She opened her mouth but quickly closed it. He hustled her out the door before she could change her mind. It was still snowing, and the street was lit up for the holidays. Individual shopkeepers had decorated, and there were also arches across the street itself, incorporating Christmas trees, menorahs, and crescent moons and stars. It was pretty damn charming, even for a jaded rake like him. “Shall I call the car?”
“What is the deal with this car? It just hangs around wherever you are until you summon it?”
“That is exactly what it does.”
“What kind of setup is that?” she asked with exaggerated skepticism.
“I believe you call it a car service. I engage a driver to be available to me while I’m in New York.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“A Mercedes, I think.”
She scoffed.
He ignored her disapproval. “You want me to call it?”
“No. I want to walk.”
Good. He did, too. He didn’t want to go back to his dark, empty hotel room yet. He had the photographer’s number from yesterday and an invitation to call her anytime, but he was still, uncharacteristically, not in the mood.
Dani stumbled. The sidewalks were slick with new snow, and she wasn’t very steady on her feet to begin with. He grabbed her before she could fall, and once she was righted, he let go and offered her his arm. He was surprised when she took it.
“This is an Italian section of the city, I gather?” he asked, noting the shops with cured sausages drying in the windows as they strolled.
“Historically, but it’s probably more Mexican and Albanian today than it is Italian. It’s a hodgepodge.”
“I’ve never been to the Bronx,” he said.
She snorted. “Yeah, we’re a long way from Manhattan concierges who can get you impossible reservations.”
He shrugged. He wasn’t going to pretend to be a man of the people. He liked his comforts. But he also liked this. “I’m a fan of New York—all of it. All of it that I’ve seen, anyway.”
“You are?”
“Yes. It’s the perfect mixture of tradition and renewal. It retains its identity even as it’s constantly changing. It’s resilient. Scrappy.” Like he was. That sounded like self-flattery, but it was merely a fact. He’d had to be scrappy—doubly so since his brother wasn’t. Perhaps he appreciated New York in a “like recognizes like” way.
“I never thought of New York like that, but you’re right. Eldovia isn’t scrappy?”
“Eldovia isn’t scrappy,” he confirmed with a chuckle. He certainly had been laughing a lot this evening. It was disconcerting to find himself, suddenly, so easily amused. “Eldovia, or at least my experience of it, which I grant is not typical, is protocol and decorum.” And, in some corners, rage and chaos. “But it does have some things to recommend it.”
“What are those things?”
“Mountains, chiefly. I live at the base of one, and I love going up it.” He only said that because she was drunk. Max was not the kind of person who went around earnestly proclaiming his love for nature.
“We turn here. I think.” Her brow furrowed as she tried to read a street sign. “I’m not normally this much of a drunker.” She furrowed some more. “Drinker.”
“No judgment here. I’m the man-whore, remember?”
“Yeah, what is that about?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s ‘about’ anything.”
“At some point this evening you stopped trying to get into my pants. Why?”
“Because you clearly don’t want me there.”
“So you’re a man-whore with morals?”
“While I’m happy to take credit for being morally upstanding in my slutting around, I don’t think it’s actually that high-minded—or that complicated.”
“What is it, then?”
“Call me crazy, but sexual assault turns me off. Coercion, all that stuff. It’s what I believe you Americans would call a ‘boner killer.’” He copied her signature finger-air-quotes gesture.
She turned thoughtful. “Also, why is the term man-whore? Why not just whore?”
“Marie is the only one who calls me that. Well, Marie and the tabloids.”
“So what do people call you? Oh, wait, ‘The Depraved Duke,’ right?”
He smirked. “Not a duke, though.”
“But you don’t dispute the ‘depraved’ part?”
“Well, people used to call me a playboy, or a rake, before that unfortunate moniker stuck. It’s amazing the kinds of stories people will tell about you when you’re as attractive as I am.” He batted his eyelashes to show he was joking. And also because he truly did not want to talk about it.
“Rich probably doesn’t hurt, either.”
“What can I say? I am the full package. I’m also good in bed.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve had good reviews.”
She snorted. “How do you know your reviewers weren’t blinded by your good looks and your castle full of gold? How do you know they weren’t lying?”
Perhaps they were. Max had his faults, but he liked to think self-delusion wasn’t one of them, so he contemplated the prospect. “While I understand the concept of ‘faking it,’ I like to think I’d be able to tell if they were all faking.”
She burst out laughing, which was rather a blow to the ego, and he found himself in the rare position of not knowing what to say.
He didn’t have to say anything, though, because she stopped abruptly and looked around. “We overshot,” she declared, and steered him back the way they had come. Half a block later they came to a stop in front of a brick walk-up.
“Allow me to escort you to your apartment,” he said.
“You don’t have to.” She was holding her keys really close to her eyes.
“And yet I do.”
“And yet you don’t.” She tripped over her own feet.
He caught her and gently pried her keys out of her grasp. “Indulge me.”
Chapter Three
When Dani awoke the next morning, it was to a headache and a note from Max.
The note was written on a business card propped up against a bottle of Advil on her nightstand. There was a large glass of water there, too, and her phone, plugged into a charger. She reached for the card, but she forgot to do her usual stealth roll, so Max woke up and started yapping happily.
“Oh, Max,” she moaned, not sure if she was moaning in dismay at Dog Max’s barks piercing her brain or in gratitude at Human Max for putting the Advil within arm’s reach. “Good morning, my love.” That was definitely directed at Dog Max. She kissed his head and tried to get her eyes to focus.
I took your dog out last night before I left, Human Max had scrawled on the card in navy ink that looked like it had come from a fountain pen. His handwriting was tall and angular—like him. He’d drawn an arrow, which prompted her to turn the card over. Thanks for an epic evening. –M.
She turned the card back over. It was a minimalist business card, embossed with only his name, and the nickname version at that: Max von Hansburg. No titles of either the occupational or hereditary variety. Then a phone number, which she supposed she already had, since he’d texted her, and an email address that, surprisingly, was a Gmail one.