“Mr. Saint.” The guard clears his throat. “The gentlemen had me summon her.”
Although his smile doesn’t waver, the look on his face is completely remote and unreadable.
“Here she is, gentlemen,” the guard then tells the other two—the blond and the copper-haired man looking at me like I’m lunch.
“Tahoe,” the blond says.
“Callan,” the copper-haired man says.
Saint merely pats the blondes on the butt and sends them on their way, then he reaches out to take my elbow in a somehow instinctive gesture that brings me a strange sense of comfort. I don’t know anybody else here, so when he tugs me to his side, I sit next to him on the edge of the long booth.
And that’s when he leans his dark head over to me and murmurs, “Malcolm.” His voice is so deep and rumbling I shiver.
“Rachel,” I lamely offer.
He raises his eyebrow and stares at me. What are you doing here, Rachel? he seems to ask.
I’m wondering what to say, when Tahoe lifts his drink and drains it. “You’re up past your bedtime.” The Texan oil baby. Oozing charm, drawling out the words.
I don’t know why, but I’m acutely aware of the position of Saint’s body in relation to mine. He just straightened fully in the booth and somehow shifted so that his arm is very noticeably stretched out behind me.
“Like they say, no rest for the wicked,” I answer Tahoe with an extra-wide smile, my heart pounding over Saint’s nearness.
Suddenly I can smell him. Just him. Among all the mingled scents in the room, it’s Saint somehow in my lungs, in every breath. He radiates a vitality that draws me like a magnet. It unnerves me but something in his presence, so close to me, soothes me too.
“Apparently there’s a dress code—Saint had to drop his tail and horns at the door,” Callan jokes as a waiter sets a drink before me.
“Oh yes.” I tug the hem of my skirt self-consciously. “I had to drop half my dress.”
“Did you now?” Tahoe asks.
“T.”
One word, one letter, from Malcolm.
“Yeah, Saint?” Tahoe returns, lifting his eyebrows.
“Dibs.”
I almost spit out the drink. I cough and slam my hand to my chest, and Saint calmly reaches out to take my drink from my hand and sets it aside. “Okay?” he asks, ducking his head and peering into my face.
I give one last cough and squeeze my eyes shut and nod, and when I open my eyes, Saint is the only thing I see. I find him staring at me in such a penetrating way I can feel the stare in my bones.
“Did you just get in to the party, Rachel?” he asks.
As he waits for my reply, he reaches for my cocktail and extends the glass out to me. His wrist is thick and looks so strong, so golden, his skin smooth, his arm dusted with a little bit of hair as I cautiously take it from him, our fingers brushing.
Tahoe reaches into his coat pocket and waves whatever he extracts in the air. “Saint! May I?”
Excitement leaps in my chest when I realize it’s a key!
“Not happening, that’s not her scene,” Malcolm murmurs beside me.
“Aw! Come on, let me give her a key. She’s a dime, man,” Tahoe drawls.
I’m so disbelieving that I’m not even breathing as Malcolm slowly stands. I follow him up, staring into his face in confusion.
“What do you mean it’s not my scene?” I demand. I feel like there’s no gravity when he stands so close to me. I’m dizzy. Confused. And unexpectedly hurt.
For the first time since we met, he looks at me like he’s actually losing his temper . . . with me. He leans closer and puts his lips against my ear. “Trust me when I tell you, it’s not your scene. Go home,” he whispers. He sends me a look laden with warning and walks away, blending into the crowd.
Tahoe and Callan stare at me, speechless. “That’s a first,” Tahoe mumbles and heads away.
I feel myself burn in humiliation and confusion. Worse is that, when I go outside, the same man who drove us around the day before walks over to me.
“Miss Livingston, a pleasure to drive you,” he says, hanging up his phone as if Saint just called him. He is a huge man with a bald head and no expression. A second later, he’s opening the door of the Rolls for me.
Seriously?
Did Saint call him just now and ask him to escort me home?
Aware of people staring and seeing me being led to Saint’s car, I climb into the back of the Rolls and murmur my thanks simply because it’s not this man’s fault.
The car smells new and expensive and like him. A bottle of wine and water bottles ride with me. There’s music in the background and the temperature is just right. The perfect luxury of it all tempts me to run my hands over my dress and look down at myself in confusion. What is wrong with me?
I feel as if he pulled the rug from under me and reminded me what I’m up against. The top of the species. Somebody ruthless.
