by Cynthia Sax
“I’ll talk less in the future,” Nicolas vows, squeezing my hand.
“What?” I blink, not knowing where this comment is coming from. “Why would you do that?”
“That was the first recommendation in the article you sent me yesterday. I should talk less and listen more.” He pulls his hand away and plucks at his cuffs, avoiding my gaze. “I didn’t realize I was being too chatty.”
“You are not being too chatty.” I stare at Nicolas. Oh, God. I sent my already silent billionaire an article advising him to talk less. “If anything, you need to talk more, much more.” I think about our conversation, about the long stretches of unnerving quiet. “Is this why you’re not answering any of my questions?”
He hesitates for a moment and then nods. “That was a factor.”
“What were the other factors?”
“As you pointed out yesterday”—Nicolas’s dark eyes glimmer—“I’m kind of an asshole.”
“I believe I said you were a complete asshole.” I laugh and he smiles, his white teeth flashing in his tanned face, his male beauty blinding me. He can’t truly be an asshole. Assholes don’t read articles on how to be a good friend.
“Refresh my memory. What else was in this article?” I ask. What other damage have I inadvertently done to our budding relationship?
“When you feel bad, I should bring you ice cream.” His fingers fold over mine once more, his grip comforting. “Since I haven’t yet made you feel bad, that remains outstanding.”
“Give it time.” I grin at him.
“I suspect you’ll have ice cream within a week.” Nicolas grins back at me, and my heart flutters. This man I could like, could fall in love with. “I should make an effort to see you. My last meeting was in Wilmette. That’s an effort.”
“That is quite an effort,” I agree, flattered that he returned downtown to meet with me.
“Hugging seems to be very important.” Nicolas wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me into his lean body. “I can check that off the list.” His hand rests on my hip, his embrace snug and safe.
“Do you hug your male friends?” I lean into his warmth, relishing the contact.
Nicolas doesn’t answer.
“Do you have many male friends?” I try another question.
“A few.” He turns his head, looks out the window, and sighs, the sound tugging at my soul. “Maybe one less today.”
I don’t know what this means. I study his profile. His lips are flat, lines etched on his handsome face, his sadness palpable. I place my hand on his right knee, silently communicating that I’m here for him.
He says nothing more. I suppress the questions bubbling inside me, giving him the quiet I sense he needs, and I simply savor our connection, drinking in his presence, the ember of attraction between us glowing, manageable, lasting and right.
Unlike the wildfire a certain inappropriate man sets ablaze inside me. Those out-of-control flames threaten to burn me to ash, leaving me with nothing and no one.
A wise woman would choose the slow burn, choose Nicolas, and I pride myself on being a wise woman.
The limousine slows, coasting to a stop outside our shared building. I look up at Nicolas, my palms moistening, my stomach churning. Is this a pseudo date? Will he kiss me now?
His gaze drops to my lips and his brown eyes darken. Yes, he’ll kiss me. My heart pounds in anticipation. I tilt my face upward, close my eyes, and open my mouth, issuing an invitation any man would recognize. Fabric rustles and a wave of enthralling heat, of enticing scent sweeps over me.
Moments pass and nothing happens. Nicolas doesn’t kiss me, doesn’t touch me, doesn’t say anything. I open one eye.
He’s looking at his damn phone.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I’m an idiot,” I mutter, feeling like a fool, glad no one witnessed this humiliating scene.
“Mmmm . . .” is Nicolas’s reply.
“And you’re an asshole,” I say louder. I release his knee and move along the seat, toward the door. I don’t ask him if he’s coming in. I made that mistake yesterday. “I’m leaving now.”
Nicolas’s head rises, his eyes widening with surprise as though he didn’t realize I was still in the vehicle. “I’ll see you again tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Same time, same place.” He raps on the window with his knuckles.
He’ll see me tomorrow. “I’d like that,” I reply, regret mixing with my relief. If Nicolas didn’t have a personal vendetta against my best friend, I could see him tonight.
The door opens and Isaac, Nicolas’s driver, holds out his hand, helping me to exit the vehicle. “Afternoon, miss.” His black suit is crisp, flawlessly maintained.
