The Masseuse Read online

  “Wow.”

  “Breathtaking, isn’t it?”

  I turned to find that Jeeves had vanished just as silently as he’d come and been replaced by a woman in her late thirties with a severe brunette bob and a killer French manicure. A phone earpiece hung from the collar of her snug red wrap dress. She made me more than a little self-conscious of my black yoga pants and matching T-shirt.

  “You must be Ms. Rossi.” She shook hands like a woman who was used to doing business with men. “You came highly recommended from my stylist, Derrick.”

  Derrick was the manager at Rave salon, where I worked during the day. He had assured me this would be a good connection, convincing me to break my usual rule of meeting the client at the spa first.

  “Anna, please,” I said. “And you must be Ms. Rowe.”

  “I am,” she said, making it clear I wouldn’t be using her first name. This didn’t bother me; Derrick had mentioned she was a little tightly wound. “Mr. Stein is still in a meeting, so if you’ll follow me upstairs, I’ll show you where you can set up.”

  “Sounds great.” I was ready to get started. No wonder Mr. Stein needed a massage; I was stressed and I’d been here only five minutes.

  Ms. Rowe departed without looking back, gliding across the floor in her red pumps as silently as she’d arrived. I picked up the table, crossed the strap over my chest, and followed her up the dizzying steps to the loft.

  We passed an open seating area and a bar, and entered a wide hallway lined with antique mirrors and decadently framed oil paintings of landscapes. Track lighting on the ceiling highlighted each piece of art. I sucked in my breath, trying not to bang into anything with all my cargo.

  “You’ll be meeting Mr. Stein here,” she said, exiting through a door at the end of the hallway onto a veranda, where we were greeted by the blue waters of the bay and the afternoon sun lowering in the pink sky. I dropped the fifty-pound table case to stretch my back, and walked to the railing, breathing in the sweet scents from the flowers hanging in red pots from the ledge and the chlorine from the pool below. Cool air misted in from the revolving ceiling fans, making the temperature comfortable.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a view like this,” I murmured.

  Ms. Rowe snorted. “You should see the house in Naples.”

  “Naples, Florida?” I asked with a grin.

  “No,” she said, clearly not a fan of sarcasm. “Italy. The Steins have six homes.”

  At the mention of Maxim Stein’s wife, I turned. “Will Mrs. Stein be around this evening?” I was hoping to take her on as a client as well.

  “Mrs. Stein stays at the flat in New York.”

  From the sound of it, Mr. Stein didn’t join her there.

  “There is a sink in the washroom just inside, and an iPod dock here if you need music.” She pointed to a beige box embedded into the wall.

  I nodded. If I’d known that I wouldn’t have dragged my portable system from the car.

  “Anything else you need?”

  “Just a body.”

  She smiled tightly. “You will, of course, be compensated for staying late.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said, feeling a little guilty for cracking jokes. “Please tell Mr. Stein to take his time. I can be here as late as he needs.”

  It wasn’t exactly true. I had my second date with Randall at nine, but I wasn’t too worried about canceling. He was cute enough, but he didn’t exactly do it for me.

  Not like I was sure Neighborhood Watch could.

  Ms. Rowe had judgment in her eyes. It was almost like she was reading my mind.

  “Now, if you’ll just sign this.” She handed me a clipboard, and I felt my brows lift in surprise. “It’s standard for all of Mr. Stein’s employees, domestic or otherwise.”

  “Domestic or otherwise,” I repeated, scanning the form. Is that what I was? A domestic employee? No one had told me I’d be signing anything besides maybe a tax form, and looking over the items on the list, I could see why.

  “Um,” I said. “I’m not going to steal any of his things.”

  There were a dozen more items equally as offensive, almost laughable. I guess they had all made the list for a reason, but I was still shocked to see that I couldn’t pick any plants without written permission from the landscaping crew or take photographs of any of the art.

