Here’s why I’m sucking at my job today: Saint.
Saint lounging in a chaise.
Saint wakeboarding.
Watching Saint strut around his yacht.
Saint calling out to some other guys on another passing yacht.
“Saint! You heard the Cubs got smashed?”
“That’s so wrong, dude. That’s so fucking wrong.”
Then, Saint chatting with his friends.
We’ve been eyeing each other in quiet puzzlement for a while, Saint and I. There’s a closet full of trunks and bikinis, and I ended up slipping into a tiny white one and watching the other women dip into the lake.
This afternoon I’ve smeared on a lot of sunscreen, enough to let me get a good tan but hopefully keep me from burning. My skin prickles under the warmth of the sun. I can feel the Lake Michigan air, the wind playing with my hair, the soft rocking motions of the yacht as it glides through the water. The engines hum softly, lulling me to a near sleep. But I’m too aware to sleep—I don’t want to miss anything. The work calls he makes. How he relaxes but still is somehow alert to his business.
Saint’s been dipping into the water all day. I know it’s cold, because I went in once too. He’s been swimming a little and diving in every half hour, regardless of whether his friends are swimming or wakeboarding. I’ve been staying on my chaise, warm and cozy under the setting sun, but he’s always doing something. It’s like he doesn’t relax. He exudes a force; no wonder he’s always active. Skiing black diamonds, skydiving, flying . . . He takes the risks of someone who has nothing to lose. He takes more risks than anyone I’ve ever known.
I’m in my tiny white bikini and hungrily circling an oasis of food when his friends, Tahoe and Callan, join me.
I linger by their sides and altogether try to avoid Saint merely because we seem to have come to a truce, but I’m a bit out of my element. In his space, with his friends.
The interest in his eyes, every time I look around to find him watching me, makes me more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life.
When he brushes my arm with his, I find myself instinctively edging to the side. When he comes to stand beside me, I shrink from the warmth of his touch. I’m unsettled and I don’t know why. He ends up heading to the opposite end of the party. He disappears into one of the cabins—on business, the friends say—until a pair of women go and coax him out to “sit” with them. He drops onto a couch, his arms spreading over the backrest. I can feel his stare on me as if it were a touch.
I try to get into the stories his friends are sharing with the group. But out of the corner of my eye, I can’t stop watching the girls sitting on either side of Saint nearly blabber their mouths off as they try to get his attention.
We stay on the deck sitting area with the group while Malcolm slowly drains a glass of wine. And then another.
We end up telling drinking stories, friend stories, stalking stories about girls who stalk Malcolm.
“His old man never knew what he was going to bring home since Kalina,” Callan explains.
“You brought home a naked girl?” one of his floozies asks him, pouting jealously.
The beginning of a smile tips the corners of his mouth. “She was an artist, and her clothes were painted on. Quite nice, actually.”
I feel my mouth quirk up too. His gaze locks on me and his smile fades, his look growing thoughtful.
“So we missed you at the after-party,” Tahoe says to me.
“I bet.” I steal a glimpse in the direction of where Saint lounges back, aloof, and I notice one of the girls is holding grapes in her hand and is trying to push a grape past his lips. He’s looking at me, watching me. I watch him as he absently opens his mouth to munch on the grape but never, for a second, takes his eyes off me.
“One more,” the girl whispers at his jaw, pushing another grape past his beautiful lips.
His jaw muscles flex as he crushes it with his molars, and I wonder what he tastes like right now. Fresh. Juicy. His eyes gleam as he watches my reaction, and my entire body begins to vibrate with feelings I can’t even process. My cheeks flare with the same heat that spreads across my skin like wildfire. The night only makes him look darker.
Dangerously, primitively darker.
I can’t stand the knot in my stomach, completely merciless when he’s near. I shift to the side and ask his friends, “What did you all do? You’re so famous for your parties, I can’t imagine what happens at the after-parties.”
“I skinny-dipped.” Tahoe grins. “Callan got a bit too far into his cups to remember.”
And SAINT?
“Saint and I had a good time,” one of the women fawning over Malcolm says.
I feel my cheeks burn. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.
“We gave him quite a show,” the other says with a little purr that makes my bile sort of rise.
