Manwhore +1

  I try to calm my breathing. Pretend nothing happened, right? I’ll pretend I never woke up and pretend I don’t remember my dream tomorrow.

  No. I can’t. I can’t stay here, so close . . .

  Oh. GOD.

  Quietly, I climb out of bed, gather my shoes, and then cross the room. I stop to hastily scrawl a message on the hotel notepad:

  Full day tomorrow. Thanks for today.

  R

  And then I set the pen silently next to the note and head out the door.

  ON EDGE

  I’m so embarrassed. So, so embarrassed I may give new definition to the word. I go back home and sit there, on my bed, smelling his soap and cologne on my clothes, completely sober and unable to sleep. If Saint had any doubts, any at all, that I still wanted him, I’m sure he’s pretty sure of how hopelessly I do.

  Oh god.

  And it turns out, I’m not the only one worked up about Saturday; social media seems just as frenzied about it.

  My presence at the wine tasting seems to have sparked another kind of wildfire in Saint’s floozie circle on Monday.

  IS IT TRUE? ARE THE RUMORS OF YOU GETTING BACK WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND TRUE?

  And back to Twitter:

  @malcolmsaint spotted with HER

  @malcolmsaint is it true? Are you getting back with her????? They say you were together Saturday

  @tahoeroth is it true @malcolmsaint is seeing his ex-girlfriend? He’s staring at her from the podium and WTF with the look he’s giving her!!

  I click on the link and stare at a picture of me standing inside McCormick Place as he was getting to my question. I didn’t even see anyone take this picture of us. In fact, at that moment I hadn’t noticed that he was giving me a very toe-curling look without regard for anyone watching.

  Sighing, I tuck my phone away and search through my “ideas” file.

  I’m mulling over topics when Helen tings me at my desk.

  I lock my computer—something I never did before. I used to think my riches were in my brain and whatever was in my files was not as valuable as what I, myself, contained. But after Victoria copied my research file, I realized everything you value has to be locked well. Oh, life, how jaded you make us, I think as I lock it—and then I head over to Helen.

  When she sees me, she gives me a big grin and gestures to one of her chairs. “Sit down.”

  I shake my head and start to tell her, “No, I’m good. Helen, I’m finally having a breakthrough—”

  “We’re being bought out,” she cuts me off.

  “I . . . excuse me?”

  So . . . there’s truth to the rumor?

  Helen clucks. “See, Rachel, you should’ve taken the chair.”

  We stare at each other across her desk. Helen looks about as incredulous as I, but far happier about it.

  “We’ve got an offer and it’s apparently your article that caught our investor’s eye,” she continues. The look she’s sending my way practically pets me with appreciation.

  Helen’s marvel and delight are apparent, but I’m getting more baffled by the second. “Well, who’s buying us? Edge hasn’t been attractive for years.”

  “No, it hasn’t. But it looks like it is now,” she says. “The offer’s from a big one. It’s actually someone you might know. Linton Corporation.” She waits as if I know anything about it and expects me to guess.

  When I remain silent, she adds, “Noel Saint’s new media corporation.”

  My stomach hits the floor.

  I shake my head and brace my forehead on my hand for a minute as I count to . . . well, actually, to four.

  “Noel Saint?”

  “The very one.” She smiles. “And you don’t need to be worried. He might be making changes, but the current owners assure me you’ll be staying. Noel Saint is very intrigued by the woman who captured such prolonged interest from his son.”

  I want to throw up. I feel so physically sick that I can’t remain standing for much longer, much less keep talking about this.

  Staring mutely for another moment, I finally say, “If you don’t mind I’m going to try to get a column started . . .”

  I head out the door and, back at my computer, the memory of an overheard conversation just this weekend teases me.

  Espionage . . . he’ll never leave you alone . . .

  Noel Saint is buying Edge.

  Because of my article.

  Why?

  What does he want with Edge?

  With me?

