Manwhore

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?”

“Considering we’ve already accomplished our initial user-sign-up goal, no, it’s not.”

I smile and flip through my note cards just to avoid the intensity of his gaze for a little bit. When I lift my eyes, he’s drinking from his water bottle, still watching me.

“You have to know that you’re the city’s most wanted man. Does that surprise you?”

“Most wanted.” He repeats that as if almost entertained by the concept, a slight smile on his lips. “By whom?” He stretches out his legs wider and sits back comfortably, his hand spreading over his knee as he drops his water bottle into the cup holder to the side and regards me with openly curious eyes.