Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(20)

I can’t swallow. His face is unsmiling, and he moves with the fluidity of water but the force of a tsunami.

Under his shirt, I can see the indentations of his flat, ripped abs, the flex of his arms and shoulders, his long legs, so muscled and strong, walking toward me. My heart is whacking in my chest so hard I can’t hear anything but the noise it makes.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thank you, I am too.”

He takes one step closer. “Has Catherine explained the day to you?” He looks down at me expectantly. God, we’re standing so close he’s in my personal bubble and I’m within the protection of his.

Talk, Livingston! “Yes, thank you.”

I don’t want him to leave me yet, I find myself searching for something to say.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d require of me today but I hope I dressed all right.”

He doesn’t even look at my clothes when he nods. And then he says, “I’d like you to meet some people.”

“Of course.”

He waves a hand and I get to greet Dean, his PR person, and then he introduces me to his other assistants, a few members of his board, and two key Interface design members. “Nice to meet you,” I say to them all.

I remain talking to one of them. A young man who didn’t finish college but his work as an innovator and application designer has been lauded across the world.

Saint has been praised for having a great eye for talent. He brings out their talent, their determination, and their mettle. The M4 conglomerate is proof of that. They all truly follow their leader.

“Oops, time to sit down.” The young man heads to search for his name on the tables. I scan for mine and, once sitting, I survey the menu at my place for a while as the room finishes filling up.

There’s an impressive array of wines on the list. I’m trying to find one I may be familiar with when Catherine comes and moves the card next to mine and sets the name Malcolm Saint there instead.

Oh.

Saint is coming over?

My heart starts pounding. I can’t even breathe when he takes his seat. One second the chair is empty and the next he’s there.

I can smell him in every breath, especially his aftershave. Oh god, how can you miss a smell so much?

He takes his menu quietly and reads, and my concentration is nil as I pretend to do the same. Then some guy comes over to say hi, and Saint and he discuss oil prices. Saint’s hand is on the table, resting there, idle—his big tanned hand. That’s all I’m looking at—I’m this pathetic.

I think about reaching out. Touching his hand and linking my fingers through his. Sending a message that says, Dibs on this. Dibs on you.

I am obsessing about it. I slowly set down the menu but don’t dare do anything. I offered to work the weekends; this isn’t a date and I want to respect the distance he seems to want to keep between us. But I still can’t stop staring at his hand and remembering how it feels, how thick it is and strong and warm. Malcolm shifts in his seat then and shoves his hand into his pocket, scanning the menu again when they drop the conversation.

“It’s getting cold out and we’re barely out of summer,” I say.

“Yes,” he agrees, lifting his eyes to me for a long, long second. Then, he sets the menu down and shifts his shoulder to face me a little more.

His gaze is fiercely direct and a bit stormy. Oh god.

Chills down my arms, my legs, my feet.

“So. Wine tasting,” I say.

“A man shouldn’t let another man choose his wine,” is all he says.

“Only make it?” I quip.

He looks at me as if for the first time tonight. And then, he smiles. Full on, mega-watt, grab-on-to-your-panties-sweet-bitch smile.

God.

There’s no wine, no drug this powerful.

His smile.



We remain seated as we start the tasting.

After the fourth wine, I notice that Sin makes a signal to a waiter, and soon, the waiter sets a blindfold over my place settings. “For the lady newcomer,” the waiter tells me with a little grin.

I watch as Malcolm’s long, tanned fingers take the blindfold. He lifts it up and looks at me, a frank question in his green eyes.

“May I?”

Oh god. “I . . . um, sure.”

He starts to lower the blindfold over my face. I’m not breathing when he covers my eyes with the velvet material. All the darkness in the world engulfs me. I hear the clink of glass, the sound of footsteps, of chairs. I catch my breath when warm, long, achingly familiar fingers guide my own to curl around the stem of a wineglass.

Saint’s touch is so familiar to my body, I’m raging right now. All my systems on go.

“Noel isn’t going to ever drop his issues with you, is he, Kyle?” a businessman sitting very close asks in a low voice, clearly meant not to be overheard.

Saint is quiet beside me.

Kyle.

Is the guy addressing him?

Saint’s thumb pauses on the back of mine until he’s sure I’m holding the glass on my own. His nearness is so disturbing and exciting it takes me a moment to get a good grip.

“Ever going to address the rift between you two?” the voice speaks again.

“No,” Malcolm answers. Then he whispers to me, “Smell it.”

My senses fire up. All but my eyesight. Sin’s voice feathers down my spine as I scent the wineglass he still hasn’t released even though I’m holding it too. I can smell the soap on his hand. I can hear my heartbeat. My skin prickles as I drag in the scent and almost taste it.