“Afternoon, Isaac.” I smile at the older man, keeping my turbulent feelings to myself. “Thank you for driving me home today.”
“It was my pleasure, miss.” Isaac taps the brim of his flat black hat and hurries back to the driver’s seat. I watch as the limousine moves away, conveying an exasperatingly complex billionaire to his next appointment.
I lose sight of the vehicle, yet I linger on the sidewalk, dreading my return to the condo. Cyndi will be waiting for me, brimming with anticipation, looking forward to the promised night at R.
I’ll have to disappoint my best friend, yet again. My spine rounds. And I can’t tell her why. She’ll be even more hurt if she knows Nicolas hates her, hates her family. I stroke my fingers over my purse, trying to regain my composure, to recapture my joy, my eyes stinging with tears of frustration.
“If he makes you cry, I really will have to kill him,” a familiar voice drawls.
Chapter Four
I PIVOT ON my heels, my traitorous heart buoyed by Hawke’s arrival. He leans against the side of the building, his broad shoulders propped against the pale brick, his massive arms folded in front of him, one booted foot crossed casually over the other.
He’s dressed in another hideous black T-shirt, the cotton pulled snugly over his muscular chest, and his faded blue jeans, the denim worn at the knees and pockets. Only the barbed wire tattoo on his right bicep is visible, the wings and initials on his torso concealed.
Our gazes meet and lock, the connection between us instant, solid, and undeniable. Hawke’s face isn’t fashion-model handsome. The bluntness and strength is too severe to be pretty, yet a savage need rises within me, its ferocity making a mockery of my feelings for Nicolas. My nipples tighten, pressing against the lace of my bra. My breathing grows ragged, each inhalation of humid evening air a strain.
This is crazy. I know who he is—the leaving, hurting kind of man. I shake my head, seeking to break our unsuitable bond, to sever the hold Hawke has over me.
Nothing works, and this irritates the hell out of me.
“Are you stalking me?” I snap, my sharp words reflecting my frustration.
“Yes,” Hawke rumbles, straightening to his full impressive height. He’s a large man, his size making me feel fragile, delicate.
“I am stalking you.” He strides toward me, his gait loose yet purposeful, the rolling gait of a big cat on the prowl. His predatory gaze is trained on my face, all of his attention fixed on me, his prey.
My knuckles whiten around the handles of my purse, and I swallow hard, frozen in place, enthralled by his approach, my body humming with awareness.
“What did he do, Belinda?” Hawke’s voice is scarily quiet, the softness holding the steel edge of warning. “Tell me and I’ll fix it.” He looms over me, a trained military man waiting for my orders.
The power I hold is thrilling, a bit scary, and oh-so-very sexy. I summon a strained smile, concentrating on my problems and not on the virile man standing before me.
“It’s not him. I’m having a roller-coaster type of day.” I try for flippant, achieve husky. “Good mixed with bad.” I shrug. “You don’t want to hear about it.” One-night-stand type of guys don’t care about best friends or jobs or other personal stuff.
“Try me.” Hawke’s voice is underlain wit
h a command I have no willpower to resist. I want to tell someone. No, not just someone. I want to tell him.
“Okay. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” I take a deep breath and begin. “You already know about my Salvatore Ferragamo purse, my gorgeous limited-edition work of art.” I hold the bag higher and Hawke smiles. He understands what this gift means to me. “That high was through the roof. It was followed by an incident on the bus.”
His smile fades, his face darkening ominously.
“It was nothing serious,” I assure him. “No one was hurt, but I was late for work. Thanks to that terrible timing and my troublemaking coworker, my boss questioned my commitment to the job. However, I convinced him I was his only possible choice for the full-time job.” A hint of leftover squeal lifts my voice.
“And are you?” Hawke asks.
“Of course.” I grin. “I did exactly what the experts advised, becoming the perfect corporate employee, following all of the rules, dressing the part.” I pluck at the fabric of my skirt. “I learned the lingo, ate the same food, worked the expected hours.”
