Manwhore: Chapter 4

A shiny black Rolls-Royce is parked at the very center of the M4 driveway, the sun gleaming on its rooftop. The moment I hop out of a cab, a uniformed driver approaches. “Miss Livingston?”

Mutely, I nod. Formally, he tips his hat to me and briskly opens the rear door. I spot Saint inside, issuing a string of impatient commands to someone through his phone. Oops. I don’t think he’s in a good mood today. He’s not yelling, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who needs to yell to be heard. His voice is exactly as I remembered, but the words today are sharper, laced with absolute authority and finished in steel. I inhale sharply when I realize I’m supposed to get in this car with him. Oh boy.

Ignoring the sudden weakness in my knees, I slip inside. The instant the driver shuts the door behind me, the car seems to shrink a whole size. Saint seems to occupy all the space with his not-too-subtle body sprawled on the bench across from mine. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, partly open to reveal a smooth expanse of chest. His jacket is tossed to the side along with a few folders and an iPad. “Don’t make excuses and don’t talk about it. Do it,” he growls impatiently. He hangs up, then seems to quickly pick up another call. “Santori, talk to me.”

Stroking his jaw, he regards me thoughtfully as he listens to the other man. I settle back for the ride while the car pulls into traffic. Trying not to make noise or distract him, I take out my phone and email myself some notes as he speaks. Businesses? Buying or selling? Names—are they first names or last?

All this time, I watch him through my lashes, trying not to get caught staring. Strangely, though, sometimes when he grows silent and listens to whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying, his eyes slide down the length of my seat and they . . . stick like glue to me.

I quickly look down at my phone, going hot all of a sudden. He’s so intense, this man. And there’s that maddening hint of arrogance, clinging to him with everything he does.

There have been legions of women who’ve been with him in bed—he’s a challenge and a prize, I’ve seen. But in all of last night’s research, I found nothing on any office affairs involving him and anyone at M4. Saint does not mix business and pleasure? I wrote down last night.

Sitting in the back of a black Rolls-Royce now, I realize this man doesn’t seem to mix anything with business. He sits across from me and gives me a perfect view of his face as he engages in multiple transactions. He really is quite beautiful, even when frowning—and he seems to be wearing a thoughtful frown right now as he . . .

Uh, stares at me.

“In business, no is not an answer,” he says, low and deep, into his phone. “No is simply an invitation to bargain.”

Smiling at the frustration in his voice, I glance out the window as he mumbles something to his employee.

He hasn’t stopped for a moment so I can get a single question in, but I’m not complaining. I’m getting a prime-time, front-row view of the labyrinth of his mind, and the complete impact of his personality.

I thought I was a workaholic, but there’s really no way to describe the kinds of deals Saint is handling while doing something even as passive as riding in the back of a car. Passive—I don’t think that’s a word in this man’s dictionary. The guy is getting things done, and I’m going to take a page from his book and use this same push to get my exposé.

I get caught up in the drama of a bidding war. Adrenaline pumps in my veins as he keeps saying numbers, shooting them off. Is he buying a company? Something from Sotheby’s? I write down the name of the person he’s talking to—Christine. And the numbers he’s reciting. He’s upping his bid by 100k increments and ends at a little over two million. He murmurs, “Good,” and judging by the dazzling, toe-curling smile that appears on his face, I assume he got what he wanted.

I almost miss the rush when—at last—there’s silence and the sound of his phone hitting the leather seat.

Pulling my eyes away from the Chicago streets, I spot his phone now lying next to his jacket and then, with the strange knot in my stomach he sent me home with last time, I notice that his full, undivided attention is on me.

A strange heat spreads up my neck because he’s finally going to speak to me. “Is the moon yours yet?” I ask.

He grabs a water bottle from the wet bar to one side, cracks it open, and takes a swig. “Not yet.” He smiles at that, then he frowns and reaches for another water bottle, extending his arm to hand it to me. “Here.”

When I take it, he lounges back for a moment, twists his neck to the side . . . taps his fingers on the back of the armrest . . . and I’m unnerved by it. Is something wrong?

I’m not in coveralls anymore. I’m wearing . . . I instantly rehash because his stare makes me nervous. Black slacks, white button-down shirt, a cute white jacket, my hair held back with a black band. I look professional and clean, ready for business. Don’t I?

“Is it all right if I ask you some questions now?”

“Shoot,” he says, aloof.

As I pull out my note cards, he sips his water, his eyes coming to rest on me. His face is such an absolute distraction, I try to alternate between studying my note cards and looking at him in a professional manner. “When did the idea for Interface originate?”

“When Facebook fucked up its system.”

“Their weakness became your gain?”

For the briefest moment, an appraising light shines in his eyes, surrounded by an odd yet exhilarating darkness. “Everyone’s weakness is another’s gain. Their system could be much improved upon. Better games, better access, faster downloads, and I’ve got the most capable team on the continent to do that.”

“How many workers are currently on board?”

“Four thousand.”

“Isn’t that a high overhead for a start-up?”

“Considering we’ve already accomplished our initial user-sign-up goal, no, it’s not.”

I smile and flip through my note cards just to avoid the intensity of his gaze for a little bit. When I lift my eyes, he’s drinking from his water bottle, still watching me.

“You have to know that you’re the city’s most wanted man. Does that surprise you?”

“Most wanted.” He repeats that as if almost entertained by the concept, a slight smile on his lips. “By whom?” He stretches out his legs wider and sits back comfortably, his hand spreading over his knee as he drops his water bottle into the cup holder to the side and regards me with openly curious eyes.

