Later that night I’m feverish, gathering more data at 12 a.m. It suddenly seems imperative that I get the exposé done as soon as possible because, despite what I assured my friends, I’m afraid I’ve developed somewhat of a crush.
Mooning over his pictures on the internet.
What the hell is up with that?
I stumble across another YouTube video of his father. Saint isn’t in the video, but his father is ranting about his own son on television. “He’s had business luck, he has a shrewd mind and his mother’s inheritance, but my son has no idea of the responsibility it takes to run a billion-dollar company.”
“Well, he’s proved you wrong, hasn’t he?” I mumble to the man.
He’s a handsome man, maybe fifty-five years old. He looks nothing like Malcolm, except that he’s large and virile. Malcolm got that from his father, but he got his mother’s beauty and her dazzling smile.
When I research her and her death, I find out several things. Catherine H. Ulysses, one of Malcolm’s assistants, the one I’m sure is in love with him, seemed to be at the funeral, standing close to a young Malcolm, which confirms that she’s known him for a while. And second, I find out something surprising about his mother. Saint’s mother, Juliette, was apparently big on animals, and every year made huge donations to activist groups. The day Saint saved Rosie, it was the anniversary of his mother’s death—I track back in time and find out that every year since she died Saint has saved, or adopted, one animal. Every year he visits her gravesite afterward (his cars have been spotted in the cemetery parking lot yearly).
My heart tugs. I saw him that day, and maybe he was hurting the same way I do when it’s the anniversary of Dad’s death. I remember we dropped Saint off at M4 and his car was waiting, and I never expected that he’d be heading to the cemetery, but it makes me wish I’d known before. It makes me wish I knew what makes this man tick. I could’ve been with him tonight. I could’ve let him take me out to some fancy event and then . . . then what, Rachel? Then do the most reckless thing you’ve ever done by sleeping with him, even with your most precious story on the line?
Utterly conflicted, I keep clicking links, especially the ones about him and his parents.
Gina’s chowing on cereal in her effort to get rid of the cocktail buzz she’s still harboring when we get a knock on the door, and all I hear, after she goes to answer it, are the words “. . . apartment 3C . . . dead . . .”
My blood freezes in my body as I watch Gina close the door, put her hands over her face, and burst into tears.
“Gina!” I gasp.
“Miss Sheppard,” she chokes out.
An image of her smiling, just the other day, with her pets outside, hits me. One second my face is dry, the next it’s wet with tears. This scene, this fear, of huge, unexpected loss, has haunted me my whole life. It’s been there since my father’s death, even before I had reason enough to know it was there. A feeling of complete vulnerability. Of having your world always spin and never be still for a minute for you to get your bearings.
It turns out that Lindsey Sheppard, our neighbor a few floors down, was shot and killed by a group of young men driving by in a vehicle only an hour ago.
Miss Sheppard didn’t make it to the hospital alive.
Gina and I are so shocked that, after crying passionately for ten minutes and hugging each other, we turn on the TV and watch the news. I snivel, she snivels, we both snivel. I call my mom and ask if she’s all right. She asks if I’m all right. I lie and say that I am.
“I swear I will die happy the day I don’t see all this in the news,” Gina sighs wearily, grabbing the remote and switching off the TV. She flips open my laptop and settles next to me so that we can search the news online.
When the information we find is a repeat of what we watched on the news, she gives up and pads over to the kitchen.
I’ve got a ton of new Google alerts, which I’d set with the keywords Malcolm Saint. Impulsively, I click on a few and am led to a popular news and gossip blog. I scan the heading and today’s date and play the video. After a fifteen-second advertisement, I see Saint’s face flash onto the screen, and a slow, dull ache begins to grow in my chest as several pictures of him pop up on the video screen. He’s in a black suit, black tie, his hair slicked back, walking through a throng of people. He looks untouchable and mentally elsewhere.
The clips are apparently from earlier tonight, where he was present at a business function—and the corporate shark was remarkably alone, says a background voice. Speculation regarding whether he’s in his first serious known involvement with a young reporter has been storming the Net. . . .
“Maybe he was alone at the function, but I bet he’s not alone now,” Gina offers as she pours herself some water and promptly takes one of her sleeping pills.
Since my little crush seems to be developing into a big one, her words don’t make me feel good at all. In fact, after what happened to Miss Sheppard tonight, I can’t feel anything but wretched now.
