Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(27)

“You couldn’t be a saint if we got you a halo.”

His lips tip upward, but there’s something about the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he turns back to the road. From the moment I met him, the air between us has felt different from the way it does when I’m not with him. Thicker, more electric, every glance or smile or word causing ripples in the atmosphere. But right now, inside his leather- and man-smelling car, I feel his presence with every breath. Every thought. Every move—those moves of his, as he turns the steering wheel, shifts gears. And those moves of mine: tucking my hair back, smoothing my hands over my sweater.

When we get to the Interface underground parking lot, he slides into the first empty slot, and I’m telling myself to freaking forget about his delicious ghost kisses as he removes his jacket and tosses it to his seat. But it’s no use; the glimpse of muscles rippling under the fabric of his white cotton shirt doesn’t help get my knees back into normal working order. He unknots his tie and pulls it loose, his biceps flexing under his shirt. My eyes—I can’t pull them away from him. I feel his call viscerally, right in the core of my being. I watch him, noticing the hair that fell over his eye as he raked his fingers through it just now.

A ball of tangled lightning is in my stomach as I follow him into the elevator and we ride to the top floor.

His textured voice suddenly runs like a feather down my spine. “Do you want to talk about Interface now?”

I tear my attention free from that beautiful set of lips of his to find him watching me. His stare is too keen and knowing for me to hold it for long, but I can’t look away, either. “I don’t know.”

“So you don’t want to discuss Interface?”

His voice is gruff, deeper than usual, and the sudden smile on his lips is absolutely sensual.

I bite my lower lip, uncertain of what to say as he takes a step forward, looking at me questioningly and also . . . expectantly. My heart starts thumping. I feel like something is happening. A hurricane called Malcolm Saint is happening. I’ve been dreaming of him—of us. Limbs, flesh, touching, those grazing kisses of his right on the corner of my mouth . . .

A prickle of nervousness tightens every inch of my body as he moves his frame to stand before mine. He stretches his arm along the wall behind me, his eyes glowing. He’s so close I can see the icy flecks in those irises, reminding me of other times, when those flecks seemed to have melted from warmth.

“Hey,” he says, running his thumb along my jaw as he suddenly smiles down at me.

He smells of soap. His nearness is lighting up my nerves like a Christmas tree.

“Hey,” I whisper, shooting for casual, failing miserably.

His closeness is unsettling.

He takes my fingers within one warm hand and tugs my arm up from my side, watching his fingers lace through mine as he holds my hand between us, at the level of our throats. “Ask me anything you want, Rachel,” he says, his thumb rubbing along the back of mine, the touch electrifying my nerve endings.

He reaches out with his free hand and strokes the note cards I’m clutching in my other hand. He peers at the top card. “?‘Relentless,’ ” he reads out loud.

Startled, I jump into action and take the cards with both hands. His lips curve; he watches me shakily tuck the cards into my small bag.

You’re really unfocused, Livingston! I don’t know what to do, or what to say, only that this development is not good for Edge, for my career. For the exposé. Oh, f*ck.

“You think me relentless?” He’s amused.

As I search my brain, frantic for an answer, I find him peering down at me with a sober expression.

“I’m much worse than that,” he murmurs.

The elevator halts.

Saint glances at the top. “We’re here.” We head outside. Marble, windows, everything new and recently cleaned. To one side are paint cans, the scent of drying paint mingled with plaster and plastic. The ceilings have cables poking out. It’s a masterpiece in progress, a visionary building for visionary people.

“Hey, come here, I want to show you something,” Saint tells me, watching me walk over to where he’s standing.

He leads me into a huge conference room.

I look at everything. “It’s beautiful.”

I realize he’s looking only at me. He looks at me like he wants something from me, like he wants something very much, and like he’s wanted it for a long time.

Aware that I’m blushing hard, I tear free of his stare and distract myself with the huge artwork on the wall to his left. The wall is so huge, I don’t recognize the splotches of color as I take them all in, but when I focus on each and every one, I do.

Here, covering one of his walls from end to end, is the huge canvas mural Gina and I made at the park, along with nearly a hundred other people.

Dazed, I walk forward, scanning all the hands. There is Gina’s. And, yes, there’s mine.

“What do you think of it?”

I look at him, not believing what I’m seeing. On impulse, I turn back to the mural and lift my hand and match it to my red handprint, finger to finger.

How did he know? When I went to his office, I was streaked with red paint, and I told him where I’d been. Oh wow. I look at our hands, still disbelieving as I step back.

I remember riding in one of his cars once while he bid in an auction.