  I sit staring at my computer. When Saint pursued me before, he bought my mural . . . he sent me flowers . . . he helped End the Violence take new, technological safety measures . . . but I never imagined that offering me a job at M4 could have a similar underlying reason.

  Is Saint protecting me from his father?

  I war with myself for the next hour. I lose, and shoot him a text: Can you talk?

  Too impatient when he doesn’t answer by lunchtime, I grab my bag, toss my afternoon apple inside, and call Catherine on my way to the elevator.

  When she answers, I ask in a rush, “Is he in? Can you get me five minutes with him?”

  “I’m sorry but he’s out of the office today.”

  I exhale and stop at the elevator. “Thanks.” Disappointed, I go back to my seat and think of Sin as I eat my apple.

  He didn’t sound worried during the wine tasting when he was questioned about his father. He seemed more concerned over what I thought of the wine than what the businessman whispered.

  Even so, his father is dangerous.

  As dangerous as Saint himself.

  And then a bolt hits me, and I remember hearing him tell someone: “. . . have to be dead to let her fall into his clutches . . .”

  It all starts to click with lightning-fast speed in my head.

  Oh.

  My.

  Oh my oh my oh my.

  Feeling a spike of adrenaline as I remember the grade-A ASSHOLE Saint’s father is, I surf the internet for information on the man.

  I find a few articles about lawsuits from employees, and inevitably, I bump into one of those few video interviews he gave the press, when Saint started M4 while his father kept assuring everyone that he gave his son “no more than three months to bankruptcy.”

  “You are such a top-level douche-bag, and I am so glad Saint keeps proving you wrong,” I mutter at the man behind the podium.

  Feeling worse and worse the more I see, I start to seriously consider my options and what I’ll do if Noel Saint succeeds in acquiring Edge. Jumping to my inbox, I scan the emails that I received when my article broke out and I wonder if those who reached out still want to interview me. Then I open another search engine and scan the job boards.

  “Why are you checking the online ads?”

  I lift my head distractedly to spot Valentine peering at my computer screen. “What?” I ask him.

  “The ads. Why are you looking at online ads? Are you leaving?”

  I glance around to make sure nobody else is hearing, then close my search, determined to make some calls later.

  BOX

  When I get to my apartment, I’ve got a ton of research for my article but I can’t stop thinking about Noel Saint, Malcolm Saint feeding me wine from his thumb, and my embarrassing dream. After a quick shower I opt to add a mayonnaise treatment to my hair and let it sit under a shower cap for a while when I get a ring from the landlady who lives on the first floor. She says that there’s a package downstairs for me but it’s quite heavy so she’ll have someone bring it up.

  The package, when it’s brought to my door by her burly bear of a husband, is a huge case of wine. My favorite wine.

  And a note taped to the top in such familiar writing, my world tilts upside down.

  Rachel,

  I couldn’t keep all these to myself. I’ll never forget the look on your face when you met your new obsession.

  M. S.

  I reread it several times. I read even the white spaces between the le
tters. I read the M and the S and everything he wrote.

  God. My obsession is YOU.

  Exhaling shakily, I bend and heave a little as I carry the box inside, lock the door behind me, then I head to my room and lift my cell phone in trembling hands, press SIN, and call.

  I’m wracking my brain for what to say.

  It rings three times before I hear him pick up and say, “Saint.”

  I literally feel the butterflies in my throat. “Hey, it’s me,” I say, trying to sound casual as I glance at the note in my hand, the want for my own obsession eating me inside as I talk to him on the phone. “So,” I begin, trying to not sound breathless, “some guy I know wants to get me drunk. I have a case of delicious wine right on my doorstep with the address to AA for when I’m done.”

  “Bastard.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Help me with this someday?”

  The soft and unexpected chuckle on the other end of the line does something to me, and I have to stop pacing and sit down on the edge of my bed. I pluck nervously at the comforter as he tells me, “There are seven days in a week and none of them is someday. Tell me when, Rachel.”

  A flush crawls up my cheeks. “I’d hoped this week, but I have to write after I did nothing but imbibe wine this weekend.”

