Manwhore +1 (The Manwhore Series Book 2)

Later that night he texts me, Free tomorrow?

I answer this because I want him to tell me what’s going on: Depends on where we’re going or who’s asking. What’s going on? I’ve been anxious, waiting to hear something ever since he took off.

But he ignores my question and instead answers: So it’s a no for everyone except me.

Someone’s cocky! I write back with a laugh.

Wear something comfortable.

With a delighted sigh, I resign myself to the fact that my mystery man will remain a mystery on this night. Whatever he’s up to, I trust he knows what he’s doing, though.

The next day he picks me up in BUG 2, and once he tells me we’re going to a polo match, I keep asking him to tell me what he is up to. But he just chucks my chin and says, calmly and unhurriedly, “Next week.”

His calm makes me relax about it as he leads me into the grounds. He’s wearing skintight white riding pants that hug an ass as perfect as a baseball player’s and a navy blue polo that hugs his torso, riding boots up to an inch below his knees.

Callan and Saint are playing, so Callan meets us and greets us before Saint leads me to a small, round white table with a perfect view of the field, kisses the corner of my mouth, and heads toward the stables.

For hours I sip my mineral water and watch the match, the thundering hooves hitting the ground, shuddering the stands. My hair flying in the wind. All I need is a hat and I’m absolutely in Pretty Woman.

I’m hooked on the game. Saint straddling a black thoroughbred horse, charging across the field, swinging a mallet in his hand, his muscles rippling, sweat glistening on his forehead. His horse has red ankle wraps on all four legs, and between the way it thunders down the field and the way Saint rides powerfully on it, I can’t see anything else.

But I can hear the whispers of the ladies at the tables behind mine, about the guy on the black horse. Who is he?

That’s Malcolm Saint, you dodo.

Shh, his girlfriend’s right there!

Carmichael’s on the white horse . . . do you see him?

I smile privately to myself.

Callan and Sin come over when the match is done. The tables behind me fall utterly quiet. They won 10 to 5, and I kiss Saint on the jaw and congratulate him and then I congratulate Callan.

“Gotta golden swing, this man of yours,” he says as he pats Saint’s back and they drop into their seats. Then it’s “Hey, ladies,” as he greets the girls behind us.

They titter.

We stay talking for a while, my curiosity peaked about the polo game more than ever.

“’Fess up, Saint. Does your horse have four names, like you?” I ask.

“He only came with one.” His green eyes twinkle and his lips curl as he sips his water with a hand on the back of my chair. “He already had a track record when I purchased him at auction.” Then he adds, “Matrix.”

“And Callan’s horse?”

“Swear to god, Saint, if you poke fun at my girl again . . .”

“His horse came with a name too.” Malcolm leans his head to me and laughs when Callan shoots him a deadly look. “Tinkerbell.”

On Sunday, he surprises me by sending Claude to get some Garrett Popcorn—my favorite caramel that I love—and I chomp it down while we both sit and read in his comfy library. After I’ve licked my fingers good and clean and forced a few kernels past his lips, loving how he playfully tries to draw my finger into his mouth along with the popped corn, I curl up to his bare chest as he reads Michael Connelly while I read what stuck to me from his office bookshelf: an Agatha Christie, Destination Unknown.

I keep getting up to change my book for a few other Agatha Christie offerings even as Saint flips his pages.

Settling back down with a collection of Miss Marple stories, I peer into his book and make him share the page with me so I can skim through what he’s reading.

“Why does he suspect his brother’s death wasn’t a suicide?”

“Read it.” He tweaks my nose and tells me, “Get back to yours.”

“I like yours better.”

“No. You like distracting me better.”

“That too.”

We laugh, and I then determine to ignore him, so I pull up my book and shift on the long couch to set my feet on his lap. He takes one foot in his hand and holds his book with the other, reading for another half hour.

Before long, he’s leaning over to peer at my book. “Where are you?” he asks, his voice gruff from not speaking for a while as he skims the page. “Ahhhhh.”

I slap his shoulder with the book. “Don’t spoil it for me. What do you mean, ahhhh? Is he the bad guy? Tell me.”

He chuckles low, then pries my book away, sets it aside, and we kiss, slow and easy. And I end up lying back as my body grows soft as cotton, him hard and strong above me, and we take a reading break to make love.

Later, he orders home delivery for us and we read some more while we wait. I study the look on his face as he turns the pages of his book. So intellectual today.

Once again, as I have over the entire weekend, I try to wheedle out what he talked to his lawyers about only for him to simply say, “Next week,” without even lifting his eyes from his book.

I sigh and reluctantly let it go, cuddling against him, Saint automatically raising his arm around me as I do.

Holy crap. It’s scary, how much I like it here.

With these arms, who needs red slippers to come home?

I arrive, exhausted and satisfied plus a million, at work at nine on the dot on Monday. Before I enter the elevator, a man with the most intimidating vibe, the harshest look on his face, and the biggest group of minions around him steps out.

