Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(28)

Helen’s marvel and delight are apparent, but I’m getting more baffled by the second. “Well, who’s buying us? Edge hasn’t been attractive for years.”

“No, it hasn’t. But it looks like it is now,” she says. “The offer’s from a big one. It’s actually someone you might know. Linton Corporation.” She waits as if I know anything about it and expects me to guess.

When I remain silent, she adds, “Noel Saint’s new media corporation.”

My stomach hits the floor.

I shake my head and brace my forehead on my hand for a minute as I count to . . . well, actually, to four.

“Noel Saint?”

“The very one.” She smiles. “And you don’t need to be worried. He might be making changes, but the current owners assure me you’ll be staying. Noel Saint is very intrigued by the woman who captured such prolonged interest from his son.”

I want to throw up. I feel so physically sick that I can’t remain standing for much longer, much less keep talking about this.

Staring mutely for another moment, I finally say, “If you don’t mind I’m going to try to get a column started . . .”

I head out the door and, back at my computer, the memory of an overheard conversation just this weekend teases me.

Espionage . . . he’ll never leave you alone . . .

Noel Saint is buying Edge.

Because of my article.

Why?

What does he want with Edge?

With me?

I sit staring at my computer. When Saint pursued me before, he bought my mural . . . he sent me flowers . . . he helped End the Violence take new, technological safety measures . . . but I never imagined that offering me a job at M4 could have a similar underlying reason.

Is Saint protecting me from his father?

I war with myself for the next hour. I lose, and shoot him a text: Can you talk?

Too impatient when he doesn’t answer by lunchtime, I grab my bag, toss my afternoon apple inside, and call Catherine on my way to the elevator.

When she answers, I ask in a rush, “Is he in? Can you get me five minutes with him?”

“I’m sorry but he’s out of the office today.”

I exhale and stop at the elevator. “Thanks.” Disappointed, I go back to my seat and think of Sin as I eat my apple.

He didn’t sound worried during the wine tasting when he was questioned about his father. He seemed more concerned over what I thought of the wine than what the businessman whispered.

Even so, his father is dangerous.

As dangerous as Saint himself.

And then a bolt hits me, and I remember hearing him tell someone: “. . . have to be dead to let her fall into his clutches . . .”

It all starts to click with lightning-fast speed in my head.

Oh.

My.

Oh my oh my oh my.

Feeling a spike of adrenaline as I remember the grade-A ASSHOLE Saint’s father is, I surf the internet for information on the man.

I find a few articles about lawsuits from employees, and inevitably, I bump into one of those few video interviews he gave the press, when Saint started M4 while his father kept assuring everyone that he gave his son “no more than three months to bankruptcy.”

“You are such a top-level douche-bag, and I am so glad Saint keeps proving you wrong,” I mutter at the man behind the podium.

Feeling worse and worse the more I see, I start to seriously consider my options and what I’ll do if Noel Saint succeeds in acquiring Edge. Jumping to my inbox, I scan the emails that I received when my article broke out and I wonder if those who reached out still want to interview me. Then I open another search engine and scan the job boards.

“Why are you checking the online ads?”

I lift my head distractedly to spot Valentine peering at my computer screen. “What?” I ask him.

“The ads. Why are you looking at online ads? Are you leaving?”

I glance around to make sure nobody else is hearing, then close my search, determined to make some calls later.





BOX


When I get to my apartment, I’ve got a ton of research for my article but I can’t stop thinking about Noel Saint, Malcolm Saint feeding me wine from his thumb, and my embarrassing dream. After a quick shower I opt to add a mayonnaise treatment to my hair and let it sit under a shower cap for a while when I get a ring from the landlady who lives on the first floor. She says that there’s a package downstairs for me but it’s quite heavy so she’ll have someone bring it up.

The package, when it’s brought to my door by her burly bear of a husband, is a huge case of wine. My favorite wine.

And a note taped to the top in such familiar writing, my world tilts upside down.

Rachel,

I couldn’t keep all these to myself. I’ll never forget the look on your face when you met your new obsession.

M. S.

I reread it several times. I read even the white spaces between the letters. I read the M and the S and everything he wrote.

God. My obsession is YOU.

Exhaling shakily, I bend and heave a little as I carry the box inside, lock the door behind me, then I head to my room and lift my cell phone in trembling hands, press SIN, and call.

I’m wracking my brain for what to say.

It rings three times before I hear him pick up and say, “Saint.”