This is golden information. Really. This is the kind of material that the spiciest exposés are made of. But I can’t seem to manage to force myself to stay and hear the rest. The walls of my stomach seem to be caving in, and without being able to stop myself, I quietly get to my feet and ask if I can go into a cabin to rest a little.
I don’t even wait for anyone to assent; I just head around to the sitting area, avoiding anyone’s gaze—avoiding his gaze. Since I’m suddenly craving air, I instead end up heading to the top deck. At the bow, I just lean on the railing and stare out at the lake. At the horizon. At a little piece of moon.
I get my phone out and try to write something. Writing always makes me feel better. Complete.
But I can’t concentrate.
I set it aside and stare out at the lake.
Minutes later, fireworks explode in the sky while the group watches and hoots from below. The sight is mesmerizing. I exhale and watch the lights shoot up from Navy Pier and burst up high. It’s so still right here, on the lake at night. I’ve always wanted to find a nice, warm spot where nothing is moving, where everything is as it should be, and I want to stay here, still and quiet, in that spot. Funny to find that spot when your world is spinning out of control.
I type one word into my phone to feel better. The first one that comes to mind when I see the lake and sky touch at the horizon.
Endless
The wind ruffles my hair, and I tie it into a bun at my nape as I turn to the top-deck sitting area. That’s when I see him. He’s sitting with his torso lightly stretching his shirt, the glow of his phone illuminating his profile. I didn’t hear him approach. Why isn’t he below? Why won’t this stupid knot inside me ease?
“Taking over the world is a full-time job for you, I see,” I whisper.
He slowly stands, the button-down shirt he wears casually falling open to reveal his swim trunks and his smooth, hard abs and chest and neck. He seems taller and larger when he steps closer. The air shifts quickly in temperature, or maybe it’s me, warming and blushing because he was here the whole time. And he is so beautiful. He’s the first beautiful thing I’ve ever seen that actually hurts to look at.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break your concentration. I’ll leave you to it,” I whisper.
“Stay.”
The abrupt command stops me from leaving. My blush seems to spread to the marrow of my bones because of the way he’s staring at me now. His breath moves the hair at the top of my head as he whispers:
“I want to make you blush, from here”—he touches my forehead and briefly glances at the ground—“to the tips of your feet.”
He’s smiling down at me, his chest so close I can feel it warm me against the breeze. I feel like he’s a hurricane and I’m the lake, calm on the outside, holding a thousand and one secrets within.
“Why couldn’t you look at me down there?” he murmurs, his voice breaking with huskiness as he lifts his large hand and runs the backs of his fingers down my cheek.
A hot ache grows inside me. “Saint. Don’t.”
He lifts his phone and shows me a picture on the screen. “I like this picture of you. You look soft and thoughtful. I can see your chin, one of your elfin ears sticking out of your hair.”
“You took a picture of me!”
“I did.” His thumb caresses the picture on the screen and my spine tightens, because I can almost feel the touch.
“Erase it,” I say, shocked.
“Ah. Bargaining again.”
“Saint. Don’t. Delete that picture. I’m not interested in you like that. In being on your phone.”
He eases back, searching my face. “Come here, sit with me.”
He heads to the couch and settles his large body right at the center. Wow. So he expects me to follow?
With a deep breath, I force myself to go there, to that couch he now so thoroughly occupies. I’m sitting at the edge while he continues taking up the center. We stare at each other, me scowling, him in amusement, and then our heads turn and we’re staring at the last fireworks in the distance.
“You’re mad at me because I had my driver take you home?” he says, his eyes gleaming ruthlessly.
“You said that, not me,” I return.
He chuckles softly, the sound low and male, distracting. As is his big body, somehow sucking up the space around him like a vortex.
“I might have let you come to the after-party if you’d accepted my gift.” He drags his thumb thoughtfully along the raspy square of his jaw. “A man has his pride, Rachel. How do you think I feel when I see my shirt back in my office?”
“Aw, does he feel neglected by one girl out of his million girlfriends?”
His voice lowers, his handsome face etched in puzzlement. “Why?”
“What?”
“Why did you bring it back to me? I said keep it. Nobody gives my gifts back. Am I repulsive to you?”
