Sinful Rewards 2

by Cynthia Sax

  Dedication

  To my dear, wonderful hubby for making me laugh, to the Cynsations for being the best street team a writer can have, and to all of the wonderful reading buddies who have supported Sinful Rewards. Thank you! (big hugs)

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Author

  Also by Cynthia Sax

  An Excerpt from Full Exposure by Sara Jane Stone

  An Excerpt from Personal Target by Kay Thomas

  An Excerpt from Sinful Rewards 1 by Cynthia Sax

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  GOOD GIRLS EARN rewards.

  That’s what Friendly, my mysterious texter, vowed last night, and he certainly delivered on his promise. I kneel on the hardwood floor, cradling the purse of my dreams in my lap, unable to believe it belongs to me. To me, Belinda Carter, daughter of a minimum-wage-earning waitress, product of a one-night stand, rider of public buses, and unfortunate wearer of designer knockoffs.

  Thank God, Cyndi, my crazy roommate and best friend in the whole wide world, knocked down my curtains. If she hadn’t gotten drunk out of her mind and ripped the curtain rod off the brackets, I wouldn’t have been rewarded, wouldn’t have been sent this beautiful Salvatore Ferragamo purse, and that would have been a tragedy. I stroke the red leather, petting it as I would a cat.

  A gorgeous limited-edition designer cat. I lower my face and inhale, breathing in the delicious new-purse scent. Nicolas Rainer must be Friendly, my texter. Who else, other than a billionaire, could afford to send a near stranger such a costly piece of functional art?

  Is Nicolas thinking of me, replaying scenes from this morning in his mind, savoring every forbidden moment? I stood in front of the window, my body illuminated by the bright sun. My threadbare camisole and worn-thin boy shorts must have appeared almost transparent.

  My billionaire would have seen how the cool condo air tightened my pink nipples, noted how the cotton of my top clung to the gentle curves of my breasts, discerned the outline of my skimpy G-string panties under my boy shorts, the delicate fabric barely covering my mons.

  Nicolas wasn’t my sole voyeur. Hawke, my tattooed bad boy, had his binoculars trained on me, brazenly watching me, wanting me, perusing every inch of my slender form with a pussy-moistening thoroughness. I shiver with delight, aroused by this memory.

  My military man told me yesterday that I made him hard. His finely honed muscles rippled for me. I owned the bead of precum glistening on the tip of his long, thick cock. It was all mine.

  I drag my fingertips back and forth, back and forth, over my purse, imagining the red leather is his flat stomach, defined abs. It should be Nicolas’s body I’m envisioning, but I’ve never seen my billionaire without clothing.

  He doesn’t strut around his balcony nude as Hawke does, the sun’s rays stroking his shoulders, deepening his tan, inked wings stretching across his collarbone, letters etched over his left pec, a barbed wire tattooed around his bulging right bicep. I nuzzle my chin into my purse as I wish to burrow my cold nose into Hawke’s warm chest, inhaling his unique scent, licking the salt off his skin.

  “Can I touch it now?” Cyndi asks, her bubbly voice interrupting my erotic reverie, the feminine tones out of place in my male-dominated daydream.

  I blink at her, confused, my brain foggy with lust. “What?”

  I’d forgotten she was in the room, forgotten I hadn’t been alone. My cheeks heat. Had she read my perverted thoughts, seen my sexual yearnings displayed on my face?

  “Is that a yes?” Cyndi’s lush body vibrates with excitement, her generous breasts jiggling. “I can touch your purse?”

  The purse. Right, the purse. The last lingering images of a certain tattooed biker dissipate. “No.” I hunch over my reward, protecting it from my hyperactive friend. She’s wealthy. She doesn’t understand how precious this gift is. “I shouldn’t even touch it.”

  “Of course, you should touch it.” Cyndi pads across the living-kitchen-everything-else room, her bare feet smacking against the hardwood floor, her toenails painted bright yellow.

  The white fluffy bath towel she’s wearing barely covers her overflowing curves. My best friend is beautiful and stacked, yet both Nicolas and Hawke prefer to watch me. My spine straightens, fused by newfound confidence.

