I laugh. “You’re the first of your type. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s another one quite like you.” I look at the girls again. “The other one is beautiful too. Malcolm! Look at them!”
He sits up now, lowering his elbows to his knees as he edges closer to me, the line of his mouth curving a little. “The things I used to like in a woman have lost some of their charm.”
“Why?”
I pry his sunglasses off. His eyes shine under the sun and sparkle with secrets, and my stomach dips and my breath goes when they meet mine. “I look at them and see one glaring fault in them all,” he tells me soberly, and he tsks and shakes his head, his gold skin gleaming under the sun. “A pity, really.”
“What?”
“They’re not the blonde I want.”
I stare.
My knot as tight as ever.
“They’re not you, Rachel,” he specifies.
He leans forward to seize my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“Now, why do you want me to look at them? Do you like girls?”
I burst out laughing and push at his hand. “Malcolm,” I chide.
“Do you?” he laughs, taking my chin again, teasing me.
“No! I would never share my man!”
With a low laugh, he leans back on the lounger, taking his sunglasses from my hand and trying them on my face. I giggle and pose; he chuckles and gives me goose bumps as he does then he plucks them off and encloses them in his big hands.
“That must sound terribly boring to a man like you,” I say. “That I won’t share my man.”
“I’m not contesting it.”
“The boring part?”
“The second part.”
“You’d be monogamous for a girl?”
“I would be, for my girl.” He leans forward again. “See, I’ve never had a girl I saw as mine. They’ve all been public property.” Smirking, he sets his sunglasses next to his phone under his lounger, then looks at me with the same brilliant, thick-lashed, deep-set eyes that have been appearing nonstop in my dreams. “But there’s this one girl. My private property.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but if she had any sense in her, she’d run away as fast as possible. It’s not sexy to be considered anyone’s property, Malcolm.”
“Come here. You know I’m talking about you.” His arm sweeps out and he seizes me by the waist.
“No, I don’t, because we said we were just sleeping together, just—”
I squirm a little as he draws me to his lap. “Why do you fight me on this?” He smiles and scowls, both at the same time, then settles me down on his lap and stares right into me—dead serious. “I’m good at the one-night-stand thing,” he tells me. “I’m excellent at fooling around. I was made to fuck around. If anyone can tell the difference between fucking around and the real thing, it’s me.”
Oh god. I’m melting.
I spread my hands on the sides of his jaw. “You were made for great things. Everyone can see that.”
“You want to be with me,” he murmurs. “I see the way you blush, hear you stop breathing, and I like being the cause of both.” He stares at me soberly, and I’m scared. I’m so scared, I’m trembling in his arms, on his lap.
“I’m not your girl, Saint. I’m probably the only girl you know who doesn’t want to be your girlfriend. I think you’re suffering from the wanting-what-you-can’t-have syndrome.”
He looks down at me, tender-eyed, as if he understands the battle in me. As if he’s been there or knows instinctively that I’m going to lose—but he will still have no pity on me. “I don’t think so, Rachel. I’ve got you right where I want you.”
“On your big yacht.” I roll my eyes.
“Nah. Next to me.” The comment makes my stomach dip and the backs of my ears flush hot.
“You’re teasing me.”
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s a suntan. I’m tanning right now. You know. On your big yacht. You’ve lost the ability to make me shy. I no longer blush.”
He tugs my bikini top open, and I yell, “Malcolm!”
“Not a suntan,” he says, his stare hot on my breasts as I scramble to tie the top up again. “You’re blushing all over, every inch of you,” he says approvingly.
Before I know it, we’re kissing, hot and lazily, for what feels like a minute and an hour. We’re so hot by the time we peel our lips apart, I’m sure he’ll pursue this in the bedroom, but he’s got a dinner, and we have to head to the docks before we can get into it.
“You sure you don’t want to come?” He rumples my hair on his way past me.
