Manwhore +1 (18 page)

Between that view, and the view of the storm coming out of his bedroom in black slacks and open shirt, his hair wet as he talks on the phone and stares out the window, I feel a sigh work its way up my throat. I think of Gina and suddenly wish she didn’t think donuts were the thing to sigh over; this is so much better. Maybe she
should
give Tahoe a chance?

Rachel! You’re turning into the girl who wants all girls to see hearts and stars just because you are? That’s Wynn! And Tahoe and Gina? Really? The last thing she needs is another broken heart.

Scowling at that, I scan the online news, stopping when I see some comments about Chicago’s Darth Vader, aka Noel Saint, on the usual sites I visit.

NOEL SAINT’S LINTON CORP. TO ACQUIRE LOCAL MAGAZINE THAT EXPOSED SON’S SECRET ROMANCE ONLY LAST MONTH

I feel sick to my stomach.

Malcolm’s just hung up and is having his own coffee, the
Tribune
spread before him while he’s scanning his phone with the other hand. I slide off the bar. “Saint, I have to go. I can’t be late today. I have an interview.”

Malcolm frowns a little and lifts his head. “Interview? Where?”

I hesitate. “Well . . . I don’t want to jinx it. But you know that I made some calls.”

“Tell me who’s seeing you,” he coaxes.

His attention is too intense for that to be a casual question. One beat later under his scrutiny, I add, with a reluctant smile, “Please don’t pull strings.”

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.”

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 fucker.

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.”

Fuck
me
. Does everyone have to mention that or know Malcolm? I hear him say “Saint” and I can’t stop the reaction: visceral. Like an elephant—
Rosie
—just kicked me in the heart.

Sleep deprivation weighs on me, but I feel as relaxed as if I were buzzing with alcohol. What swims in my veins is better than alcohol. Intoxicating. It’s pure beautiful torture to remember last night. He told me I wouldn’t forget spending the night and he’s right. I feel . . . possessed.

I exhale. Forcing myself to get out of his penthouse and come back here, to the HR department and the interview I never thought I’d want until the sacrifices I made for a career I loved brought too many complexities to rein back under control.

“Sometimes the good pieces are the ones that take the most from us,” I finally tell the man on the other side of the desk, admitting to myself that, well, that piece took so much from me I’m still not fully recovered.

He’s a nice, unassuming man, but behind the glasses, his gaze is shrewd and admiring. “In a way, I can relate. The hardest things to do are sometimes the ones that prove most meaningful, but not necessarily the ones we remember most fondly.”

We share a smile and then he reviews the pages before him. “It says here you’re interested in covering serious topics.” He nods approvingly. “We’re definitely looking to bring someone like you on board, who’s not afraid of taking risks.”

I wait and try to settle down my nerves as he reviews the paper again.

“Sorry for going into territory which might seem personal but . . .” he adds, “we’d like our reporters to gain their reputations for their pieces, rather than who they’re involved with. And dating such a figure in this city, well, it’s got to be tough. Saint is a man known to overpower what he wants and we’re surprised you’d be interviewing here . . .” he admits.

I smile a little. “He respects my career choices, I assure you.”

“Hmmm . . .” he says.

I start getting the feeling they’re somehow concerned that
hiring
me will piss off Malcolm.

“So you’re not interested in even partly writing on your previous subjects?” He looks down. “Your column usually discusses the trends around the city, though lately you’ve seemed to be steering onto dating advice for women.”

“Yes. But I’d like these new pieces to involve me a bit more with the community—helping share the stories of people who don’t have a voice yet.”

He jots down notes. “You have vision and ambition.” He taps his pen to the paper where he’s writing stuff. “And your output
is
impressive in your amount of time at
Edge
.” He nods, then seems to drop the mask as he takes off the glasses.

“Look,” he folds his hands on the desk and looks me in the eye, “I’m going to level with you here. The bosses, they’re friends of Saint’s. You’re brave, which they love, edgy, but they’d need to be very sure you are here for the long term.”

“I am.”

