Sinful Rewards 2

by Cynthia Sax

  That’s disgusting. I make a face behind her back. Thank God, I have to deal with her inappropriate comments for only one more day. Dru’s sexual innuendoes are giving me a complex about my staid, steady, conservative boss.

  Mr. Peterson’s door shuts, and I’m blessed with solitude yet again. I unlock my top drawer and set my purse on my desk, a shining beacon of everything happy and beautiful. Friendly will have a tough challenge topping this morning’s reward.

  What will he give me? I tap my lips with my index fingers. Yesterday, Nicolas mentioned new shoes. He could send me red heels to match my red purse. They’d be deliciously daring, not at all something I’d normally wear.

  I wiggle in my seat, aware of my lack of panties. Going bare isn’t something I’d normally do either. Nicolas is pushing me to expand my horizons, forcing me to explore new things, and this excites me. I scan through the shoe database on my phone, sorting the collection of snapshots by color and height.

  He’s tall, although not as tall as Hawke. My bad-boy former marine is a massive mountain of a man. But Nicolas is still taller than the average person. I could wear the tallest heels commercially available and look up to him.

  If he wishes to gaze directly into my eyes, he could have a pair of shoes custom-made for me. I stare dreamily into space. This opens up unlimited options, the combinations of designers, styles, materials thrilling me.

  I fantasize about heels and flats, boots and slippers, matching the imaginary footwear with both my existing clothes and gowns I’ve seen only on Hollywood red carpets. Many of these options are fun to consider but are impractical. I need one great pair of heels, something I can wear every day.

  To my full-time job. I dance in my chair. This day could not get any better.

  At two minutes to five o’clock, a hum permeates the silence, the sound muffled by my purse. I slide my fingers around my silk panties to retrieve my phone and glance at the small screen. Exhilaration skitters down my spine. The display reads Unknown Caller, and I recognize the phone number. My day has gotten better.

  “Hello, Nicolas,” I purr, attempting to duplicate Lona LaMarre’s husky tones.

  “This is Nicolas Rainer,” the billionaire barks, his voice curt. “Meet me in five minutes. Outside your office.” The phone clicks and there’s silence.

  Nicolas introduced himself this time. I grin. Billionaire bachelors can be trained.

  Chapter Three

  I SWEEP OVER my desk with an antibacterial wipe, removing any dirt or smells that might attract rodents, gather my things, and leave the office immediately, not wishing to make Nicolas wait.

  The sidewalk is damp, puddles of murky water pooling in the dips in the concrete. It’s no longer raining. I gaze up at the sky. The clouds are a dreary gray over my head, the splashes of blue on the horizon giving some hope for a pleasant evening.

  At exactly three minutes after five o’clock, a long black limousine rolls to a stop in front of the building, its tires sending ripples through the puddles. The door opens and a tanned hand reaches out of the vehicle. “Get in,” Nicolas orders.

  My billionaire is certainly not a hearts-and-flowers type of guy. My lips twitch as I clasp his fingers. He pulls me into the limo, his grip soft yet firm, demanding my full obedience.

  I land with a thud on the seat beside him, my fabric-covered ass smacking against the leather. Our hips and thighs touch, and my cheeks heat. Setting my purse in my lap, I press my knees together, vividly aware that I’m bare under my dress, the prospect of getting caught by Nicolas, by anyone, exciting me.

  “You picked me up at work.” I turn my head and my breath hitches. He’s so damn handsome, his black wavy hair smoothed away from his face, his features male-model perfect, his dark brown eyes glittering. His outfit is as monochrome as the day, his suit black, his shirt white with a hint of gray pinstripes, and his tie a deep charcoal.

  The deep charcoal matches my dress, I realize, this happy thought lifting my spirits. We look like a couple.

  “I didn’t make you wait on a street corner like some two-bit hooker.” Nicolas repeats my words from yesterday, his voice lilting with amusement. “I also introduced myself when I called.”

  He listened to me, minimum-wage-earning, stupendously average Belinda Carter. This thrills me, flatters me, improving my mood even more.

  “There’s hope for you yet.” I admire the way his suit jacket hugs his long, lean form. Nicolas isn’t a muscular beast like Hawke. He’s suave and sophisticated.