“Don’t gooooo,” I whine, grabbing her arm as she heads to bed. “Gina, stay, I won’t be able to sleep.”
“Ah, you poor wee baby.” She pats the top of my head and says, “Good night.”
I sniffle a little more and try to remember the last time I saw Miss Sheppard. I’d been heading out, ready for my tour of the Interface building. She’d been walking her dog . . . and she’d been kind to me, as always. I feel bad for her dog, her cat. I feel bad for the entire world for being without Miss Sheppard.
Then I keep watching the news and listen to them speak of M4 venturing into pharmaceuticals.
I realize he’s this sexy daredevil and I’m this safe, scared workaholic who lives with her heart on her sleeve and therefore is always vulnerable. When you come out of your box, I’ll be waiting.
Oh, Rachel, what are you doing?
I charge to the bathroom and slip into the shower, tying my hair up so it doesn’t get wet. Guilt is such a volatile thing. I always feel guilt when somebody dies like this. Guilt for not doing more; guilt for being alive. We use so many defense mechanisms to cope. Anger, denial, tears, but my mechanism has always been action. Many of the actions I’ve taken in my life have been taken to combat my fears and numb the pain.
I never, ever expected they would lead me to a man. Much less this man. I pick out my lingerie with him in mind. White, because I know he’s experienced, but I’m not . . . and I want him to be careful. My dress? With him in mind. My black pumps too. Hell, I breathe right now with him in mind. And I comb my hair fast and hard until it gleams and falls behind me, and as I grab my keys from my vanity and look at my reflection in the mirror, I wonder who the sex-starved, desperate crazy person looking back at me is.
I’ve heard Saint has several places in Chicago, but the only one I know for certain that he’s been using lately is the huge penthouse crowning the top of a billion-dollar mirrored-glass skyscraper that overlooks both Lake Michigan and Michigan Avenue. I leave a note to Gina saying out tonight, just in case she wakes up and worries, then I head down to the lobby and outside to a taxi.
He may still be at the fund-raiser, Rachel, I chide myself. He may be heading somewhere else after that—and not alone.
But nothing I can say is really filtering through enough to change my course as I climb into the taxi. I feel like I’ve been at the end of a rubber band stretched to its breaking point and now I’m flying in the air, not knowing where I’ll land.
I just want to see him.
I tell myself that is all I want.
I’m not drunk.
I’m in full possession of my senses, but at the same time, I’ve lost them all.
From the back of the cab, I peer out at the looming high-rises, the shiny windows, the bustling streets, and then, with the big ol’ knot I get with anything Saint-related, the luxury high-rise where Saint is supposed to live as he gets a “bigger” place renovated comes into view.
Unease accompanies every click of my heels on the pristine floors as I cross the lobby. “Hi.” I approach the concierge, wondering what Sin will do when he sees me here. “Rachel Livingston to see Mr. Saint. He’s not expecting me.”
He assures me not to worry as he promptly dials a number.
Judging by how quickly he’s handling this, I assume this happens often.
He announces me, then instructs, “Please. Straight to the top.” A staff member by the elevators slides a key in, I suppose to secure top-level elevator access, and then he hops off and sends me on my way.
Oh wow, what am I doing?
Please god, don’t let him be with a floozy. . . .
Or let him be with a floozy so I can just go back home and forget I ever wanted this. . . .
Or if this is a super-bad idea then just let the elevator get stuck until I get my brain back, and I will never come back from the scare I’ll get and the claustrophobia. . . .
When the elevators open straight into his apartment, I hear music. Oh no, fuck, I didn’t mean it.
I should probably back out, but I feel an unnatural jealousy take over me. I don’t back out. Instead, I force my legs to work, the minimalist yet palace-like luxury of his apartment enveloping me so that I almost feel I’m in another world.
His jacket is on the back of a long modern L-shaped couch. I try to place the song playing in the background. Classical, I’ve heard it before. Chopin, I think. A single wineglass sits on the coffee table, its contents drained. I wonder if he’s entertaining. Maybe God answered your prayers and he’s not alone, Rachel. Maybe he’s having a threesome, and the concierge thinks you’re going to be the fourth. For some reason that stings, and I really want to cry now. I’m wearing a lovely black dress but an awful cry face, and that’s not a good combo. Is it? Not a way to lure a womanizer. I’m seriously contemplating leaving when he steps out of the hall, buttoning a white shirt. Holy god. He is so beautiful. He appears distracted, his hair rumpled. He’s barefoot . . . and so hot. I see the open laptop on the coffee table finally—next to the wine. He was working?
