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.