Manwhore: Chapter 8

“Saint is never up to any good,” Gina declares Sunday afternoon from her spot on the living room window seat. “You can count on trouble following this little after-party of his. Did you hear me?”

“Umm . . .” I’m surfing the internet, trying to glean any info on the after-party.

“Rachel Livingston. Hello? Rachel Dibs? Can I call you Rachel Dibs now?” She snaps her fingers to pull my attention away from my laptop, and boy, has she been ribbing me about the “dibs” part. “Whoa. There’s a car outside. A big-ass car. Outside our humble little apartment. Do you copy? Earth to—”

“What do you mean, ‘a big-ass car’?” I leap up from the couch and hurry to where Gina sits. I pull open the other gauzy living room curtain, and there is the big-ass Rolls-Royce that carried me home this past weekend.

What in the world?

I grab my phone and my heart stops when I see his name on my email.

I’d like to meet with you today. I’ll have a car waiting at your place.

M

Ohmigod.

Malcolm himself messaged me?

“Hey, girl, where you going?” Gina hollers as she watches me run to my room.

I’m so nervous I’ve clammed up and can’t talk to her about it. I change into my white jeans that curve around my ass, a tiny top, and silver high-heeled sandals. I spritz myself with a cloud of perfume and shout back to her, “I’ll tell you later. Don’t wait up!”

I tuck a clutch bag under my arm and take the elevator downstairs. When I step out to the sidewalk, I notice people are actually taking pictures of the car.

The driver spots me and quickly opens the door. I slide inside before they can snap a picture of me too, the memory of the last time I was in here making me feel a little bit uncomfortable. But I’m not wearing anything way outside my comfort zone today. My clothes say modern and sexy, but not seduction. More determined than ever, I’m out for information, and no green eyes will distract me.

“Where are we going?” I ask the driver.

“DuSable Harbor,” he tells me.

He drives for a while, and the whole time I can’t possibly imagine what Saint wants from me. I’m still uncomfortable about what happened the last time we saw each other, but I can’t let my personal feelings hurt my story, either.

The car swerves into the parking lot and parks near the most luxurious yacht in the harbor. It’s compact enough to fit in the dock, but big enough to stand apart from the others. It glistens, pristine white under the sun. THE TOY is scrawled in navy-blue letters near the bow.

The car door swings open before I can even close my mouth. As I get out, I see the dark-haired man on deck, and my heart leaps. Slowly, I force my legs to move, a part of me wondering if this is actually me heading to this yacht—to the man waiting above. My world tilts a little and I feel as if someone misplaced me and put me on the wrong shelf as I board.

“Mr. Saint.”

He walks forward in baggy swim trunks and an open dress shirt, and his abs are smooth and so ripped I could trace the indentations with a finger. His legs are absolutely muscled and the wind teases his hair in a playful way.

He wears his suits as if perfection made them for him, but right now, his surprisingly casual, very sexy, very toe-curling, and still imposing good looks only remind me of my dream and make me wish I hadn’t dreamt it. In the sunlight, he’s so much more stunning than I remembered. His tan neck is thick and strong, his Adam’s apple sexy as he speaks in that deep voice: “Rachel.”

I blush beet red.

“I’m expecting friends over. I thought you’d like to join me.”

“Why would you think that?”

He steps forward, almost into my personal bubble. I want to cringe, he’s so powerful. But I don’t. “I have a feeling you were pissed off about the way things ended last time.” He watches me with a guarded gaze that misses absolutely no detail.

I don’t want to feel the hurt I did and the confusion over what he did, but it surfaces without effort. “Pissed off that you called dibs like you were twelve? And then had the nerve to dismiss me?”

His expression still doesn’t change.

And neither does my anger.

“Did you want me here just so you could remind me of my place? Or did you think I was going to bow down at your feet and beg forgiveness for annoying you?”

“No, I wanted to ask you a question.” His normally intense green stare accomplishes the impossible and intensifies even more. “What were you doing there Friday?”

“A friend invited me.”

He comes closer.

“The truth,” he warns.

A hot blush creeps up my neck, and he notices. His voice drops. “Tell me you were looking for me, and then let me make it up to you.”

“Oh really? How does Malcolm Saint make something up to someone? Something tells me a simple coffee isn’t your style.”

“Do you like coffee?”

“Two sugars, actually.”

“Noted.” He studies me as his lips shape a coaxing smile. “Stay and meet my friends tonight.”

His smile is small but so coaxing, my stomach feels hot, as if I swallowed a spoonful of warm honey. I don’t know how those eyes of his can be so disturbing and so comforting at the same time.

“Saint! My man!” A yell carries from nearby.

Callan and Tahoe and a handful of girls hop onto the yacht, and I exhale shakily and edge a few steps away from Malcolm as they greet him.

“Rachel,” he says, calling me back, and he introduces me to his friends.