Manwhore (The Manwhore Book 1)

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 paddle 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.”

“That’s your pitch?” he asks, as if not amused.

“No, I’m just getting started,” I say, pride pricked. “Elephants are lucky. I bet if you save this elephant today, its luck will save you one day.”

“I’m absolutely unsavable, Miss Livingston—but let’s get the elephant.” He hands me the numbered paddle so I can do the bidding, then sits there on his phone, answering emails while I keep on lifting the stick.

I start freaking out as the price rises. “Saint—”

“Keep going until she’s yours.”

“She’s yours,” I amend.

He shrugs. “If it makes you feel better.”

We save the elephant named Rosie, and now she’ll have a home for life. He also retrieved the stick from me and bid on each of the other animals, enough to get their prices up and make the others pay out their asses. He didn’t say he’d do this—I observed by the fourth animal he was bidding on them all, pushing everyone to their limits until he was satisfied.

It’s as if the world is his playground. I’m awed, and also a little frightened.

Saint could crush the magazine. . . .

I just saw a calmly ruthless side of him I hope to never see opposing me.

On our way back, he’s on the phone speaking in another language, and I’m trying not to notice how the sound of his voice caressing the foreign tones makes me shift in my seat. I write down notes on my phone to email to myself, especially the one that’s most on my mind.

He takes no prisoners. He pushed the prices up as far as they’d go. Why? He challenges his peers and his peers don’t like it——> How many enemies does he have?

I start blushing when I think of the way he seems to enjoy teasing me, and I exhale and look at him as he talks to someone I’m pretty sure is Tahoe Roth. He’s different with his friends. More at ease, less intense. I think of his business calls, of his actions today.

He’s driven and relentless—absolutely unquenchable.

When we drop him off at M4, where the shiny BUG 3 waits for him with someone standing by with the keys, he says good night. I thank him for today and then sit there tortured, wondering if that was my last interview.

When I get home I wonder how I’m going to get him to see me again. I feel restless even thinking this is over. I wonder if I will look too desperate if I ask for another interview. Maybe I’ll just keep in touch and then reach out later in the week.

Opening my Interface inbox and starting a new message, I search for the auction and find a beautiful elephant picture. I add a caption saying, You really know how to treat a gal; my hero, and then I write a message:

Mr. Saint, I not only enjoyed learning about Interface but I am sleeping so much better knowing that Rosie is, too.

I stare at the words and wonder if I’m going a little too far. I’m teasing him a little because he teased me today. I want to appeal to his human side so he can share a little more with me, but I don’t want him to feel I’m being unprofessional. I ask Gina what she thinks of me sending an elephant picture.

“What’s an elephant got to do with anything?”

I decide it’s something only he will get, so I gather my courage and send it. Then I groan. Really? I’m not even sure he’ll laugh, what kind of moods he has. I end up checking compulsively for messages, and as I wait for a reply, I divert my energies into reading his interviews. I read and read, interested not really in the questions but in the answers, and more than that, in each tiny white space in between the words of his answers, as if any word he didn’t say will help me get to know him better.

Still no reply to my message hours later.

There’s usually peace in my bedroom, but I seem to have sent it off with the elephant picture. I toss and turn all night.