Manwhore

I stand quietly as I hear him greet the crowd in that authoritative voice of his. “Good evening, and thanks for that, Roger.”

As I slip out the entrance and head to where the tables for press badges are set, I spot his assistant Cathy.

“Cathy, hi, do you remember me? I met you at—”

“Miss Livingston, of course.” She motions toward the ballroom. “Everything okay with your table?”

“Oh, it’s the best table, which is why I really can’t sit there. I’m here as press, you see. It’s such a misunderstanding, and Mr. Saint is so busy . . .”

I’m surprised by the way her face basically blooms when I mention him. “I understand,” she says quietly. “I did worry a good girl like you might be concerned about his reputation.”

“No, I mean . . . well, yes, that’s exactly why I need my badge. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.”

“Especially him?” She looks at me, and I blush. “I can give you a thousand badges, Miss Livingston, but if he wants you, he’s going to come after you. He does have the patience of a saint when it comes to getting what he wants.”

And you’re in love with him, I think, but say nothing because, thankfully, she’s printing my badge. “You’re happy working for him?” I ask.

“I wasn’t working at all until I began working for him. He was the only one who would give me a chance.” She smiles and hands me the badge.

Quietly, I head back into the room, and when I hear his voice in the microphone, rushes of electricity crackle down my spine. A wave of applause sweeps the room as everyone claps in excitement.

Standing in the back, I’m turning my badge over in search of the clip when I realize dozens of heads are swiveling in my direction. There’s no more Saint up on the podium.

Because he’s wending his way through the crowd, his wide torso carving a path as he comes straight for me.

“Are you done?” He doesn’t sound angry or impatient but . . . almost.

“I . . . yes.” Quickly, I lift the badge and try to attach it to my dress.

He takes my hand in his. “I do love those ears of yours, but they don’t seem to hear very well,” he murmurs in amusement. “You won’t be needing this.” He plucks the badge from my fingers.

“What? Why?”

“Saint!” a voice nearby calls. It’s a member of the media, asking for a shot, which Saint denies with a hand signal.

He then tucks my badge into his jacket pocket and takes my hand back into the crook of his arm. “Come,” he whispers in my ear, already leading me to the side of the room, to the doors that lead out onto a terrace overlooking a golf course. He steps out onto the terrace with me, and only then do I manage to pull my hand from the warm crook of his arm.

“I don’t think we should be here. Everybody saw that.”

“So?” He lifts his eyebrows, and I stand there, at a loss. His eyes gleam in the moonlight, and he looks succulent. Edible. Not just his lips, every part of him.

Slowly, his gaze slides downward. He radiates a vitality that draws me like a magnet. It unnerves me, but something in his voice soothes me. “Do you blame me for wanting you to myself for a few minutes, Rachel?” he asks, his voice husky.

I have a thousand pictures of him, but none like this. The face I see right now isn’t for any camera; it’s for nobody to see. Not even me. There is pure, organic, unfiltered emotion etched across his features, roiling in his eyes.

He squeezes my hand to keep me from backing away from him, and then he reels me closer to him, his lips pulling into a smile because I resist a little.

“Come here,” he coaxes, finally managing to make my body loosen up enough for me to go where he wants me. Close to him.

He’s so magnetic, so beautiful as he looks down at me and brings me close enough to smell him. I imagine reaching out to touch his hard jaw, running my tongue up his tan chest to that laughing mouth.

I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking. Why he’s smiling like that. There are smiles that just make you want to smile back, but this smile makes you want to kiss it so hard.

He’s the first to move instead, his hand lifting only a fraction to rest on my face. “You look gorgeous,” he murmurs, and he brushes my lips with the pad of his thumb. I shiver involuntarily. “I could feast on your mouth . . . even longer than last time.”

“No, no kissing,” I breathe, but for a second, I let myself absorb the feeling of being close to someone who’s so much bigger and harder.

He runs his hand through my hair, and the sensation is so sweet and so intoxicating, I stay there. We stay like that.

He obviously knows he affects me. But he looks affected too, his body stonelike and buzzing with tension. We’re both affected. He brushes the tips of his fingers along the bare back of my dress, the warmth of his hand sending shivers through my body. We’re in an alcove, and there’s this intense you-and-me vibe.

Intense you-and-me vibe . . .

“I never do this.” I try to unwind his arms from around me. “Give me back my badge, please.”

“What for?” he murmurs, scowling softly.

“I need my badge. I’m . . . this isn’t . . .”

“No,” he says softly.

“I feel naked without my badge.”

He grins. “It’s still no.”

I groan and turn away, and when I glance at him, he’s looking at me with perfect amusement.

“Can I ask you some questions?” I say, reaching out a fast hand, catching him off guard and pulling my badge out of his jacket.

He laughs when I quickly step back so he can’t recover it; then he falls sober and recovers the distance he lost, his steps slow and measured. “Do you want to talk about Interface?”

I feel like Do you want to talk about Interface? has become code for something else.

“Yes,” I say primly, clipping the badge to my dress.

He looks at me. “Ask.” He seems pretty content to be interviewed, so I breathe a sigh of relief at last.

“What are your goals for Interface?”

He tucks a loose hair behind my ear. My ear burns when he eases back his hand. “To be number one in the market, leave the competition behind.”

I see him, hear him, his ambition, his determination, and their effects only grow stronger in me.

“Do you . . .” I trail off when he lifts his hand, caressing my cheek with the knuckles of one hand.