Manwhore Read online

  His presence is quite the experience. No wonder people talk about it online—hell, to whoever will listen.

  His jaw all lean bone, his eyebrows two dark slashes above thick-lashed, deep-set eyes. His lips are sensual, slightly tilted at the corners. The kind of lips Gina calls “edible.”

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Saint,” I say.

  “Saint is fine.” He leans back in his chair.

  Adrenaline courses through me as I finally have no other choice but to attempt to sit on the chair he indicated, every effort I make focused on my movements. I’m trying not to recline to avoid getting paint on the fabric—a bit stiffly, I pull out the questions I wrote on my phone on my way here.

  “So my main interest is, of course, your new social media platform, the first to ever really compete against Facebook . . .”

  I can’t help but notice he’s distracted by my clothes as I sit across from him. I can feel his eyes on me, checking me out. Is he disgusted by my outfit? I can feel his hot eyes on me, and I’m just about squirming.

  He shifts in his chair, a hand covering his face. Is he hiding a smile? Ohmigod, is his chest moving a little? He’s laughing because of my clothes! Because I’m rigid as a mannequin here, nervous and frantically wondering if I have paint on me or not.

  “As you know,” I force myself to continue, but god, I’m mortified, “investors have not only been wondering whether it will remain privately held . . .”

  I trail off when he stands and walks to the far end of his office. He walks in a way only confident men walk. It’s unsettling when he walks back to me, extending what looks to be a clean men’s dress shirt.

  “Here, put this on.”

  Holy crap. Is this his shirt? “Oh no.”

  His eyes are extraordinary up close, peering down at me with a curiosity I hadn’t seen there before.

  “I insist,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

  My heart speeds up. “Truly,” I protest, shaking my head.

  “You’ll be more comfortable.” He gestures down at me, and I feel myself go hot. He just smiles, a twinkle in his eye.

  Standing to take the shirt, I pluck each button open with shaky fingers, then slip my arms into the sleeves. I start buttoning it up as he heads back to his desk, his strides slow this time, almost predatory . . . because he won’t take his eyes off me as he walks around.

  The faster I try to make my fingers move, the more inept they feel. The shirt falls to the middle of my thighs—a shirt that has touched him, his chest, his skin, and suddenly I can’t stop being aware of what he’s doing; slowly lowering Chicago’s most coveted male body back into his chair.

  “Okay,” I announce.

  But it’s not okay. It’s so not okay right now.

  I’m blushing to the tips of my ears, and his eyes are twinkling mercilessly, as though he knows it. “You wear it better than I do,” he assures me.

  “You’re teasing me, Mr. Saint,” I say under my breath, lowering myself to the chair again. His shirt smells of soap, the collar starchy, loose around my neck. God. My knees feel weak. I couldn’t feel more vulnerable if I’d bared myself naked in front of him.

  “All right, so now that you’ve managed to dress me properly,” I tell him laughingly, then scorn myself for my familiarity. Pull out your questions, Rachel. And while you’re at it, pull out your objectivity, too.

  His cell phone rings. He ignores it, and I realize he’s smiling over my comment. Lips curled seductively at the corners, teeth perfectly even and white against his tan.

  His. Smile.

  Oh.

  My stomach dips unexpectedly. “Would you like to answer?”

  “No,” he says bluntly. “Go ahead. This is your time.”

  It rings again. He glances at the screen, narrowing his eyes.

  “Please go ahead,” I encourage.

  I really need for him to look at something else for a hot second.

  What is going on in my life?

  I’m wearing his shirt!

  He finally murmurs, “Excuse me,” and takes the call and turns his chair a bit as he listens into the receiver.

  Exhaling as I pull my questions up from my phone again, I lift my lashes and watch his profile as he listens attentively. Just sitting there doing nothing but taking a call, he sucks up all the oxygen in the room. He screams class, money, sophistication, and purely powerful things.

  They say he once leaped from the top of his office building.

  He’s been called bold and daring both in business and out of it.