“And be the feast for all those reporters? No, thank you,” I mumble, stealing glimpses of him as he covers that god’s body in his sexy business clothes.
He zips up his slacks, then starts to work his buttons with fast, nimble fingers. “It bothers you that they’re after you?”
I shrug as I force myself into my slim-fit jeans. “How do you live with it?”
“I don’t have a choice.” He looks at me, watching me and my jeans battle it out. “It’s new to them because you’re new to me. Are you uncomfortable, Rachel?”
“A little. Not in my jeans, with those assholes who are after you and, now, me.”
He chuckles deliciously, then shakes his head and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Then I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t, it’ll fade away along with your interest,” I call after him.
“Not happening anytime soon,” he says flatly, out of the room already.
By that night I have several texts from Helen.
Rachel I need something this week.
Call me when you can
I hope everything is going smoothly
And I’ve got the worst case of writer’s block. I have a brick in my head instead of a brain, and it’s absolutely silent. I stare at my screen, unable to write even one sentence. Nothing. I open my box of note cards and notes, then turn back to my online list of links.
Still nothing.
I’m so restless, I can’t write, and my deadline looms like a DEAD END sign ahead. I thought things would have cooled down with Saint by now, but instead . . . where is this going?
Distracting myself, I start looking for new links when I see an article online.
Tiger Can’t Change His Stripes—Saint Reverts to Old Ways After Rumored Split with Possible Girlfriend
And I see an image of him, sharp in a suit, with the event banner in the distance. Today’s event banner, to be exact. And a beautiful blonde who looks like me standing with him, looking dotingly up into his face.
My face just pales, and my stomach aches. I lift my finger to his face. He looks so detached and remote. I can’t believe this is the same man who was teasing me only hours ago.
I sit there and see her with her arm linked in his, and he looks beautiful. It’s the most coveted spot in Chicago, that arm of his. Who wouldn’t be happy and proud to stand by Saint’s side?
You, because that’s not your place; your place is at Edge, in your own safe life, not in the crazy whirlwind of his. Slamming my laptop shut, I head out to the living room, having no room for jealousy tonight or anything other than writer’s block. No, thanks. Getting possessive over a man who’s proven to be unattainable for years is not what I need right now.
What I need is to let my brain rest so that my muse can come back.
What I also need right now is to start focusing on my project, not on sex and Sin.
“What are you watching?” I go sit next to Gina.
“Moulin Rouge,” she says, sniffling.
“Oh, I can’t watch Moulin Rouge right now!” I pound my fist on the seat beneath me; all the anger I feel bubbles up with that sentence, and I end up heading to my room as the song “Come What May” follows me.
I curl up on my bed with my phone in my hand, staring at his name. Don’t text him, Rachel. He’s with another girl, the perfect out for you so you can stop seeing him and get
straight back to work.
I lie in bed a little after midnight and then I see:
SIN
Can I come over?
I scowl. I don’t answer, but I keep the phone in my hand, unable to set it aside.
It vibrates.
SIN the screen blinks.
My heart leaps as I sit up, inhale, then answer as casually as I can. “Hey, I thought you had something tonight.”
“For you, I do,” he growls softly, voice husky with lust. “Can I come over?”
WAAAAANT.
I want him, want him. WAAANT HIM. Just his voice on the phone runs in my veins like a shot of arousal. “I’m sleeping.”
“Lucky you.”
“Did you have a good time tonight?” I ask.
Is she going to be your favorite now?
“It was okay.”
“Oh.”
“I put an end to the rumors about us. Press should be off your back for a while.”
“Oh.” Delighted surprise flits through me. Is that why he was with her? “Thank you, I guess.”
“Maybe now you’ll go with me sometime to one of these events, Rachel.”
“I can’t,” I say, bed squeaking as I shift to my side and get more comfortable. “But what did you do tonight? Tell me what I missed out on.” I pull my covers over me, waiting for his voice to soothe me like it does.