  She placed a hand on her bony hip. “You can have your lawyer review it, but I assure you . . .”

  “No,” I said, reading through the rest of the list and signing on the dotted line. Ms. Rowe had offered $300 for this hour, three times my usual house-call rate, and I wasn’t about to blow it. “It’s fine. But if you’d like to contact my references, they can assure you I’m professional.”

  “I already have, and they already have.” She snatched back the clipboard as soon as I was done. “I’m glad you understand.”

  The earpiece hanging around her neck lit up blue, and she placed it in her ear.

  “Mr. Stein will be up as soon as he’s done. Make yourself comfortable. His meetings have been known to run long.” She said the last words through her teeth, obviously annoyed.

  I sighed as she closed the door behind her, glad she was gone.

  “Somebody needs to get laid,” I said to myself, realizing I wasn’t in much better shape after the way I’d reacted to Neighborhood Watch outside. Then, resolving to enjoy this beautiful house and a big fat paycheck, I started setting out my supplies.

  The table, a gift I’d bought myself after I’d finished massage school, was the Cadillac of tables—big, plush, and expensive. When I’d decided I wanted to do work in people’s homes, I’d taken the plunge and made the purchase. It was worth every penny; more than one client had told me it was softer than their bed.

  After that, I laid out my oil and three bottled aromatherapy scents for Mr. Stein to choose from. Lavender, cinnamon, and sandalwood. I preferred the last—it was soothing; I even had sandalwood-scented shampoo—but few clients chose it. I could almost guarantee Mr. Stein would choose cinnamon. Men usually did. It made them think of sex.

  It made me think of Christmas, but whatever. I wasn’t a guy.

  After setting up my iPod and laying out the sheets, I filled a silver basin with water from the washroom and set a towel and a bamboo box of salt scrub for Mr. Stein’s foot treatment beside it. People generally felt pampered by the extra service, but the truth was, I preferred knowing their feet wouldn’t stink like four-day-old socks when I went to rub them.

  Mr. Stein had yet to make an entrance when I’d finished. For a while I admired the view, awed by the setting sun and the explosion of pink and orange lighting the horizon, but as the sun disappeared, I went to check the watch I’d left in my purse—6:10 p.m. He was forty minutes late.

  Curiosity getting the better of me, I walked the length of the veranda, coming to a descending staircase at the far end. I glanced over my shoulder, but there was still no sign of my client, and since exploring wasn’t explicitly forbidden in the contract I’d signed, I made my way down.

  Maybe it was because the grounds were so quiet, but I found myself trying to keep each step silent—not hard to do in the leopard-print ballet slippers I was wearing. When I reached the bottom, I followed the stone steps to an adjacent cottage, fashioned in the same open, airy Mediterranean style as the house. I listened for movement from upstairs, and hearing nothing, I moved a little closer, spotting an entrance cut through the house to a deck over the bay.

  “Just a quick look,” I told myself, feeling a little reckless.

  I walked through a small courtyard with another smaller stone fountain, straight out to the deck, taking in one last view of the sunset. Behind me, long white linen curtains blew in the breeze, and below, the water lapped against the pier. The place was truly incredible. I could only imagine what some of Mr. Stein’s other houses were like.

  I was just about to turn back when I heard something behind me: the distinct, rhythmic slapping of skin on
skin, and a woman’s throaty moan.

  Three

  “Harder,” she ordered.

  I ducked without thinking.

  “Yes,” she said. “Like that. Don’t slow down!”

  The slapping sound quickened and was accompanied by her cries of pleasure.

  I swore silently. What had I been thinking, coming down here? This wasn’t my house. I hadn’t even met the owner yet. And now I’d just blindly walked into someone’s fuckpad. There was no way I was making it out of this one without getting caught.

  I hid behind the wall like some teenager trying to sneak out her bedroom window, and leaned out around the corner to see if my exit was clear.