  I hadn’t believed everything I read last night.

  I’m not sure it’s all a lie now.

  There’s quite an energy under those business clothes.

  He wears those clothes like second skin—hell, as if he sometimes sleeps in them. Under his white shirt, I can see the impressive muscle tone of his arms and chest. No picture I saw online truly captured the effect of that tanned, well-structured face in person. Absolutely none. His face is walk-straight-into-a-wall stunning, and I won’t even dwell on his body, but now I understand why his bed is the most coveted spot in town.

  He hangs up and settles back down, and we stare again for a moment. “Do you want to go ahead now, Miss Livingston?” he prods, gesturing to my phone.

  “I amuse you,” I blurt.

  Hiking up one eyebrow, he seems to turn the question in his head a bit, steepling his fingers before him. “Intrigue me, yes. Do you paint?”

  “I was at a neighborhood park this morning. Members of my community get together sometimes; we’re trying to stay active against street violence, gang fights, drug selling in general.”

  “Are you now?” he says, without inflection.

  I’m not sure if he’s really intrigued or has simply decided he doesn’t want to allow me to interview him after all. Thinking back to my questions, and how much I need to draw out the most information that I can, I open my mouth to try to get on his good side—maybe a little flattery?—but one of his assistants interrupts.

  “Mr. Saint, China calling,” she says as she peers through the doors. “And the car’s ready.”

  He eases out of his chair, and his muscles ripple under his shirt as he maneuvers his arms back into his crisp black jacket. He grabs the Chicago Cubs cap sitting on the side of his desk, and as he looks at it, a muscle jumps in the back of his jaw as if he’s suddenly irritated about something.

  I don’t want to overstay my welcome so I force myself to stand.

  He lifts his head to briefly spare me one last glance. “It was interesting. Rachel,” he adds.

  A horrible sense of loss weighs down on me, growing heavily with each sound of his sure, steady footsteps heading toward the door. Oh god, that’s it?

  “Mr. Saint, could you see me again . . . ? ” I begin.

  He’s already at the threshold of the open doors. His assistant hands over a couple of yellow Post-its, and he bends his dark head as he quickly skims them. He has an extremely toned back, an inverted triangle from his broad shoulders down to his waist—covered perfectly by that black designer jacket. As another one of his assistants goes to summon one of the elevators, one of his employees catches up to him with a ball.

  A baseball. Of course. Either he’s getting it signed by the players today or throwing that ball out at Wrigley Field.

  I glance around at his assistants. Two are typing. One is waiting by the elevator. And the one who’s always hovering by his side is . . . hovering by his side. All their eyes are on him as he boards. It seems like nobody is breathing until he leaves, not even me.

  When the elevator takes him away, his assistants return to their desks. Other than me, I’ve never met people more eager to get back to work.

  I smile as I approach the one who let me into his office. Her name plaque reads CATHERINE H. ULYSSES. “He’s got an effect, hasn’t he?” I fished. Does he sleep with any of you girls? is what I really want to know.

  She scowls a little. Protective? “Ca
n I help you?”

  “Yes, I’d like to see about the possibility of booking another appointment with Mr. Saint. We couldn’t cover the subject I’m interested in. I’d love at least an hour with him, even two, if it’s not too much to ask.”

  She says she’ll keep me posted, and the four of them stare at the shirt I’m wearing and none of them looks happy. Sigh.

  His assistants hate me, and he’s probably banning me from M4 for life.

  I’m so disappointed when I ride the cab back to my apartment that I replay the scene over and over, trying to find something I can use. It takes an effort to push away my embarrassment first, digging underneath to the gist of the meeting.

  I jot down—

  Punctual

  Respected by his staff = good boss?

  Even when he sat there, there always seemed to be something happening in his head (what was he thinking? Mergers? )

  His stare is . . . the deepest I’ve ever seen (indicates a man who can read people?)