  “Your secret admirer sent the purse to you.” Cyndi grabs the toasted bagel topped with strawberries and cream cheese and takes a big bite out of the breakfast I prepared for her. “It’s yours to use, silly.”

  Is it truly mine? I hold the purse to my chest, hugging it gingerly, not wishing to crush the form or wrinkle the leather. “I don’t want to go to work,” I confess, an embarrassing whine edging my voice. “I want to spend the day with my purse.”

  “Then take the purse to work. What’s the big deal?” Cyndi rolls her big green eyes. Vibrant hues surround her. She lounges over the red countertop, her blonde curls bouncing against her face, her bare ass in the air. The blue enamel appliances behind her are customized for the small kitchen. The entire condo is decorated in bright primary colors, the childlike shades appropriate for my friend, the heir to a candy company.

  “I can’t take my purse to work.” Though I want to, desperately, the thought of physically parting with my reward is painful. “It’ll get dirty.”

  “It’s a purse. It’s supposed to get dirty.” Cyndi opens a drawer and rummages through the carefully organized contents. I cringe, forcing myself to remain still, to not right the chaos she’s creating.

  “Here.” She balls up a plastic freezer bag and throws it at me, the clear material unfurling as it soars. “Put your junk in this.”

  I scrunch the plastic bag in my hand, thinking of a certain unsuitable man and another type of junk. “I shouldn’t.”

  “If you don’t use the purse, I will.” Cyndi meets my gaze, her eyes glittering with intent. “I’ll take it to the factory with me and set it on one of the coloring station tables.”

  “You wouldn’t.” I gasp, outraged. The dyes from a coloring station table would soak into the red leather, damaging it, destroying it. I hug the purse closer to my chest.

  “I would.” Cyndi juts her jaw, not backing down, my usually carefree friend appearing abnormally stubborn this morning. “And I’ll choose the station for E133, berry blue.”

  Oh, God. Berry blue would stain my purse beyond repair. I study Cyndi, considering my next move. She might be bluffing, but I can’t risk it. My new purse is too precious, too gorgeous to endanger.

  “Okay, I’m taking it to work.” I remove my ratty old purse, relieved not to have that eyesore hanging across my body. “But if it gets dirty, I’m blaming you.” I transfer my brush, makeup, wallet, and other essentials into the plastic bag and place that sealed bag carefully inside my new purse. It fits perfectly, the lines of the leather flawless.

  “It’s beautiful.” I stand and pose with my feet braced apart, holding the purse in front of me, feeling as wonderful as my reward looks. “Absolutely exquisite.” I hang the fashion accessory on my right shoulder and pivot on my heels, mimicking the supermodels I’ve watched on TV. “And it’s mine.” I slide the handles into the crook of one elbow and grin at Cyndi, giddy with happiness.

  “It’s yours, you crazy girl.” She grins back, nodding her approval. She doesn’t have to say anything more. I know I appear sophisticated. Any woman would with the Salvatore Ferragamo purse on her arm. “Go to work.”

  Yes, work. My smile wavers. I’d planned to arrive at the office
early. Now I’ll be there at my usual time. “I’m going.” I open the door, ready to take on the big, bad world.

  “Don’t forget to ask Rainer about getting us on the guest list,” Cyndi reminds me. “I don’t want to miss Cole again.”

  “I won’t forget.” If I forget, Cyndi will slice and dice me into itty-bitty pieces, toss my parts out of the window, make it rain Bee Carter.

  My best friend is obsessed with Cole Travers, the movie star, and has her heart set on getting into R, the club he was spotted at last night. She feels persecuted because Nicolas refuses to put her name on the guest list and was hurt that I hadn’t already asked him.

  I’ll ask Nicolas today when he gives me a ride home from work. Putting our names on a guest list won’t cost my enigmatic billionaire anything. Cyndi will be happy, our relationship will return to normal, and my already great day will become even greater.

  I swagger out of the condo, putting an extra wiggle into my walk. The heels of my imitation Louboutins sink into the hallway’s lush carpet. Vanilla scents the air. Warm lights illuminate the beige walls. Luxury and wealth surround me.