  The courtyard was no longer empty. A woman with red hair, completely naked and angled away from me, was bent over, gripping the smooth white stone of the fountain while a man in only a white collared shirt rammed into her from behind. Just past them, the door of a room had been flung open, and scattered across the ground were articles of clothing.

  The tempo increased. Slap, slap, slap, slap.

  I ducked back around the corner, trying to unsee the man’s clenched white ass, and the woman’s hard, fake breasts that barely moved as he fucked her. I was sure they hadn’t seen me, or at least if they had, they didn’t care, because he began to grunt, and she began to shriek, and as strange and wrong as it was, it made me hot as hell.

  For just a flash, I imagined myself bent over that fountain, but instead of this guy, it was Neighborhood Watch and his hard body behind me. His hands gripping my hips. His teeth nipping my ear while his hard cock speared into me over and over.

  “Goddammit, I said harder,” demanded the woman.

  I snapped out of my trance and searched for a way out. The man had to be Maxim Stein. Who else would be having sex out in the open on this property? I’d caught a glimpse of his silver hair—I recognized that from the pictures I’d seen of him online. The woman was clearly not his wife, though. Maxim’s wife was petite, blonde, and in her midfifties, not nearly ten years younger with red hair. Besides, according to Ms. Rowe, Mrs. Stein was in New York.

  I blew out a tight breath. I was probably going to get arrested. Or sued. There went my massage license. There went my three hundred bucks for rent.

  To my left near the end of the deck was a door, and I crawled toward it, praying it was unlocked and that it would lead me out of there unnoticed. Rising to my knees, I tried the handle. Apparently I was luckier than I thought. The door pulled outward with just a slight whine, and I crawled within, checking carefully first to make sure the room was empty.

  It was an office; an antique mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, backed by a wall of bookcases filled with hardcovers and trinkets. I made my way across the room to another door, but this one was unfortunately locked.

  “Shit.” I was going to have to wait it out. Hopefully, when they finished, which should be soon, I could sneak back to the veranda and wait for Mr. Stein.

  If Ms. Rowe hadn’t already come searching for me.

  I padded quietly over the plush carpet, glancing over the contents on the desk. There was a slim leather file case and a pile of papers, spread over the glass top. It looked like the design of an engine. I couldn’t help but be intrigued. My father liked to rebuild car engines, so I was used to seeing schematics like this from time to time. The layout of this one was obviously different—I assumed the design was for a plane engine, not a car, since that was the business behind Maxim’s considerable wealth—but they were similar nonetheless. The bottom of each document was stamped with a narrow emerald leaf, standing out in contrast to the black and white designs, and the words GREEN FUSION.

  They were still going at it outside, so I made my way to the shelves to look at the framed pictures. It was definitely Maxim Stein in the courtyard. Maybe I hadn’t seen his face, but I could tell from his hair and build that the man I saw and the man holding a fat silver perch on a fishing boat in this photo were one and the same.

  There were other pictures here as well. Maxim receiving awards. Maxim giving speeches.

  Maxim with his arm around the shoulders of a handsome man half his age with dark chocolate hair and a cocky little smirk.

  Neighborhood Watch.

  I moved closer to the photograph, careful not to touch it. The man I’d met in the street was pictured wearing a black leather jacket, looking away as though being called by someone. He was younger, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, with shorter hair but more scruff on his jaw. Though he was still undeniably sexy, there was a tightness around his eyes, a wariness he was trying to hide with that grin. It wasn’t obvious, at least not to a beaming Maxim, but I could see it. The mark of someone who was waiting for the other shoe to drop—a look you disguised so that no one asked why. I’d perfected that cover. It was how I’d survived for as long as I could remember.

  It looked like they were on a college campus somewhere. Maxim was probably a donor there.

  I spun as the locked door clicked, and then slid inward. My chest tightened. I nearly considered running back outside, but held my ground, knowing running would just make it worse. I was so busted.

  Then, as if I’d conjured him with my thoughts, I found myself face-to-face with the very man I’d been lusting over since my arrival.

