Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(12)

Ms. Livingston, Dean again. Mr. Saint has a charity appearance this afternoon. If you can make it to the building lobby by 5 p.m. he’ll see you then.

P.S. He says keep the shirt.

“He’s seeing me again. Oh god. He’s seeing me again, and I can’t afford for it to go wrong this time! I need to ask clear questions. Get on his good side so he can see me again, maybe. Gina, it’s imperative I wear the right clothes. Help me choose.”

“What are we going for?”

“We’re going for . . .”

I stare at a white skirt and white top—feminine and pure.

“I say go for something stronger that says, ‘Here I am, and I’m serious about doing this thing.’ ” Gina gestures to a gray skirt, a tight, short gray jacket, and red pumps.

“But I wanted to look pure and vulnerable,” I groan.

“Come on—this will get the job done.”

“Okay,” I agree. “This, and some pretty underwear for confidence.”

I tell Helen I’ve got an interview so that I can leave work early on Thursday.

“Are you wearing that?” She points at the outfit Gina and I chose.

I nod.

She scowls. “It’s a bit too . . . secretarial. Can we go for something a little more sexual? We want his sexual interest piqued!”

“I’ll pop open a few buttons and get some cleavage in,” I appease.

“I heard there’s a big party this weekend at the Ice Box. Did you get info on that?”

No, but I heard him mention it in the car. “I’ll try to get in,” I assure her.

I arrive early at M4 and ask if I can see him before we leave. “Five minutes so I can give this back?” I ask, lifting the hanger with the plastic-covered, dry-cleaned shirt.

One of his assistants picks up the phone, whispers something into the receiver, then nods and asks me to sit.

I sit and, after a minute, lightly raise my free hand to my blouse, popping open a top button.

Then I pop open a second, a bit of air caressing the skin between my breasts.

Exhaling, I consider buttoning back up at least a dozen times by the time I’m allowed into his office. And then I forget about it when I see him standing behind his desk, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair.

Six feet three inches of polished businessman, black tie, and smoothly shaven jaw. I never got to watch my father dress for work, or a brother. That has to be why I find the sight of Malcolm Saint reaching for his jacket in that crisp white shirt so completely haunting and beguiling.

I’m helpless to stop myself from staring. I catch his expression the moment he gets a glimpse of me, and he quietly returns my stare. God. He’s so disturbing to me in every way. I’m not blind to his attraction. I feel it like a fist in the gut, every look punching me deeper.

His eyebrows rise in curiosity, in question. “What’s this about?”

Clearly noticing what I carry, he hooks his jacket behind him and assumes a wide stance—only looking at me—for the longest moment. My legs feel liquid.

I don’t think he’s even spared a glance “there,” but a little bit of cleavage has never made me feel so exposed.

“Mr. Saint.” I clear my throat, and a silence stretches between us as he eases his arms into his jacket.

“Rachel,” he says, his smile so mysterious, I wish I knew what he was thinking.

I step forward and lift the shirt across the top of his neatly organized desk. “I believe this is yours. I’m sorry it took me a while. I had to dry-clean it twice, one at an eco-friendly place, the other normal, just to try to get a little smudge of paint off.”

He looks at his shirt as if amused that he’s seeing it again, and all I can wonder is why, if he’s not even looking at my cleavage, do I still feel so naked right now? “I told Dean you could keep it,” he tells me.

“It seemed inappropriate of me to.”

He leans over to his computer and types in several digits, locking it. “Why?”

He finally takes the metal hanger; his fingers curl over mine—warm, long, his grip strong as he takes the shirt back. He crosses the huge expanse of his office to hang it with the rest, and I quickly button up the two buttons I’d undone, finally able to take a breath.

“Have you never gotten a gift from a man before, Rachel?” he asks.

He’s too perceptive, too observant. “Well, actually, I . . . no. Not really . . .”

“Not even flowers?”

With a tap on the wall, he opens the hidden closet and keeps eyeing me from across the room. I can’t imagine why it matters or why he’d even care, but I manage to answer.

“No,” I say.

He shoves the shirt back inside with dozens of others, but by the glint in his eye, he looks fascinated by this news, and I can’t begin to fathom why. I groan. “You’re going to tease me about it, aren’t you?”

A brow raises in question. “Me? Tease you?”

“I think you like teasing me. Your eyes are laughing at me right now,” I accuse, pointing at his face as he comes back with that long, sure stride of his and the most beautiful smile he’s ever worn in front of me.

“Maybe because I like the way you blush.”

I’m blushing pretty hard now.

His stare isn’t as icy as I remember. I feel as warm as his eyes look.