“Found anything extra juicy?”
“You mean other than him?” I arch a brow. They laugh, but inside, I’m aching. My body’s aching in places it shouldn’t even ache. I didn’t know that your breasts could ache like this and it could have nothing to do with PMSing. Deep inside, between my legs, where I want him, I ache.
“I’m cutting tonight early,” Wynn says with a quick glance at her watch, reaching for her coat from the back of her chair.
“No, come on, it’s girls’ night, we don’t see you anymore,” Gina complains.
“Well, because I have Emmett. Relationships need to be nurtured. Like little plants!” She grins.
“I’m in a serious relationship with Chris Hemsworth, he just doesn’t know it yet.” Gina sticks her tongue out and then sucks on her straw.
“You two, really. Sometimes I just can’t take how you are.” Hands planted on her waist, Wynn shoots us an I-don’t-even-know-why-I-love-you stare.
“What? What’s wrong with us?” Gina asks.
“Well don’t you want it? Don’t you really want to find it? Because out there, half the people have it, the others are looking for it, others just lost it, but it’s there. You can’t ignore what it is.”
“It sounds like influenza,” Gina grumbles.
Wynn shakes her head. “You two can say anything about me, but I’m going for it. And to you two cowards, I say you should go for it too. Find a guy who can love you like crazy and love him right back. What’s the worst thing that can happen? That we’ll need a couple extra cocktails when we meet next time?”
When neither of us says anything, Wynn adds, “I’ll tell you what, they’re on me.”
“The guys or the drinks?” asks Gina.
The moment Wynn angrily drops a bill down on the table and leaves, Gina turns to me. “I think she told Emmett she loves him and he didn’t say it back yet.”
I think of how humiliating it must be to tell a guy you went ahead and fell in love with him and not have him say it back as I swirl my cocktail.
The rest of the night Gina and I discuss everything except the one masculine, relentless thing in my brain.
My T-shirt feels extra thin as I go to bed that night, and somehow my skin feels extra sensitive beneath it. So when I wake up in the middle of the night again, sweating and whimpering, I’m not even surprised by who it is I’m dreaming of.
My blood is lava in my veins, desire rushing through my body to the point that every inch of me is trembling under the covers. I wish it were just channeled desire; desire to know more about the subject, deep things, silly things, things nobody else will know, even things I might not include in my piece just because I need to satiate this need to know. But it’s also desire of another kind—uncontrollable, unreasoned, unplanned, and unwanted. Desire from the very pit of my being and not from my intellect but from something more primal and old inside me, something that hasn’t ever really responded to anything or anyone before.
“Oh, Rachel,” I groan when I find my hand wandering between my thighs. “Don’t, Rachel,” I say, stopping my hand on the inside of my thigh. For a moment I think I’m going to win, until I remember how he kissed me, remember how neither of us wanted to stop, and, because this is the only way I can let myself have him, I slip my hand deeper between my thighs and tell Saint how deeply and how deep I want him.
13
INTERFACE INAUGURAL
Come with me to the Interface inaugural tonight
M.S.
You mean as press?
Rachel
We can discuss when you arrive—Otis will pick you up at 8 p.m.
M.S.
I’d love to go as press. Thank you for the news opportunity.
Rachel
“Silver is the bomb on you,” Gina says approvingly as I twirl around to get her verdict. She keeps nodding and nodding, obviously pleased. “Stunning, Rachel. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
“I’m not sure about this dress of Wynn’s, it’s so sexy.” I take in the long, silky curves of my body in the full-length closet mirror. “If he doesn’t stand a chance, neither do I.” I laugh, then fall sober and feel my cheeks go hot.
I remember the way we both couldn’t stop kissing the last time we were together, and wonder what he’ll do when he sees me in this. The material is sleek, shiny, and cool. Fit for a mermaid, and the fabric clings to my every curve like a man’s lips would, and his hands could.
“What do you mean?” counters Gina. “He’s a playboy. Hello? You don’t like that sort of guy. You and I are the smart girls, remember?”
Following the urge to inspect my feet, I then search for my clutch, tucking it under my arm. “I gotta go.”
“Rachel!” Gina calls. “Just think of the story. You’re flesh and bone, but try to leave the flesh and bone, the heart and the woman, home. Take your brain with you, that’s all.”
I bite my lip and nod, wishing I felt more confident. I need a Malcolm Saint vaccine, for immunity, and I need it now. “What are you doing tonight?” I ask Gina.
“I’m going with Wynn and Emmett to watch some movie premiere.”
“Okay, have fun.”
The night is cool and a little rainy as I slip into the Rolls-Royce, the driver shielding me with an umbrella, and my heart flutters when the scent of the car’s leather interior, which I associate with Saint, reaches my nostrils again. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach, my chest, everywhere. I wish I could leave the flutters home.
As the Rolls pulls into traffic, I mentally caution myself against overthinking tonight. I’m obviously going to pretend we didn’t kiss. Definitely that I didn’t ask him to. Then I realize I’ve never really had the courage to speak to his driver, so this time I clear my throat and start with, “How’s your day, sir?”
“Good, Miss Livingston.”