  “I should have pegged you as someone who liked to watch,” he said, that smooth voice rich with sensuality.

  He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses now. His eyes were dark blue like the bay, and just as intense as I’d imagined. I was pinned to the spot by his gaze, cheeks heating from being caught, skin growing damp from the hard look of his body. My eyes dropped to the open collar of his white dress shirt. The lines of his throat collided with a swell of muscle that disappeared beneath the pressed fabric. Just the top of his collarbone was revealed, and my fingers itched to trace it, to spread his shirt open so I could see what would surely be the impressive physique beneath.

  I wasn’t the only one enjoying the view. He devoured me with his eyes, leaving me feeling naked and wanting. His thumb tapped against his thigh, the only betrayal of his composed facade. The tension in the room became so thick I could barely breathe. Surely he had to feel it sizzling between us.

  He moved closer, steps fluid like a jungle cat, and sat on the edge of the desk, an arm’s length away. At five foot four I wasn’t short, but even though he was seated, I had to look up to him. He made no sign that he could hear the sounds of sex just outside, but I could. I’d never been more uncomfortable, embarrassed, or turned on.

  He crossed his arms over his muscular chest, knees spread, and because I was suddenly envisioning myself kneeling between them, I stepped back, tearing away from the pull he had on me.

  “What are you doing here?” I managed.

  His mouth turned up in a grin. He had a dimple on one side that was somehow cute and erotic at the same time. The shadows of worry I’d seen in the picture were hidden now. Maybe he’d exorcised those demons. If they were anything like mine, I doubted it. Experiences that gave you a look like that marked you for life.

  Not that I presumed to know anything about him.

  He tilted his head, as if trying to read my mind.

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  I tried to concentrate on his words, but outside, the woman began a series of staccato cries, matching each thrust.

  “Yes,” she cried. “Yes! I’m coming. Don’t stop!”

  “I got a little lost,” I said.

  “I see.”

  He glanced to the paperwork on the desk, a frown flashing quickly across his face. It made me nervous.

  “What were you looking for in here, Anna?” His voice had hardened.

  My brows lifted. He knew my name. It shouldn’t have stirred up the butterflies inside me—he was Mr. Stein’s security, or bodyguard maybe. He’d probably known who I was since he had approached me on the street.

  “I was just trying to get out of the way,” I said truthfully. />
  His eyes narrowed. “To hide.”

  “That’s right.”

  I felt a chill cut through the room. That wary look in his eyes returned, just for one unmistakable moment. The sudden urge to smooth the lines between his brows with my thumbs took me by surprise.

  “I wasn’t here to steal anything, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said.

  “Why would I think that?”

  I placed my hands on my hips, feeling the defensiveness creep up inside me.

  “I signed the papers. No stealing. No picking the flowers. No feeding the fish.”

  He gave a little snort and relaxed again, turning the papers facedown on the desk. I wondered what was so important that he was trying to hide—I could care less about engine designs, plane or otherwise—but I reminded myself that one didn’t become a millionaire without being a little bit paranoid.

  I cleared my throat. “Are you his son?” It occurred to me how twisted this was if it were true. At sixteen, I’d walked in on my parents in bed, and all two seconds were enough to leave permanent scars.

  He shook his head. “I work for him.”

  That was a little better, but not much.

  He stood and, before he could get too close, I backed into the bookshelf. The pictures rattled, and I spun to hold them in place before any fell.

  He stepped closer. I could feel his body behind me. Fighting the image of us naked, I turned slowly, my throat dry.

  “What do you do, exactly?” I asked weakly. He was close enough to touch. I kept my hands down at my sides, fearful I would forget myself if I touched him, aware that my breasts, heaving with each breath, were just inches from his chest.

  Part of me couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d gone from hot to cold to hot again in seconds. I should have told him to back off, but either I couldn’t or I didn’t want to.