I bite my lower lip, uncertain of what to say as he takes a step forward, looking at me questioningly and also . . . expectantly. My heart starts thumping. I feel like something is happening. A hurricane called Malcolm Saint is happening. I’ve been dreaming of him—of us. Limbs, flesh, touching, those grazing kisses of his right on the corner of my mouth . . .
A prickle of nervousness tightens every inch of my body as he moves his frame to stand before mine. He stretches his arm along the wall behind me, his eyes glowing. He’s so close I can see the icy flecks in those irises, reminding me of other times, when those flecks seemed to have melted from warmth.
“Hey,” he says, running his thumb along my jaw as he suddenly smiles down at me.
He smells of soap. His nearness is lighting up my nerves like a Christmas tree.
“Hey,” I whisper, shooting for casual, failing miserably.
His closeness is unsettling.
He takes my fingers within one warm hand and tugs my arm up from my side, watching his fingers lace through mine as he holds my hand between us, at the level of our throats. “Ask me anything you want, Rachel,” he says, his thumb rubbing along the back of mine, the touch electrifying my nerve endings.
He reaches out with his free hand and strokes the note cards I’m clutching in my other hand. He peers at the top card. “?‘Relentless,’ ” he reads out loud.
Startled, I jump into action and take the cards with both hands. His lips curve; he watches me shakily tuck the cards into my small bag.
You’re really unfocused, Livingston! I don’t know what to do, or what to say, only that this development is not good for Edge, for my career. For the exposé. Oh, fuck.
“You think me relentless?” He’s amused.
As I search my brain, frantic for an answer, I find him peering down at me with a sober expression.
“I’m much worse than that,” he murmurs.
The elevator halts.
Saint glances at the top. “We’re here.” We head outside. Marble, windows, everything new and recently cleaned. To one side are paint cans, the scent of drying paint mingled with plaster and plastic. The ceilings have cables poking out. It’s a masterpiece in progress, a visionary building for visionary people.
“Hey, come here, I want to show you something,” Saint tells me, watching me walk over to where he’s standing.
He leads me into a huge conference room.
I look at everything. “It’s beautiful.”
I realize he’s looking only at me. He looks at me like he wants something from me, like he wants something very much, and like he’s wanted it for a long time.
Aware that I’m blushing hard, I tear free of his stare and distract myself with the huge artwork on the wall to his left. The wall is so huge, I don’t recognize the splotches of color as I take them all in, but when I focus on each and every one, I do.
Here, covering one of his walls from end to end, is the huge canvas mural Gina and I made at the park, along with nearly a hundred other people.
Dazed, I walk forward, scanning all the hands. There is Gina’s. And, yes, there’s mine.
“What do you think of it?”
I look at him, not believing what I’m seeing. On impulse, I turn back to the mural and lift my hand and match it to my red handprint, finger to finger.
How did he know? When I went to his office, I was streaked with red paint, and I told him where I’d been. Oh wow. I look at our hands, still disbelieving as I step back.
I remember riding in one of his cars once while he bid in an auction.
I remember all the things he handled in the space of mere minutes.
And I can’t believe that one of those things, one of the times he was on the phone, one of these days, was regarding this one thing that means worlds to me.
“You see, I’m correcting an injustice,” he says behind me. “Interface has contributed to the cause you believe in so much . . . and you can’t give this one back.”
I laugh and face him, my knees feeling weaker and weaker. “I really hurt your pride returning your shirt, didn’t I?”
“I’m mortally wounded.”
He’s not grinning.
His pull is stronger than ever.
His stare greener than ever.
“The donations made by the institutions who acquire these go to the families of the victims. These donations really helped my mother when my dad died,” I hear myself admit, with a ball of emotion in my gut. “It’s such a great gesture. Thank you for helping.”
His eyes go liquid, as if all he wanted was this meager thank-you I just gave him.
He smiles and nods his dark head, and suddenly, it’s not enough. Not enough at all. I can’t believe it—this gesture out of a hundred gestures. On impulse, I walk up to him, my Uggs silent on the marble. Then I push up on tiptoes and kiss his hard jaw. He moves his head, so I end up kissing the corner of his mouth.
Startled, I ease back, gaping.
His eyes are dark . . . but glimmering in delight. As if he wanted the thank-you but will take anything else that he can.