“It occurs to me we haven’t been formally introduced.”
“Otis.”
“Nice to meet you, Otis. How long have you been working with Mr. Saint?” I ask, trying to get back into investigative mode.
“I’m sorry, miss, but I’m not free to say.”
“Oh, come on.” I laugh a little, but he doesn’t say more.
“Do you transport all his dates around town?”
A shake of his head.
“Give me one, at least,” I insist.
“All right. No,” he says.
“Only his businessmen?”
“That would be Claude.”
I roll my eyes. “He has several drivers, of course.”
He nods.
“Who do you drive around?”
“Usually? Saint.”
“Why are you driving me?”
“Saint,” he answers.
“And who drove Saint to the event if you didn’t drive him?”
“Saint.”
Amusement curls my lips. “Have you known him long?”
He hesitates.
“All right, so I know I said one. Just give me one more. Your boss is so elusive.”
“I’ve known him since he was fourteen—and Mr. Noel hired me to keep him out of trouble.”
I’m surprised into silence by this.
“Oh, I know it’s coming. Fine job I did?” he asks.
“I didn’t say that. Everyone knows your boss has a mind of his own. I don’t think anyone could’ve controlled him.”
“The more they tried, the less controllable he became.” He shakes his head. “I’ve spoken too much.” He looks up at me in the rearview mirror. “But he trusts you . . . and I trust his judgment.”
“What makes you say he trusts me?”
“Hunch.” He shrugs. “Comes from knowing him over a decade. First of his girls I get to drive around.”
I blush. “Oh, I’m not one of his girls.” And I’ll never be.
He smiles knowingly and helps me out of the car, and one sumptuous lobby later, I step into the lap of absolute and complete luxury. Water fountain. Glowing crystal chandeliers.
/>
Getting a little more nervous with each step I take, I walk down a long hall outside the ballroom and straight to the press entrance, where I wait my turn to give my name to one of the ladies in charge.
“Hi, Rachel Livingston from Edge, please.”
“Good evening, Rachel, let me find you here on my clipboard list. . . . Hmmm. Well . . . let’s see. . . . You don’t seem to be under the L. Any middle name under which I can check too?”
When I shake my head, she goes over to one of her coworkers. They whisper for a bit, comparing clipboard pages, until finally, illumination seems to strike the woman I was talking to. Her expression changes from a worried frown to a beaming smile as she scrambles back to me. “Oh, well, mystery solved! You’re with Saint himself—this is quite the development!” she whispers excitedly, pointing to the guest entrance. God, really? More flutters.
Pasting a false smile on my face as if I’m happy about this—well, am I?—I walk down a long hall and follow the sound of the music past soaring columns and below vaulted ceilings. I venture deep into the crowd, walking amid his eclectic group of friends and employees. I become aware of the women and how they instantly size me up as competition for Saint’s attention. The men stare too, their gazes appreciative. I’ve got great hair and long legs, and interesting eyes . . . maybe I’m not a buxom blonde, but I’ve got a great ass. Oh god, look at him. I almost stumble when I spot him at the far end, near a chocolate fountain.
His backside is to me—so impressive, my mouth dries. I can see the definition of his back and arms in the jacket he wears, his black slacks hugging the best male body I’ve ever seen.
Callan points Saint in my direction, and I spur myself forward again as he turns around. His eyes catch mine, and the whole time I approach with uneasy steps, they stay trained on me. His chest goes wide as if he’s pulling in a sharp breath, and I can’t breathe.
He’s in black tie and a devilish suit, his hands at his side. He’s unsmiling, his jaw tightening when he notices the other men looking at me.
I see the women flanking him, and I’m hit by a wave of jealousy so deep I tremble.
We kissed—that’s all. I don’t care what he does. I’m not interested in him in an intimate way, I keep reminding myself. Not in a woman’s way, just a reporter’s.
He’s just a man—a playboy, womanizer, hell, a manwhore—and I just need to store all this information and then write an exposé so people can experience what I’m experiencing.
It doesn’t matter that he stands with two women. They’re not touching him, but oh, yes, I can tell from their glum expressions that they have before. He’s used them. And they have used him. But it doesn’t matter if people use him, or if people even understand or know the real him, because all I care about is getting this exposé right. Right?
This isn’t about me, it’s about a story about the man.
Still, my stomach aches with unfamiliar possessiveness as I stop before him. He looks at me, straight into my eyes, and I look straight into his.
“Did you think you would get away with using the press entrance?” he asks me, lips quirking. Hmm. He’s got me pegged, hasn’t he?
“Did you enjoy not writing my name on the list and making everyone scramble to nearly kick me off the premises before they realized you wrote my name down next to your name?” I tease back, one eyebrow rising.
He laughs in true enjoyment. “Excuse us,” he tells the group, earning me a couple of venomous stares from the women as he takes my arm and slips it into the crook of his and draws me away.
“That’s quite a dress,” he whispers with a twinkle in his eye, his dark head ducked so he can say it in my ear.
“What does that mean?”
He smiles as he leads me to the table where Callan and Tahoe sit, each with a drop-dead-gorgeous girl. Saint pulls my chair out, then sits next to me as the room continues filling up.