  He must be wearing underwear. I wiggle, bumping my hip against his.

  “Don’t hold out too much hope for me, Bee.” Nicolas slides his arm around my waist and splays his fingers over my hip, his clasp on me secure, stilling my squirming.

  “I’m an asshole to my core.” He grins, not at all apologetic. He knows he’s an asshole, and he doesn’t care. My sexy billionaire rubs sensual circles into my skin with his fingertips, his searching touch causing the flicker of desire inside me to flare.

  “So you keep warning me.” I shift beside him, the band of emotion around my chest wrapping tighter and tighter with each exploratory swirl of his fingers. He won’t find the expected ridges of fabric under my dress. He’ll realize I’m not wearing panties.

  “You should heed my warnings.” Nicolas’s hand inches forward, toward my mons, and my spine straightens, my passion flowing into alarm. I’m not ready to be touched like this, not by him, not by anyone, not yet. I open my mouth to protest, and his fingers stop moving.

  He knows. My breath catches. He’s aware that I’m naked under my dress. Nicolas’s lean form relaxes against mine, his grip on my hip loosening, his investigation complete. He sought and received confirmation that I met his challenge, Friendly’s challenge. Nicolas is my mysterious texter, his curt, no-nonsense exterior hiding a surprisingly playful, sensual personality.

  “Do you warn all of your friends that you’re an asshole?” I gaze up at my billionaire, breaking the silence. His scent surrounds me, a rich mixture of sandalwood and exotic spices, and his body is appealingly warm, the heat permeating my skin.

  Nicolas’s eyelids are partially lowered, his expression sleepy. “Yes.”

  He still regards us as friends. I view him as . . . I tilt my head to the side, studying his gorgeous face. I don’t know how I view him. Awareness hums between us, the pull of an attractive male in his prime, the ideal man for me.

  Nicolas is constant, intelligent, successful, and he wants me bare, ready for him at any time. I close my eyes, this perversion of his titillating. What would he do if I spread my legs? The action would push my skirt upward, revealing my trimmed private curls and my pink pussy lips.

  A weight lifts from my lap. Would Nicolas accept my erotic invitation, unzip his pants, fill me with his hard cock, pinning my ass against the leather seat? Does my steady, scheduled billionaire have a primitive side I haven’t yet seen?

  Hawke, my tattooed biker, is that sexual, that savage. He wouldn’t hesitate to take me, to pound into my pussy with all of the wildness in his exhibitionist soul, uncaring of my feelings, of any possible consequences. That’s how one-night-stand type of men are, intent on their own pleasure, their own release.

  My nipples tighten, aching for Hawke’s rough touch, his calloused hands. He’d grunt into my ear as he ravished me, smacking his skin against mine, heat flowing from the points of contact, the sounds of his desire filling the vehicle. I’d grip his shoulders with my fingertips, wrap my legs around him, pressing my heels into his clenched ass cheeks, unable to do anything other than hold on and enjoy, relishing the fleeting encounter.

  An encounter I should be sharing with Nicolas. Damn it. My fingers curl into fists. My billionaire is worthy of my passion, my body, and my heart, not some military drifter. I dig my fingernails into my palms, the pain grounding me, banishing the images of Hawke’s laughing blue eyes, his square, stubble-covered chin, the wings inked across his collarbone.

  “What did I do wrong now?
” the man I should be thinking about asks.

  “Nothing.” I open my eyes and gaze at Nicolas, his good looks making my head spin. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  He’s watching me, his lips curled upward, his eyes sparkling with amusement. My gorgeous new Salvatore Ferragamo purse is set on the limousine’s floor. I frown. The black carpet appears clean, but it is the floor. I snatch my purse back and return it to its rightful place, on my lap.

  “I moved it.” Nicolas’s voice lilts with humor. “It was blocking the view. It’s a big bag.”

  “It’s a work of art,” I declare, waiting for him to ask me how a purse can be a work of art. I’ll show him as I showed Hawke this morning. We’d touch, talk, get to know each other, pushing our relationship forward.

  Nicolas doesn’t ask, silence filling the vehicle.

