Mr. Mysterious: A Mister Standalone (The Mister Series Book 4) (11 page)

She swallows hard, then lifts her head up and squares her shoulders. “I’m a winner, Mr. Mysterious. You should get used to that fact. And I’ll play that game with you if you want. But it’s got nothing to do with your mother, whom I
will
be meeting next weekend. Even if I have to drive myself.”

I don’t think she knows what the game is. I think she’s been researching me. Came upon some clue from back in the day. I’m not sure how it got out, but she’s an investigator, right? Her job is to find dirt on people.

But my job is to cover it up. It’s like an ironic little paradox.

I walk over to her. Right up next to her. She’s not small, but I tower over her. She looks up with those giant blue eyes and I remember something.

“You’re blonde.”

“What?” It comes out as a whisper.

“The carpet doesn’t match the drapes, sugar. You’re blonde. You’ve got blue eyes and the face of a fairytale princess. Why do you dye your hair black and wear all that shit on your face?”

“Excuse me?” She narrows her eyes at me.

I narrow mine right back. “You heard me,” I say, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her in closer. Our faces are less than an inch apart. If anger wasn’t coursing through my blood right now, it might appear I was gonna kiss her.

I am not going to
kiss
her.

“You wear that makeup to hide. You dye your hair to hide. These clothes,” I say, pinching the fabric of her vintage Metallica t-shirt between my fingers, “are your disguise. You’re a sweet little liar, aren’t you? Tell me, Cindy. Which of the many things you told me since we’ve met are lies and which are actually true?”

I’m going to
threaten
her.

“Let go,” she says, placing both hands firmly on my chest and pushing me back. My feet don’t even move. I am a wall as far as she’s concerned. A mountain. Made of stone. Immovable. Insurmountable. Unconquerable.

“Let go? I thought we were fate, sugar? I thought we were partners?” I growl those words out like she’s the enemy.

She straightens her back and levels her gaze at me. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be,” I say, leaning so close to her face our noses touch. I stare into her eyes. “Find your own fucking way to Del Mar, bitch. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay the fuck away from me and my family.”

Chapter Eleven - Cindy

Paxton disappears after that. For almost the whole week. He told his mother that Nolan called and asked him to do something. Is that where he went? Or is he already working for that Liam guy? I know the Nolan he’s referring to is Mr. Romantic. And the job with Liam was about Mr. Corporate. What I don’t know is how much of this involves my brother, Mr. Match.

I case his house all week. I don’t bother going back to Buster’s and hoping for a delivery call. That driver I was bribing to let me know about Paxton’s sandwich orders was fired, so I can’t weasel any more information out of that little deal.

I go into his house every night, careful to disarm the security system so there’s no alert, just to check and see if he’s home. But he's not. And there are no messages on that landline phone. There isn’t even an answering machine.

So I wait in my trailer down PCH. And I hang out in the waves with the surfers in front of his house, hoping he’ll surprise me and come out there like he usually does when he’s in town.

But he never comes, so he’s not in town.

Where is he? What is he doing? The week drags on so slowly, it makes me want to scream into my pillow at night. And by the time Saturday morning rolls around, I’m aching for him. Just a look at him. I get up early and plan my outfit, wondering what Mariel Hawthorne is really like once you get to know her, and then make the four-hour drive down to San Diego county in weekend traffic.

I have never been to Del Mar racetrack, but I have been to Belmont that one time I was stalking Paxton’s mother. She said meet her in the Turf Club, so that’s where I head once I get inside.

They have a dress code, so I am appropriately attired as I hand over my ticket for inspection and smile at the man guarding the door.

“Right down that way, miss.” The usher points to a section of tables.

“Thank you,” I say, smiling sweetly. I have no intention of going to my seat. I head to the bar and order a mint julep.

“It’s not the Derby, ma’am,” the bartender says with a wink.

“I just like them.” I shrug.

“Coming up.” He steps away to make my drink and I turn around, come face to face with Paxton, and hold my hand over my chest, startled.

“Jesus, Pax. You don’t have to sneak up on me.”

He grins like he’s got a secret.

And he looks… fuck hot. I’ve seen him in suits. I mean, he wears them all the time. Usually with one of those red power ties. But they are usually black and formal.

Today he’s wearing a light gray suit with a coral tie and matching pocket square.

I have to take a deep breath as I stare up into his eyes, trying my best not to overly appreciate him.

“One mint julep,” the bartender says behind me.

“I’ll have bourbon,” Pax says, eyes never leaving mine as he reaches behind me for my drink.

“Yes, sir,” the bartender says.

“These things will kill you,” Pax says, looking me up and down with far less self-control than I exhibited as he hands me my drink. What a possessive little move with the drink. It makes me flutter a little. “What the fuck did you do to your hair?” he asks.

I shrug. “You didn’t seem to like the dark.” I paid three hundred dollars that I didn’t really have for a salon in Malibu to get my natural color back. But I like the result. It’s been dark for years now and I’ve missed my natural look. “So this is me.”

His fingers find their way into my thick head of golden locks, rubbing them between his fingers. “That’s quite a trick.”

“It was time.” I sigh, then take a sip of my drink. “I haven’t been blonde since I left home at eighteen.”

