Manwhore

  “Considering we’ve already accomplished our initial user-sign-up goal, no, it’s not.”

  I smile and flip through my note cards just to avoid the intensity of his gaze for a little bit. When I lift my eyes, he’s drinking from his water bottle, still watching me.

  “You have to know that you’re the city’s most wanted man. Does that surprise you?”

  “Most wanted.” He repeats that as if almost entertained by the concept, a slight smile on his lips. “By whom?” He stretches out his legs wider and sits back comfortably, his hand spreading over his knee as he drops his water bottle into the cup holder to the side and regards me with openly curious eyes.

  He’s got a huge hand. The kind you see on basketball players or pianists.

  “The media. The fans. Even investors,” I specify.

  He seems to mull it over in silence and never actually answers.

  “You grew up under public scrutiny. I can’t imagine anyone would enjoy it. Do you ever get tired of it?”

  His hand spreads over his knee, wider. He taps his thumb against his leg in a restless way, but still his eyes do not leave me. Not for a second. Not even as he reaches for his water again. “It’s always been like that for me.”

  That stare of his is really messing up my concentration. “All your acts of rebellion,” I begin, trying to be professional and keep my eyes on his as well. “You were trying to make a point that you wouldn’t be controlled? Did you expect this would endear you more to the public?”

  A moment. Two.

  That small smile on his lips again.

  Those eyes still on mine.

  “I’m not endearing to people, Miss Livingston. I’d say people respond to me on four levels and four levels only: they want to pray to me, be me, do me, or kill me.”

  Surprised by his bluntness, I let out a small laugh; then I blush because of the way his eyes darken when he hears me laugh. “Forgive me the personal questions. I’m interested in Interface and in the mind behind it—though the piece will focus on Interface.”

  The car is slowing down as it approaches a driveway. Quickly peering out, I see we’re pulling into the drop-off lane of a very high-end business center, and it strikes me we might have reached our destination. Noooo. So soon? I turn back to him, but he doesn’t seem to share my anxiety. He’s the embodiment of relaxation right now, leaning back in his seat, still continuing to watch me.

  “I think we’re here, and I wanted to ask you so many more impertinent things,” I tease.

  He smiles at me, a genuine smile that makes him look younger, more approachable. “I’ll tell you what.” He shifts forward in his seat, a mischievous expression on his face. “Tell me something about you, and I’ll tell you one more thing about me.”

  I jump at the offer, not even hesitating. “I’m an only daughter.”

  “I’m an only son.”

  We stare at each other again, the same way we did at his office.

  Suddenly I want a thousand and one answers like that one. Personal. Precise. “Can I offer another one of mine in exchange for one of yours?” I ask.

  “Ah. I’ve got a bargainer on my hands.” He leans back in his seat, his chuckle rich and savoring.

  “Is that a yes?” I laugh too.

  “See, the thing about bargains is, you have to have something the other wants.”

  I stare at him, unsure whether he’s teasing me or not.

  His eyes are dark, but his lips are smiling.

  His eyes—I can never seem to stare enough. The pulsing energy of his being seems to roil in their depths. He’s a dark individual. Dark as his hair. Dark as sin. Dark as whatever whirls around him. Something magnetic. Unstoppable. Irresistible. He sits there evaluating me, and I don’t even know what to do, how to respond, what it is he’s trying to get from me. He’s a powerful businessman who gets what he wants and is used to things being done his way. He’s also a player who always gets who he wants. He wanted to know something about me, and I stupidly jumped in and offered more. But he wanted to know one thing about me, not two.

  “I’ll think about it, Rachel,” he says when I don’t reply, as if to soften the blow, his eyes dark and unexpectedly liquid as he looks at me.

  God! I could just hit myself.

  “I always seem to mess up my interviews with you.” I don’t even know why I’m whispering, but he’s such an attentive man, it seems like speaking any louder would deafen someone as sharp as he is.

  I duck my head to hide the blush on my face. When I risk another glance, he’s surveying me in silence.

