Manwhore +1

A hush spreads.

The room blurs as he holds my stare from the podium; everything blurs but the chiseled perfection of Saint’s masculine face and the shockingly personal look in his gaze.

“No, I’m not poking fun at relationships, especially since I admire anyone who can endure one.” He looks directly at me with a challenge in his eyes.

When finally some people laugh, a trickle of warm heat burns in the center of my tummy, spreading down my thighs.

What does that mean?

Dibs, I remember.

It had annoyed and confused me at the time. Now, I would give a billion times more than any other woman in the world for him to call dibs on me.

He scans the audience afterward and I don’t remember being this shaken since the first live press conference I attended as a journalist.

The answers continue, along with the questions, and then Saint thanks the crowd. Their applause is enormous as he leaves the stage, and the emptiness seems greater after his commanding presence. Reporters rush to edit their videos and write their stories.

I’m lingering in the room, I don’t know why exactly, when Catherine approaches me in her usual brisk, professional way. “He wants to see you. Follow me to the greenroom.”

I follow her to the back of a hall, then hear her announce me.

When she waves me in, I step inside and it’s full of beautiful furniture, new Persian rugs, technology, and classical background music, a huge fruit basket and chilled wine, as if only the best will do for this man, even if he’s here for only a few minutes.

I look at him. Glorious in the room. Sucking the space around him, like a beautiful, commanding, energetic black hole. Sucking me so that all I know right this second is him.

He looks at me. “I see you made it.”

His voice rumbles through me.

“Yes.” My lips tug upward and I laugh a little. “Wonderful speech,” I mumble. “Are you taking one-on-ones?”

“No. I leave for a meeting in . . .” He checks his watch, then raises his brow as if the time flew. “Five.”

His assistant hands over a couple of note cards; his dark head bends downward as he quickly skims them. She leaves after a questioning look in my direction, and I take the moment he’s distracted to regroup.

I’m embarrassed to look at him. Amazing how we’ve spent so much time together, shared so many things, and he still manages to make me feel more girly than anything because he’s so masculine. And more shy than anything because he’s so confident. And also because I like him and care about his opinion so much.

Which is why admitting the following hurts: “You didn’t read my speech.”

He lifts his head at that. “I didn’t read your speech,” he agrees, leaving me no choice but to laugh a little joylessly.

“I’m not surprised. I told you I’ve been struggling. Would you give me pointers as to what would’ve made it work for you? Was it too impersonal or too fact-oriented . . . ?”

He sets the note cards aside, frowning a little, his eyes a little bit amused. “Nothing like that,” he assures soberly. “It was merely too unique. It had your stamp all over it.” He looks at me with smoldering, intense eyes again, eyes that hold me motionless. “You couldn’t write for anyone else. You’re too unique to adopt someone else’s point of view; you’re too impassioned about yours. You should be writing about exactly and precisely what interests you, Rachel. That is what I’m offering you at M4.”

I’m stunned by the unexpected praise. He speaks honestly. In fact, I detect no flattery in his words or in his gaze. Only the truth as he sees it with those eyes that have seen more than they should by his age. Eyes that have seen everything and that somehow I can feel right now, seeing into me.

“I want to write, but . . . it’s the first thing I’ve written easily in weeks,” I admit.

Other than Helen, I haven’t admitted my block to anyone but him.

“It was good.”

Pride fills me at his words, a pride I haven’t felt for my work in a long time.

I’m almost weak with it when Saint steps forward and lifts his arm as if he’s about to touch my face.

I wait for the touch, my body tightening.

He stops himself, laughs mockingly under his breath, and then he stops laughing, admitting with sober intensity, “You can write. You won’t ever lose that.”

Yes I did, I lost it when I lost you.

I remain looking up at him, and then my eyes flick down at his hand as he lowers it to his side, his fingers—how they curl into his palm. His scent is filling my lungs and I don’t want to expel a breath just so I don’t lose that decadent smell. His hand is at his side, but how is it possible to feel his fingers in places they once touched? I’m crying out for them in every cell.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” I ask. “To get me writing? You didn’t need a speech. You just wanted me to realize I could work past my block.”

I’m almost weak when a smile touches his eyes so lightly, it’s barely there. “You think so.”

“I know so, Saint.” Then, looking into his eyes, eyes that watch me as if he knows what I’m thinking, I force out a little, “Thank you.” When he nods, I add, “I’d hoped not to embarrass myself completely in front of you. I’m glad you at least . . . liked what I sent.”

“Even if this means I still want you at M4?” he asks, a soft challenge.

I feel excitement surge through me. “You do?” I shake my head. “I couldn’t.”

“The offer’s still open,” he insists. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he looks at my lips—really stares at them—for three long heartbeats. Thud, thud, thud.

“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Until when is it open?”

“Until you say yes.”

He walks away, leaving me aching, hopeful, happy, hurting, all at once.

He stops by the door, and looks at me again.

Making love was never as simple as him and me having sex.

Saint made love to me with his smile. There’s a smile in his eyes now.

“Are you available Saturday?” he asks.

I’m . . . hallucinating. I’m making things up, I’m this desperate.

“What do you mean?” I croak.

“There’s an all-day business event. I’d like to introduce you to some of my Interface crew.”

I don’t hesitate, not even a little. “I’m available.”