I start when he looks at me.

Noel Saint. Like he crawled out from the internet and the endless harsh photos of him there ended up right here.

Right in this building.

Shock paralyzes me for a moment. Tall and dark-haired . . . he’s almost as beautiful as Malcolm. But there is nothing even remotely playful about this man.

Where Malcolm’s presence buzzes with energy, Noel Saint feels like a bomb about to explode right now when he sets his eyes— completely unlike Malcolm’s— on me.

“You,” he says. In the most contemptuous tone I’ve ever heard.

He steps over to me and, out of self-preservation, I step around as one of the young production interns boards the elevator.

“Are you coming?” she asks, holding the door open, like she’s offering me a lifeline.

I hurry inside and Noel Saint turns to stare at me, and I stare back at him unflinchingly. Inside me, a ball of pure loathing starts burning in my belly, and I shoot him a look more hateful than the one he is sending my way. More hateful than I’ve ever given anyone in my life.

And he says, with a sneer, “He won’t win,” before the doors roll shut.

A morgue-like silence settles in the elevator.

“Whoa. Who was that?” the intern asks, blue eyes wide in concern.

I look at her, wishing I could remember her name so this would be less awkward. “My . . . boyfriend’s father.”

“Oh wow.” She pats my shoulder regretfully, and I exhale shakily.

Was he here visiting the Clarks?

He didn’t look too pleased.

Did he find out I’m not on board with his asshole blackmail plan?

He seemed so beyond mad, I can’t believe anyone would get this riled up about anything, much less a measly employee leaving her job.

I’m still feeling a ton of dread sitting like a brick in my stomach as I step out cautiously on my floor and look for any signs of gloom and doom.

And I’m surprised that there’s not. In fact, everything is normal, on Red Bull. Almost too much noise. Too many laughs.

I head to my desk.

“Rachel, Helen wants to see you immediately! And then report back to me,” Valentine instructs with a very wide smile when he spots me.

I walk to Helen’s office, glad to see Valentine looking happy, wondering if maybe he found a new job. Helen waves me in and I immediately start, “I am very firm on my decision, Helen—”

“Are you really? Because the entire office is thrilled!”

When I only stand there in growing confusion, she adds, “As you know, Noel Saint has offered for Edge.” She claps her hands together, clearly delighted. “But . . . your boyfriend didn’t seem to like that.”

I inhale painfully. “I know.”

“In any case, there’s a bidding war going on.” She nods. “Noel Saint versus M4.” She eyes me. “Malcolm’s taking on his father for Edge.”

I’m pretty sure the world just stopped turning.

“Did you hear?”

HEART. FUCKING. ATTACK.

“He’s upping the ante.”

Half in anticipation, half in dread, I ask, “Who’s winning?”

“I don’t know but . . . I’m rooting for your boy.” She finishes that with a mile-wide smile. “You know that love letter you wrote to him?” she asks as I head to the door in a complete state of shock and confusion. She winks. “This might just be Saint’s reply.”

Me: a woman of words.

Him: a man of action.

Shit. I cannot, cannot, let him buy Edge. Not because he’d be my boss, that’s not even an issue anymore. But because I won’t let him throw his money away into something he’s never believed in. I won’t let him be reckless because of me.

“Edge isn’t worth what they’re offering for it,” I tell Helen. “You know that.”

“They’re not paying for Edge now. They’ve got a long-standing rivalry and they’re going to do this to the end. Your boyfriend’s father wants Edge with you in it, your boyfriend is not letting him take you on.”

“But I quit, Helen.”

“If Saint wins, you’ll come back,” she says assuredly.

When I step out of the office, nobody is working. At all. They’re all leaning in groups around their cubicles and when I come out, they hoot. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Hey, we’re Team Malcolm!” Valentine calls.

“Team Malcolm!” Sandy says.

“TEAM MALCOLM!” the chants begin around the office.

“Guys . . .” I start, groaning.

Fuck. I laugh nervously, and go back to my seat and text him. SAINT! Edge is in an uproar?!

We’ll talk later.

What? Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint!!! I reply.

Later.

Please tell me you know what you’re doing.

You shouldn’t even have to ask.

God I LOVE you! I want to text. You’re unpredictable and you drive me crazy and I love you. But the next time I say it, it will be looking into his green eyes, and that’s that.

I sigh at that and then sit at my computer, look up Noel Saint’s image, and give him the finger.

“Take that from us at Edge. Asshole.”

He promised to come over after work. I shut the door, breathe, and look at all my things. Almost everything I love is within these walls.

I’m safe, right? The water feels a little rocky but it’s not going to turn my boat.

I grab my laptop and head to my room. It’s my baby. It’s the one thing I’d take in the event of a fire. It’s who I talk to, my laptop. And it’s who talks to me.

It’s all I need to work, really. It can feed me, feed my mother, as long as I have the will.

I can leave Edge and while I still have my laptop, there’s still hope for me.

But Saint is out for blood and it’s all because of me.