  He doesn’t have to ask because he knows my purse is a work of art, I rationalize, petting the decadent red leather. He sent it to me.

  Didn’t he? I study Nicolas out of the corner of my eye. He leans back in the seat, his body languid, his handsome face relaxed. He doesn’t appear aware of me, yet he must be. He moved my purse because it was blocking his view.

  “What’s wrong with my shoes?” I ask. This has been bothering me.

  Nicolas doesn’t answer, his eyes remaining closed.

  “You hinted yesterday that I might want new shoes as my reward,” I explain, thinking he doesn’t understand me. “That implies there’s something wrong with the shoes I’m wearing.”

  Nicolas opens one eye, looks at me, his expression disgruntled as though I’m disturbing him with my pesky questions. I’m no expert, my past relationships having been disappointingly unsuccessful, but I suspect this isn’t the way a man on the verge of falling in love looks. It certainly isn’t the open adoration Nicolas displays in my fantasies.

  I have to move him toward this point. Once he loves me, he’ll claim me, and Nicolas keeps anything and anyone he claims. I’ll be safe, secure, belonging with him, in his world, forever.

  Nicolas’s eyelids lower once more, and I chew on the inside of my cheeks, wishing Cyndi, my flirtatious friend, was here. She always knows what to say to men, and she’s familiar with the peculiar ways of the rich and famous. Cyndi—

  Oh, shit. Cyndi. I almost forgot my promise. “Nicolas.”

  He doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes. Did he hear me?

  “Nicolas,” I repeat louder. He remains still, his perfect lips parted, his breathing level. “Nicolas.” I slap his knee hard, a bit harder than I intended, the sound of flesh hitting fabric ringing in the narrow space.

  He jerks upright. “What? Where?” He glances around, his gaze finally settling on me. “Did you just hit me?”

  My face heats at the outrage in his voice. I doubt many people have dared to hit the billionaire. “I need to talk to you.”

  Nicolas sighs, his well-dressed chest rising and falling. “Is this about the shoes again? Because I’d rather not talk about them.”

  He’d rather not talk about anything. I press my lips together, suppressing my snarky retort, his lack of words frustrating the hell out of me. “This is about your club, R.”

  “No.” Nicolas closes his eyes again.

  I stare at him. “What do you mean—no?” What kind of answer is that? I hadn’t even asked him a question.

  Nicolas blows out his breath and meets my gaze. “No, I’m not putting your little friend on the guest list. No Wynters is ever entering any club I own. End of conversation.” He crosses his arms, his body language emphasizing his verbal refusal.

  I blink. Cyndi was right. He does have a personal vendetta against her. This thought is unsettling, as she’s my best friend. “May I ask why?”

  “You may ask.” Nicolas’s lips twitch. “But I won’t answer,” he says smugly.

  I dig my fingernails into my palms, tempted to hit him. “Cyndi Wynters is a very good friend of mine.” I glare at him. “I don’t know what you have against her or her family—”

  “You’re right.” Nicolas’s dark eyes gleam. “You don’t know.”

  And he won’t tell me, keeping more damn secrets. I grit my teeth. “Cyndi doesn’t know either. All she knows is she’s supposed to stay away from you. Her dear daddy doesn’t even allow her to choose new jelly bean flavors. He certainly didn’t share your history with her.” I pause and then add, “It hurts her that you hate her. She doesn’t hate anyone . . . though she should. That Angel is a nasty piece of work,” I mutter.

  Nicolas plucks at his shirt cuffs.

  “Cyndi is an extremely nice person.” I can’t let this go. She’s my best friend and he’s the man I might want to marry. I need for them to, at the very least, tolerate each other. “You’d like her if you got to know her. I know you would. Everyone likes her.”

  Nicolas says nothing. He doesn’t care . . . about Cyndi. He might care about me.

  “I’ve never been to R.” I try another approach. “I’m interested in seeing your club,” I lie, having no interest in seeing the inside of any club. The smoke, the noise, the smooth-talking men looking for one-night stands hold no appeal for me. “I hear it’s very glamorous.”

  Nicolas narrows his eyes at me. I look as innocently curious as I possibly can, and his lips curl upward. “The club is closed tonight.”

  “On a Thursday?” I ask, surprised. Thursday is a popular club night.

