Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(78)

There’s a darkness roiling in the depths of his gaze. He stands and eases his hands into his pockets. The move is casual, but the energy surrounding Saint all of a sudden is so intimidating I don’t know what to say.

A long silence stretches.

“Sin, I can start up freelancing . . .” I point at my laptop, trying to sound positive. “I’ve spent all day scouring my favorite magazines to figure out what it is I like about them and I made a list. I like those who deal with people. Not things or cars. Not with the trendiest clothes. What gets me are the pieces that talk about a living thing, our strengths and weaknesses, our wins and its losses. That’s what I could have done with Edge—pieces for the modern reader.” I look at him. “I research how other freelancers have started. Usually with capital, and it takes years to build a steady income. I could maybe do it.”

He walks to my living-room window. He stares out for a long moment. His back literally looks like a rock wall. “You can do anything you want to.”

I don’t want him to feel like I’m throwing his generous offer in his face, but I’m a little panicked wondering if he does.

Unless this is about something else entirely. Like his dick father.

“Well, what do you think about me freelancing for this one blog . . . ?” I try to turn my computer so he can stare at the blog, but he’s not interested.

He turns, but he’s looking just at me, directly and narrowly. “Why do you think Edge is not hitting its market?”

Exhaling, I close my laptop and shift on the couch so I can face him fully.

It’s a good question.

“Edge is a bit too broad for a magazine of our size. It needs to find a niche and offer things in that context that no one else does. Helen has been onto that for a while, but the owners have always shot her down whenever she’s tried to direct a tighter focus. Every single one of my colleagues that remains is very good at what they do. If only Edge were steered more clearly and precisely.”

He makes no comment, but he’s folded one arm and is rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His lips are curled, as if my answer pleased him intensely.

Frowning, I tell him, “What do you think your father’s plans for it are?”

“Absorb it into his other companies, take it apart; keep only what he wants.” He starts walking around, still frowning in thought. “I don’t believe for a moment his main interest is Edge.”

Something in his stride is too controlled, too deliberate, the look in his eyes too shuttered, cool as f*cking ice, as if that very ice is running through his blood.

I can almost hear him thinking; the energy around him almost shooting sparks.

I know enough about this man to know that he’s a genius at self-control. That he’s methodical, that he thinks through his every action—that though he has a temper, he rules it, it does not rule him. He doesn’t display anything on the outside, but I know that temper is tightly under control right now, and whatever is causing him to turn glacial inside, I’m almost scared on their behalf.

As if he reads my mind, he lifts his head and stares at me across the room, his tone chillingly matter-of-fact. “If my father wants Edge, he’s going to pay dearly for it. Regardless of whether you’re no longer employed at Edge, his pride won’t let him back out now.”

“Back out from what? Buying? Malcolm, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters to me.” Eyes suddenly growing hot when he looks at me, he comes over and takes me by the chin again. “Do you trust me?”

With his free hand, he reaches out for his jacket. The energy shifts in the room as he puts it on, every cell in my body is aware. Danger, it screams.

When Saint frowns down at me and puts on his jacket, I feel like he’s suiting up for war. I don’t like it.

“Malcolm,” I call when he heads for the door without an answer.

His voice is rough but completely uncompromising. “Do you trust me, Rachel?”

Entranced by the war-like gleam in his eyes, I nod.

He swings open the door. “Then don’t look into anything just yet. See how things play out first.”

God, this man. “Are you leaving for the benefit?”

“No. I’m visiting my lawyers.”

“Lawyers see you at this hour? It’s eight p.m.”

He shoots me an obvious look and I roll my eyes. “Of course they do!” I laugh and groan at his high-handedness.

“Trust me.”

“Malcolm, didn’t you hear me? I quit!”

He closes the door.





WAR


Later that night he texts me, Free tomorrow?

I answer this because I want him to tell me what’s going on: Depends on where we’re going or who’s asking. What’s going on? I’ve been anxious, waiting to hear something ever since he took off.

But he ignores my question and instead answers: So it’s a no for everyone except me.

Someone’s cocky! I write back with a laugh.

Wear something comfortable.

With a delighted sigh, I resign myself to the fact that my mystery man will remain a mystery on this night. Whatever he’s up to, I trust he knows what he’s doing, though.



The next day he picks me up in BUG 2, and once he tells me we’re going to a polo match, I keep asking him to tell me what he is up to. But he just chucks my chin and says, calmly and unhurriedly, “Next week.”