“Are you really?” He leans back then, a challenge as he crosses his arms. “Malcolm Saint . . . he knows about this interview?”

“Yes.”

“But isn’t Interface starting a news department . . .” he trails off meaningfully, because of course the implications are
where Saint could hire you?

“Yes, but I want to work my way up.”

Something akin to admiration appears on his face. “Okay then. Well.” He claps his hands and rubs them, as if that’s that. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much for your time.” Feeling a little sinking sensation in my gut, I sense this is goodbye. I pump his hand effusively and smile anyway.

It’s a smile that leaves me the moment I exit the building. Sighing, I lean against the exterior. I groan and shake my head because I don’t think it went well at all. I sense they believe that I’ll start here and then be lured into the Interface news arm.

Will they all be afraid of Malcolm reaching out to scoop me up under his wing?

Crossing the street, I go buy a copy of the
Chicago Tribune
from the nearby newsstand and carry it back into the underground parking lot, tuck it into the front passenger seat of Saint’s Bug, and when I slide into the front seat, I set my forehead on the wheel and sigh.

Okay, Rachel, it’s just one interview. One. And not the only one.

I absently run my hand over the dashboard, enjoying the smooth luxury of all the sleek black leather and chrome.

The next interview will go better.

It has to.

I turn on the engine, the loud, rumbling roar scaring another little laugh out of me as the seat starts vibrating. God, if Sin’s car doesn’t look good, smell good, and
feel
great. And isn’t it great the man upstairs didn’t see me in this, or he’d never even given me a chance to walk in the door.

I don’t have the same luck in keeping the Bug out of sight at
Edge
, though. Our underground parking lot is minuscule and limited to purchased spots, and since I don’t find any parking, I have to call Valentine. “Val, I brought a car.”

“You don’t have a car.”

“Well, I brought one. Please, please let me borrow your space? I can’t leave this car out there at the mercy of the elements, it’s . . . you’ll understand, I promise.”

“You, woman, are in debt to me,” he declares, and hangs up.

He comes out, grumbling as he gets into his car and pulls it out of the garage, and I park with care—triple-checking all my mirrors. Then do the same when I open the car doors and slide outside.

Valentine comes running back into the parking garage. He gapes. “WHA—!” He cuts himself off with a breath.

“I didn’t mean to bring this,” I promise, lifting my hands when he levels accusing eyes at me. “Otis is sick, I planned to take a cab to my interview, he said, ‘Here.’ And when I left he said, ‘Drive it like you stole it—but don’t get caught.’ I’m nervous driving it. If someone scratches it I’ll die.”

“What—I cannot—” He’s shaking his head and having a combustion. “Dude, it’s a fucking BUGATTI! It’s worth like two-point-three million dollars!”

“Hush, it’s hard enough to drive it carefully without knowing that. It’s responsive and energetic. You touch the pedal and the bastard just goes.”

“ ’Cause it’s a V-sixteen engine and like twelve hundred horsepower.
You . . .
Bugattis shouldn’t even be driven by women, dude, this is rude!”

“Bug off, you’re gay, Val, you’re like half woman.”

“Holy shit, let’s see it inside!”

My excitement from holding Malcolm Saint’s key in my hand comes back when I let Valentine open the car and peer inside. “Dude, holy shit! This sends a message—he’s so pussy-whipped, man. Did people see you take this out?”

My lips curl. “A tiger doesn’t lose sleep over the opinion of sheep. He doesn’t care what people think.”

Valentine drools and moans and rubs it for a while. Then, “Where did you interview?”

“
Bluekin
.” My face crumples a little as I lock Malcolm’s baby and we head to the elevators. “I can’t stay here, Valentine. Saint’s father is taking over, and my loyalty is elsewhere now.”

“I
know
, Rache, I can’t sleep, I tell you. I don’t even know what I’m going to do either, but I should probably start looking too. Everyone says Noel Saint’s a fucking asshole. The only one who can take him on is his son and they say Saint is done with him—rightly so. A man’s got to move forward, not stay with those who want to bring him to the pits.”