on camera, you could have made me an internet sensation. How dare you deprive me my fifteen minutes of public humiliation?” Every time he says ‘you’ it sounds like ‘yeh’, and all of his ‘r’s have a slight roll to them, which is sexy as hell. To make matters worse, when he hands my phone back, I get a jolt when my fingers brush his.

  Oh, God, no. Being attracted to a guy like him isn’t a good idea. My instincts are telling me to withdraw and retreat, but my eyeballs overrule them, so I stay where I am and smile instead. “Well, now I’m really sorry.”

  He gives me a satisfied nod. “You’re forgiven. On the upside, I get to make a first impression that’s not based on you laughing your ass off, so there’s that.”

  I push at the thick clumps of hair that have escaped my pony tail and are now clinging to my cheeks like seaweed. “Well, yeah. There’s nothing worse than embarrassing yourself in front of total strangers, right? That’s the worst.”

  He lets out a low chuckle, and man, if I thought he was sexy when he was running with floppy hair, then the lopsided, appraising grin he’s now giving me is off the charts.

  “Actually
, I found you falling at my feet quite charming. You didn’t need to go to so much trouble to get my attention, I assure you, but I’m not complaining.”

  Jesus, his accent is killing me. Not to mention those sparkling green eyes. The high cheekbones. Those luscious, curvy lips.

  I need to get out of here. And yet, I continue to babble. “What can I say? Some girls like to attract men with good looks and a great personality. I prefer to showcase my extreme clumsiness. I think it’s an underrated way of appealing to the opposite sex.”

  He nods, and I don’t miss the way he gives my face and body a quick but thorough assessment. “You might be onto something there. I do find you incredibly appealing right now. So, does this tactic work for guys, too? I mean, if I took a tumble down the stairs, would it convince you to let me take you out for a drink later tonight?”

  I wince. “Oh, no. You can’t go straight to the stair falling. That’s a rookie mistake. You’ll kill yourself. Start with something small, like tripping over your own feet. Or running into a pole. I might make it look easy, but there’s a big difference between being adorably clumsy and unattractively unconscious. You have to know your limits.”

  He nods seriously. “Ah, I see. This is the exactly type of wisdom I need. Not only are you saving me from humiliating self-harm, you also managed to ignore my request for a drink without making me feel like a total loser, which is impressive.”

  I grab my towel off the treadmill and pat my face. I didn’t mean to ignore his request. It just took me by surprise. Usually when men approach me, it’s in a bar after they’ve had a few. Or, if I’ve had a few, I’ll let them know I’m interested by inserting my tongue into their mouth.

  Men who look like this fine Irish specimen don’t usually notice me, especially at this gym. In my experience, the super-hot guys don’t go for the Plain Janes with angular frames and modest B-cups who work out in baggy T-shirts and non-designer leggings. They prefer the silicon-enhanced Playboy Bunnies who somehow exit the spin classes with perfect hair and makeup intact.

  It’s not that I think I’m unattractive; I know I can make myself look good. But considering my face currently resembles a particularly angry hemorrhoid, I doubt my post-workout appearance is showing me in my best light.