  He gave me his shirt

  I look down at his shirt and study the buttons, the lapel. It’s an unexpected gesture, that he gave me his shirt. Unexpected. Yes, that’s him. Cool and composed, with a tight leash on his exhilarating hurricane energy, hiding something deep and interesting inside him.

  I roll the sleeves to my elbows and jot that down. Sometimes my stories start with a list of words. I end up with this list of five things. So this is what I got out of the meeting? Five things with very little concrete evidence to back them up, and a strange knot in my tummy. And his incredibly nice-smelling shirt.

  “What’s a man’s shirt doing here? This is sacred feminine space,” Gina protests when she gets in from work.

  “He was embarrassed for me and gave me his shirt.”

  I’m sitting in front of a blank computer screen, and I’m not that thrilled. Usually I love blank computer screens—they’re like my playground. But a playground with one lone subject and no information to play with leaves me grumpy. I’ve got a bag of yogurt pretzels from Whole Foods sitting right beside me, and even that won’t lift my mood.

  “He covered you up rather than told you to remove your coverall? What kind of manwhore is he?”

  “Gina! We were in his office. He has a good work ethic. He clearly doesn’t mix business with pleasure.”

  Gina comes over to dive into my yogurt pretzels. “Saint lives for pleasure; he’s the tsar of pleasure. . . . What’s with the frown?”

  I groan and set my laptop aside and plop down on the bed. “I need to give that shirt back, and the stain on the inside from your damn handprint won’t come off.”

  “Why would you need to give it back?”

  “Because! I’ve never . . . you know. Gotten gifts from a guy. It makes me feel uncomfortable.”

  “You missed out on a dad giving you stuff. Or a brother. Or even a boyfriend. Still, you need to take stuff when you can get it because, trust someone who knows this shit, it doesn’t come that often.”

  “I’m not keeping his shirt. What does that even say about me?” I shake my head and tsk.

  She chows another pretzel and kicks off her shoes. “He’s a billionaire, he’s probably got a dozen more still with the tags on. Were you just planning on dropping by to hand it over? Are you like a permanent badge-holder of M4 corporate, or what?”

  “No,” I admit, and I reach to my bureau for my phone and open my internet so she can see for herself the message I got.

  Malcolm Saint

  Miss Livingston, Dean again. Mr. Saint can see you Monday. If you don’t mind that we’re squeezing the interview in between some of his other obligations, he’s open to seeing you at 3 p.m.

  “Rachel!” she says, jabbing my arm. “You go, girl!”

  I grin quietly and stare at his shirt hanging on the back of my bedroom door again.

  They say when you want something, you should visualize getting it and it will materialize. Well, this is the first time in my life I’ve wanted something bad enough, to prove myself so much, that it’s finally taking shape.

  He gave me another interview. He’s got other obligations, but he will see me again. Even after that first mess of a meeting. It’s so beyond perfect I can’t stop a fresh wave of story-giddiness creeping up on me until finally 3 p.m. Monday rolls around.

  4

  MONDAY

  A shiny black Rolls-Royce is parked at the very center of the M4 driveway, the sun gleaming on its rooftop. The moment I hop out of a cab, a uniformed driver approaches. “Miss Livingston?”

  Mutely, I nod. Formally, he tips his hat to me and briskly opens the rear door. I spot Saint inside, issuing a string of impatient commands to someone through his phone. Oops. I don’t think he’s in a good mood today. He’s not yelling, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who needs to yell to be heard. His voice is exactly as I remembered, but the words today are sharper, laced with absolute authority and finished in steel. I inhale sharply when I realize I’m supposed to get in this car with him. Oh boy.

  Ignoring the sudden weakness in my knees, I slip inside. The instant the driver shuts the door behind me, the car seems to shrink a whole size. Saint seems to occupy all the space with his not-too-subtle body sprawled on the bench across from mine. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, partly open to reveal a smooth expanse of chest. His jacket is tossed to the side along with a few folders and an iPad. “Don’t make excuses and don’t talk about it. Do it,” he growls impatiently. He hangs up, then seems to quickly pick up another call. “Santori, talk to me.”

