Manwhore +1 (8 page)

I’m lingering in the room, I don’t know
why
exactly, when Catherine approaches me in her usual brisk, professional way. “He wants to see you. Follow me to the greenroom.”

I follow her to the back of a hall, then hear her announce me.

When she waves me in, I step inside and it’s full of beautiful furniture, new Persian rugs, technology, and classical background music, a huge fruit basket and chilled wine, as if only the best will do for this man, even if he’s here for only a few minutes.

I look at him. Glorious in the room. Sucking the space around him, like a beautiful, commanding, energetic black hole. Sucking me so that all I know right this second is
him.

He looks at me. “I see you made it.”

His voice rumbles through me.

“Yes.” My lips tug upward and I laugh a little. “Wonderful speech,” I mumble. “Are you taking one-on-ones?”

“No. I leave for a meeting in . . .” He checks his watch, then raises his brow as if the time flew. “Five.”

His assistant hands over a couple of note cards; his dark head bends downward as he quickly skims them. She leaves after a questioning look in my direction, and I take the moment he’s distracted to regroup.

I’m embarrassed to look at him. Amazing how we’ve spent so much time together, shared so many things, and he still manages to make me feel more girly than anything because he’s so masculine. And more shy than anything because he’s so confident. And also because I like him and care about his opinion so much.

Which is why admitting the following hurts: “You didn’t read my speech.”

He lifts his head at that. “I didn’t read your speech,” he agrees, leaving me no choice but to laugh a little joylessly.

“I’m not surprised. I
told
you I’ve been struggling. Would you give me pointers as to what would’ve made it work for you? Was it too impersonal or too fact-oriented . . . ?”

He sets the note cards aside, frowning a little, his eyes a little bit amused. “Nothing like that,” he assures soberly. “It was merely too unique. It had your stamp all over it.” He looks at me with smoldering, intense eyes again, eyes that hold me motionless. “You couldn’t write for anyone else. You’re too unique to adopt someone else’s point of view; you’re too impassioned about yours. You should be writing about exactly and precisely what interests you, Rachel. That is what I’m offering you at M4.”

I’m stunned by the unexpected praise. He speaks honestly. In fact, I detect no flattery in his words or in his gaze. Only the truth as he sees it with those eyes that have seen more than they should by his age. Eyes that have seen everything and that somehow I can feel right now, seeing into
me
.

“I want to write, but . . . it’s the first thing I’ve written easily in weeks,” I admit.

Other than Helen, I haven’t admitted my block to anyone but him.

“It was good.”

Pride fills me at his words, a pride I haven’t felt for my work in a long time.

I’m almost weak with it when Saint steps forward and lifts his arm as if he’s about to touch my face.

I wait for the touch, my body tightening.

He stops himself, laughs mockingly under his breath, and then he stops laughing, admitting with sober intensity, “You can write. You won’t ever lose that.”

Yes I did, I lost it when I lost you.

I remain looking up at him, and then my eyes flick down at his hand as he lowers it to his side, his fingers—how they curl into his palm. His scent is filling my lungs and I don’t want to expel a breath just so I don’t lose that decadent smell. His hand is at his side, but how is it possible to feel his fingers in places they once touched? I’m crying out for them in every cell.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” I ask. “To get me writing? You didn’t need a speech. You just wanted me to realize I could work past my block.”

I’m almost weak when a smile touches his eyes so lightly, it’s barely there. “You think so.”

“I know so, Saint.” Then, looking into his eyes, eyes that watch me as if he knows what I’m thinking, I force out a little, “Thank you.” When he nods, I add, “I’d hoped not to embarrass myself completely in front of you. I’m glad you at least . . . liked what I sent.”

“Even if this means I still want you at M4?” he asks, a soft challenge.

I feel excitement surge through me. “You do?” I shake my head. “I couldn’t.”

“The offer’s still open,” he insists. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he looks at my lips—really stares at them—for three long heartbeats.
Thud, thud, thud.

“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Until when is it open?”

“Until you say yes.”

He walks away, leaving me aching, hopeful, happy, hurting, all at once.

He stops by the door, and looks at me again.

Making love was never as simple as him and me having sex.

Saint made love to me with his smile. There’s a smile in his eyes now.

“Are you available Saturday?” he asks.

I’m . . . hallucinating. I’m making things up, I’m this desperate.

“What do you mean?” I croak.

“There’s an all-day business event. I’d like to introduce you to some of my Interface crew.”

I don’t hesitate, not even a little. “I’m available.”

He grabs the doorknob. “Next Saturday. Someone will pick you up at noon.”

It’s late when I get home to find Wynn and Gina watching a movie in the living room. “Hey,” I say as I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.

I plop down to watch some TV with them, replaying what he told me about my writing today.

“What did you do all day? Why are you so quiet?” Wynn asks.

I grin a little and shrug.

I used to tell them everything about Saint. They were my accomplices. My sidekicks as I went underground to infiltrate the player’s lair.

Now Saint is my treasure. He’s so precious and I have so little of him, is it wrong I want to keep him to myself  ?

“Rachel! Share! All right, she’s gone mad!” Gina exaggeratedly declares to Wynn. “We need to get this girl some serious help.”

I grin as they both shake me.

“You dicks, let go!” I squirm to get free. “I saw
him
at McCormick Place today. He was keynote speaker at some socialmedia thing.” I keep replaying the looks we shared down to the very end. I snuggle my head into the back of the couch and sigh happily. “And he invited me over to this business thing,” I add.

“What business thing?” asks Wynn.

“What do you fucking mean? This should have been yelled out since you stepped in the door!” Gina cries, indignant.