  And today, I fit in. I belong. I press the button for the elevator and admire my reflection in the silver metallic doors. My red leather purse pops against my charcoal gray sleeveless sheath dress. I should buy matching nail polish, perhaps some daring red lipstick. Those hints of color would tie my look together.

  Hawke won’t call me a hot mess today. I push a stray strand of hair behind my right ear. Nicolas won’t grumble at me. They’ll treat me like a damn lady, like a woman worthy of being loved.

  The doors open, revealing Lona LaMarre, the notorious occupant of five oh one south. The high-class escort wears an ivory Chanel suit, the sumptuous fabric clinging to her womanly curves and accentuating her narrow waist. Her brown hair is curled around her flawlessly made-up face, not a single tendril misplaced. She carries a matching Cole Haan purse and dangles a pair of oversize sunglasses from her well-manicured fingers.

  Lona looks upward and her expression warms, her eyes widening slightly. “Nice purse.” Her husky voice conveys her approval.

  “Thank you.” My chest heats with pride. I enter the elevator car, select the ground floor, and stand beside her. For once in our awkward relationship, I don’t feel like a foolish little girl. We’re fashion equals. I caress the Salvatore Ferragamo purse, silently thanking Friendly for this wonderful gift.

  “That’s how it started for me, you know.” A small smile curls Lona’s full lips. “He was an older man, very wealthy, and I was a country bumpkin, straight off the bus. He swept me off my feet, taking me to fancy restaurants, buying me designer dresses, shoes, expensive jewelry.” Her gaze lowers. “I still have the first purse he gave me—a limited-edition Hermes.”

  “That’s not how I got this purse.” I frown, uncomfortable with the comparison. “This is a thank-you gift, not a payment.” I’m not like her. I’ll never be like her.

  “Oh, hon.” Lona laughs. “It’s always a payment. I simply didn’t know that at the time. I thought we were in love, but when the affair ended, he introduced me to a friend of his.” She shrugs, the gesture as elegant as she is. “What could I do? I’d grown accustomed to the finer things, the trips to Paris, the beautiful purses.” She looks pointedly at my arm.

  “That won’t happen to me.” I stare at the red digital numbers, willing the elevator to descend faster, growing increasingly uneasy with this conversation. “I need only one purse.” I can’t imagine ever replacing it. My fingers splay over the side panel, the softness of the leather divine. My new purse is absolute perfection.

  “You’re a delight, Belinda.” Lona’s throaty laughter once again fills the small space, the sound husky, earthy, sensual. “Some young man would treasure your company.”

  Some young man would treasure my company. I stroke the handle of my purse, following the curve of the lush leather, Lona’s flippant comment making me uneasy. She knows about the thank-you gift, knows someone wealthy bought it for me, yet she assumes I’m still single.

  It’s the correct assumption, as I don’t have a young man. Nicolas Rainer sees me as his friend, someone who lives in his building and returned his phone to him. As for Hawke, the tattooed former marine living in three eleven north . . . well, I don’t know why I’m thinking about him at all. He’s not the type of man to make long-term commitments, and I’m not the type of woman to settle for less.

  The doors open at the ground floor. “Be careful on the bus, hon,” Lona advises as I step out of the elevator. “Not everyone is as honest as you are.”

  I nod curtly, suspecting she might be one of those dishonest people, and I stride through the lobby, my heels clicking on the marble floor. The lobby is as opulent as the rest of the building. A glittering chandelier hangs from its high ceilings. Priceless oil paintings decorate the walls, the classic scenes trapped between gold gilded frames.

  “Morning again, Miss Bee.” Jacob, the middle-aged security guard, smiles at me. My friend is stationed behind a big desk, all visitors to the building having to sign in and show ID. “Did you find out who your secret admirer is?”

  “Not yet, Jacob, but I’m working on it.” I give him a jaunty wave and push through the revolving doors, the metal railing cool against my fingertips.

  A blast of warmth hits me, sucking the oxygen from my lungs, and I reel backward, the differences in temperature between the condo complex and the outside a shock to my system.

  I instinctively gaze upward, searching for the sun, the source of the heat. It’s concealed by low gray clouds, the sky partially overcast, the air heavy with humidity. I wrinkle my nose. Normally, I love the rain.

