Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(82)

“Saint,” I protest, “I don’t want him to touch you.”

As if that’s inconsequential, he kicks his shoes off, settles down on my bed in his shirt and slacks, and opens his arms. I go there. And he asks, very plainly, “Do you want me to buy you Edge?”

“What?”

Ohmigod. Saint did not just ask me this!

But he did. He did.

“You said . . .” I clear my throat, shaking the daze off. “You once said you didn’t see your money going there. You don’t believe in Edge.”

“But I believe in you.” He watches me. “I’m not bidding on it for myself. I’m either giving you your magazine back, or draining the demon who spawned me of every last drop for daring to attempt to toy with you.” A ruthless gleam appears in his eyes, his voice dropping. “If you want it, I won’t back down until I break him and Edge is yours. Yours to do what you want with, your platform.” He studies me in both silence and appreciation, his eyes missing no detail. “Is Edge what you want?”

I’m struggling to control my emotions, stumped by his continued generosity to me. “I love Edge,” I admit, “but I want . . . I want to be somewhere with potential and that doesn’t remind me of what I almost gave up for it. Somewhere with freedom. I’d love for my friends to have jobs, of course. Have a way to earn more, work more. Maybe I want something more, I’m . . .”

He looks at me—both patient and expectant—as if he’s still waiting for more.

“Malcolm, back down,” I finish.

“Do you or don’t you want Edge? Tell me.” He tilts my face up so those keen eyes absorb every inch of my expression.

“No,” I hear myself say, painfully realizing this is true. “I don’t. I hadn’t realized until now how much I want a fresh start. Edge is in my past now. I want . . . I want the best for my friends but maybe we each have to find our own way . . .”

“I’ll make sure your friends don’t lack for opportunities.”

“You will?” My eyes widen, and I grip his shoulders. “Then back down.”

“Not yet.” He leans back and crosses his arms behind his head. “We still have a way to go.”

“How high are you raising the price? What if Satan backs down and leaves you as the purchaser?”

“He won’t back down. He’s been wanting to go head to head for years. He wants to show me who has the deepest pocket and after I’m done with him it will undoubtedly continue to be mine.” God, his smirks are killing me.

I laugh, then groan. “Malcolm, you’re too bloodthirsty. Back down now.”

“Once your two weeks are up, when he can’t touch you,” he calmly assures.

“Malcolm,” I groan.

He laughs and pulls me close, staring into my eyes. “Don’t you trust me? Take that leap, Rachel.”

I sound a little scared when I ask, “Are you going to catch me?”

“It wouldn’t be a leap if you knew that for sure, it’d be a step. In steps, you go by facts, you leap on faith.”

In me, I read in his gaze. And in you.

I nod, breathless under his touch, the look of complete ruthlessness and determination I see. “Okay. But . . . back down please.”

“Rachel, I will.”

“Promise me.”

He laughs tenderly over my concern, but then he falls sober, extremely so. “You want me to promise?” he asks softly.

I remember he doesn’t make promises. So I bite my tongue and say nothing.

Then he leans forward, slowly, achingly slow, “I promise you,” he suddenly rasps out, with a firm nod, “I do. I promise you.” He seizes my face to look at me and kisses the corner of my lips. “The moment you’ve stepped out of Edge for the last time, you come to me. Whatever I’m doing, you come to me. I want you to always come to me.”

I’m still reeling as I nod, and then I just lie there in his arms—Malcolm mentally planning his strategy, and me, learning to trust.





THE FINAL LEAP


My last day at Edge, I cry. My friends cry, and Helen, she sucks it up. Valentine brings a pie and tells me, “I’m still rooting for Malcolm.”

“Don’t, Val,” I whisper. “What’s happening shouldn’t be happening. I’m not staying . . . Edge and I are done. Wouldn’t you like to start new?” I glance at Sandy, who’s also at my cubicle eating pie. “Maybe start up something like Bluekin, edgier, where we can all maybe own shares of our start-up—motivating us to really make a killing for it.”

Valentine looks around, then says, “Dude, I can’t forgo my salary for months while we try to get the online thing going.”

“I know, but—”

“And Sandy barely makes rent. She can’t afford to freelance while also working on our own website, just hoping it’s a success.”

“Let’s at least think about it. Maybe talk about it a little more. If you’re let go by . . . well, if Noel Saint lets you go or proves impossible to work for, please don’t just take shit from him. Move onward—to something better. Even if it doesn’t seem like that at first. It’s scary, I know. Hell, I’m still scared but I also know I want something more.”