My gaze fixes on the thick tendons of his throat because I don’t want him to see that he’s not repulsive—he’s too attractive to let me think most of the time. “I’d rather not accept gifts from men or strangers.” I lift my chin a fraction, narrowing my eyes and warning under my breath, “And if you keep teasing me, I’m going home.”
He leans forward. “You know, Rosie didn’t toss my gift back in my face. She called me a hero . . . and I liked it very much.”
He’s provoking me. I used to like banter so much better when he wasn’t scrambling my head.
“A: Thank-yous from elephants are pretty rare, so I hope you appreciate her gesture. And B: I suppose you’ve been given things your whole life,” I say.
His smile turns rueful, and he leans forward. “Everything.”
“Everything?”
He nods.
“I don’t believe it.”
“What could I have wanted that I don’t have?” He laughs softly. “I have it all, Rachel. At least I used to.” He reaches out and runs the back of one finger along my cheek, awakening every nerve ending in my body.
My throat feels tight all of a sudden. His stare turns dark and hungry, and no man who has everything could hunger like that.
As we grow quiet, the breeze shuffles past us, the air between us different. What game is he playing with me? The picture he took was taken while I was so vulnerable, my profile showing my confusion. I can’t bear that he saw me like that.
He’s looking at my picture now, serious.
“I realize the company I keep is special. I appreciate being given a chance to make it up to you,” Saint tells me soberly, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks used to be. When he turns his head to face me, I have to fight not to look away from that probing green gaze.
“Thanks for inviting me . . . I’ve had a good time,” I say, my voice as husky as I’ve ever heard it.
Suddenly I feel hungry too.
For him to tease me again, and make me smile, and get that twinkle in his eye that both infuriates me and makes me feel little bubbles in my veins. I feel hungry to know why he called dibs on me, why he wants me to have his shirt.
He smiles amicably and signals at me.
“I’ll bargain with you now, Rachel. If you’d like to ask me something, I’ll give you an answer—and I’ll ask you a question,” he says, watching me.
“Really?” I perk up, and when he nods indulgently, I gesture to him. “You go first.”
“All right.” He leans forward, his muscles straining under the open shirt he wears. “Why couldn’t you look at me down there, Rachel?”
“What do you mean?”
“Down there. Why couldn’t you look at me? Even now, why aren’t you looking up here?” I follow his fingers to where he taps them over one of his eyelids.
I think of my answer.
Before I can even reply, he murmurs, almost warningly, “The truth.”
I blush. God, he’s always wanting the truth. Does he trust nobody, then?
“You were right about me, this isn’t my scene,” I say with a shrug. “You’re good at reading people, I can tell.”
“I can tell you are too.”
He waits. I guess it’s my turn. I want to ask him things that are personal, like why I couldn’t come to his after-party, but I need to focus on the interview. So I focus on him. “The question that’s on everyone’s mind: Do you think she’s out there? One women to embody all your desires?”
I make a quick appraisal of his features, but he reveals no glimpse into his thoughts at all. “Is that really what everyone would like to know?”
“You’re answering with a question.”
“And you’re not asking the right questions.”
I scowl and grab from the fruit tray his yacht personnel put upstairs too.
“That’s not how it’s done,” he says. I remember the way he was fed grapes below.
“Excuse me? I’m not part of your harem.” I laugh. “Here’s your grape.”
I toss him a grape. It bounces off his chest. I feel a jolt when his thigh brushes mine as he shifts and grabs a grape too. “I was taught not to play with my food but to eat it.”
The mere touch of his hand circling the back of my neck sends an odd little warmth running through my veins.
“What are you—”
“Shh.”
My body short-circuits as he leans over. The scent of soap reaches my nostrils as he brings the grape up to me, his pupils so blown up they’re all I see.
“Open your mouth,” he coaxes.
The gentle brush of the grape across my lips sends a current through my body.
He stares down at me with a wicked smile, and then I feel him brush the grape over my lips again. Instinctively, sensually, I open my mouth and let him feed it to me, breathing hard. By the time I swallow, his smile is gone.
Our eyes hold for the longest of seconds. Then, gently, I feel the brush of his thumbs on my cheeks.
A tremor runs through me as he ducks his head. And then, oh god. He places one single kiss on the corner of my lips. I tremble to the tips of my feet.
