The Masseuse (3 page)

M
axim Stein arrived on the veranda exactly fifteen minutes later, wearing a terry-cloth robe and leather sandals. The pictures in the cottage study had paled in comparison to reality; there was a cool confidence in the way he carried himself that couldn’t be captured on camera. His jaw was clean-shaven and set, his gaze appraising. His silver hair was combed back and damp—maybe that meant he’d washed off following his romp with the redhead, but I doubted it. Power, wealth, and status seemed to ooze off him. As he approached, I was surprised he wasn’t much more than four or five inches taller than me—he carried himself like someone who was used to looking down on others.

I found myself shrinking, unable to look him in the eye. All I could think of were his bare legs and grunts of pleasure as he had plowed into his demanding redheaded mistress from behind. When it was clear he didn’t know I’d caught him, I exhaled, but remained jittery from all that had just happened.

“The masseuse, I presume,” he said in a flat voice, already removing the robe from his shoulders.

“Anna.” I offered my hand, but he had made his way to the table and was kicking off his sandals.

I cleared my throat, feeling my jaw twitch. Something told me I wasn’t about to get an apology for his late arrival—not that I deserved one. Any thought I’d had of asking him the name of his bodyguard vaporized.

“Please have a seat on the table,” I told him. “I’d like to begin our session with a foot scrub, if that’s all right.”

“Is that included in the price?”

I nearly choked. According to Forbes, Mr. Stein was worth 3.8 billion dollars. If I charged for a foot scrub, which I didn’t, I was pretty sure he could afford it. I doubted he even knew how much he was paying for today’s service anyway.

“Of course,” I said with my best smile. I kneeled before him as he sat down, and moved the water under his pedicured toes. He fished a smartphone out of his pocket and began to scroll through his messages, barely even glancing down as I prepared the salt scrub.

“I just finished working out and didn’t have a chance to shower,” he said as I moved one foot into the basin of warm water. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Right. I forced myself not to look up, aware of the smell of sex now wafting off him as the breeze changed. I nearly gagged; I may have been turned on before, but that had disappeared with Neighborhood Watch.

I finished quickly and offered Maxim the scents to choose from.

He chose cinnamon. Of course.

*

When I got back to my car, I was $400 richer and had three messages waiting on my cell phone; two from Amy asking if I’d been kidnapped by rich people, and one from my dad. I called him first, my paycheck celebration momentarily put on pause by the tiredness in his voice.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite daughter,” he said, answering after the first ring.

“Only daughter.”

“That doesn’t make you any less my favorite,” he pointed out. “What are you doing out so late?”

His handsome face came to mind: green eyes, fair skin, freckles. Big saucer glasses that he wore at the end of the day after he took his contacts out. We looked nothing like each other, a fact that had often drawn stares in my youth. But even though we weren’t related by blood, that didn’t make him any less my father.

I made the final turn out of Davis Island and climbed onto the freeway that would take me to my apartment in Ybor City, right in the heart of the historic district.

“First, it’s only eight thirty,” I told him. “Second, I had a client.”

“First,” he replied, mirroring my tone, “your curfew’s eight. And second, I don’t like you going out to people’s houses so late at night.”

I smiled. “My curfew hasn’t been eight since I was in middle school. I’m twenty-seven, in case you forgot.”

“Stop growing up,” he said. “I’ve had about enough of that.”

His voice fell at the end; we’d reached the boundary of his good mood.

“Yes, sir.” I cleared my voice. “So what’d you do today?” I’d talked to him every day this week. It was a hard one; we’d lost my adoptive mother four years ago to breast cancer. This was their anniversary week. They would have been married thirty-six years.

The sting was gone, though the ache remained. But as much as I missed her, I knew it was so much harder for him. She’d been his whole world.

“I had Tuesday breakfast,” he said, and I was flooded with double-decker-pancake nostalgia, the special at Manny’s Diner where we’d spent every Tuesday morning of my youth. Cincinnati—the place I called home, thanks to my dad—felt a long way away all of a sudden.

He sighed. “And then I went to see my girl.”

