Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(24)

I don’t understand where he got it but I’m surprised, embarrassed, and in my heart, so very sad that that picture—that moment—exists at all. “Where did you get it?”

“Online.” His eyes darken a little as he looks at me, a muscle tightly flexing in the back of his square jaw.

“Do you keep photos of all the people you employ on your phone?”

“I don’t employ you yet, remember?” He goes back to the yacht picture. “Nor was I employing you when you were here.” He looks at me.

“Saint,” I say, breathless at his proximity and getting scared by what it’s doing to me. “You never will. I could never look at you as my boss.”

“I wanted to show you this one,” he says, then plays with his phone before turning it back to me again. I see an email from a zoo, and he opens the attachment to show me. I see a huge elephant with its trunk up in the air, almost as if saluting the camera.

“That’s your elephant,” he tells me, watching me closely.

“Rosie,” I say, and when I look at him, I can’t believe the kinds of kisses I want to put on his face and body, on his lips and on his lovely and hard-to-read green eyes.

He lifts his wineglass, cocking his eyebrow, and drinks, then he hands it over since I don’t have one to toast with. I take his wineglass, and—holding his gaze—I set my lips where he drank, finishing it.

The smile he’d been wearing is completely gone when he noticed what I did.

“To Rosie,” I say, lowering the glass.

His phone sits idle in his hand, while the wineglass sits empty in mine.

And Saint sits next to me. He’s staring at me with such intensity, it almost feels like he doesn’t know if he wants to kiss me, spank me, or f*ck the hell out of me.

Yes, please.

Handsome and dark-haired, Saint is among the youngest of everyone at the tasting. We both are, but he looks distracting as a comet.

He sits here, overwhelmingly sexual and physical, casual but strong and sophisticated in the clothes he wears, compared to the older men in their suits walking by. I’m conscious of his body heat under the blanket and how, combined with mine, the air is hot enough.

I’m so aware of the hardness of his thigh against mine, of the crackling air and the magnetic pull between us.

Does he feel it too? Does he hate me, but want me still?

Could I compartmentalize like that? Be physical with him while I love him so completely?

I’m not sure I could.

So I sit here stiffly and look at him quietly, looking away when it’s too much to bear, and then back to find him still watching me.

Maybe he doesn’t want me the way I want him anymore. But even when he wanted me, he had the patience of a saint. And I’m afraid he’s going to wear me down until I agree to everything and anything that he wants. Even employment.

“So when is this event at M4 that you’re purchasing all this wine for?” I ask, searching for safer ground.

“Six weeks from now.”

I nod and smile a little, then tap at his glass I just drained. “This one,” I confirm. “I’m obsessed with this one.”

“Okay,” he concurs with a curve of his lips as he calls a waiter and asks for a similar one. “Try this one now, Rachel.”

He puts it in my hand, but I push it back into his, delighting that I have an excuse to touch the tips of my fingers to the backs of his.

“No.” I shake my head and push the glass deeper into his hand, prolonging, stealing the touch of his hand. “I don’t want another. I want this one.” I lift the empty glass, and he laughs and asks for a refill.

I ask him, as we sip, “Why hire me? I’m still battling with myself to write every day.”

He shrugs and looks at me devilishly. “All right,” he concedes. “Then I need a wine taster.”

“So determined, are you, to get me under your command?” I tease.

He looks at me. He looks at me so deeply, I haven’t felt this seen in a while.

“You have no idea.”





JUST A LITTLE DIZZY


It’s dark outside when we head back into the event room and toward the hotel lobby.

“It’s a good night as always for you, Saint!” he’s told by one of the businessmen as we head out.

He doesn’t answer. Vaguely, I notice the speculative stares coming our way. The men are checking me out, but the women have eyes only for the green-eyed god beside me. They look ready to charge him and get on with the baby making.

“Mr. Saint!” Catherine stops him at the door. He converses with her about the wine orders. He takes my arm in his hand to steady me as we head back into the event room and I discover the world is spinning a little too fast.

“You okay?” A corner of his lips is curled as he looks down at me.

“I’m perfect.”

I don’t think he believes me, because he secures me against the wall of his side with one arm around my waist. And it’s so familiar, so . . . right.

He’s more relaxed than he’s been all night after all the wine we imbibed, and so am I. My defenses are wavering. His presence is intoxicating. He shoots me a smile to melt whatever hasn’t melted already.

“You really are drunk,” he murmurs, as if to himself.