“Are all the new Interface employees invited?” I ask him, looking around.
He nods, looking at me intently. “There are several connecting rooms to fit everyone. This room is mostly for directors and members of the board.” When I only smile, he spreads his arm out on the back of my chair and leans forward so that his voice is all I can hear, not the classical music in the background or the conversation. Just a voice in my ear. “Why do you insist on labeling yourself press?”
“I am press. I can’t delay writing the Interface story anymore, my magazine needs me to turn it in.”
“You don’t need a press badge to catch my attention. Nor do you need a badge to interview me.”
“Do you even lift anymore, Carmichael? Didn’t think so,” Tahoe baits Callan at the table. Because I’m so unnerved and unused to having a man’s attention like Saint’s attention is on me, I try to divert myself with their antics.
“I lift,” he argues.
“Haven’t seen that since I last fed my unicorn,” Tahoe drawls.
“It’s true, bro,” he answers.
“Saint, do you mind a suggestion for later?” Tahoe asks as Saint shifts in his seat to face him, the move bringing him closer to me. I instantly sit up straighter.
Saint sips his drink lazily, lips curling. “I’m down for whatever.”
“Good. Because you know what we should do . . .” Tahoe begins.
Saint: “That always precedes a terrible idea. So naturally, I’m game.”
“Let’s hit the pool on the top level.”
He chuckles and then looks at me only, his attention drawing my own helplessly back to him. “I like your friends so much better than you,” I say softly, so that only he hears.
In the warm lights, his gaze gleams like something liquid. His voice is quiet. “Do you really?”
“Yes. Really.”
Silence. My heart beats fast. He lifts his hand and brushes my hair behind my ear, and my earlobe burns when we hear a woman say from nearby, “Saint, I left my shoes at your place the other day. Can I still tell you about the charity I was hoping you’d—?”
“Monday at M4,” he says without inflection, his attention fixed on me.
The woman shoots me a look of pure hate, then is gone. I wonder if he’s sleeping with these women. I wonder—
“At least I know what they want. My bed or my wallet. Or both,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. His lips twisted adorably at the corners, he studies me. What do you want from me? those eyes ask.
“You should work out with Saint sometime. He’d kick your ass, probably. It’d be fun for you two,” Tahoe tells Callan from a distance.
As Sin looks down at me, I feel his hand slip under the table in search of mine. There’s the barest brush of his thumb when he finds my fingers, and then we hear the voice of an elderly man up on the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming today—we’re very excited about the inaugural dinner for the one and only Interface. I know you’re all as excited as I am to be part of this innovative family. And here with us is the genius behind it all, a man known for his edge, wit, and incredible zest for life. I give you, Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan SAINT!”
“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, his breath hot in my ear.
I’m blushing bright red from the touch of his hand, imprinted on my back as he stands and caresses me under the fall of my hair. As he heads for the podium, I can’t take the stares coming my way and the way I feel hot under my dress, moist between my legs, so completely affected I decide I can’t be with him tonight. I can’t sit here and pretend to be his date. It’s too wrong and it’s too much work for me.
I stand quietly as I hear him greet the crowd in that authoritative voice of his. “Good evening, and thanks for that, Roger.”
As I slip out the entrance and head to where the tables for press badges are set, I spot his assistant Cathy.
“Cathy, hi, do you remember me? I met you at—”
“Miss Livingston, of course.” She motions toward the ballroom. “Everything okay with your table?”
“Oh, it’s the best table, which is why I really can’t sit there. I’m here as press, you see. It’s such a misunderstanding, and Mr. Saint is so busy . . .”
I’m surprised by the way her face basically blooms when I mention him. “I understand,” she says quietly. “I did worry a good girl like you might be concerned about his reputation.”
“No, I mean . . . well, yes, that’s exactly why I need my badge. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.”
“Especially him?” She looks at me, and I blush. “I can give you a thousand badges, Miss Livingston, but if he wants you, he’s going to come after you. He does have the patience of a saint when it comes to getting what he wants.”
And you’re in love with him, I think, but say nothing because, thankfully, she’s printing my badge. “You’re happy working for him?” I ask.
“I wasn’t working at all until I began working for him. He was the only one who would give me a chance.” She smiles and hands me the badge.
Quietly, I head back into the room, and when I hear his voice in the microphone, rushes of electricity crackle down my spine. A wave of applause sweeps the room as everyone claps in excitement.
Standing in the back, I’m turning my badge over in search of the clip when I realize dozens of heads are swiveling in my direction. There’s no more Saint up on the podium.
Because he’s wending his way through the crowd, his wide torso carving a path as he comes straight for me.
“Are you done?” He doesn’t sound angry or impatient but . . . almost.
“I . . . yes.” Quickly, I lift the badge and try to attach it to my dress.
He takes my hand in his. “I do love those ears of yours, but they don’t seem to hear very well,” he murmurs in amusement. “You won’t be needing this.” He plucks the badge from my fingers.
“What? Why?”
“Saint!” a voice nearby calls. It’s a member of the media, asking for a shot, which Saint denies with a hand signal.