  “A Hollywood studio has rented the space for their wrap-up party, but I know the owner of the club.” Nicolas’s eyes sparkle. “I can get you in.”

  Oh my God. It’s the wrap-up party for the Al Capone movie. I drum my heels into the limousine’s carpeted floor. Cole Travers, the leading man, will be there. Cyndi will lose her freakin’ mind.

  “The theme is the Roaring Twenties,” Nicolas continues, appearing unaware of the inner chaos he’s caused. “Everyone will be in costume, unfortunately, even the staff.” He doesn’t sound impressed.

  I’m impressed. This party gets better and better. I wiggle in my seat. Flapper dresses were made for my body type, the straight design forgiving of slender curves. I’ll look sophisticated, glamorous, sparkly, the beaded fringe catching the light. My makeup will be dramatic, red lipstick paired with dark eyeliner. I’ll tuck the ends of my hair under a pleaded headband, creating the illusion of a bob.

  And since everyone will be in costume, Nicolas won’t recognize Cyndi. He won’t know she was one of my invited guests. “Can I—”

  “No guests,” he nixes my request.

  “But—”

  “This invitation is for you only.” Nicolas juts his jaw, his gorgeous face resolute and unbending. “It’s a security nightmare as it is. Movie stars always attract the media and crazy fans,” he grumbles.

  This is an event, not simply a party. The paparazzi will snap photos, the world will watch, and I’ll be at the center of this entertainment frenzy, posing with the movie stars, walking the red carpet. Tabloids will speculate who the woman on Nicolas’s arm is. I’ll be the envy of everyone.

  Including my best friend. She’ll be devastated if I attend the party and she doesn’t. My excitement dissipates. I know what it’s like to be excluded, and I couldn’t do that to Cyndi, to anyone I loved.

  Damn my sense of loyalty.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “I’ll have to pass.”

  “That’s a wise decision.” Nicolas nods, appearing pleased with my answer. “It’ll be chaos, not the first impression I’d like for you to have of R.”

  It doesn’t feel like a wise decision. I gaze out the window, my shoulders slumping. It feels as though I’ve made a mistake.

  We drive past men in dark suits and women in designer dresses as they sit on restaurant patios, drinking wine, eating appetizers, laughing. I’m going home to an empty condo while Nicolas, the man I should want, has an exciting evening planned.

  “Will you take someone else to the party?” I ask. Will another woman pose on my billionaire’s arm? Will
I open a newspaper tomorrow and see his gorgeous face next to hers?

  Nicolas doesn’t answer, but this doesn’t surprise me. With my billionaire, I have a fifty-fifty chance of finding out information. I joked about hiring my own investigator yesterday. Today, this doesn’t seem like a bad idea.

  “How much do investigators charge?” I muse out loud, not expecting a reply.

  “You can’t afford one,” Nicolas shocks me by responding.

  “How do you know?” I look at him. Nicolas meets my gaze and says nothing. He knows because he had me investigated. I have no secrets. He knows everything about me, and I know only what he chooses to tell me.

  He chooses to tell me very little. I study the Salvatore Ferragamo purse on my lap, admiring the flawless construction, the little details the imitators never bother to duplicate. With fashion, there’s a big difference between real and fake.

  With relationships, it isn’t as simple. Nicolas claims we’re friends, yet he doesn’t act like any friend I’ve ever known, withholding information from me, not volunteering anything. He dislikes my best buddy, one of the nicest people on the planet, and he won’t explain why.

  I gaze at him. He’s also handsome, insanely so, the shadows playing across his black eyebrows, high cheekbones, thin blade of a nose. He’s wealthy, well able to give both my mom and me everything we desire. I like him, when he’s not being an asshole, and there’s the stirrings of something more, a hint of passion.

  Is this enough?

  “Don’t give up on us, Bee.” Nicolas’s voice is soft. “This friends-first routine is new for me.” He holds out his hand, not one scar or bump or callous marring his skin.

  I slide my palm along his, savoring his warmth, and he links his fingers with mine. We sit in the limousine, holding hands, looking at each other. I could look at him all day. He’s that breathtaking. I don’t know what he sees in my face that fascinates him so much.