Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(32)

“I’m sorry, miss, but I’m not free to say.”

“Oh, come on.” I laugh a little, but he doesn’t say more.

“Do you transport all his dates around town?”

A shake of his head.

“Give me one, at least,” I insist.

“All right. No,” he says.

“Only his businessmen?”

“That would be Claude.”

I roll my eyes. “He has several drivers, of course.”

He nods.

“Who do you drive around?”

“Usually? Saint.”

“Why are you driving me?”

“Saint,” he answers.

“And who drove Saint to the event if you didn’t drive him?”

“Saint.”

Amusement curls my lips. “Have you known him long?”

He hesitates.

“All right, so I know I said one. Just give me one more. Your boss is so elusive.”

“I’ve known him since he was fourteen—and Mr. Noel hired me to keep him out of trouble.”

I’m surprised into silence by this.

“Oh, I know it’s coming. Fine job I did?” he asks.

“I didn’t say that. Everyone knows your boss has a mind of his own. I don’t think anyone could’ve controlled him.”

“The more they tried, the less controllable he became.” He shakes his head. “I’ve spoken too much.” He looks up at me in the rearview mirror. “But he trusts you . . . and I trust his judgment.”

“What makes you say he trusts me?”

“Hunch.” He shrugs. “Comes from knowing him over a decade. First of his girls I get to drive around.”

I blush. “Oh, I’m not one of his girls.” And I’ll never be.

He smiles knowingly and helps me out of the car, and one sumptuous lobby later, I step into the lap of absolute and complete luxury. Water fountain. Glowing crystal chandeliers.

Getting a little more nervous with each step I take, I walk down a long hall outside the ballroom and straight to the press entrance, where I wait my turn to give my name to one of the ladies in charge.

“Hi, Rachel Livingston from Edge, please.”

“Good evening, Rachel, let me find you here on my clipboard list. . . . Hmmm. Well . . . let’s see. . . . You don’t seem to be under the L. Any middle name under which I can check too?”

When I shake my head, she goes over to one of her coworkers. They whisper for a bit, comparing clipboard pages, until finally, illumination seems to strike the woman I was talking to. Her expression changes from a worried frown to a beaming smile as she scrambles back to me. “Oh, well, mystery solved! You’re with Saint himself—this is quite the development!” she whispers excitedly, pointing to the guest entrance. God, really? More flutters.

Pasting a false smile on my face as if I’m happy about this—well, am I?—I walk down a long hall and follow the sound of the music past soaring columns and below vaulted ceilings. I venture deep into the crowd, walking amid his eclectic group of friends and employees. I become aware of the women and how they instantly size me up as competition for Saint’s attention. The men stare too, their gazes appreciative. I’ve got great hair and long legs, and interesting eyes . . . maybe I’m not a buxom blonde, but I’ve got a great ass. Oh god, look at him. I almost stumble when I spot him at the far end, near a chocolate fountain.

His backside is to me—so impressive, my mouth dries. I can see the definition of his back and arms in the jacket he wears, his black slacks hugging the best male body I’ve ever seen.

Callan points Saint in my direction, and I spur myself forward again as he turns around. His eyes catch mine, and the whole time I approach with uneasy steps, they stay trained on me. His chest goes wide as if he’s pulling in a sharp breath, and I can’t breathe.

He’s in black tie and a devilish suit, his hands at his side. He’s unsmiling, his jaw tightening when he notices the other men looking at me.

I see the women flanking him, and I’m hit by a wave of jealousy so deep I tremble.

We kissed—that’s all. I don’t care what he does. I’m not interested in him in an intimate way, I keep reminding myself. Not in a woman’s way, just a reporter’s.

He’s just a man—a playboy, womanizer, hell, a manwhore—and I just need to store all this information and then write an exposé so people can experience what I’m experiencing.

It doesn’t matter that he stands with two women. They’re not touching him, but oh, yes, I can tell from their glum expressions that they have before. He’s used them. And they have used him. But it doesn’t matter if people use him, or if people even understand or know the real him, because all I care about is getting this exposé right. Right?

This isn’t about me, it’s about a story about the man.

Still, my stomach aches with unfamiliar possessiveness as I stop before him. He looks at me, straight into my eyes, and I look straight into his.

“Did you think you would get away with using the press entrance?” he asks me, lips quirking. Hmm. He’s got me pegged, hasn’t he?

“Did you enjoy not writing my name on the list and making everyone scramble to nearly kick me off the premises before they realized you wrote my name down next to your name?” I tease back, one eyebrow rising.