Hawke reaches out, captures a stray strand of my hair, curling it around his thick index finger, the contrast of that softness against his coarse skin fascinating me. “You were acting the part of a perfect corporate employee.”
“I guess.” I tilt my head back and forth, considering his words. “Except the act will eventually become the truth. I’ll become who I should be.” In business and in life.
Hawke rubs his thumb over the captured tendril. “Or you could simply be who you are and find a place where you belong.”
That place is in a small-town diner, serving unappreciative customers, earning minimum wage. There’s no way in hell I’m living my mom’s life.
“I thought you wanted to hear about my day.” I frown at him, not wanting to talk about alternatives to my plan.
Hawke releases my hair. “Yes, ma’am. I do.” His pale blue eyes sparkle. “Please continue.”
“I’ll be given the full-time position.” The squeal in my voice returns. “I ordered cupcakes and coffee for the announcement tomorrow. It’s very exciting.” I bounce on the balls of my feet.
“I’m happy for you.” He sounds sincere.
“Thank you. Cyndi and I want to celebrate tomorrow night. She has her heart set on R, one of the hottest clubs in town.” My enthusiasm wanes. “I asked Nicolas if he could put us on the guest list.”
“Nicolas,” Hawke repeats, scowling in the direction of the street.
“Nicolas Rainer, the owner of the building,” I explain. If he doesn’t know who Nicolas is, Cyndi must be correct. Hawke must be squatting illegally in three eleven north. Otherwise, he would have, at the very least, received a memo from the billionaire. “You do know the site is monitored by cameras, right?”
Security will spot him roaming around the complex and evict his tight ass from the building. There will be no more early morning acts of nudism. This thought distresses me more than it should because he’ll leave eventually and it shouldn’t matter to me when this leaving happens.
“Yes, I’m aware of the cameras.” Hawke’s blue eyes darken, their hue growing richer, more vibrant. “They can record me all they want, sweetheart.” He glides his calloused fingertips along my cheek, his rough touch setting off tremors within my body. “As long as you know who I strip for.”
I start to lean toward him, catch myself in time, and step abruptly backward, no longer trusting myself, my resistance to the building’s resident bad boy weakening. “Anyhoo . . .” My laugh is shaky, semihysterical. “What was I saying?” My mind is blank.
“You and your friend Cyndi are going to R.” Hawke’s lips flatten. “Nicolas’s club.” He says the billionaire’s name with distaste.
“I wish we were going to R.” My body sags. “That would solve my biggest problem. But we aren’t because Nicolas won’t put our names on the guest list.” I avoid Hawke’s gaze, as this isn’t the complete truth.
He moves closer, crowding me against the side of the building. His body heat engulfs me, giving me a false sense of safety, of security.
“You’re lying.” Hawke cups my chin and turns my head. Our gazes meet, the impact as staggering as one of Cyndi’s tackles.
Hawke smiles slowly, one corner of his lips lifting higher than the other. “He put you on the guest list but you won’t leave your little friend behind.” My face heats. How can he read me so easily? “You’d make a good soldier, love.” His approval warms me.
“Maybe, but I’m a terrible friend,” I mumble. “I promised Cyndi I’d get us on the guest list, and now I’ll have to disappoint her. Again.” She had her heart set on the night at R, hoping to prove to her wealthy friends that she belonged. “This time, I might lose my best friend forever,” I confess, shocked that I’m sharing this with Hawke, even more shocked that sharing it with him feels right.
“You won’t lose your best friend,” he says quietly, no doubt in his voice. “We’ll find another place for you to celebrate, and Cyndi will forgive you. That’s what best friends do.”
“Do you think so?” I tilt back my head and gaze up at Hawke’s rugged face, hoping, wishing he’s right, that Cyndi will forgive me and everything will be fine.
“I know so.” There’s no hesitation in Hawke’s reply. “My best friend, Rock, and I would pummel each other into the ground.” He rubs the barbed wire tattoo circling his right bicep. “Then we’d dust off the dirt and go for drinks, the best of friends.”
“Rock?” I choke back my laugh. “Your best friend’s name is Rock? You’re Hawke and Rock?”