  Trying not to stare at that distracting face of his more than necessary, I glance out the window and exhale, rubbing my palms over my slacks as the car finally parks before the building entrance.

  There’s a new tension in the air after my idiotic fuckup. As his driver gets out and seems to summon Saint’s PR team, Saint taps his hand on his knee, surfs his phone, and dials one number, speaking low into the receiver. “Hey, call the troops for Friday night. Let’s chill out at the Ice Box. Send out e-invites to the usual list.” He glances out the window for his driver’s signal, and though I want to ask more about Interface, I can tell that I’ve already lost him.

  I’m absolutely dismayed when he gets out of the car and lets me know his driver will be happy to drop me off wherever I need him to.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Saint,” is all I manage. I think he says something back to me that sounds like “Take care,” but his team fetches him and he’s gone so fast, if it weren’t for the empty water bottle by the place where he sat, you’d hardly believe he was just here.

  On my ride home, I finally notice other things about my surroundings—now that he’s gone. The quiet, beautiful car interior reminds me this isn’t my life, or me. My eyes keep drifting to the now-empty water bottle where he sat. Why I’m so obsessed with an empty water bottle all of a sudden, I don’t know. I force my eyes away and try to write some impressions on my phone, opening an email to myself.

  Insatiable and demanding in business/extremely ambitious

  Really . . . blunt (this guy does not sugarcoat anything)

  *dropped the F-bomb (I like that his answers were not rehearsed and he just winged it); reason Chicago is so obsessed with him? He is NOT a fake, that’s for sure

  I try to think of something else, but I can’t even land the thoughts and questions in my head. Patience, I remind myself. No story was told in one day. No secret revealed in one hour. Nothing lasting built on a single moment.

  That night, I look for my Northwestern T-shirt as I get ready for bed, and I spot his shirt in my closet. I stare at it for so long I lose track of time. I reach out and run my finger over it. I feel how strong the collar is, run the back of my knuckles down the sleeve. It’s huge and classy and clearly a very expensive shirt, and it somehow seems to take up much more space than it actually does. I stare at every button, the perfectly folded cuffs—touching it makes me smile and it makes me frown and it makes the knot come back full force to my stomach.

  And then, suddenly, I know how I’ll get him to see me again.

  5

  SHIRT

  Mr. Saint, this is Rachel Livingston with Edge. I’d love to return your shirt, if possible. And if you’ll find it in your heart to give me one more shot to discuss Interface, I couldn’t be more appreciative. Looking forward to hearing from you.

  Ms. Livingston, Dean again. Mr. Saint has a charity appearance this afternoon. If you can make it to the building lobby by 5 p.m. he’ll see you then.

  P.S. He says keep the shirt.

  “He’s seeing me again. Oh god. He’s seeing me again, and I can’t afford for it to go wrong this time! I need to ask clear questions. Get on his good side so he can see me again, maybe. Gina, it’s imperative I wear the right clothes. Help me choose.”

  “What are we going for?”

  “We’re going for . . .”

  I stare at a white skirt and white top—feminine and pure.
/>
  “I say go for something stronger that says, ‘Here I am, and I’m serious about doing this thing.’ ” Gina gestures to a gray skirt, a tight, short gray jacket, and red pumps.

  “But I wanted to look pure and vulnerable,” I groan.

  “Come on—this will get the job done.”

  “Okay,” I agree. “This, and some pretty underwear for confidence.”

  I tell Helen I’ve got an interview so that I can leave work early on Thursday.

  “Are you wearing that?” She points at the outfit Gina and I chose.

  I nod.

  She scowls. “It’s a bit too . . . secretarial. Can we go for something a little more sexual? We want his sexual interest piqued!”

  “I’ll pop open a few buttons and get some cleavage in,” I appease.

  “I heard there’s a big party this weekend at the Ice Box. Did you get info on that?”

  No, but I heard him mention it in the car. “I’ll try to get in,” I assure her.

