Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(2)

For him to want to see me.

But as I force myself to step forward, I don’t even know if I’ll have the strength to stand before him and look him in the eye after what I did.

I’m wracked so hard with nervousness and anticipation and hope—yes hope, small but bright, even as I shake like a leaf.

Catherine holds the door open, and I struggle to hold my head high and walk into his office.

Two steps inside I hear the swoosh of the glass door shutting behind me and my systems halt at the familiar sight of the most beautiful office I’ve ever been in.

His office is all vast marble and chrome, twelve-foot ceilings, and endless floor-to-ceiling windows.

And there he is. The center of its axis. The center of my world.

He’s pacing by the window, speaking into a headset in a low, low voice—the kind he uses when he’s pissed. All I can make out are the words have to be dead to let her fall into his clutches . . .

He hangs up, and as if he feels me in the room, he turns his head. His eyes flare when he sees me. His green eyes.

His achingly familiar, beautiful green eyes.

He inhales, very slowly, his chest expanding, his hands curling a little at his sides as he looks at me.

I look back at him.

Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint.

I just walked into the eye of the most powerful storm of my life. No. Not a storm. A hurricane.

Four weeks, I haven’t seen him. And he still looks exactly as I remember. Larger than life, and more irresistible than ever.

His striking face is perfectly shaven today, and his sensual lips look so achingly full I can almost feel them against mine. Six feet-plus of perfectly controlled male power stands before me, in a perfect black suit and a killer tie. He’s the very devil in Armani; strong-boned, square-jawed, gleaming dark hair and those penetrating eyes.

He’s got the best eyes.

They twinkle mercilessly when he teases me, and when he doesn’t tease me, they’re mysterious and unreadable, assessing and intelligent, keeping me guessing about his thoughts.

But I had forgotten how cold those eyes used to be. Green arctic ice looks back at me now. Every fleck of ice in those eyes gleaming like diamond shards.

He clenches his jaw and tosses the headset aside.

He looks as approachable as a wall, his shoulders stretching his white shirt, which clings to his skin like a groupie. But I know he’s not a wall; I’ve never wanted to throw myself at a wall like this.

He’s walking toward me. Every step he takes makes my heart pound as he moves with that quiet and confident own-the-world stride of his.

He stops a few feet away and shoves his hands into his pants pockets; and he seems so big all of a sudden, and he smells so utterly good. I drop my eyes to his tie as the little candle of hope I walked in with starts to flicker with doubt.

“Malcolm . . .” I begin.

“Saint is fine,” he says quietly.

I catch my breath at his words.

I wait for him to say something—to tell me how much I suck—and ache when he doesn’t. Instead I hear a voice from the door.

“Mr. Saint,” Catherine announces, “Stanford Merrick’s here.”

“Thank you.” I hear Saint’s quietly powerful voice and a tremor rolls unexpectedly down my spine.

I stare down at the shiny marble floor, embarrassed. My shoes; I wore something I thought would make me look pretty. God, I don’t think he’s noticed or is interested at all.

“Rachel, this is Stanford Merrick, from human resources.”

I feel my cheeks grow hot hearing him say Rachel. I still can’t look into his eyes; instead I focus on shaking Stanford Merrick’s hand.

Merrick is a medium-height man, with a smile that gives the impression of friendliness and a calm presence that is all but swallowed by Saint’s.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Livingston,” he says.

I hear the sound of a chair being pulled out, and my knees feel like soup when I hear Saint’s voice again. “Sit,” he says, his voice low.

I move to obey, still avoiding his gaze as I sit down.

While Catherine goes around the office pouring coffees and refreshments, I keep him in my peripheral.

Popping open his jacket button, he lowers himself onto the center of the long, bone-colored leather couch directly across from where I sit.

He looks so dark in that sable suit.

So dark against the sunlight, against the light color of the couch.

“Mr. Saint, would you like me to go on, or would you like to do the honors?” Merrick asks.

He won’t take his eyes off me.

“Mr. Saint?”

He frowns a little as he realizes he wasn’t listening, only looking at me, and says, “Yes.”

He leans back and extends his arm out on the back of the couch, and I feel touched by his eyes as Merrick takes out files and paperwork from a folder while I sit stiff and tight in my seat.

Saint’s energy field is massive and overpowering and so unreadable today. All I can think is: Do you hate me, my Sin?

“How long have you been at Edge, Miss Livingston?” his man is asking.

I hesitate, and notice the slow buzzing of Saint’s cell phone resting beside him on the couch. He reaches out to power it off with one hand, his thumb swiftly stroking once across the screen.

The corner of my mouth tingles unexpectedly.