  Stroking his jaw, he regards me thoughtfully as he listens to the other man. I settle back for the ride while the car pulls into traffic. Trying not to make noise or distract him, I take out my phone and email myself some notes as he speaks. Businesses? Buying or selling? Names—are they first names or last?

  All this time, I watch him through my lashes, trying not to get caught staring. Strangely, though, sometimes when he grows silent and listens to whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying, his eyes slide down the length of my seat and they . . . stick like glue to me.

  I quickly look down at my phone, going hot all of a sudden. He’s so intense, this man. And there’s that maddening hint of arrogance, clinging to him with everything he does.

  There have been legions of women who’ve been with him in bed—he’s a challenge and a prize, I’ve seen. But in all of last night’s research, I found nothing on any office affairs involving him and anyone at M4. Saint does not mix business and pleasure? I wrote down last night.

  Sitting in the back of a black Rolls-Royce now, I realize this man doesn’t seem to mix anything with business. He sits across from me and gives me a perfect view of his face as he engages in multiple transactions. He really is quite beautiful, even when frowning—and he seems to be wearing a thoughtful frown right now as he . . .

  Uh, stares at me.

  “In business, no is not an answer,” he says, low and deep, into his phone. “No is simply an invitation to bargain.”

  Smiling at the frustration in his voice, I glance out the window as he mumbles something to his employee.

  He hasn’t stopped for a moment so I can get a single question in, but I’m not complaining. I’m getting a prime-time, front-row view of the labyrinth of his mind, and the complete impact of his personality.

  I thought I was a workaholic, but there’s really no way to describe the kinds of deals Saint is handling while doing something even as passive as riding in the back of a car. Passive—I don’t think that’s a word in this man’s dictionary. The guy is getting things done, and I’m going to take a page from his book and use this same push to get my exposé.

  I get caught up in the drama of a bidding war. Adrenaline pumps in my veins as he keeps saying numbers, shooting them off. Is he buying a company? Something from Sotheby’s? I write down the name of the person he’s talking to—Christine. And the numbers he’s reciting. He’s upping his bid by 100k increments and
ends at a little over two million. He murmurs, “Good,” and judging by the dazzling, toe-curling smile that appears on his face, I assume he got what he wanted.

  I almost miss the rush when—at last—there’s silence and the sound of his phone hitting the leather seat.

  Pulling my eyes away from the Chicago streets, I spot his phone now lying next to his jacket and then, with the strange knot in my stomach he sent me home with last time, I notice that his full, undivided attention is on me.

  A strange heat spreads up my neck because he’s finally going to speak to me. “Is the moon yours yet?” I ask.

  He grabs a water bottle from the wet bar to one side, cracks it open, and takes a swig. “Not yet.” He smiles at that, then he frowns and reaches for another water bottle, extending his arm to hand it to me. “Here.”

  When I take it, he lounges back for a moment, twists his neck to the side . . . taps his fingers on the back of the armrest . . . and I’m unnerved by it. Is something wrong?

  I’m not in coveralls anymore. I’m wearing . . . I instantly rehash because his stare makes me nervous. Black slacks, white button-down shirt, a cute white jacket, my hair held back with a black band. I look professional and clean, ready for business. Don’t I?

  “Is it all right if I ask you some questions now?”

  “Shoot,” he says, aloof.

  As I pull out my note cards, he sips his water, his eyes coming to rest on me. His face is such an absolute distraction, I try to alternate between studying my note cards and looking at him in a professional manner. “When did the idea for Interface originate?”

  “When Facebook fucked up its system.”

  “Their weakness became your gain?”

  For the briefest moment, an appraising light shines in his eyes, surrounded by an odd yet exhilarating darkness. “Everyone’s weakness is another’s gain. Their system could be much improved upon. Better games, better access, faster downloads, and I’ve got the most capable team on the continent to do that.”

  “How many workers are currently on board?”

  “Four thousand.”

  “Isn’t that a high overhead for a start-up?”