“Oh god.” I moan into my pillow, then toss it over to them, red. “I can’t talk about it. I need to process! Good night, guys!”

I hear them murmur to themselves and speculate, I sit on my bed and scroll my contacts in my phone.

Do it
, a part of me prods.
No, don’t do it
, another part goes.
Yes, ask him something he needs to answer.
But I can’t. I can’t push that hard. I need to take a page from his book and be patient.

I hug my pillow instead.
Saturday
, I think, making a mental list of things.

I need to look perfect.

I need to
not
make a fool of myself.

I need to remind him of what great friends we were even when we weren’t deliciously fucking.

I need to win Saint back.

W
hen a shiny silver Rolls-Royce pulls over outside my apartment building on Saturday, I fairly shoot out the door.

I’m wearing a pair of white slacks with a cardi and silk top, and I colored my cheeks a little bit, and glossed my lips, opting to look professional, and I tied my hair back in a braid that hangs down my back. When I walk out and see Otis standing there, guarding the Rolls as he waits, I can’t control the excitement surging in me.

“A pleasure, Miss Rachel,” he says, beaming.

“It really is,” I admit with a smile.

I settle in the backseat and Malcolm’s familiar scent reaches me. Clean and expensive. I take a good whiff of his aftershave and cologne and am sure I just stepped into heaven—a heaven ruled by a green-eyed devil.

The scent lingers strongly, along with a whiff of top-quality leather. I feel butterflies. Eat your heart out, Pretty Woman.

Soon the car pulls up at the driveway of a 5-star resort hotel, where Catherine H. Ulysses greets me at the door. As she leads me across the sumptuous lobby, she explains the situation. “Every summer, Mr. Saint’s winemakers invite him, along with a few of his choice business partners and employees, to a wine tasting so he can select his favorites for the yearly M4 gala. He wanted you to meet them, considering . . .” She shoots me a disgruntled look. “He wants you at M4.”

As we walk down the hall, a group of men come forward, one of whom rushes to catch up with us. “Cathy! We really want Saint to place an order with us at South Napa Vineyards.”

“I couldn’t sway him either way.” Catherine keeps walking with a clipboard to her chest, and I try not to break stride either.

“Please put in a good word for us, we’ve brought
all
of our best whites.”

“What can I say, Richard? Some days he likes reds, others he likes whites, others he’s up for pinot noir rather than the cabernets. He likes his variety; what can you do?”

“Catherine, we’ve been doing this for years. By now we’d
love
some sort of commitment. It would speak highly of us if we were to be the prime supplier this year.”

“And I’ll tell you what I told the rest of them: good luck. May the saints be with you.”

We wade into a beautiful restaurant already full of people. The space boasts twenty-five-foot ceilings and is set up with long tables, each one draped in white linens with elegant silverware and sleek chrome centerpieces holding long, lone orchids.

Pure luxury surrounds us.

At the far end of the room, expansive glass doors open all the way to the walls, revealing dramatic views of a golf course to one side, and a pool, waterfall, and pergola to the other.

After we cross the room, we head into another section, even more luxurious than the first. This area is strategically scattered with white-upholstered conversational seating, lines of delicate folded menus standing open at the centers of the sleek glass coffee tables. Wine racks line one side of the room while the other side reveals a beautiful view of a terrace and golf course.

Catherine is checking out the area while telling one of the waiters who approaches, “This turned out perfect. Mr. Saint likes the view. He also likes his privacy. Nice little area here. Good job, thank you.”

Holy god, it’s all so beautiful. It reminds me of his apartment, his cars.

Everything about him.

I’m letting my eye appreciate every inch of this place, when I see Saint walk in. My eyes hurt.

Catherine lifts her head too. “Excuse me,” she tells the waiter. “Excuse me,” she then tells me, flustered as she heads for the door.

As Catherine threads through the crowd to greet him with her chart to her chest, there’s an almost imperceptible hush in the room.

The people who were closest to the doors immediately walk up to him.

He’s wearing black slacks and a white shirt, no tie, his hair slicked back to reveal his stunning face. He looks hot multiplied by a million.

I’m a little embarrassed to realize my nipples ache painfully beneath my top and bra, and I’m more than a little uncomfortable by the fact that I can get aroused at the mere sight of him. I have no right to that little stab of jealousy I feel when he talks to the people who approach. But I dearly wish that it were me alone that he spoke to.

I stare at my shoes and tuck my hair behind my ear and inhale. I promise myself I’m going to look up and not look at him, but when I lift my eyes, it’s him they look for. He’s greeting a couple who just approached, the woman wearing an especially awed smile.

I watch as he then ducks his head to Catherine and asks her something. She lifts her head and points at me. Green eyes slide down the length of the room to find me. I feel a helpless leap in my heart as our gazes lock—and I realize with dread how I must look to him. Standing alone at the far side of the room, gaping at him. He untangles himself from the crowd and starts walking toward me.

I can’t swallow. His face is unsmiling, and he moves with the fluidity of water but the force of a tsunami.

Under his shirt, I can see the indentations of his flat, ripped abs, the flex of his arms and shoulders, his long legs, so muscled and strong, walking toward me. My heart is whacking in my chest so hard I can’t hear anything but the noise it makes.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thank you, I am too.”

He takes one step closer. “Has Catherine explained the day to you?” He looks down at me expectantly. God, we’re standing
so
close he’s in my personal bubble and I’m within the protection of his.

Talk, Livingston!
“Yes, thank you.”

I don’t want him to leave me yet, I find myself searching for something to say.