Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(33)

He laughs in true enjoyment. “Excuse us,” he tells the group, earning me a couple of venomous stares from the women as he takes my arm and slips it into the crook of his and draws me away.

“That’s quite a dress,” he whispers with a twinkle in his eye, his dark head ducked so he can say it in my ear.

“What does that mean?”

He smiles as he leads me to the table where Callan and Tahoe sit, each with a drop-dead-gorgeous girl. Saint pulls my chair out, then sits next to me as the room continues filling up.

“Are all the new Interface employees invited?” I ask him, looking around.

He nods, looking at me intently. “There are several connecting rooms to fit everyone. This room is mostly for directors and members of the board.” When I only smile, he spreads his arm out on the back of my chair and leans forward so that his voice is all I can hear, not the classical music in the background or the conversation. Just a voice in my ear. “Why do you insist on labeling yourself press?”

“I am press. I can’t delay writing the Interface story anymore, my magazine needs me to turn it in.”

“You don’t need a press badge to catch my attention. Nor do you need a badge to interview me.”

“Do you even lift anymore, Carmichael? Didn’t think so,” Tahoe baits Callan at the table. Because I’m so unnerved and unused to having a man’s attention like Saint’s attention is on me, I try to divert myself with their antics.

“I lift,” he argues.

“Haven’t seen that since I last fed my unicorn,” Tahoe drawls.

“It’s true, bro,” he answers.

“Saint, do you mind a suggestion for later?” Tahoe asks as Saint shifts in his seat to face him, the move bringing him closer to me. I instantly sit up straighter.

Saint sips his drink lazily, lips curling. “I’m down for whatever.”

“Good. Because you know what we should do . . .” Tahoe begins.

Saint: “That always precedes a terrible idea. So naturally, I’m game.”

“Let’s hit the pool on the top level.”

He chuckles and then looks at me only, his attention drawing my own helplessly back to him. “I like your friends so much better than you,” I say softly, so that only he hears.

In the warm lights, his gaze gleams like something liquid. His voice is quiet. “Do you really?”

“Yes. Really.”

Silence. My heart beats fast. He lifts his hand and brushes my hair behind my ear, and my earlobe burns when we hear a woman say from nearby, “Saint, I left my shoes at your place the other day. Can I still tell you about the charity I was hoping you’d—?”

“Monday at M4,” he says without inflection, his attention fixed on me.

The woman shoots me a look of pure hate, then is gone. I wonder if he’s sleeping with these women. I wonder—

“At least I know what they want. My bed or my wallet. Or both,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. His lips twisted adorably at the corners, he studies me. What do you want from me? those eyes ask.

“You should work out with Saint sometime. He’d kick your ass, probably. It’d be fun for you two,” Tahoe tells Callan from a distance.

As Sin looks down at me, I feel his hand slip under the table in search of mine. There’s the barest brush of his thumb when he finds my fingers, and then we hear the voice of an elderly man up on the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming today—we’re very excited about the inaugural dinner for the one and only Interface. I know you’re all as excited as I am to be part of this innovative family. And here with us is the genius behind it all, a man known for his edge, wit, and incredible zest for life. I give you, Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan SAINT!”

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, his breath hot in my ear.

I’m blushing bright red from the touch of his hand, imprinted on my back as he stands and caresses me under the fall of my hair. As he heads for the podium, I can’t take the stares coming my way and the way I feel hot under my dress, moist between my legs, so completely affected I decide I can’t be with him tonight. I can’t sit here and pretend to be his date. It’s too wrong and it’s too much work for me.

I stand quietly as I hear him greet the crowd in that authoritative voice of his. “Good evening, and thanks for that, Roger.”

As I slip out the entrance and head to where the tables for press badges are set, I spot his assistant Cathy.

“Cathy, hi, do you remember me? I met you at—”

“Miss Livingston, of course.” She motions toward the ballroom. “Everything okay with your table?”

“Oh, it’s the best table, which is why I really can’t sit there. I’m here as press, you see. It’s such a misunderstanding, and Mr. Saint is so busy . . .”

I’m surprised by the way her face basically blooms when I mention him. “I understand,” she says quietly. “I did worry a good girl like you might be concerned about his reputation.”

“No, I mean . . . well, yes, that’s exactly why I need my badge. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.”

“Especially him?” She looks at me, and I blush. “I can give you a thousand badges, Miss Livingston, but if he wants you, he’s going to come after you. He does have the patience of a saint when it comes to getting what he wants.”