Yes.
“Something wrong, Rachel?” He scans me, head to toe.
I feel beyond vulnerable for being here, all of a sudden. I’m dressed to seduce a man, to seduce this man. This man who makes me achy and twisty and makes my heart work.
“Are you alone? Am I interrupting?” I’m dying from nerves. I’m dying to touch him. Kiss him.
His eyes narrow to slits. “What’s wrong?”
“One of my apartment-building neighbors died tonight.” I rub my hands over my arms, chilled to the bone. “She was divorced. She lived with a dog and a cat, and she was nice. You know? Lonely. Lonely and nice.”
He runs a hand through his hair in a sign of restlessness and drops it. “I’m sorry. Come here.”
God, I want those arms. One, two, three, four, five steps later, I slide into his arms and wrap mine around his waist as he pulls me close, pressing my cheek to his chest with a hand on the back of my head.
Oh god. Since when did I become this girl? This girl needing to be coddled by the guy she can’t stop thinking about? All the times I saw Wynn being hugged by her father, by her boyfriends, I really yearned for something like this. But I never knew how much until he moves his hands up and down my back in soothing motions. He held me like this the other day, at my place. But I had been too scared; I hadn’t really enjoyed it until now.
I press my nose into his chest, and it smells absolutely good.
“I am sorry,” he whispers gruffly in my ear.
He takes my face in his hands and looks truly sorry, his eyes tender and fierce. And something happens when he kisses the corner of my mouth. Almost a brotherly kiss. A feel-good, I’m sorry, I’m here kiss. One second my body is in sleep mode and the next it’s speeding in full-operation mode, recognizing these delicious ghost kisses only he gives me. My nerves tangle in my belly, and everything is gone save for this feeling of my heart pounding, my blood just gushing through my ears. This incredible, amazing feeling where one second everything is dull and the next it’s bright and fiery. One second I’m scared, the next I feel like I can do anything. Scream. Leap. Kiss him.
“Do you still want to have sex with me?” I whisper, tangling my fingers in a handful of his shirt.
His eyebrows pull low. “Right now? You’ve got to be kidding me,” he murmurs.
I grit my teeth, grab a fancy-looking suede pillow from the couch, and hit his arm as he steps back. “Do you?” I cry.
His jaw is absolute granite as he stalks to the corner of his apartment and presses some sort of alarm code at a receiver on the wall. Then he grabs a cordless phone, punches two numbers, and he whispers, “No visitors.”
He hangs up, and with purposeful strides heads back to me.
“I’m a bastard, Rachel, but I’m not the bastard who’s taking advantage of you tonight.”
“You’re not taking advantage. You are so not taking advantage.”
“Yes, I am. Look at you. Look at your face, Rachel. If you only saw yourself the way I see you right now, the last thing you need is a fuck.” He laughs at himself, curses under his breath, then gathers me in his arms and turns my face up to his. Our noses bump, and I gasp from the feel of his lips so close.
“Saint,” I whisper, grabbing his jaw. “Please.”
“Tell me why you came tonight.”
“You know why.”
“For sex?” he asks in a rough voice, rubbing his thumb along my cheek.
I swallow and press my face back to his chest. “Why don’t you do something?” I moan.
His arms feel amazing.
“You’re as close to a god as we have in this town,” I whisper. “So many people wake up one day to find their lives will forever be changed, that they’ll live trying to fill up this emptiness. . . . You have all this power—you can do something. Talk about it. Bring it to people’s attention?”
He’s quiet. Then he takes my hand.
“Come here.” We head down a hall past many doors, and then walk into a huge modern bedroom done mostly in dark woods and light fabrics. “Get comfortable.”
He hands me a men’s shirt from his closet and disappears into a spa-size bathroom, rolling an oversize mahogany pocket door closed behind him. My heart aches as I grip the shirt and impulsively smell it. I hear the shower water, and I wish I had the balls to just strip naked, walk in there, and join him.
Instead, after smelling his shirt to my heart’s content, I remove my dress and briefly wonder if I should remove my underwear. I keep it on, which I’m glad of seconds later, because nothing prepares me for the intimacy and panty-wetting sensation of slipping on his shirt.
I feel a strange tingling awareness when it envelops me. I hadn’t realized how much I missed his damn shirt. A part of me still hoping I can change his mind, I try to run my hands down my hair, wipe my tears, and slide prettily into his bed. His mattress is huge, the kind that feels like heaven beneath you.
