Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(43)

He cocks an arrogant brow. “Strings are there to be pulled.”

I laugh. “Saint! Promise me.”

“Tell me where,” he says, setting everything aside.

“Not M4,” I assure. I search his unreadable expression, then sigh. “I can’t be at Edge anymore. I don’t feel safe there.”

He looks at me in silence as if waiting for me to say more.

“I can’t go with you either, so don’t suggest it. It would complicate things and I have a hard time with all the attention you get. This would only put your business sense into question.”

“I disagree. I’ve got perfect business sense. We’d be lucky to have you.” He cocks his head, and his eyes suddenly bathe me with admiration and concern. “You did everything for that magazine. You bared your soul for that magazine.”

“It wasn’t for Edge. I ended up baring my soul for you. I can get another job. Edge is not going to survive . . . you know that. Not without someone very savvy behind the wheel and with large pockets too. And if your father succeeds in purchasing it, I don’t want to be there.”

His glance becomes opaque as it always does when his father is mentioned.

“I know truth and loyalty are important to you, Saint,” I continue. “And I won’t work for a man who’s constantly butting heads with you.”

“Come work with me, Rachel.” His voice is full of its usual depth and authority but it’s silky with entreaty.

Hating to deny him, I still manage to shake my head. “I couldn’t have you as a boss and then come to your bed, a girl has to draw a line somewhere, Sin.” And then, when I realize what I just said—and wonder if I’m jumping into fourth gear too fast—I backtrack. “I mean . . . IF you want to sleep with me again.”

Fuuuuck. I turn around and take my plate to the sink to quickly wash it.

God, did I say that?

He approaches. “What’s so wrong about working for me?”

I set it aside to dry and then towel my hands before turning to meet his gaze. I take his face in my hands, boost up on my toes, and set a soft, dry kiss on his lips. “We said we’d take this slow, but wherever this goes, I don’t want you to be my boss. Promise me.”

He looks at me carefully as I drop down to my toes. His jaw starts to flex in frustration. “Don’t make me promise, Rachel.” He shakes his head and heads back to fold the newspaper.

“If you promise me, I’ll believe it,” I say.

“We’ll discuss this later. I can’t make that promise.”

Urgh. Impossible man. But because he said we’ll discuss this later, I let it go with a little tingle of joy at the prospect. “You won’t sway me, I’m sorry to say, but you can try with sex and kisses of course. God, I’m so late.” I hurry to get my bag from his bedroom and when I come back, he’s also getting ready, knotting his tie and then pulling out one of his many identical jackets.

I pause and take a moment to drink him in and think, incredulously, Dibs on that, bitches.

“I’m late too.” He shoves his arms into the sleeves and steps into his ruthless Saint persona the moment the suit is fully on him. “Otis called in sick. Claude’s picking up my eight o’clock, who flew in from Dubai.”

As I finish strapping my shoes, I grab my phone to call a cab service when he stops my hand and tucks something into the palm of the other.

“Here,” he tells me.

I’m super confused as I investigate the shiny leather and steel key ring, suspicious by the twinkle in his eye. “What is it?”

“Your ride.”





SOMETHING BORROWED


I feel suddenly so spoiled and decadent when I slide into the front passenger seat of the shiny chrome-and-black BUG 1 Malcolm gave me the keys to. It smells divine, looks divine, and I’m horny just thinking about driving the f*cker.

I exhale as I close the door, and click the ignition button.

The motor rumbles and scares a little laugh out of me. Holy crap.

The wheel slides under my fingers, the seat hugs me, vibrating with the rumble of the motor. This car isn’t a bug, it’s a beast.

A beast that should be driven at breakneck speed and I’m cautiously driving at half the speed limit to a thousand envious stares of those passing.

An old man passes by with a grin and I’m glad he got to feel superior today.

After a quick pit stop at home for a fresh set of clothes, I walk into Bluekin’s kick-ass downtown offices in Chicago. I’m running on adrenaline.

The thing I most love about this place is . . . well, hell. Everything. Their covers are usually hand-drawn sketches, and somehow this allows for a very ample diversity to the content inside. If anyone colors outside the lines, it’s Bluekin.

Their pieces on human interests are always real, sober, and very heartwarming—but that’s not all they feature. They have everything from funny articles to the most somber articles, covering every topic under an umbrella that they keep making wider and wider.

I’m rather blessed to be interviewed by Mr. Charles Harkin today, a very well-respected member of the company who used to work at a big New York magazine.

“The CEO is an acquaintance of Saint’s. He was impressed by how thoroughly you seemed to grasp him, and especially how brave you were in your honesty. You should be very proud of that piece.”