  Normally, I’m not carrying a treasure on my arm.

  An engine rumbles, the sound traveling up my legs, through my chest. I turn my head and my breath catches. Hawke straddles his massive bike, his big boots placed on the footrests, inches above the pavement. He’s wearing his black leather coat, a plain T-shirt, and faded blue jeans, the man clearly not caring about labels or fashion. Sunglasses shield his eyes. His head is bare, his brown hair cropped close to his head.

  He looks badass. My nipples tighten, my body humming with excitement. I want him with a frightening savagery, and it’s a struggle to keep my expression neutral as he rolls the bike to a stop in front of me.

  “That’s a big bag for a small woman,” Hawke drawls, giving me a heart-flipping lopsided smile. The machine quiets, purring under him. He lowers the sidestand and removes his sunglasses, revealing his pale blue eyes. There’s a twinkle in them that appeals to me. Too damn much.

  “It’s a Salvatore Ferragamo purse, not a big bag,” I tell him indignantly, knowing I should walk away from him yet unable to move. “And it’s a work of art.”

  “You think your purse is a work of art?” Hawke clips his sunglasses on the collar of his ugly black T-shirt, the silver frames reflecting some of the meager light.

  “I know my purse is a work of art.” I sniff, lifting my chin, not appreciating him questioning my sense of style. “Not that you’d understand.”

  He wears T-shirts, for Christ’s sake, and those jeans. My gaze lowers to the tears across his knees, his tanned skin showing through the denim.

  “I might understand.” Hawke’s words are softly spoken, pulling on my senses, enticing me closer. I drift toward him before I realize what I’m doing. “Show me.”

  “I’m not showing you anything.” I narrow my eyes at Hawke, stopping, maintaining a safe distance from him. The tattooed biker is dangerous. I don’t trust him and I don’t trust myself, all of my rational thoughts disappearing around him.

  “There’s nothing to show.” Hawke tilts his head, studying my purse, his eyes bright with intelligence. “It doesn’t look that different from the bag you carried yesterday, the one I fixed for you.”

  “What?” I shriek. He dares to compare the frayed, fake messenger bag with my Salvatore Ferragamo? Is he insane? “They’re not
even in the same category.” I take two steps closer to the man I’m supposed to be avoiding.

  “Look at this.” I hold out my purse. Hawke reaches toward it. “Wait.” I pull my prized possession away from him. “First, let me see your hands.”

  “They’re clean, sweetheart.” He chuckles, his joy tumbling down my torso and coiling around my heart. “I washed them today.” Hawke extends his huge arms, showing me his creased, calloused palms.

  His skin is battered but surprisingly unsoiled, his blunt, square fingernails pristine. Hawke may be a brute, a rough-and-tough military man, but he has high standards of personal hygiene.

  “Okay.” I squelch my wild, reckless yearning to link my fingers with his, to hold him and never let him go. “You can touch my purse, but be gentle,” I caution.

  “Love, I can be very gentle.” Hawke’s voice deepens even more and my toes curl. “What do you want me to touch?” His fingertips skim over the red leather, his hands light, almost graceful, the movement mesmerizing me.

  I want you to touch me, to stroke my body as you’re stroking my purse, making me forget everything, including my own name. Desire warms me and I swallow hard, my mouth dry. That way lies disaster, as my mom learned with my tattooed, motorcycle-riding, one-night-stand of a dad. I can’t repeat her mistakes. I have to show Hawke the value of good design and then leave.

  I layer my hands over his, and a surge of raw, sexual energy flows from his body to mine, jolting both of us. His fingers twitch and my eyes widen, the sparks between us electric, alive, indisputable.

  Hawke isn’t the right man for me, I remind myself. I have to push past this attraction. “Feel the stitching.” I guide his right index finger along a seam, vividly aware of him, his hands large and powerful and undeniably male, silver slashes marring his skin, ridges of damaged flesh circling his knuckles.

  The tightly leashed strength under my fingertips communicates what he needs no words to say. He’s following my lead, allowing me to steer his actions, because this suits his purposes. If he chose to resist me, nothing I could do or say would move him.