Dating Games(41)

“Evie Fitzgerald,” I answer. There’s no immediate response. When I’m about to speak again, a voice interrupts.

“A little birdie said you’ve been looking for me.” The deep baritone hits me in my core. Gravelly. Mysterious. Bemused. There’s a hint of an accent. French maybe? It’s not obvious. Just enough to make me believe he’s not American-born.

“And does this little birdie have a name?” I ask coyly as I scan the coffee shop. It could have been someone else, maybe a wrong number, but it’s too much of a coincidence. My gut says this is him, that he somehow heard I’ve been sitting in this café every morning on a quest to figure out who he is.

There’s a chuckle on the other end, a low rumble. I picture him in a perfectly tailored suit, leaning back in the chair of his office, the beautiful cityscape of New York in the background, the brilliant summer sun beaming through the windows. Or maybe he’s like the rest of wealthy Manhattan society and spends his summer in the Hamptons, which would account for why I haven’t seen him. Perhaps he’s just now waking up at ten in the morning with a view of the Atlantic Ocean and is calling me from the balcony of a luxurious beach house he purchased with the proceeds of taking advantage of women.

“I never reveal my sources. But I’m intrigued to know how you found out about my little secret.”

I smile, lifting my coffee to my lips. “Like you, I never reveal my sources. Your story caught my attention, and I’d like to learn more. As would my readers.”

“I’m sure they would. Do you realize how many people have been where you are? Sitting in that very café at a table close to the counter, yet still with a great view of the dining area, notebook out, scribbling down notes about every man who’s come in to order a chocolate hazelnut pastry?”

I swallow hard. I don’t know why I assumed I could outsmart this man who appears to take his privacy to a level I’ve never seen. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that other people had done this very thing. And where are they now? Did they give up because the man truly is a ghost? Did he call them and tell them it’s a lost cause?

“You’re not the first, Miss Fitzgerald, although I will say you’re the first who doesn’t scream ‘reporter’.”

“No?”

“Trust me. That’s a good thing, considering the editor at your fine magazine doesn’t want her staff to be like normal reporters, which is why her publication’s kept circulation high, despite the changed environment.”

“You’ve done your research.”

“I always do.”

“Well, since I don’t scream reporter, what do you say to sitting down for a one-on-one interview?” I waggle my brows, even though he can’t see.

“So you can write an article cheapening what I do, claiming something ridiculous, such as I take advantage of women?” There’s a teasing quality to his tone.

“Do you take advantage of women?”

“Absolutely not.”

Excitement bubbles in my veins as I flip to a blank page in my notepad, jotting down the date. “You answered a question. Does this mean you agree to be interviewed?” There’s no masking the hope in my voice.

“Not yet. I’m sure you’ve realized by now the importance of anonymity in my line of work.”

“I do… To an extent. But I’d like to understand better. That could be more effectively accomplished face-to-face. Perhaps an interview and a photo shoot.”

He laughs once more, the sound light and natural. Not forced, like you hear so often during initial meetings. “I have to give you credit, Miss Fitzgerald. You certainly are persistent.”

“No. Just stubborn. I am Irish, after all.”

“I had a feeling you were.”

“What gave it away? The last name?”

“No. Your fiery personality.”

“You don’t even know me,” I quip back.

“Ah, but I do. You familiar with the old saying, ‘You write what you know’?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, not answering.

“Well, I’ve read your column. In fact, I’ve read everything you’ve ever published at that magazine…print and online.”

My jaw drops. “I’ve been there over five years now,” I say, dumbstruck. “I’ve written hundreds of articles.”

“Just like I’m sure you’ve been scouring the Internet for information on me, the instant I learned a woman named Evie Fitzgerald from Blush magazine was looking for me, I did some research of my own.”

“Is that right? And what did you find out?”

“That you, Miss Fitzgerald, are extremely talented. Actually, I was able to skip a few days of ab exercises from the workout I got laughing at your work. You have a gift.”

I blow out a laugh. “Sure. Tell my ex that.”

“Your ex?” His voice rises in pitch, curious about my statement. I hadn’t meant to say anything like that. It just kind of slipped out.

“It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t—”

“It’s obviously not nothing. Tell me.”

“Thanks for the offer, but it’s okay.”

“You want to understand what it is I do, why I do what I do, this is part of it. What I do isn’t as black and white as accompanying a beautiful woman to one event or another. It’s giving them the confidence they need, for whatever reason, to help them see what any man with half a brain should. So if you want greater insight into August Laurent, tell me about your ex.”