Manwhore +1
Page 3
Interface. His newest enterprise. Growing like a monster—a force to be reckoned with on its own, it’s been breaking through all the technological and market barriers in its expansion. I’m not surprised that Saint is taking it into this next step; it’s a genius move, from an admirable businessman, the next logical move for a company just named among the top ten places to work for.
“I love it, Malcolm. I love the idea,” I tell him.
Ohmigod!
Did I just call him Malcolm?
I seem to catch him off guard. For a fraction of a second, his eyes shadow. It’s as if there’s a storm brewing inside him . . . but the next instant, he cools it back down.
“Well, that’s wonderful to hear,” Merrick says then. “Mr. Saint has an eye for talent, as you know, Miss Livingston. And he wants to make it very clear that he means to bring you on board.”
Sin has been watching me the whole time Merrick speaks. He watches as the smile leaves my face, replaced by shock instead. “You’re offering me a job?”
“Yes.” Merrick is the one who responds. “Indeed, Miss Livingston. A job at M4.”
I’m stunned speechless.
I stare at my lap as I register what I heard.
Sin doesn’t want to talk to me.
He’s barely affected by me at all.
He called me, after four weeks, for this.
I lift my gaze to his, and the instant our eyes lock, I feel a crackle in my system. I feel it like a jolt. Forcing my gaze to stay on his face, which is beyond unreadable, I try to keep my voice level. “A job is the last thing I’d expected you’d offer. Is that all you want from me?”
He leans forward in a fluid move, elbows to his knees, his stare never leaving me. “I want you to take it.”
Oh.
God.
He sounds just as stern as when he called Dibs on me that night . . .
Knotted up inside, I tear my eyes away and stare out the window for a moment. I want to call him Malcolm, but he’s not Malcolm anymore to me, I realize. He’s not even Saint, who teased me mercilessly until I caved. This is Malcolm Saint. Looking at me as if he never held me in his arms.
“You know I can’t leave my job,” I tell him, turning.
He doesn’t seem bothered. “We’ll meet your price.”
Shaking my head with a little laugh of disbelief, I rub my temples.
“Merrick,” is all he says.
And Merrick instantly continues.
Sitting tensely in his seat, a huge contrast to Saint’s lounging form, Mr. Merrick explains, “As I was saying, we’ll be offering news content to our subscribers, and Mr. Saint has been a longtime fan of your voice. He appreciates its honesty and the angles you take.”
Red-hot color spreads up my body. “Thank you. I’m super flattered,” I say. “But there’s really only one answer,” I add breathlessly, “and I’ve already given it to you.”
Mr. Merrick forges on with a look from Saint. “This is the proposal for the job and we need an acceptance or decline within the week.”
He fans a set of papers over the table.
I stare at them, unable to register, to comprehend, what this means.
“Why would you do this?” I ask.
“Because I can.” Saint looks at me levelly. His gaze is intense. Matter-of-fact, even. “I have more to offer you here than where you are.”
He’s not moving, he’s utterly motionless, but he’s just set my world spinning to the thousandth degree.
“Take the papers, Rachel,” he says.
“I don’t . . . want to.”
“Think about it. Read it before you say no to me.”
We stare for a beat too long.
He stands with the grace of a feline uncurling. Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint. CEO of the most powerful corporation in the city. Obsession of the ladies. Elusive as a comet. Relentless and ruthless. “My people will contact you by the end of the week.”
I wonder all of a sudden if there will ever be a time when this man stops surprising me. I really admire his composure. I admire many things about him. If I thought for a moment that we could fight it out, I was wrong. Saint won’t waste his time on that. He’s too busy reaching for his never-ending ambitions, conquering the world.
And me? I’m just trying to piece mine together from all the debris on the floor.
Inhaling, I gather the papers quietly. I take them and don’t say goodbye or thank you or anything at all, just hear my shoes as I leave.
I open the door and can’t help but steal one last peek into his office; my last glimpse of him is leaning forward on the couch with his hands on his knees, exhaling as he drags a hand over his face.
“I love it, Malcolm. I love the idea,” I tell him.
Ohmigod!
Did I just call him Malcolm?
I seem to catch him off guard. For a fraction of a second, his eyes shadow. It’s as if there’s a storm brewing inside him . . . but the next instant, he cools it back down.
“Well, that’s wonderful to hear,” Merrick says then. “Mr. Saint has an eye for talent, as you know, Miss Livingston. And he wants to make it very clear that he means to bring you on board.”
Sin has been watching me the whole time Merrick speaks. He watches as the smile leaves my face, replaced by shock instead. “You’re offering me a job?”
“Yes.” Merrick is the one who responds. “Indeed, Miss Livingston. A job at M4.”
I’m stunned speechless.
I stare at my lap as I register what I heard.
Sin doesn’t want to talk to me.
He’s barely affected by me at all.
He called me, after four weeks, for this.
I lift my gaze to his, and the instant our eyes lock, I feel a crackle in my system. I feel it like a jolt. Forcing my gaze to stay on his face, which is beyond unreadable, I try to keep my voice level. “A job is the last thing I’d expected you’d offer. Is that all you want from me?”
He leans forward in a fluid move, elbows to his knees, his stare never leaving me. “I want you to take it.”
Oh.
God.
He sounds just as stern as when he called Dibs on me that night . . .
Knotted up inside, I tear my eyes away and stare out the window for a moment. I want to call him Malcolm, but he’s not Malcolm anymore to me, I realize. He’s not even Saint, who teased me mercilessly until I caved. This is Malcolm Saint. Looking at me as if he never held me in his arms.
“You know I can’t leave my job,” I tell him, turning.
He doesn’t seem bothered. “We’ll meet your price.”
Shaking my head with a little laugh of disbelief, I rub my temples.
“Merrick,” is all he says.
And Merrick instantly continues.
Sitting tensely in his seat, a huge contrast to Saint’s lounging form, Mr. Merrick explains, “As I was saying, we’ll be offering news content to our subscribers, and Mr. Saint has been a longtime fan of your voice. He appreciates its honesty and the angles you take.”
Red-hot color spreads up my body. “Thank you. I’m super flattered,” I say. “But there’s really only one answer,” I add breathlessly, “and I’ve already given it to you.”
Mr. Merrick forges on with a look from Saint. “This is the proposal for the job and we need an acceptance or decline within the week.”
He fans a set of papers over the table.
I stare at them, unable to register, to comprehend, what this means.
“Why would you do this?” I ask.
“Because I can.” Saint looks at me levelly. His gaze is intense. Matter-of-fact, even. “I have more to offer you here than where you are.”
He’s not moving, he’s utterly motionless, but he’s just set my world spinning to the thousandth degree.
“Take the papers, Rachel,” he says.
“I don’t . . . want to.”
“Think about it. Read it before you say no to me.”
We stare for a beat too long.
He stands with the grace of a feline uncurling. Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint. CEO of the most powerful corporation in the city. Obsession of the ladies. Elusive as a comet. Relentless and ruthless. “My people will contact you by the end of the week.”
I wonder all of a sudden if there will ever be a time when this man stops surprising me. I really admire his composure. I admire many things about him. If I thought for a moment that we could fight it out, I was wrong. Saint won’t waste his time on that. He’s too busy reaching for his never-ending ambitions, conquering the world.
And me? I’m just trying to piece mine together from all the debris on the floor.
Inhaling, I gather the papers quietly. I take them and don’t say goodbye or thank you or anything at all, just hear my shoes as I leave.
I open the door and can’t help but steal one last peek into his office; my last glimpse of him is leaning forward on the couch with his hands on his knees, exhaling as he drags a hand over his face.