He’s got a huge hand. The kind you see on basketball players or pianists.

“The media. The fans. Even investors,” I specify.

He seems to mull it over in silence and never actually answers.

“You grew up under public scrutiny. I can’t imagine anyone would enjoy it. Do you ever get tired of it?”

His hand spreads over his knee, wider. He taps his thumb against his leg in a restless way, but still his eyes do not leave me. Not for a second. Not even as he reaches for his water again. “It’s always been like that for me.”

That stare of his is really messing up my concentration. “All your acts of rebellion,” I begin, trying to be professional and keep my eyes on his as well. “You were trying to make a point that you wouldn’t be controlled? Did you expect this would endear you more to the public?”

A moment. Two.

That small smile on his lips again.

Those eyes still on mine.

“I’m not endearing to people, Miss Livingston. I’d say people respond to me on four levels and four levels only: they want to pray to me, be me, do me, or kill me.”

Surprised by his bluntness, I let out a small laugh; then I blush because of the way his eyes darken when he hears me laugh. “Forgive me the personal questions. I’m interested in Interface and in the mind behind it—though the piece will focus on Interface.”

The car is slowing down as it approaches a driveway. Quickly peering out, I see we’re pulling into the drop-off lane of a very high-end business center, and it strikes me we might have reached our destination. Noooo. So soon? I turn back to him, but he doesn’t seem to share my anxiety. He’s the embodiment of relaxation right now, leaning back in his seat, still continuing to watch me.

“I think we’re here, and I wanted to ask you so many more impertinent things,” I tease.

He smiles at me, a genuine smile that makes him look younger, more approachable. “I’ll tell you what.” He shifts forward in his seat, a mischievous expression on his face. “Tell me something about you, and I’ll tell you one more thing about me.”

I jump at the offer, not even hesitating. “I’m an only daughter.”

“I’m an only son.”

We stare at each other again, the same way we did at his office.

Suddenly I want a thousand and one answers like that one. Personal. Precise. “Can I offer another one of mine in exchange for one of yours?” I ask.

“Ah. I’ve got a bargainer on my hands.” He leans back in his seat, his chuckle rich and savoring.

“Is that a yes?” I laugh too.

“See, the thing about bargains is, you have to have something the other wants.”

I stare at him, unsure whether he’s teasing me or not.

His eyes are dark, but his lips are smiling.

His eyes—I can never seem to stare enough. The pulsing energy of his being seems to roil in their depths. He’s a dark individual. Dark as his hair. Dark as sin. Dark as whatever whirls around him. Something magnetic. Unstoppable. Irresistible. He sits there evaluating me, and I don’t even know what to do, how to respond, what it is he’s trying to get from me. He’s a powerful businessman who gets what he wants and is used to things being done his way. He’s also a player who always gets who he wants. He wanted to know something about me, and I stupidly jumped in and offered more. But he wanted to know one thing about me, not two.

“I’ll think about it, Rachel,” he says when I don’t reply, as if to soften the blow, his eyes dark and unexpectedly liquid as he looks at me.

God! I could just hit myself.

“I always seem to mess up my interviews with you.” I don’t even know why I’m whispering, but he’s such an attentive man, it seems like speaking any louder would deafen someone as sharp as he is.

I duck my head to hide the blush on my face. When I risk another glance, he’s surveying me in silence.

Trying not to stare at that distracting face of his more than necessary, I glance out the window and exhale, rubbing my palms over my slacks as the car finally parks before the building entrance.

There’s a new tension in the air after my idiotic fuckup. As his driver gets out and seems to summon Saint’s PR team, Saint taps his hand on his knee, surfs his phone, and dials one number, speaking low into the receiver. “Hey, call the troops for Friday night. Let’s chill out at the Ice Box. Send out e-invites to the usual list.” He glances out the window for his driver’s signal, and though I want to ask more about Interface, I can tell that I’ve already lost him.

I’m absolutely dismayed when he gets out of the car and lets me know his driver will be happy to drop me off wherever I need him to.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Saint,” is all I manage. I think he says something back to me that sounds like “Take care,” but his team fetches him and he’s gone so fast, if it weren’t for the empty water bottle by the place where he sat, you’d hardly believe he was just here.

On my ride home, I finally notice other things about my surroundings—now that he’s gone. The quiet, beautiful car interior reminds me this isn’t my life, or me. My eyes keep drifting to the now-empty water bottle where he sat. Why I’m so obsessed with an empty water bottle all of a sudden, I don’t know. I force my eyes away and try to write some impressions on my phone, opening an email to myself.

Insatiable and demanding in business/extremely ambitious

Really . . . blunt (this guy does not sugarcoat anything)

*dropped the F-bomb (I like that his answers were not rehearsed and he just winged it); reason Chicago is so obsessed with him? He is NOT a fake, that’s for sure

I try to think of something else, but I can’t even land the thoughts and questions in my head. Patience, I remind myself. No story was told in one day. No secret revealed in one hour. Nothing lasting built on a single moment.

That night, I look for my Northwestern T-shirt as I get ready for bed, and I spot his shirt in my closet. I stare at it for so long I lose track of time. I reach out and run my finger over it. I feel how strong the collar is, run the back of my knuckles down the sleeve. It’s huge and classy and clearly a very expensive shirt, and it somehow seems to take up much more space than it actually does. I stare at every button, the perfectly folded cuffs—touching it makes me smile and it makes me frown and it makes the knot come back full force to my stomach.

And then, suddenly, I know how I’ll get him to see me again.