“That’s your pitch?” he asks, as if not amused.

“No, I’m just getting started,” I say, pride pricked. “Elephants are lucky. I bet if you save this elephant today, its luck will save you one day.”

“I’m absolutely unsavable, Miss Livingston—but let’s get the elephant.” He hands me the numbered paddle so I can do the bidding, then sits there on his phone, answering emails while I keep on lifting the stick.

I start freaking out as the price rises. “Saint—”

“Keep going until she’s yours.”

“She’s yours,” I amend.

He shrugs. “If it makes you feel better.”

We save the elephant named Rosie, and now she’ll have a home for life. He also retrieved the stick from me and bid on each of the other animals, enough to get their prices up and make the others pay out their asses. He didn’t say he’d do this—I observed by the fourth animal he was bidding on them all, pushing everyone to their limits until he was satisfied.

It’s as if the world is his playground. I’m awed, and also a little frightened.

Saint could crush the magazine. . . .

I just saw a calmly ruthless side of him I hope to never see opposing me.

On our way back, he’s on the phone speaking in another language, and I’m trying not to notice how the sound of his voice caressing the foreign tones makes me shift in my seat. I write down notes on my phone to email to myself, especially the one that’s most on my mind.

He takes no prisoners. He pushed the prices up as far as they’d go. Why? He challenges his peers and his peers don’t like it——> How many enemies does he have?

I start blushing when I think of the way he seems to enjoy teasing me, and I exhale and look at him as he talks to someone I’m pretty sure is Tahoe Roth. He’s different with his friends. More at ease, less intense. I think of his business calls, of his actions today.

He’s driven and relentless—absolutely unquenchable.

When we drop him off at M4, where the shiny BUG 3 waits for him with someone standing by with the keys, he says good night. I thank him for today and then sit there tortured, wondering if that was my last interview.

When I get home I wonder how I’m going to get him to see me again. I feel restless even thinking this is over. I wonder if I will look too desperate if I ask for another interview. Maybe I’ll just keep in touch and then reach out later in the week.

Opening my Interface inbox and starting a new message, I search for the auction and find a beautiful elephant picture. I add a caption saying, You really know how to treat a gal; my hero, and then I write a message:

Mr. Saint, I not only enjoyed learning about Interface but I am sleeping so much better knowing that Rosie is, too.

I stare at the words and wonder if I’m going a little too far. I’m teasing him a little because he teased me today. I want to appeal to his human side so he can share a little more with me, but I don’t want him to feel I’m being unprofessional. I ask Gina what she thinks of me sending an elephant picture.

“What’s an elephant got to do with anything?”

I decide it’s something only he will get, so I gather my courage and send it. Then I groan. Really? I’m not even sure he’ll laugh, what kind of moods he has. I end up checking compulsively for messages, and as I wait for a reply, I divert my energies into reading his interviews. I read and read, interested not really in the questions but in the answers, and more than that, in each tiny white space in between the words of his answers, as if any word he didn’t say will help me get to know him better.

Still no reply to my message hours later.

There’s usually peace in my bedroom, but I seem to have sent it off with the elephant picture. I toss and turn all night.

6

CLUB

I’m staring up at the ceiling of our apartment, terribly confused.

Did I make a mistake sending the elephant picture?

I let my excitement get the best of me and maybe crossed a professional line. I’ve heard nothing from him today, or from Dean or anyone. Now I don’t know what to do, but I know that tonight he’s got a posh gathering at the Ice Box. I need to get in somehow. His life seems perfectly compartmentalized; business on the one hand, and what about the other? If the man works hard, he’s got a reputation for partying just as hard, or—impossible, but yes—even harder.

The media loves to emphasize his whoring around, but can you blame him? He looks amazing, and walking next to him when we got to the auction, there wasn’t a single female eye that didn’t look at me and then crawl its way longingly up to his beautiful face. Can you blame him for partaking of what women offer when he’s such a young, healthy man?