  I arrive early at M4 and ask if I can see him before we leave. “Five minutes so I can give this back?” I ask, lifting the hanger with the plastic-covered, dry-cleaned shirt.

  One of his assistants picks up the phone, whispers something into the receiver, then nods and asks me to sit.

  I sit and, after a minute, lightly raise my free hand to my blouse, popping open a top button.

  Then I pop open a second, a bit of air caressing the skin between my breasts.

  Exhaling, I consider buttoning back up at least a dozen times by the time I’m allowed into his office. And then I forget about it when I see him standing behind his desk, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair.

  Six feet three inches of polished businessman, black tie, and smoothly shaven jaw. I never got to watch my father dress for work, or a brother. That has to be why I find the sight of Malcolm Saint reaching for his jacket in that crisp white shirt so completely haunting and beguiling.

  I’m helpless to stop myself from staring. I catch his expression the moment he gets a glimpse of me, and he quietly returns my stare. God. He’s so disturbing to me in every way. I’m not blind to his attraction. I feel it like a fist in the gut, every look punching me deeper.

  His eyebrows rise in curiosity, in question. “What’s this about?”

  Clearly noticing what I carry, he hooks his jacket behind him and assumes a wide stance—only looking at me—for the longest moment. My legs feel liquid.

  I don’t think he’s even spared a glance “there,” but a little bit of cleavage has never made me feel so exposed.

  “Mr. Saint.” I clear my throat, and a silence stretches between us as he eases his arms into his jacket.

  “Rachel,” he says, his smile so mysterious, I wish I knew what he was thinking.

  I step forward and lift the shirt across the top of his neatly organized desk. “I believe this is yours. I’m sorry it took me a while. I had to dry-clean it twice, one at an eco-friendly place, the other normal, just to try to get a little smudge of paint off.”

  He looks at his shirt as if amused that he’s seeing it again, and all I can wonder is why, if he’s not even looking at my cleavage, do I still feel so naked right now? “I told Dean you could keep it,” he tells me.

  “It seemed inappropriate of me to.”

  He leans over to his computer and types in several digits, locking it. “Why?”

  He finally takes the metal hanger; his fingers curl over mine—warm, long, his grip strong as he takes the shirt back. He crosses the huge expanse of his office to hang it with the rest, and I quickly button up the two buttons I’d undone, finally able to take a breath.

  “Have you never gotten a gift from a man before, Rachel?” he asks.

  He’s too perceptive, too observant. “Well, actually, I . . . no. Not really . . .”

  “Not even flowers?”

  With a tap on the wall, he opens the hidden closet and keeps eyeing me from across the room. I can’t imagine why it matters or why he’d even care, but I manage to answer.

  “No,” I say.

  He shoves the shirt back inside with dozens of others, but by the glint in his eye, he looks fascinated by this news, and I can’t begin to fathom why. I groan. “You’re going to tease me about it, aren’t you?”

  A brow raises in question. “Me? Tease you?”

  “I think you like teasing me. Your eyes are laughing at me right now,” I accuse, pointing at his face as he comes back with that long, sure stride of his and the most beautiful smile he’s ever worn in front of me.

  “Maybe because I like the way you blush.”

  I’m blushing pretty hard now.

  His stare isn’t as icy as I remember. I feel as warm as his eyes look.

  “What about your father?” He motions toward the doors and we exit his office.

  I want to find something fun and light to say in answer, but I can never find anything fun and light to say about my dad that actually happened to me. We wait for the elevator. “He was gone before it was time for gift giving,” I finally murmur.

  The elevator arrives, and he signals for me to board. As I pass, he lowers his face until I feel his breath on my ear. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Rachel.”

  When we board, all his assistants and everyone on the floor seem to be on standby, alert to what Saint does. I stand there quietly at his side, just as alert. “You didn’t,” I whisper so only he can hear. But oh. He really doesn’t need to do much to make me uncomfortable. Why does my personal life matter? Will he think me too green, not experienced enough, to be able to interview him the way a man in his position deserves?