  “I have a better idea. Come downstairs.”

  “What?”

  “Come downstairs,” he repeats.

  “You’re passing through the neighborhood?” I ask in disbelief, turning to gape at the window.

  “I’m not passing; I’m in the neighborhood for you.”

  Crossing the room, I pluck the curtain aside and see a shiny crimson car pulling over in front of my building. His big-shit new car.

  “Come down,” he says, and then he cuts off. I drop the curtain and text him: Give me 5.

  Tossing my phone on my bed, I hurry to the bathroom and yank off my shower cap and stare at my mayonnaise hair. Oh fuck, Rachel, why did you do a hair treatment today?!

  Gina leans against the doorjamb and asks drolly from the door, “Shall I tell him you’ve got icky white stuff in your hair and to come back?”

  Trembling, I open the faucet and stick my head under the running water, hurrying to wash the mayonnaise out of my hair.

  Once done, I drape a towel over me and run it quickly up and down, trying to dry it as much as I can. Sin is downstairs. Sin is in the neighborhood. Sin came to see me.

  Finally I toss my hair back, run a brush over it, tie it into a bun, slip into a pair of navy blue leggings, a clean gray T shirt, my easy slip-on Uggs, then rush outside.

  Gravity.

  Gravity is the force of attraction that exists between any two objects, any two masses, any two bodies. Gravity isn’t just an attraction between an object above being pulled toward the gravitational center of the earth. Gravity is an attraction that exists between all objects, in all of the universe—the closer they are, the stronger the pull.

  There has never been such gravity as that which I feel to an object parallel to me. This man.

  My most powerful gravitational pull—the one that makes me feel like I’m falling even when I’m standing still.

  Square jaw, that edible mouth, broad, big, tall and dressed in a suit, surrounded by the raw force of a determination that whirls around his body.

  We’re inside his car, parked outside my building. Quiet, toe-curlingly beautiful, noble, bold, controlled, and relentless, Saint is once again looking for me, as relentless as the M4’s sole proprietor and CEO that I know, and as uncatchable as a storm. A womanizer. A benefactor. A champion of his causes. An enigma.

  Everybody dotes on him. Women make fools of themselves over and over in an attempt to attract his eye. He inspires lust, love, and everything in between.

  Even obsession.

  Even . . . from me.

  He was standing by his car when I came out.

  “Hey,” I said, feeling myself blush. “This is what I do now in my free time.” I pointed at my wet hair in its bun.

  He stared at me and opened the gullwing door to his stunning car. “I was hoping we could have that talk now,” he said.

  Now we’re in his car and he’s settled behind the wheel and I’m nervous.

  Everyone wants something from him. He’s got a warrior’s instinct and is used to being asked for things. He rarely says no.

  He . . . takes care of you.

  He took care of me once and as I look at him in the dark with the streetlight casting shadows on his chiseled face, I remember how independent I wanted to be but how easily he overpowered me.

  I remember the first time I saw him vividly. His slow, easy-spreading smile that caused a fire to churn in the pit of my belly. He’s a man whose fingers once spent hours memorizing the curves of my shoulders and back as we kissed.

  The sharp edges of loss haven’t been dulled. Being in his car only heightens the ache.

  I remember every moment with him, like a treasure and like a punishment.

  He’s quiet, physical, and thrilling. He’s also tender, consuming my world with incredible power and at hurricane speed.

  I’ve never wanted anyone like this, and had never waited for someone’s call. Wanted to see someone. I told him about the hole, about sometimes feeling like you wanted something to fill it. It has never been as big as it is now that I see him and hopelessly fear that I cannot have him.

  But I want him nonetheless.

  I guess reason has nothing to do with it anymore.

  “Are you leaving Edge?” he asks me.

  It’s almost unbearable, the intimacy of his voice in the close confines of the car.

  One arm draped over the wheel, he shifts sideways to look at me even more directly. “Why are you leaving Edge? It’s doing better. Isn’t it? After that piece you wrote?”