“Same ole. Most interesting thing of the night was meeting one of my employees. A man who was in a coma, woke up able to speak several languages.”
I laugh. “That’s unbelievable! I love hearing about such inexplicably fascinating things.”
“I thought you’d find it interesting,” he says with pleasure. I hear the sound of a car door. Did he get home just now?
“Which ones? Languages, I mean.”
“German, French, and Russian.” Silence. Then . . . the elevator ting? “See, Rachel”—a teasing tone comes into his voice—“you would’ve enjoyed yourself. I’d have taken care of you tonight.”
“Oh, I’m sure you would have. Plus I have a thing for other languages. A man speaking German, oof.”
“I can speak German in your ear tonight.”
I laugh, then fall sober. I hear footsteps, then the door. I picture him in his room, want to be there with every inch of me. “No, we really can’t,” I breathe.
I hear a creak.
Did he just jump into bed?
“We can, you’re just afraid to,” he murmurs.
“Aren’t you? Afraid? Concerned?”
“I’m not concerned, I’m fascinated by this. By us.”
I feel all my shyness returning. Saint is so perceptive.
Does he feel this pull as strongly as I do?
When I hear him again, his voice surprises me with that deep, almost reassuring quality, its timbre as thick as syrup. “Considering I never expected to have an addiction like you, much less for it to last the week, I’m not letting this go, Rachel,” he whispers.
Hot from the tip of my head to my toes, I stare at the ceiling, warm and afraid, uncertain what to say and where we’d go if I admitted just how far into him I really am. I feel him in my body, still. I feel him still inside me. In places you can’t tattoo. In places nobody’s ever ventured to.
“A challenge, then,” I say. “I’m a challenge.”
“Maybe,” he says, still husky. “The challenge of my life.”
I laugh. “You’re teasing me now.”
He doesn’t laugh.
We stay silent for a while, so silent I can almost hear his heart beating through the phone. His slow breathing. “Good night, Saint.”
“Malcolm,” he quietly corrects.
“Malcolm.”
He chuckles then, at last. “Good night, Rachel. Think of me.”
Oh fuck. I groan.
What does he want from me? What do I want from HIM?
I need to talk to someone who won’t remind me what a mess I’ve made of things.
24
MOTHERS KNOW BEST
I need to see my mother. First, because I need to see that she’s looking a nice healthy color, not gaining or not losing weight because of unstable blood sugar. Second, because I know that she will have something wise to tell me, something that will help me see that maybe there’s a positive to take out of this freaking mess I’ve gotten myself into. I ask the girls to come over with me. I need girl time, which usually makes me feel wonderful. Tea, carbs, talking about Wynn’s aromatherapy shop and Emmett, Gina’s anecdotes about the department store, my mom telling me she’s stolen some time to paint in the room that used to be mine, and topics for my column.
My mother looks perfectly stable. She swears to me that her insulin’s working like clockwork and she’s had no recent blood sugar spikes, no episodes of hypoglycemia.
She’s enjoying the girls’ updates with a big, wide smile and eyes that are, by the second, getting bigger and wider than that.
“So she’s now going to take him down,” Wynn finishes filling my mom in.
My mother looks at me in surprise, then laughs. “Oh, but those young boys, they’re just being boys. They’re just being themselves—they’re certainly not evil. Malcolm Saint has been some sort of bachelor hero since he was born to that devil of a dad!”
“I didn’t say he was evil,” I quickly say, prickling in defense. “This story . . . it’s a job, it’s like pulling the curtain away from something, or revealing something new about a topic people are crazy about. I am certainly not going to write that he’s evil!” I’m getting defensive, so I scowl. “I’m not a mean person, Mother, I’m just trying to do my job.”
“So what will you say? That he’s a womanizer? These girls maybe want to be taken advantage of. I know I did. Your father—”
“Stop!”
Her eyes widen at my outburst.