“He’d argue we’re Rock and Hawke.” Hawke gives me one of his charming lopsided grins. “I like it better your way, and yeah, those are our nicknames.” He shrugs his broad shoulders, his muscles rippling under his black T-shirt. “We thought it sounded cool when we were seven.” Crimson creeps up his neck, my tattooed biker adorably embarrassed.
“Hawke and Rock,” I repeat. He’s had a best friend since he was seven. I stare up at his harsh countenance, his flat nose, his sparkling eyes, and hope unfurls inside me. That’s not an act of someone afraid of commitments. “Did Rock join the marines also?”
Hawke nods. “We signed up as soon as we were able. We did everything together. It made sense we’d do that too.” He rubs his tattoo again, reddening the skin around the black ink.
I place one of my hands on his scarred fingers, halting the vigorous action. A charge shoots up my arm, across my chest, a surge of energy linking us, powerful and frightening. I’m tempted to drop my hand, to move away from him, to protect myself, but something in Hawke’s expression stops me. He needs this connection. I don’t know why, but he does.
“I made the decision to join.” His lips flatten into a grim white line, the glimmer in his eyes extinguished. “He followed me. He always followed me. He said he didn’t regret it, said that even at the end, but . . .” The flash of pain streaking across Hawke’s face steals my breath away, the emotion stark and raw.
I link my fingers with his, our joined hands placed over his barbed wire tattoo, and I wait, silently giving him my support, not expecting him to continue. If this was Nicolas, he wouldn’t continue, keeping his secrets, but this is Hawke, an entirely different male animal.
“But I know.” He takes a ragged breath as though this conversation is taking everything he has, zapping all of the strength in his massive body. “I know if he hadn’t followed me to Iraq, if we hadn’t joined.” His voice chokes. “Rock would be alive today.”
Rock would be alive.
“Oh, God.” Pain pierces my heart. His best friend, his constant companion since he was seven years old, died, leaving him forever.
If anything happened to Cyndi, I don’t know how I would survive. I drop my prized purse and wrap both of my arms around Hawke, flattening my curves against his muscle, pressing my face against his cotton T-shirt.
“It’s not your fault.” I breathe in, inhaling the s
cent of engine grease, leather, and man, not knowing what to do, what to say.
“Belinda.” There’s a world of hurt in Hawke’s voice.
“It’s not,” I insist, seeking to reassure him, to relieve him of his guilt.
Hawke hesitates for a moment and then crushes me to him, splaying his big fingers across my back. He’s a huge man and I’m not the tallest woman, yet we fit together perfectly, his warmth surrounding me.
We hold each other. I don’t say anything more as there are no words to soothe his loss. All I can do is show him he’s not alone. I rest my cheek against his chest, my body tucked into his.
He strokes my hair, the strands gathered in the low ponytail. “It was a bombing on a Goddamn restaurant, targeting a civilian.” Bitterness underlies Hawke’s words. “I was intelligence. I should have expected it.” His chest pushes against mine. “I failed him, the civilians, everyone, and I left active service soon after his death.”
Then he drifted from town to town, job to job. There’s no need to hear Hawke’s life story. I know what happened, how this changed him. He no longer has any interest in forming attachments to places or people, because relationships can end, people can die.
Hawke’s heart beats under my ear, deceivingly steady and constant. I always thought bad boys were born bad, that they were never the stable, staying kind, were never the type of men to have best friends and families. But perhaps they’re created. Perhaps the cruelty of fate teaches them not to risk their hearts and their souls, not to believe in forever.
Perhaps they can be uncreated, a tiny voice inside me argues.
I can’t listen to this voice. The safer, more cautious approach is to start with a man unafraid of commitments, a man like Nicolas, my smart, wealthy, real estate-rooted billionaire.
Hawke slides his huge hands lower, and thoughts of safety and logic dissipate, scorched by his thorough, leisurely exploration of my lower back and ass. The ridge in his blue jeans presses against my stomach, and I’m acutely aware of my lack of underwear. With a simple lift of my leg, I can rub my bare wet pussy over his large bulge, branding him with my scent.
