Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(90)

Sometimes we accidentally meet in the elevator as I ride up to my floor . . . and he rides to his. He’s good at showing no emotion. But when our eyes lock, there’s that inevitable spark I see light his green eyes. Our companions move as though by instinct to let him get close to me. We don’t touch. At least, I don’t. But he sometimes stands so that our hands graze. Sometimes his thumb comes out for mischief, brushing the back of my finger—the tiniest bit. Other times, he laces our fingers for a heartbeat.

A most delicious, achingly sensual heartbeat.

And there was this one time when he hooked his pinky to mine and rode the entire way up to my floor standing there, tall, quiet, among the bustle of people, nobody but me knowing that this man—this man really loves me.

Sometimes I go up to his office or he comes down—and somehow we both know why we’re there. To talk, sometimes.

But sometimes to be quiet.

Superduper quiet as he kisses my mouth red, and red, and red, and simply coaxes me to promise him that I’ll come over to his place tonight.

At his place, we f*ck all night long.

In mine, we f*ck quietly so that Gina doesn’t hear us.

It’s perfect. I wouldn’t change a single thing.

Not of him, not of us.

I took the leap, and Malcolm caught me.



So we have this arrangement. During the week, we generally sleep at my place because I don’t want Gina to feel lonely. The weekend, we’re in his. This Thursday he has offered to drive me home, but he makes a five-minute stop at the bank. I stay answering some last emails on my phone and then peer curiously out the window when he comes out with one of the managers, who shakes his hand goodbye, then he climbs on board and asks Claude to take us to his building.

He’s holding a suspicious envelope in one hand as he settles into the seat across from mine and slowly gets rid of his tie and tucks it into his jacket pocket.

“This is so not the arrangement, mister,” I chide him, scowling.

He smirks. “Are you mad at me now?”

“So absolutely mad,” I exaggerate.

“I’ll make it up to you easy.” He leans forward and runs the pad of his thumb down my jawline. “I have a surprise.” He waves the manila folder in his hand in the air, and the butterflies respond.

“What is that?” I pry.

“Something.”

“It’s clearly something. But what?”

“Patience, grasshopper.” He leans back in the seat with this infuriating smirk, the very image of patience itself, and stretches his arm out behind him, a very self-satisfied look in his eye as he watches me squirm to find out his surprise.

We head to the top of the building. At the very top, there’s a pool exclusive to the penthouse. It’s an infinity pool, where the water seems to blend out into the twinkling lights of Chicago.

We’ve used this pool a couple of weekends, but this evening, the luxurious white chaises have been removed. They have been vacated to make room for one lone table at the center platform that crosses the pool. Connected, also, to the pool is another platform featuring the only lounge area that seems to have been left untouched.

The one Saint and I always sit in to enjoy the view.

The paths toward both the table and the lounge are littered with electric candles that glow quietly as we pass.

It’s so breathtaking—and so unexpected—that I spin around with wide eyes.

“So this is how you’re making it up to me?” I catch him watching me a little too closely, and I kiss his jaw and whisper, “I like it. Make me mad again.”

His hand engulfs mine, then he leads me forward to the lounge. “Dinner comes after the surprise.”

He sits me down on the larger couch and settles next to me, and then draws the envelope to his thigh.

“If my mother couldn’t meet you, I thought you could still meet her.” He pulls out a 5 x 7 color photograph from inside and extends it to me.

I feel a visceral reaction to the image of the woman I see, and the handsome teenager standing beside her, letting her wrap her arm around him even though he’s already taller. I recognize him instantly.

How can I not? I love him to pieces. Every part of him. And I love that woman in the picture simply because of the smile she’s wearing and how lovingly she’s holding him.

“She was reckless, spent money like her life depended on it,” Malcolm tells me. “She was passionate, and brave, and she loved me. Despite everything.”

He reaches into the folder again, and this time takes out a box with the name Harry Winston on it. He snaps it open. And there’s this lovely, exquisite ring sitting proudly at its center. It’s a round stone, super classical.

“When I was born my father told her to go buy the biggest rock she could find to celebrate the birth of what could now only be their only son. She didn’t buy the biggest rock, she bought the most perfect: D, internally flawless, 4.01 carats. She took off her engagement ring and wore this ring for as long as I can remember. When her leukemia was diagnosed, she told me she wanted to give me this ring. This was symbolic to her for me, and she wanted my bride to have it. I told her there would be no bride, to keep it. When I . . .”

He pauses, his expression troubled by the memory.

“When I came back from my skiing trip with the guys, I was given a folder with that picture she kept on her nightstand. A trust fund. And this ring.”