When Malcolm steps out of the shower, my stomach’s gnarling with all kinds of warmth and need. He’s in slacks and bare-chested. His hair is wet, and he’s barefoot as he lowers himself and stretches out on the bed beside me. I press up to him, closer. The scent of his soap reaches me as he gathers me even more tightly to him. His skin has a scent and I’m addicted, pressing my nose to it. Suddenly I want to make him breathless and groan, feel his big body against me, feel him quiver for me.
He’s in bed with me.
God, it’s like a dream come true. All these nights dreaming.
I tip my head back.
He regards me quietly, his lips quirked. “Livingston, if you could read my mind, you would start feeling really shy around me.”
No. He can’t possibly know what I want. How crazy I feel. How much I want him. How I can’t stop thinking about him. But the intensity in his eyes mystifies me, and the air crackles with so much desire, it’s hard to lie here and do nothing but look at him and want him and feel crazed with desire for him. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t move away, he keeps me in the bestest embrace that’s ever been around me. His lips are here, so very near, two inches from my mouth, as he studies me with an expression of utter determination.
“So tell me about these plans of yours,” he says, and though his voice is low with desire, I can hear the sincerity in his tone as well.
“We don’t have to talk, we can go for the other option,” I whisper. But when he only smiles ruefully down at me, I sigh and snuggle back against his chest. “I’ve never in my life managed to feel safe somehow. But you’re not afraid of movement, you always keep moving. . . .”
Silence.
“Why?” I ask pensively. “Why are you always after something?”
He chuckles. “I don’t know. Because I want to. I want everything.”
“Even women?”
He doesn’t flinch, answers with a soft press of his lips against my temple that makes me melt. “Sometimes women.”
Jealousy sneaks into my guts, but I try not to let it stay there. “You’re always surrounded, Malcolm, by so many people. I’m surprised I found you alone tonight.”
He hesitates. Again, his lips graze my temple. He shifts his body so that I’m almost spread out on top of him, my bare leg folded over one of his black-clad thighs, his hand splaying over my back—over his shirt I’m wearing. “The company I’ve been keeping doesn’t seem to satisfy me anymore,” he whispers in my ear.
If I keep turning into the consistency of honey like this, I don’t even know if there’ll be anything left by morning. Brushing my lips over his tiny brown nipple, I murmur, “Why do you surround yourself with so many people?”
“Because of the meningitis. Remember my father couldn’t stand that I got sick? At five, I was a kid in the hospital with meningitis. My mother stopped by for an hour every day before her tennis classes. The days went by so damn slow. So damn slow that I would look at the clock and one minute would trickle by. Then another. I waited for the last of my IV to drain so someone would come in and change it.”
He felt lonely. In a private room. Alone. Isolated.
I look at him, and he’s big and powerful. But still, there is always the sense of him being surrounded but alone.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I lick his nipple, suck it, kiss it, and when I feel him tense and lift his hand to my hair—ready to pull me back to stop me—I ease back, then gaze up at him with a fierce ache in my gut.
“With Stop the Violence, I sometimes visit family members of the victims, and some of them are so alone. People don’t realize that even if they don’t have money to donate, so many of us just want company.”
Another rueful smile, but there’s nothing rueful about the raw desire on his face as he looks at me. “Come here, Rachel.” He pulls me back to his chest, where he caresses a hand down my hair and whispers against my temple. “I’m very sorry about your neighbor.”
My brain is muddled with his nearness, his unique aroma of male and soap and his shampoo and cologne and aftershave. It’s such a powerful combo, an aphrodisiac to my senses. I close my eyes and stroke my fingers over his chest—just a little. I don’t mean to be devious about it, but I can’t stop touching his skin and his muscles; I can’t stop my heart from beating fast, my chest from feeling knotted over what he just told me.
Want.
I want to run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw. I want to press my lips to the top bow and the bottom curve of his lips. I want, want, want.
Want is such a short word, and yet it can encompass so many infinite things.
Saint is momentum. Movement. He’s a man who’s always moving forward, pushing for more.
He will never stand still until he owns the world, and I just want to find my place in it.
It couldn’t be more wrong.
He’s a womanizer. No one woman will ever appease whatever thirst he has for more and more and more.
Love is for romantics; I’m a journalist.
Still, I lie in a man’s bed for the first time in my life and can’t help but want . . . for a night to be someone else.