“Why not?”

“Bourbon,” the bartender says, still behind me.

Pax reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, then puts two twenties on the bar as he takes his drink.

“Change?” the bartender asks.

“Keep it,” Pax says with the smooth assurance of a man with money. “Have you seen my mother? I’m going to assume you know what she looks like, seeing as how you’re a private investigator.
With
firearms permit,” he adds, taking a long sip of his whiskey.

“I just got here. You?”

“Same.” He takes another drink. “Let’s go find her then.” He takes my unoccupied hand and places it on his forearm, leading me away.

“Why are you being so nice?” I ask, suddenly very,
very
nervous.

“Don’t mistake cautious for nice, Cinderella. My mother wants to talk to me. She wanted you to be included. And I can’t help but think there’s a reason for that.”

“Like what?” I ask. We step down a few stairs into the main dining room. There is an unobstructed view of the finish line directly ahead, and Pax leads me all the way down to the front to a group of empty tables. “Where have you been all week?”

“Busy.”

“Doing what? You told your mother you had to do something for your friend Nolan. He’s Mr. Romantic, right? Don’t you think it’s odd that you get a call from Mr. Romantic and then that Liam guy shows up asking you to
take care
of Mr. Corporate for him?”

But Pax ignores me, takes out his phone, and sends a text. He gets a ping back before he can redirect his attention to me. “She’s in the barn.” And then under his breath, “Of course. Come on. We’ll meet her down there. The race she’s interested in is later tonight. She’ll hang out there until post time if I don’t pull her away.”

“Are you going to answer me?” I ask, stopping so he has to stop too.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Where have you been all week?”

He downs the rest of his drink and then sets his empty glass on a shelf the bettors use to pore over their racing forms. I decide to do the same, slamming my glass down a little harder than I should.

“I was on the East Coast. With Nolan. Some pretty weird fucking shit went down.”

“Like what?”

He looks me in the eyes. “I don’t know if I should trust you or not. I don’t know why I haven’t kicked you aside yet. But…” He sighs, like he’s really got a lot on his mind. Like he’s tired and just needs a moment to catch his breath. “Tell me why you’re here, Cindy.”

I get the feeling he needs this answer. “Something happened, didn’t it? With your friend.”

“Why are you here?”

“I just like you,” I say. It comes out soft. If he seems tired, then I must seem defeated. Because that’s kinda how I feel. Why am I stalking him? Do I really know anymore?

“Are you…” But he stops. Looks away.

“Am I what?” But he stays silent. “I’m not here to hurt you. No one hired me, if that’s what you’re after. I swear, I’m just a girl who saw your picture on the news and got obsessed. OK? And yeah, it’s weird, and wrong, and creepy. But I’m really not any of those things. I swear it. I’m just a girl who likes a guy.”

He looks at me. Finally. “That’s it?” he asks. And somewhere in that small, almost insignificant question, I find vulnerability. “That’s all this is? Just a girl who likes a guy?”

I shrug. “That’s it.”

“OK,” he says, giving in. And even though I should feel a little relief that he doesn’t push me harder about the truth, I don’t feel relief. I want to tell him. I want him to know me. I want to know him. Not in the stalker way. That’s nothing but information. And the sex didn’t give me much insight. Not the way we did it, as fuck buddies. “Maybe we can talk about it later then?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’d really like to talk about it later.”

And then I realize that could mean two things. I’d really like to talk about it later because I don’t want to talk about it. Or I’d really like to talk about it later because now isn’t the time, but I’m dying to talk about it.

I don’t have a chance to ask him which way he took it, because he turns away and leads me through the crowd of people.

To the barn we go. It’s a longish walk, past crowds of well-dressed people holding drinks, laughing and talking easily. Pax smiles at a lot of them. Some call his name, saying hello. He’s polite, but never stops walking. He’s one of those men who always seem preoccupied with life. Always have something on their mind.

People notice this. People feel… not jealous, really. But outside of him, I can just tell by the way everyone watches us, they want to know more. Like me, I realize. He has this magnetism that draws you in, but he also has this
stay the fuck away from me
vibe that prevents an invasion of privacy.

It’s paradoxical, I realize. He’s a walking paradox.

He leads me down several levels until we are on the floor with the bettors. We make our way out into the paddock area, where a dozen or so good-looking thoroughbreds are prancing, eager as their jockeys are lifted up on their backs and trainers lean into whisper last-minute advice.

Paxton pulls two ID badges from his suit coat pocket and shows them to a security guard. The guard smiles, nods, waves us through.

And then… “Wow,” I say, my eyes darting everywhere at once. Things were busy out front, but the bustle back here in the barns is something else altogether. Horses walking on the coolers, being led by grooms, standing beautifully, like kings and queens, in their open-air stall doors.

This place drips with money.

“Never been to the back side?” Paxton asks.

“I have,” I say, before realizing the only other time was at Belmont, when I was stalking his mother. Dear God. What if she recognizes me? “But it wasn’t like
this
.”

“This is a stakes race. It’s kind of a big deal, even if it’s only for two-year-old fillies. They want to see the girls who might go far next year and this is one of the races that count. The best young ladies in Southern California are in this race.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m not really up on racing.”