Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(47)

“Was.” He shrugs. “I can get you in there too.”

“Was? What’s she doing now?”

“Not messing with you.”

I gape at him, perplexed and amazed. “How do you even know all these people?”

“Fund-raisers. Benefits. Business. They like my wallet.” He winks at me and smirks a little. “Some even like me.” He lifts his wine to drink. “Still, don’t take me off your list,” he murmurs.

“Why?” I groan, then jokingly frown. “You want to keep tabs on me every hour of the day?”

Thoughtfully but intensely, he runs the back of a finger down my jaw. “M4 is the only place I know without a doubt you’ll work on what you want.”

Before I even know what I’m doing, I cup his hard jaw.

“I can’t believe I’m leaving Edge.” I think of my friends for a moment, especially Valentine and Sandy. “Maybe this purchase will be good for them?”

He laughs softly, then stands to refill his glass. As though he needs some space on his own, he remains staring out the window, cradling it in his palm, the stem between two fingers.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask softly.

“Not really.”

A gazillion city lights flicker outside, and there’s this space that is as dark and serene as the sky, which is the lake. Will he ever take me there again? To our little spot where nothing else matters—nothing?

He turns to look at me after a moment, his eyebrows slanting low over his eyes. “What’s so awful about working for me, Rachel?”

“Nothing. I just don’t want to.” I scowl.

He scowls back.

This is what I’ve wanted. To write what I want. He’s giving me that. He’s giving me all that. And I’m afraid to take it. That taking it would mean, eventually, that I’d lose what I most want: the possibility of having a long-term relationship with him.

I can’t. I don’t even want to be tempted.

“Malcolm, I promise you, I won’t be there when your father takes over. I won’t be there.”

He clenches his jaw. His silence is heavy, thoughtful.

My frown deepens. “I’m promising I won’t be there. Malcolm, I won’t be there.” I look at him. “Don’t you believe my promise? Is it because you don’t think promises are worth a damn or because you don’t believe in me?”

He narrows his eyes. “Can you blame me for not jumping to believe in your promises?”

That strikes me, and it hurts.

“Are we in a relationship beyond working each other out of our systems, or am I just along for some kind of four? Four weeks? Four months?”

I remember what has been said about him and maybe it’s haunting me. Maybe Saint’s reputation is still haunting me, and my own feelings of not being up to such a powerhouse like him.

“We’re taking it one step at a time,” he says measuredly.

I chew on my lip.

When I don’t look ecstatic about it, he narrows his eyes. “Is that not enough for you, Rachel?”

No. Because I love you, I think brokenly.

“You’ve taught me to be greedy. I don’t know anymore,” I say. “Do you expect me to go work for you knowing that in five months you could be parading around with dozens of women, none of them me?” I challenge, slowly coming to my feet. “I have pride too. I can’t compartmentalize with you, I just can’t. I know you want to protect me. But I needed to believe that I can find something on my own. I want your respect, like I respect you. I need . . .”

I pause when a little bit of my emotions start getting too riled up.

“I guess I just need you to believe I can find something on my own too.”

Eerily silent, Saint seems to be trying to figure out how to tread into this, and I realize this conversation is going to go nowhere fast.

Fuck, I’m tired. He’s temperamental about this job issue.

We’re fighting already? On day two?

“You know what? This is a topic we’re not seeing eye to eye on, and I’m tired. I’m just going home.”

“Fuck,” I hear him say, smashing a palm into the wall, but I just ride down the elevator and hail a cab home, proud and misty-eyed and needing time to think about what I’ll do to make a living while still fighting to try to have a relationship with Sin.





NIGHT VISIT


I’ve been morosely sitting in my bed pondering my life situation for the better part of an hour when Gina knocks on my door. “Rache? Someone’s here to see you.”

She peers inside to see if I’m decent, and then she steps back and widens the door.

Saint stands on the threshold, his hands at his side, his jaw set thoughtfully . . . and my heart turns over in my chest.

“Hey!”

I rise to my feet in shock, battling to conceal the excitement spreading over me at the sight of him in my apartment.

He shuts the door slowly behind him as he looks at me, in his shirt. I feel weak in the knees. “Nice shirt,” he says.

“It’s yours.”

I swear my room feels smaller and so much more feminine whenever he’s in here.

He starts forward, his gaze shining appraisingly on me. “I like you in it.”