I pulled into my parking garage and killed the engine. I couldn’t get out of my car yet; my body felt too heavy. The thought of going out on a date tonight with Randall seemed like an enormous amount of work.

“Yeah?” I could picture my dad going to her grave with a bundle of yellow roses—her favorite—and a bottle of wine. He would sit beside her like he always did, telling her about what he’d done that day, filling her in on any new updates about me, until he ran out of things to say. Then he’d sit in the silence just because he wanted to be close to her.

I couldn’t imagine anyone loving me the way he loved her.

“Maybe . . . Dad, maybe you should try going out.”

He groaned. “The guys have talked me into joining the bowling league. Can you believe that? Thirty years on the force I managed to avoid that crap, and the minute I retire, they talk me into it. Soon I’ll be fat and bald and eating donuts every morning.”

I sincerely doubted it. My dad’s strawberry blond hair may have been a bit more blond than strawberry these days, but he still ran three miles every morning, something he had done as long as I could remember. Though he was afraid of becoming a classic cop cliché, anyone who knew him could have told you he wasn’t really going to give up the job completely. It was too much a part of who he was.

“Good,” I said, glad he was doing something with friends. He hadn’t done much socially since Mom died. “But you know what I meant.”

There was a pause on the line. “I had my time, Anna. Your mom, she was my sweetheart. You don’t get that twice in one life. I was lucky to get it at all.”

My heart hurt. “I just don’t like the thought of you being lonely.”

“I’m not lonely,” he retorted. “I’ve got Mug.”

Mug was his Great Dane, the biggest lap dog I’d ever seen.

“I’ll come home soon,” I told him. I’d already scheduled a follow-up with Mr. Stein next week. A month of this, and I’d definitely have the money for plane fare.

“All right.” His tone lightened. “Mug won’t be happy, though. He’s already taken over your room. You’ll have to sleep on the couch.”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, Anna.”

I nearly called Randall and told him I wasn’t in the mood, but after talking to my dad, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be alone either.

*

I’d texted to tell him I’d be late, but when I met Randall at Pho, a Vietnamese fusion restaurant downtown, he was already waiting at the table, mouth tight with impatience. It looked like he’d already ordered and finished an appetizer when I sat down across from him.

He looked up from his cell phone, surprised. I guess he hadn’t seen me come in.

Randall was handsome and he knew it. With his semi-ridiculous dirty blond hair swept across his forehead and dark lashes, he looked more like an ex–boy-band member than a psychologist. He had just the right amount of stubble, which no doubt he’d planned, and wore a beige sweater to complement his brown eyes.

We’d been out only once before, a setup by Amy. On that first date he’d informed me he was in the top one percent of educated Americans, and one of the youngest psychologists in the state with his own private practice. He certainly wasn’t modest, but Amy had convinced me that was just the nerves talking.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “A client ran over.”

He finished typing something before replying, and I ordered a glass of red wine, trying not to focus on the fact that this was the second man today who’d chosen to look at his cell phone rather than me when I was talking.

“Thanks, just had to finish that e-mail,” he said, placing the phone in his pocket. “Wow. You look nice.”

Nice
wasn’t exactly what I’d been going for in the black skirt, knee-high boots, and turquoise halter top, but from the look on his face I could tell the word didn’t convey what he really thought. He was trying hard not to stare at my cleavage.

Normally I would have been pleased to have him right where I wanted him, but the lust in his eyes barely roused the butterflies in my stomach. Probably just hunger, combined with the call from my dad and thoughts of my mom.

I needed a distraction.

A distraction with penetrating blue eyes, chiseled shoulders, and a dirty mouth.

I’d thought of Mr. Stein’s sexy security guard when I’d picked out my outfit. Originally I’d planned on wearing a bright pink button-up blouse and silver flats, but when I’d thought of those eyes, I’d changed course to something less conventional—an impulse buy I’d picked up last month that I had planned to hand over to a much sassier Amy.

“What’s good here?” I asked, perusing the menu.

“The spring rolls are good,” he said. “Or the shaking beef. That’s what I had.”

I glanced at his plate, which had yet to be cleared. “You already ate dinner?”