I can’t take the heat in the back of my ears and on my cheeks. I sag on the backseat and set my forehead on the window. Focus, Livingston! Exhaling, I grab my phone and try to write down all the details about what I saw, but I can’t right now. I just can’t do anything but ride here, in his car, wondering why I feel so vulnerable.
At about 11:55 p.m. I tiptoe into the apartment, wincing when the door shuts a little louder than I’d planned. I go to the kitchen to get myself some water and Gina pads out, her hair a tangle. “Hey,” I say apologetically. She frowns and squints in the lamplight. “Sorry, G, I didn’t mean to wake you. Get back to bed.”
“How was the party?”
“Okay,” I can only say. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow morning.”
She rubs her eyelids. “Urgh, it’s too late or early. Yeah. We watched Game of Thrones.”
She pads back to her room and I go into mine, take off my makeup, then strip out of my dress. As I look for my Northwestern T-shirt, I spy the vacant spot where his shirt used to be in my closet and I stare at it. I should be glad it’s not here, but instead its absence makes me ache worse, because I can’t even remember if I made up the times he was nice to me. Slamming my closet door shut, I slide into bed in my boy briefs, bringing my notepad with me, forcing myself to write. One word, at least. Just one, because blocking out this evening will not further my goals in any way. I write:
Territorial
And then I Google, simply because I still can’t believe he said . . .
Dibs: A claim / rights
Yes. It means exactly what I thought it did.
Frowning, I settle back in bed and stare at the ceiling. Livingston, so what? He didn’t like seeing you at his club party—you’re a reporter. Did you expect he would? Do you know what this means? All this means is that you need to dig deeper !
7
DREAM
Deeper. His body’s on top of mine—hard in all places. He thrusts, and I like it so much I cry out and arch my body. “Please,” I whisper. “Deeper, oh please, deeper.”
His lips cover mine in an uncontrolled kiss. Hands squeeze my breasts, palms stroke my nipples. The back of my head is swallowed by the pillow as the weight of his body buries me deeper into the mattress.
I agonize. I agonize because I haven’t had sex in so long and it has never felt like this, and he kisses me again, with raw hunger. He curls his fingers around one breast and suckles the tip. I curve and stretch my body up wantonly, my thighs parting beneath his hips so he can get inside me, as deep as he can. . . . Please pleasepleaseplease . . . I never beg, but I can’t stop saying please.
I nibble hungrily on his full lips and let my fingers trail up the grooves of his back. He feels the way he looks: hard, unyielding. But his body is oh so warm—there’s not an ounce of cold in this body. If I open my eyes, will his eyes be green ice or green fire? Please be fire, please want me. Please, deeper, I think, tossing my head as his next powerful thrust brings him so deep, every inch of his hard flesh buried inside me, every inch of me taken
. He starts to move: out, in, out, in—
I wake up sweating and rolling my hips and just a hair away from orgasm, breathing in fast pants. I groan and roll to the side. 1:08 a.m. He must be at his after-party. Having a threesome. A foursome. God.
Seriously, Livingston! I chide. I’m trembling and it won’t stop. I’m already at the edge, just waiting to fall.
Groaning in misery, I slide my hand between my legs, where I’m aching. Don’t do it, Livingston, I warn, but I feel feverish. I squeeze my eyes shut and slide my finger between my thighs and then, because I just can’t stop it, I try to picture a hot actor instead of him. But as the pleasure comes back, icy green eyes look back at me. I bite my lip and want to bite his lips. Feverish, I feel his hand between my legs and it’s still not enough; I want more of his fingers, I want his weight crushing me. I savor what he’s doing to my body and tell myself that I just won’t say his name when I come. I won’t say it. Because he’s not the one doing slow, sweet, sexy things to me right now. Kissing me. Squeezing me. Moving inside me as I—
“Saint.”
After an earth-shattering orgasm, I lie in bed, dazed. Then shocked.
“God, I’m such a slut.” I turn on my lamp and go wash my hands, then wash my face and scowl at myself in the mirror.
Sighing as I pad back into my room, I open my laptop and find myself pulling up more links about him, putting myself to work. It occurs to me that right now he’s probably with one or two or three or four girls, having the kind of toe-curling, sheet-clawing sex he’s known for. I spy his personal social media and tell myself the exposé is the only reason I want to know.
His Instagram page is full of adrenalized pictures:
Saint black-diamond skiing, a black-clad form against a huge white mountain, a clear zigzag dent behind him.
Saint skydiving, flinging himself backward off the plane, hot as ever, the world a tiny blur beneath him.
But there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, from the after-party he didn’t want me to attend.
8
SUMMONED
“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.
9
YACHT
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.