“You want to be with me,” he murmurs. “I see the way you blush, hear you stop breathing, and I like being the cause of both.” He stares at me soberly, and I’m scared. I’m so scared, I’m trembling in his arms, on his lap.
“I’m not your girl, Saint. I’m probably the only girl you know who doesn’t want to be your girlfriend. I think you’re suffering from the wanting-what-you-can’t-have syndrome.”
He looks down at me, tender-eyed, as if he understands the battle in me. As if he’s been there or knows instinctively that I’m going to lose—but he will still have no pity on me. “I don’t think so, Rachel. I’ve got you right where I want you.”
“On your big yacht.” I roll my eyes.
“Nah. Next to me.” The comment makes my stomach dip and the backs of my ears flush hot.
“You’re teasing me.”
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s a suntan. I’m tanning right now. You know. On your big yacht. You’ve lost the ability to make me shy. I no longer blush.”
He tugs my bikini top open, and I yell, “Malcolm!”
“Not a suntan,” he says, his stare hot on my breasts as I scramble to tie the top up again. “You’re blushing all over, every inch of you,” he says approvingly.
Before I know it, we’re kissing, hot and lazily, for what feels like a minute and an hour. We’re so hot by the time we peel our lips apart, I’m sure he’ll pursue this in the bedroom, but he’s got a dinner, and we have to head to the docks before we can get into it.
“You sure you don’t want to come?” He rumples my hair on his way past me.
“And be the feast for all those reporters? No, thank you,” I mumble, stealing glimpses of him as he covers that god’s body in his sexy business clothes.
He zips up his slacks, then starts to work his buttons with fast, nimble fingers. “It bothers you that they’re after you?”
I shrug as I force myself into my slim-fit jeans. “How do you live with it?”
“I don’t have a choice.” He looks at me, watching me and my jeans battle it out. “It’s new to them because you’re new to me. Are you uncomfortable, Rachel?”
“A little. Not in my jeans, with those assholes who are after you and, now, me.”
He chuckles deliciously, then shakes his head and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Then I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t, it’ll fade away along with your interest,” I call after him.
“Not happening anytime soon,” he says flatly, out of the room already.
By that night I have several texts from Helen.
Rachel I need something this week.
Call me when you can
I hope everything is going smoothly
And I’ve got the worst case of writer’s block. I have a brick in my head instead of a brain, and it’s absolutely silent. I stare at my screen, unable to write even one sentence. Nothing. I open my box of note cards and notes, then turn back to my online list of links.
Still nothing.
I’m so restless, I can’t write, and my deadline looms like a DEAD END sign ahead. I thought things would have cooled down with Saint by now, but instead . . . where is this going?
Distracting myself, I start looking for new links when I see an article online.
Tiger Can’t Change His Stripes—Saint Reverts to Old Ways After Rumored Split with Possible Girlfriend And I see an image of him, sharp in a suit, with the event banner in the distance. Today’s event banner, to be exact. And a beautiful blonde who looks like me standing with him, looking dotingly up into his face.
My face just pales, and my stomach aches. I lift my finger to his face. He looks so detached and remote. I can’t believe this is the same man who was teasing me only hours ago.
I sit there and see her with her arm linked in his, and he looks beautiful. It’s the most coveted spot in Chicago, that arm of his. Who wouldn’t be happy and proud to stand by Saint’s side?
You, because that’s not your place; your place is at Edge, in your own safe life, not in the crazy whirlwind of his. Slamming my laptop shut, I head out to the living room, having no room for jealousy tonight or anything other than writer’s block. No, thanks. Getting possessive over a man who’s proven to be unattainable for years is not what I need right now.
What I need is to let my brain rest so that my muse can come back.
What I also need right now is to start focusing on my project, not on sex and Sin.
“What are you watching?” I go sit next to Gina.
“Moulin Rouge,” she says, sniffling.
“Oh, I can’t watch Moulin Rouge right now!” I pound my fist on the seat beneath me; all the anger I feel bubbles up with that sentence, and I end up heading to my room as the song “Come What May” follows me.
I curl up on my bed with my phone in my hand, staring at his name. Don’t text him, Rachel. He’s with another girl, the perfect out for you so you can stop seeing him and get straight back to work.
I lie in bed a little after midnight and then I see:
SIN
Can I come over?
I scowl. I don’t answer, but I keep the phone in my hand, unable to set it aside.
It vibrates.
SIN the screen blinks.