Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(10)

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 f*cked 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.

He’s got a huge hand. The kind you see on basketball players or pianists.

“The media. The fans. Even investors,” I specify.

He seems to mull it over in silence and never actually answers.

“You grew up under public scrutiny. I can’t imagine anyone would enjoy it. Do you ever get tired of it?”

His hand spreads over his knee, wider. He taps his thumb against his leg in a restless way, but still his eyes do not leave me. Not for a second. Not even as he reaches for his water again. “It’s always been like that for me.”

That stare of his is really messing up my concentration. “All your acts of rebellion,” I begin, trying to be professional and keep my eyes on his as well. “You were trying to make a point that you wouldn’t be controlled? Did you expect this would endear you more to the public?”

A moment. Two.

That small smile on his lips again.

Those eyes still on mine.

“I’m not endearing to people, Miss Livingston. I’d say people respond to me on four levels and four levels only: they want to pray to me, be me, do me, or kill me.”

Surprised by his bluntness, I let out a small laugh; then I blush because of the way his eyes darken when he hears me laugh. “Forgive me the personal questions. I’m interested in Interface and in the mind behind it—though the piece will focus on Interface.”