“Malcolm . . .” I begin.

“Saint is fine,” he says quietly.

I catch my breath at his words.

I wait for him to say something—to tell me how much I suck—and ache when he doesn’t. Instead I hear a voice from the door.

“Mr. Saint,” Catherine announces, “Stanford Merrick’s here.”

“Thank you.” I hear Saint’s quietly powerful voice and a tremor rolls unexpectedly down my spine.

I stare down at the shiny marble floor, embarrassed. My shoes; I wore something I thought would make me look pretty. God, I don’t think he’s noticed or is interested at all.

“Rachel, this is Stanford Merrick, from human resources.”

I feel my cheeks grow hot hearing him say Rachel. I still can’t look into his eyes; instead I focus on shaking Stanford Merrick’s hand.

Merrick is a medium-height man, with a smile that gives the impression of friendliness and a calm presence that is all but swallowed by Saint’s.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Livingston,” he says.

I hear the sound of a chair being pulled out, and my knees feel like soup when I hear Saint’s voice again. “Sit,” he says, his voice low.

I move to obey, still avoiding his gaze as I sit down.

While Catherine goes around the office pouring coffees and refreshments, I keep him in my peripheral.

Popping open his jacket button, he lowers himself onto the center of the long, bone-colored leather couch directly across from where I sit.

He looks so dark in that sable suit.

So dark against the sunlight, against the light color of the couch.

“Mr. Saint, would you like me to go on, or would you like to do the honors?” Merrick asks.

He won’t take his eyes off me.

“Mr. Saint?”

He frowns a little as he realizes he wasn’t listening, only looking at me, and says, “Yes.”

He leans back and extends his arm out on the back of the couch, and I feel touched by his eyes as Merrick takes out files and paperwork from a folder while I sit stiff and tight in my seat.

Saint’s energy field is massive and overpowering and so unreadable today. All I can think is: Do you hate me, my Sin?

“How long have you been at Edge, Miss Livingston?” his man is asking.

I hesitate, and notice the slow buzzing of Saint’s cell phone resting beside him on the couch. He reaches out to power it off with one hand, his thumb swiftly stroking once across the screen.

The corner of my mouth tingles unexpectedly.

I shift in my seat. “Several years,” I answer.

“Only child, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Says here you won a CJA award for commentary last year?”

“Yes. I . . .” I search for a word through all the I’m sorrys and I love yous foremost in my head right now. “. . . was really humbled to be even considered.”

Slowly shifting in place and folding his outstretched arm, Saint absently strokes the pad of his thumb over his lower lip, studying me with a gaze that gleams with intelligence, surveying me in silence.

“I see here that you started working at Edge before you graduated from Northwestern, correct?” Merrick continues.

“Yes, actually, I did.” I tug the sleeve of my sweater, trying to keep my attention on his questions.

In my peripheral, I still can’t stop being aware of what he is doing; Sin. How he sips from his glass of water, how he smells, how tightly his fingers curl around the glass.

His dark hair, the crescents of his eyelashes, how they frame his eyes. His lips. So unsmiling. His eyes, so untwinkling.

I turn my head to face him, and it’s almost as if he was waiting for me to turn.

He stares at me, so deeply into me the way only he can, and green becomes my whole world. A world of purely arctic, untouchable, unbreakable green ice.

Nothing this cool should have the ability to make me this hot. But there is heat in the ice. Ice burns just as much as heat does.

“I’m sorry, I lost my train of thought.” I jerk my eyes away.

Flustered, I shift in my seat and look at Merrick. The man is staring at me strangely and with a bit of pity. There’s a slight movement in the direction of Saint as he shifts his shoulders on the couch to face Merrick better, and I notice Saint is looking at Merrick with a dark but controlled look of displeasure.

“Cut through the bullshit, Merrick.”

“Of course, Mr. Saint.”

Ohgod. The fact that Saint has noticed his man is making me nervous makes me blush tenfold.

“Miss Livingston,” Merrick begins again, pausing as though he’s about to say something monumental. “Mr. Saint has an interest in expanding the services we offer our Interface subscribers. We’re offering fresh content from specific sources, mainly a group of young journalists, columnists, and reporters we’re planning to take on.”