He swiped his hair out of his eyes. “Yes, but don’t feel like you have to hurry on my account. My last patient canceled, so I got here a little early.”

Miffed, I leaned back in my chair, noting that the butterflies were beginning to growl. They had their diva moments.

“I’ll just get some spring rolls then,” I said, shifting gears. “So what’s new with Dr. Randall?”

A lot, apparently, was new with Randall. He told me all about his week, his practice, the new insurance billing program that was gouging him, his depressed housewives and alcoholic retirees who’d thought that Florida was going to be everything they’d dreamed it would be—beaches, sunsets, perpetual vacation—only to find it was just like anywhere else but with palm trees and a really hot summer.

I didn’t mind his nonstop chatter; it was better than talking about what was going on with me.

When I’d finished my second glass of wine, the spring rolls, and a bowl of pho, he finally paused for breath.

“I’m boring you,” he said. “I spend so much time listening at work, sometimes it’s nice to have someone else do it for a change.”

“Your practice sounds fascinating,” I said, watching as he again shoved back his hair. I wanted to shove back Neighborhood Watch’s hair. I wanted to grip it with both hands as he kissed me, sliding his tongue between my lips and grinding his hips against mine.

“There are a lot of people out there who are hurting.” He sat forward in his chair. “How about you?”

I felt my spine zip up straight. Randall the date had changed; the tone of his voice softer, more empathetic, his brows furrowed with concern. He was Dr. Randall now, looking for my vulnerabilities.

“I’m sorry?” I had to force my shoulders to relax.

“You have a background in the field, don’t you? I thought that’s what Amy said.”

Of course, that’s what he meant. Relieved to avoid a glimpse into the troubled past of Anna Rossi, I picked up my chopsticks, set them down again. I knew Amy had told him about my last line of work; it was why she’d set us up in the first place. It was just a matter of time before one of us brought it up.

“Sort of,” I acknowledged. “Nothing like your practice.”

“Ah, minimization,” he said, entertained. “The favorite cognitive distortion of all nice people.”

I snickered. “I’m not that nice, believe me.”

He waited. Or rather, used therapeutic silence—a technique I’d learned in college—to let me work through my thoughts. The idea was that it could make even the most stubborn people share.

“Social work,” I said, giving in. “That was a long time ago.” Maybe he wasn’t that bad of a psychologist after all.

“Oh.” His brows flattened as he leaned back in his seat. “Social work. The society of bleeding hearts. What did you do, stamp welfare checks?” He laughed like this was some sort of inside joke.

“Not exactly,” I said stiffly.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. His fingertips found my hands and began to trail lightly over them.

“That was rude,” he acknowledged without an apology. “I got my Ph.D. so I wouldn’t have to do the dirty work. You’re a better person than I am, Anna.”

A better person wouldn’t have let her personal life leak all over her professional life. A better person wouldn’t have quit.

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “There were a lot of kids I couldn’t help.” Strange that after all this time I could still see their faces and feel like a failure.

“You can’t save everyone.” He made a face. “All those crack babies and abusive parents fighting over custody. Sounds like a nightmare. No wonder you burned out.”

He made the same assumption most people did—that child protective services was only about snatching babies out of bad homes, not about bringing families back together, and that I couldn’t stand the heat. The truth was, that kind of work hit too close to home, but I wasn’t about to open that can of worms here and now.

I subtly pulled my hands away and waved to the waiter for the check. It was almost eleven, and the place was going to be closing soon. One of the downfalls of being a masseuse was a lot of late hours. Psychologists also set their own schedules, and as Randall informed me, he enjoyed sleeping in and seeing clients in the afternoon and evening.

We could have worked. If I’d felt something.

“Well,” I said. “Nothing lasts forever.”

“One check or two?” interrupted the waiter, a cute artsy guy around eighteen.

“Two,” said Randall without looking up.

The water raised a brow at me.

“Two checks would be perfect,” I said.

*

Having known I was going to have a glass of wine, I’d taken the trolley to Channelside and walked the rest of the way. It was late, and downtown was fairly quiet on weeknights, so I decided to wait for a cab.