“I need to write this exposé, and do you know why? Because if I don’t, I’ll get fired, and I don’t know how I’ll get by. And even if I don’t get fired, Edge is at the edge of collapse—and dozens of people are going to end up without jobs. And this, Mother, this is my opportunity to get you a house—a house of your own so you can paint for the rest of your days and maybe have me support you. So I will write this exposé because I’m a professional, and then Edge will get a new edge and my job will stabilize or even catapult me to another level, and then I’m going to buy you a big-ass car and a big-shit house with the money that rolls in, and Saint will be on his yacht with a dozen lovers and he won’t even give a shit.” My voice breaks and my eyes start watering, and Gina and Wynn, who’d been busy flipping through my mother’s magazines, suddenly look up and lower them.
My mother’s face softens. “I don’t want a house, Rachel,” she says, slowly setting down the tea box she’d been pulling out of a cabinet.
A stray tear comes to the corner of my eye, and I dab at it. “Well, you’re getting one. You deserve one, Momma.”
“Rachel, did you miss having a father so much? Did it hurt you so much?” She comes over and sits by my side, and reaches out to take my hand in her warm, soft one.
“It didn’t make a dent. I had you,” I assure her, blinking because I’ve never, ever had an episode like this.
“So why do you need to do something that is clearly not sitting too well with you?” she continues in that understanding way of hers.
Another tear, in my other eye, escapes. I free my hand from my mother’s and wipe it, aware of Wynn and Gina being so quiet, everyone being so quiet except me, breathing fast as I try not to cry harder than these measly little sniffles. “Well, isn’t that what life is about?” I ask her. “Making hard choices? Isn’t that what you choosing to stop painting so you could get a job was about? It was a choice that broke your heart but you had to do it because there was no other choice. Not really. Was there?”
“This young man, how does he feel about you?”
“He’s not in love with me, Mother. He’s not my dad. It wasn’t love at first sight, it
wasn’t two soul mates connecting. He doesn’t want to be with me like Father did with you. He didn’t see me and think, ‘That’s my soul mate, that’s the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, no matter how short’!”
I can’t go on. My throat clams up and my chest hurts. “I’m a challenge to him,” I add in a little voice. “I’m just this challenge to him. He’s not a man to feel love for a woman, he’s not made like that. He and I . . .” Something in my chest keeps tightening, like a noose, and my eyes are on fire. “We wouldn’t last even a season. And just like my dad, one second, poof, he’ll be gone, and it’ll be just me and you. Me and you, Mom. Like always.”
I don’t think I can bear to hear a reply, any reply, whether it’s to soothe, to reassure, even to agree, which might hurt even worse, and because I’m being stared at by the three of them as if I just grew a thousand worms out of my head—because I’m evil and that’s what happens to evil bitches like me—I push to my feet and head down the hall to my old room and close the door, breathing as I sit there on a stool before my mother’s unfinished canvas, my eyes leaking tears. I don’t even know why I’m crying. It shouldn’t have been this hard. I never expected it to be this hard. But my friends and my mother are starting to think I’m making a mistake.
I groan and lie down on the floor where my bed used to be, staring up above. I stared at this ceiling when I was just a little girl who wanted a dad, who had dreams, who wanted to make a difference, who wanted to write because writing made something . . . it made something out of nothing.
I used to lie here as a girl, and before I met Gina and she met Paul, I would wonder if I’d ever fall in love with a man the way my mother fell in love with my dad. My mother loved my dad before he even had the chance to disappoint her or break her heart. My mother has the purest view of men in the world, that they are inherently good—the yang in the world, the perfect complement to our yin. And I used to be a girl who would wonder who my yang would be. What he’d do. How he’d look. How hard he’d love me.
Never did I imagine twinkling green eyes and dozens of smiles, and a man who challenges me, teases me, is about as flawed as he is perfect, and makes me want to know him down to his every last thought.