“All right, so now that you’ve managed to dress me properly,” I tell him laughingly, then scorn myself for my familiarity. Pull out your questions, Rachel. And while you’re at it, pull out your objectivity, too.

His cell phone rings. He ignores it, and I realize he’s smiling over my comment. Lips curled seductively at the corners, teeth perfectly even and white against his tan.

His. Smile.

Oh.

My stomach dips unexpectedly. “Would you like to answer?”

“No,” he says bluntly. “Go ahead. This is your time.”

It rings again. He glances at the screen, narrowing his eyes.

“Please go ahead,” I encourage.

I really need for him to look at something else for a hot second.

What is going on in my life?

I’m wearing his shirt!

He finally murmurs, “Excuse me,” and takes the call and turns his chair a bit as he listens into the receiver.

Exhaling as I pull my questions up from my phone again, I lift my lashes and watch his profile as he listens attentively. Just sitting there doing nothing but taking a call, he sucks up all the oxygen in the room. He screams class, money, sophistication, and purely powerful things.

They say he once leaped from the top of his office building.

He’s been called bold and daring both in business and out of it.

I hadn’t believed everything I read last night.

I’m not sure it’s all a lie now.

There’s quite an energy under those business clothes.

He wears those clothes like second skin—hell, as if he sometimes sleeps in them. Under his white shirt, I can see the impressive muscle tone of his arms and chest. No picture I saw online truly captured the effect of that tanned, well-structured face in person. Absolutely none. His face is walk-straight-into-a-wall stunning, and I won’t even dwell on his body, but now I understand why his bed is the most coveted spot in town.

He hangs up and settles back down, and we stare again for a moment. “Do you want to go ahead now, Miss Livingston?” he prods, gesturing to my phone.

“I amuse you,” I blurt.

Hiking up one eyebrow, he seems to turn the question in his head a bit, steepling his fingers before him. “Intrigue me, yes. Do you paint?”

“I was at a neighborhood park this morning. Members of my community get together sometimes; we’re trying to stay active against street violence, gang fights, drug selling in general.”

“Are you now?” he says, without inflection.

I’m not sure if he’s really intrigued or has simply decided he doesn’t want to allow me to interview him after all. Thinking back to my questions, and how much I need to draw out the most information that I can, I open my mouth to try to get on his good side—maybe a little flattery?—but one of his assistants interrupts.

“Mr. Saint, China calling,” she says as she peers through the doors. “And the car’s ready.”

He eases out of his chair, and his muscles ripple under his shirt as he maneuvers his arms back into his crisp black jacket. He grabs the Chicago Cubs cap sitting on the side of his desk, and as he looks at it, a muscle jumps in the back of his jaw as if he’s suddenly irritated about something.

I don’t want to overstay my welcome so I force myself to stand.

He lifts his head to briefly spare me one last glance. “It was interesting. Rachel,” he adds.

A horrible sense of loss weighs down on me, growing heavily with each sound of his sure, steady footsteps heading toward the door. Oh god, that’s it?

“Mr. Saint, could you see me again . . . ? ” I begin.

He’s already at the threshold of the open doors. His assistant hands over a couple of yellow Post-its, and he bends his dark head as he quickly skims them. He has an extremely toned back, an inverted triangle from his broad shoulders down to his waist—covered perfectly by that black designer jacket. As another one of his assistants goes to summon one of the elevators, one of his employees catches up to him with a ball.

A baseball. Of course. Either he’s getting it signed by the players today or throwing that ball out at Wrigley Field.

I glance around at his assistants. Two are typing. One is waiting by the elevator. And the one who’s always hovering by his side is . . . hovering by his side. All their eyes are on him as he boards. It seems like nobody is breathing until he leaves, not even me.

When the elevator takes him away, his assistants return to their desks. Other than me, I’ve never met people more eager to get back to work.

I smile as I approach the one who let me into his office. Her name plaque reads CATHERINE H. ULYSSES. “He’s got an effect, hasn’t he?” I fished. Does he sleep with any of you girls? is what I really want to know.