  One of the assistants calls, “Oh, Mr. Saint,” and jumps into the elevator before we can leave.

  “Yeah, Cathy?”

  She opens a folder and points at something written down on there.

  “That’s right,” he answers out loud.

  “Okay,” she says. “And this?”

  He doesn’t wear too much cologne. He smells of aftershave and soap. His lips distract me a little bit as he keeps answering whatever questions the assistant seems to be tapping. They suddenly face me and tip upward slightly, those lips, and when I look up a few inches higher, I realize he just caught me staring.

  I’m red as we hit the lobby. “Thanks, Cathy,” he tells her.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Saint.”

  Cathy. She’s at least one or two decades older and clearly in love with him. How long has she been here? I wonder, and shoot myself a little reminder email.

  “You doing okay?” He hands me a bottle of water once we’re in the car. Seated facing me, the guy fills the bone-colored leather seat with broad shoulders that look about a mile wide. He looks relaxed, his hair black and silky—shorter on the sides, a little more generous and playful at the top, slicked back today to reveal his smooth forehead and chiseled features. The green of his eyes is never the same each day. Maybe that’s why I can never seem to pull my own eyes away?

  “Yes, thanks for seeing me,” I finally tell him.

  I pull out my note cards, because I’m not messing it up this time. He silently sips his water as I start charging forward with my questions. I learn that:

  Interface will also offer Tumblr vids, gifs, and YouTube videos.

  The site will have high file-sharing capacity.

  Its user subscriptions are exceeding their initial estimates by 160 percent daily.

  “So Interface is the thirty-fifth company you’ve begun from scratch?”

  “Thirty-fifth, thirty-sixth . . . The number is irrelevant. Each feels like the first.”

  When we arrive, the event is happening in a huge garden in the back of a mansion. There are several dozen tables with white linens, a podium, and floral arrangements to spare. A huge canopy shields the tables from both the sun and rain, the effect elegant and beautiful.

  SAVE AN ANIMAL, the tall banner over the podium declares in navy-blue letters. When Saint stops by a table to get a padd
le for the auction, I’m confused.

  “I thought you were speaking publicly today?” I ask as I follow him through the tables.

  “I’m letting my wallet do the speaking.”

  “Saint,” a guy calls, coming over with a camera. “I thought you didn’t do reporters.”

  I don’t remember the guy’s name, but I suddenly remember that he worked for only a few days at Edge. He’s tall, blond, young, and looking at me with all kinds of professional envy.

  Saint takes me by the elbow, ignores the guy, and walks us right past him as he states, “Mind your own business, Gregg,” in low warning.

  “You’re my business, Saint!” Gregg yells.

  Quiet and curious as to his reaction, I peer up to read Saint’s unreadable profile. I’m quickly impressed with how easily he dismisses the guy from his thoughts. He must be completely used to such scrutiny, to the point that we could all be flies, vying for his attention, waiting for him to make a move we can call newsworthy. Sometimes he obliges us, the media—he’s been reckless before. How hard must his limits have been pushed for him to lose it?

  I notice he ignores most everyone or just greets them amicably—but the attitude he radiates is “I don’t give a shit.” People, on the other hand, can’t resist his magnetism. They seem to gravitate in his direction the moment they spot him. I can’t explain the kind of venomous looks I’m getting from the same women who then turn adoring gazes back to Saint.

  He sits me down at a table at the very front.

  With each place setting there’s a small picture catalogue of the loveliest wild animals you’ve ever seen. “What do you say?” he asks me in a cool, businesslike tone as I flip through one.

  “You’re saving one of these animals?” I ask, bemused when he nods. “I can’t possibly pick one.”

  “They were in the circus. They’ll be euthanized if they don’t find a home, and to do that, they need a sponsor who’ll help set them up in the care of a local zoo.”

  “I’m so sad right now.” I look at the list of animals and stop on one. “Elephant. I think it’s one of the noblest animals. How they are with each other, so nurturing, so strong and so gentle.”