  “You mean . . . the love letter?” I ask, then lower my gaze. “That’s what my boss calls it.”

  His voice lowers. “Yeah, the love letter.” A beat passes, charged with tension. “Why are you leaving?”

  “Because.”

  He curls his thumb and forefinger around my chin and the contact electrifies me. I jolt a little and lean back against the seat when he crowds me in, studying me. “You’re not coming to M4?”

  “No.” I look at his mouth.

  “So . . . ?” he presses, still holding me by the chin. “Why are you leaving Edge and not coming with me to M4?”

  “How do you know all this?” I turn away to inhale and break the touch because it’s so, so painful.

  “I have friends everywhere, Rachel.”

  I turn back to him. “I only looked at a few ads and called to inquire.”

  He’s so close his scent surrounds me like a cloak, heady like a shot of morphine in my veins. Hazy and nervous, I glance at the street behind him, and I shrug. Then admit, blushing, “I know your father’s interested.”

  “And?” he presses, his green eyes capturing me.

  “And I won’t work for anyone who’s against you. I’m Team Malcolm,” I whisper, flushing horribly.

  “If you’re Team Malcolm, why don’t you come work for me?” he presses.

  “Because . . .” I lower my voice. “Even if I’m Team Malcolm, I don’t want to be something to you that a thousand others already are.”

  His eyes shine as he cocks his head. “Really. What is it that you want then?”

  “You know what I want,” I whisper, lowering my face.

  “I want to hear it,” he murmurs intensely under his breath.

  Say it, I think.

  Don’t be scared.

  You cannot fuck things worse than you already have.

  “I want you,” I whisper, unable to look up at him.

  I hear the sound of his low exhale, and when I peer into the shadows, his face is all I see.

  “I’m so mad at you,” he murmurs to me, growling a little as he drags a hand over his face.

  I’m breathing hard, as if I j
ust threw myself off a cliff, and maybe I did. I can feel the yearning inside me trying to claw itself out of my eyes and toward him.

  “Saint,” I breathe helplessly.

  “So . . . fucking . . . mad . . .” His eyes are heavy-lidded, incredibly so, his jaw jutting out. “So mad I can’t see straight.” He stares at me as if there are a thousand fires of hell burning inside him. “I close my eyes and see you. Rachel. Your eyes. Your hair. Your blushing face.”

  “Malcolm . . .” My eyes blur, and I add, pleading, “I’d do anything to prove that I’m loyal and truthful to you.”

  His jaw clenches just a bit tighter.

  “You hurt me,” he growls out as he looks at me. “I’m angry at you.” His jaw squarer than ever, his eyes brilliant as ever. “But I can’t give you up. I can’t give you up even when I want to. I don’t want to back off. I don’t want to give you up,” he says.

  “Saint, I don’t want you to exorcise me, because nothing can exorcise me of you,” I say.

  He looks at me. We’re at a stalemate. He flexes his fingers on my arm.

  “You said you could make what I did go away. Make it go away, give me a clean slate,” I plead.

  I reach out and touch his face. His gaze flashes. Eyes burning with desire and possessiveness.

  “I want a chance.” I open my mouth to beg; instead I lift his hand from the steering wheel and press a kiss to the back of his hand, his knuckles. I nuzzle it and close my eyes, afraid to see him look at me in disgust when his hand smells so clean and good. “Saint, please.”

  I lift my head and my lungs seize when I see his expression. He looks almighty, and all hungry, like a man returning home after being shackled away from it for decades. My pussy is damp and swollen.

  He couldn’t look more dominant and possessive. But he hasn’t stopped me. So I kiss the center of his palm next.

  His gaze is blazing like there’s a fire inside him, like he’s in the fires of hell and I’m the one who put him there. He takes my face and kisses the edge of my mouth. He draws me over the separation between our seats.

  He takes the other edge of my mouth and lowers me to his lap.

  Am I feeling a huge erection against my abdomen?