I search for this bidding war online as I wait for him.

His social media is quiet. But I see a couple of articles posted yesterday and today that catch my eye.

M4 stock dropped more than 5% after hours . . .

Shareholders are deciding to sell after Saint’s decision to invest in Tahoe Roth’s oil well, not the only bad business decision he’s made in the past quarter . . .

Rumors about entering a bidding war for Edge have sent the stock plummeting even further . . .

Sources say M4 Chief Executive Officer Malcolm Saint’s head is just not in the right place after his involvement with columnist Rachel Livingston, who exposed the universally loved magnate only recently in an article for a local magazine . . .

I click the links and stare at the pictures. We’re out having dinner together, in one. In another, he’s getting into his car. In another, he’s standing in a sea of men, looking detached and somehow . . . alone. Thoughtful.

I swear. In all the articles about him online, few of them tell you how Saint is actually generous. How come no one writes about that? Or writes about the bad side of his fame? What it might be like for a person so exposed to the world, someone continually judged—even by his girlfriend. Someone who can’t help but see skewed mirrors of himself thrust up by the media. Does he see himself as the media sees him? Or what other people see?

The Malcolm Saint you hear about in the news is reckless and intense—he doesn’t save a close friend’s business. The Saint in the media wouldn’t buy a mural to support a cause that I believed in, he wouldn’t come to my campout. The Saint in the media wouldn’t offer me a job regardless of what happened between us, just to keep me away from someone he knows could do me harm.

The Saint in the media is a powerful legend, but my boyfriend is a mysterious, thrilling man who I want to peel open and then kiss all the way inside to whatever wounds made him.

I think of his father. How frustrated Saint has been, trying to get me out of Edge and into M4. Suddenly I understand his position.

Would I want my boyfriend in harm’s way? No. Just knowing M4 is taking a hit because of some allegedly bad business calls—partly because of me—I want to comfort Saint. I want to take my measly thousand-dollar savings and go buy the three shares in M4 I could afford, just to show him I believe in him.

I just want to hear him reassure me that he won’t throw his hard-earned money on a lost cause, on revenge on his father, on revenge for me, on saving all my colleagues.

He’s a man who’s been asked for many things by people who want to use him. I want him to know all I want is his support and his love. He doesn’t have to save everybody to prove himself to me. He doesn’t have to prove anything to his dad anymore. He is Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint, intense, relentless and ambitious, ten times more powerful than any other man in Chicago, capable of building a thousand Edges from scratch, and his father can go straight to hell.

When Malcolm arrives at my apartment late, I charge over to him, take his hand while Gina keeps watching TV, and lead him to my room.

“I saw him today. Noel,” I say, knowing by instinct he’ll want every detail of our encounter.

When his green eyes flash protectively, his eyebrows slant over his eyes, and he opens his mouth, I lift my fingers and press them to his lips.

“He stepped off the elevator before I could go in. He said you won’t win, and then I rode upstairs. That was all. From what I’ve seen of him, he’s big on insults but that’s all the game he’s got.”

Still frowning, he takes my wrist and lowers my hand. His voice is low and deadly. “He went to Edge.”

I nod and lace my fingers through his, somehow wanting to calm him. “Probably meeting with the Clarks.”

“Funny,” he says with perfectly moderated anger, “because the Clarks are kissing my feet right now for starting the price war.”

“But they need that second buyer for the price to rise, don’t they?” I say.

He shrugs off his jacket and walks over to the corner chair, tossing it over the armrest before he unknots and pulls off his tie. “Even without any assurance of you staying, my father’s ego won’t stand backing down to me. Like he said, he doesn’t want me to win.” His lips curl as if he’s savoring the fight.

He shoves the tie into his jacket pocket and stands there, in that white men’s shirt, looking at me as if making sure that I’m all right, and my heart is quivering when I add, “You’re bidding on Edge.”

“M4 is.”

“M4 is you, Saint. You’re bidding on Edge? Why?”

“I’m not bidding on Edge. I’m bidding on you.”

My entire body resonates with shock and emotion at his words, the violently tender expression on his face. I drop my gaze. “It hurts to think that you’re doing this for me.”

“Don’t say that. You have no idea what you’ve done for me.”

He holds my face in one hand as the other gently cups the back of my neck. His eyes are like daggers of heat and truth, ruthlessness and loyalty as he peers down at me, his lashes halfway over his eyes.

“Do you know what I’d do for you?” A huskiness enters his voice as he circles my chin with his thumb. “You’re the only heaven I will ever know, Rachel”—he looks into my eyes—“and if you were a hell, I’d sin my whole life just to stay with you.” His eyes are intense one second, and the next, they’re smiling down at me as he scans my face and adds, “I would kill for this one . . . ear.” He takes it between his thumb and forefinger and tugs it playfully, and when I finally smile, his expression becomes sober again, his voice low and smooth as steel. “My father won’t touch you, Rachel. He won’t play with you, threaten you, so much as breathe on you.”

“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.