The tremor intensifies as Malcolm takes my chin and turns me so that his green, green eyes look into mine. They’re cautious and still so hungry. I’m telling myself this can’t be real! He couldn’t possibly want you like this!
I’m afraid to be kissed. Afraid to want it. He smells even better than in my dream, feels even better, and I want him so much more, more than more.
He’s breathing fast, clearly fighting for control. And I want him to lose.
No. No, the only one with everything to lose is me.
“Mm. Wow,” I say, clutching at the ache in my stomach as I straighten. “Wow, it does taste different when you’re being fed. I can taste your germs on it.”
He sits there, a small smile lighting his lips like the sun.
“Saint!” the boys call. He doesn’t respond to them.
“You two up for skinny-dipping?” That’s the first thing Tahoe says when he appears on deck.
“Rachel and I are talking up here, but go on ahead,” he dismisses, not even turning. He settles back to occupy most of the couch. I lean back uneasily, and he takes a piece of my hair to play with.
“You’re up to mischief, aren’t you?” I laugh.
“If you’ll join me, yes.” He flashes the picture of me on his cell phone screen, his voice dropping. “If I delete this . . . you let me drive you home tonight.”
“You’ve been driving me home for days.”
“My driver has been driving you home—not me.” His voice is low but firm, final. “There’s a big difference, I guarantee it, Rachel.”
My smile fades at the predatory air surrounding him. I’m as seduced by it as I am scared.
“I need to get home early. I’m sure you’d rather be with your friends.”
“If I would, I wouldn’t be asking you.” His thumb hovers above the “delete” icon, his expectant gaze on me. “Rachel?” he insists.
“If you delete it, I’ll think about it,” I offer.
His hard jaw seems to tighten reflexively in challenge, and in one slow second, he lowers his thumb and presses “delete.”
“There,” he says, his eyes twinkling happily in the dark. “Now I drive you home.”
There mere thought of it unnerves me. My apartment is my safe haven. I imagine his presence near all my frilly, girly things. What does he want there? If his shirt invaded my thoughts and my space, I can’t imagine what Saint himself will do. I nod, merely because I want, need, to leave an option open, but specify, “Yes, but not tonight.”
And then I just need some distance, from his eyes, from the way my body feels overworked—my heart leaping, every part of me overreacting to his smile, his glance, his smell.
So I head down to the lower deck without even telling him where I’m going, and I leap into the cold water in the tiny bikini—crash! Cold! And then I swim up, wooting when I do.
Tahoe swims nearby, and he blinks at me, his grin turning naughty. “Well, well, well . . .”
“Cut it, T.”
At the voice, I look up. Saint leans over the rail with that small smile, watching me.
I sit that night taking notes feverishly.
Okay, focus on just the facts, Livingston. I exhale and try to push one tiny green grape out of my head. Green eyes asking—demanding—I let him bring me home. And I can’t believe I almost said yes.
He’s a loner—he seemed detached from the group. Always one step ahead, somewhere else.
He is used to women flocking to him. (Are they an afterthought? Background noise? He didn’t seem especially attentive to anyone, but they pole-dance and make out to amuse him!)
I go brush my teeth and head to bed. I settle under my covers. Try to go to sleep. But other things keep coming back to me.
The fact that when he fed me the grape I could feel his hard chest against my breasts and his breath on my face.
The fact that I could always seem to smell him when the air hit me a certain way, and hear him above everyone else.
I try to push these thoughts away, but the more I try, the more they surface. God, I don’t want to dwell on this. I don’t. But if I want this exposé to be good, I can’t block out parts. I can’t pick and choose what’s convenient for me to deal with and what’s not. I grab my pad again and start with one word.
Electric
He electrifies the air.
Then I write down a few more.
Consuming
If he’s around, you hardly notice anything else.
Stubborn
He’s impossible to bargain with.
HE STILL LOVES TO TEASE ME!!!!!
He poked and prodded me about the picture, the grapes, the shirt, even being Rosie’s hero. . . .
I set the pad aside and turn off my lamp, but even in the dark, I still see him watching me in the water from above. And I still feel his fingers on my shoulders as I hopped onboard the yacht again only to feel him wrap a warm towel around me.
