“I haven’t been following the statistics.” He smiles. “But it is true the world is made of both.”
My stomach, which had been all gnarled up, seems to like that smile.
“Your M4 conglomerate is the most powerful corporation in the state. Is it true a lot of your employees aren’t college graduates?”
He keeps eye contact with the silver-haired, bearded reporter who asked, and succinctly answers, “We hire people who want to make things different. We encourage education and partner with educators across the country, but we prize free thinkers and people who can get things done above all else.”
He scans the crowd then, and suddenly a shockingly brilliant pair of green eyes lands on me. I had forgotten I’d been standing there with my arm raised. He calls on me.
“Rachel Livingston from Edge,” I hastily identify myself, as is customary, but when I hear gasps in the audience—fuck—I just forget what I was going to say.
Scrambling, I blurt out the second question that comes to mind, bypassing the real one I want to ask: Why did you not read my speech? “Interface, as a word, is a shared boundary across which two separate components of a computer system exchange information. In choosing this name, did you mean to make fun of how dispassionate relationships can become through online communication, the loss of personal contact?”
A hush spreads.
The room blurs as he holds my stare from the podium; everything blurs but the chiseled perfection of Saint’s masculine face and the shockingly personal look in his gaze.
“No, I’m not poking fun at relationships, especially since I admire anyone who can endure one.” He looks directly at me with a challenge in his eyes.
When finally some people laugh, a trickle of warm heat burns in the center of my tummy, spreading down my thighs.
What does that mean?
Dibs, I remember.
It had annoyed and confused me at the time. Now, I would give a billion times more than any other woman in the world for him to call dibs on me.
He scans the audience afterward and I don’t remember being this shaken since the first live press conference I attended as a journalist.
The answers continue, along with the questions, and then Saint thanks the crowd. Their applause is enormous as he leaves the stage, and the emptiness seems greater after his commanding presence. Reporters rush to edit their videos and write their stories.
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.
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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.
SATURDAY
When 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.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d require of me today but I hope I dressed all right.”
He doesn’t even look at my clothes when he nods. And then he says, “I’d like you to meet some people.”
“Of course.”
He waves a hand and I get to greet Dean, his PR person, and then he introduces me to his other assistants, a few members of his board, and two key Interface design members. “Nice to me
et you,” I say to them all.
I remain talking to one of them. A young man who didn’t finish college but his work as an innovator and application designer has been lauded across the world.
Saint has been praised for having a great eye for talent. He brings out their talent, their determination, and their mettle. The M4 conglomerate is proof of that. They all truly follow their leader.
“Oops, time to sit down.” The young man heads to search for his name on the tables. I scan for mine and, once sitting, I survey the menu at my place for a while as the room finishes filling up.
There’s an impressive array of wines on the list. I’m trying to find one I may be familiar with when Catherine comes and moves the card next to mine and sets the name Malcolm Saint there instead.
Oh.
Saint is coming over?
My heart starts pounding. I can’t even breathe when he takes his seat. One second the chair is empty and the next he’s there.
I can smell him in every breath, especially his aftershave. Oh god, how can you miss a smell so much?
He takes his menu quietly and reads, and my concentration is nil as I pretend to do the same. Then some guy comes over to say hi, and Saint and he discuss oil prices. Saint’s hand is on the table, resting there, idle—his big tanned hand. That’s all I’m looking at—I’m this pathetic.
I think about reaching out. Touching his hand and linking my fingers through his. Sending a message that says, Dibs on this. Dibs on you.
I am obsessing about it. I slowly set down the menu but don’t dare do anything. I offered to work the weekends; this isn’t a date and I want to respect the distance he seems to want to keep between us. But I still can’t stop staring at his hand and remembering how it feels, how thick it is and strong and warm. Malcolm shifts in his seat then and shoves his hand into his pocket, scanning the menu again when they drop the conversation.
“It’s getting cold out and we’re barely out of summer,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees, lifting his eyes to me for a long, long second. Then, he sets the menu down and shifts his shoulder to face me a little more.
His gaze is fiercely direct and a bit stormy. Oh god.