Pasting a false smile on my face as if I’m happy about this—well, am I?—I walk down a long hall and follow the sound of the music past soaring columns and below vaulted ceilings. I venture deep into the crowd, walking amid his eclectic group of friends and employees. I become aware of the women and how they instantly size me up as competition for Saint’s attention. The men stare too, their gazes appreciative. I’ve got great hair and long legs, and interesting eyes . . . maybe I’m not a buxom blonde, but I’ve got a great ass. Oh god, look at him. I almost stumble when I spot him at the far end, near a chocolate fountain.

His backside is to me—so impressive, my mouth dries. I can see the definition of his back and arms in the jacket he wears, his black slacks hugging the best male body I’ve ever seen.

Callan points Saint in my direction, and I spur myself forward again as he turns around. His eyes catch mine, and the whole time I approach with uneasy steps, they stay trained on me. His chest goes wide as if he’s pulling in a sharp breath, and I can’t breathe.

He’s in black tie and a devilish suit, his hands at his side. He’s unsmiling, his jaw tightening when he notices the other men looking at me.

I see the women flanking him, and I’m hit by a wave of jealousy so deep I tremble.

We kissed—that’s all. I don’t care what he does. I’m not interested in him in an intimate way, I keep reminding myself. Not in a woman’s way, just a reporter’s.

He’s just a man—a playboy, womanizer, hell, a manwhore—and I just need to store all this information and then write an exposé so people can experience what I’m experiencing.

It doesn’t matter that he stands with two women. They’re not touching him, but oh, yes, I can tell from their glum expressions that they have before. He’s used them. And they have used him. But it doesn’t matter if people use him, or if people even understand or know the real him, because all I care about is getting this exposé right. Right?

This isn’t about me, it’s about a story about the man.

Still, my stomach aches with unfamiliar possessiveness as I stop before him. He looks at me, straight into my eyes, and I look straight into his.

“Did you think you would get away with using the press entrance?” he asks me, lips quirking. Hmm. He’s got me pegged, hasn’t he?

“Did you enjoy not writing my name on the list and making everyone scramble to nearly kick me off the premises before they realized you wrote my name down next to your name?” I tease back, one eyebrow rising.

He laughs in true enjoyment. “Excuse us,” he tells the group, earning me a couple of venomous stares from the women as he takes my arm and slips it into the crook of his and draws me away.

“That’s quite a dress,” he whispers with a twinkle in his eye, his dark head ducked so he can say it in my ear.

“What does that mean?”

He smiles as he leads me to the table where Callan and Tahoe sit, each with a drop-dead-gorgeous girl. Saint pulls my chair out, then sits next to me as the room continues filling up.

“Are all the new Interface employees invited?” I ask him, looking around.

He nods, looking at me intently. “There are several connecting rooms to fit everyone. This room is mostly for directors and members of the board.” When I only smile, he spreads his arm out on the back of my chair and leans forward so that his voice is all I can hear, not the classical music in the background or the conversation. Just a voice in my ear. “Why do you insist on labeling yourself press?”

“I am press. I can’t delay writing the Interface story anymore, my magazine needs me to turn it in.”

“You don’t need a press badge to catch my attention. Nor do you need a badge to interview me.”

“Do you even lift anymore, Carmichael? Didn’t think so,” Tahoe baits Callan at the table. Because I’m so unnerved and unused to having a man’s attention like Saint’s attention is on me, I try to divert myself with their antics.

“I lift,” he argues.

“Haven’t seen that since I last fed my unicorn,” Tahoe drawls.

“It’s true, bro,” he answers.

“Saint, do you mind a suggestion for later?” Tahoe asks as Saint shifts in his seat to face him, the move bringing him closer to me. I instantly sit up straighter.

Saint sips his drink lazily, lips curling. “I’m down for whatever.”

“Good. Because you know what we should do . . .” Tahoe begins.

Saint: “That always precedes a terrible idea. So naturally, I’m game.”

“Let’s hit the pool on the top level.”

He chuckles and then looks at me only, his attention drawing my own helplessly back to him. “I like your friends so much better than you,” I say softly, so that only he hears.

In the warm lights, his gaze gleams like something liquid. His voice is quiet. “Do you really?”

“Yes. Really.”

Silence. My heart beats fast. He lifts his hand and brushes my hair behind my ear, and my earlobe burns when we hear a woman say from nearby, “Saint, I left my shoes at your place the other day. Can I still tell you about the charity I was hoping you’d—?”

“Monday at M4,” he says without inflection, his attention fixed on me.

The woman shoots me a look of pure hate, then is gone. I wonder if he’s sleeping with these women. I wonder—

“At least I know what they want. My bed or my wallet. Or both,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. His lips twisted adorably at the corners, he studies me. What do you want from me? those eyes ask.

“You should work out with Saint sometime. He’d kick your ass, probably. It’d be fun for you two,” Tahoe tells Callan from a distance.

As Sin looks down at me, I feel his hand slip under the table in search of mine. There’s the barest brush of his thumb when he finds my fingers, and then we hear the voice of an elderly man up on the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming today—we’re very excited about the inaugural dinner for the one and only Interface. I know you’re all as excited as I am to be part of this innovative family. And here with us is the genius behind it all, a man known for his edge, wit, and incredible zest for life. I give you, Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan SAINT!”

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, his breath hot in my ear.

I’m blushing bright red from the touch of his hand, imprinted on my back as he stands and caresses me under the fall of my hair. As he heads for the podium, I can’t take the stares coming my way and the way I feel hot under my dress, moist between my legs, so completely affected I decide I can’t be with him tonight. I can’t sit here and pretend to be his date. It’s too wrong and it’s too much work for me.