Sinful Rewards 7

by Cynthia Sax

  “Reward Man won’t be happy,” Cyndi warns.

  Reward Man, a.k.a. Friendly, a.k.a. Nicolas, asked me to abandon my best friend, the woman who gave up everything for me. “He’ll survive,” I say gruffly, closing the lid to the box. Only the jeans and black blouse I plan to wear tomorrow remain in the closet, the space depressingly bare. “We’ll survive also.”

  “We’ll thrive,” my best friend corrects, hugging me tightly. She smells like the strawberry daiquiri jelly beans she’s been eating all evening. “I haven’t felt this free.” She tilts her blonde head, her forehead furrowing. “Ever. I—”

  The doorbell rings. “Oh shit.” Cyndi releases me. “Angel is here already.” She hurries out of my room. “Delay her while I get changed. And remember, we need to crash at her place, so be nice.” Her voice fades as Cyndi shuts her bedroom door.

  She has more faith in her friend than I do. Angel hates me, treating me like a servant. She has abandoned Cyndi on numerous occasions. She’s the last person I’d expect to help us.

  But I will be nice, giving the bitchy blonde no additional reason to reject our plea. Fixing a fake smile on my face, I peek through the peephole.

  No, it can’t be. He wouldn’t be this ballsy. I close my eyes, count to five, open them, and look again. He is. My fingers fold into tight fists. The man has a lot of nerve.

  “Hurry, Cyndi,” I yell, my outrage for my best friend building.

  “Stall her,” she yells back.

  Stall him, she means. I swing the door open and face Cole Travers, one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet, the man who had the gall to dump my best friend and break her heart. “What happened?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Did the other chick not work out?”

  Lines etch between his beautiful eyes.

  “The woman you weren’t yet ready to share with the world.” I bend my fingers, forming air quotes around the words.

  “Ahhh . . . ” The movie star nods. “That’s why I’m here, to see my curvaceous little flight risk.” He lays it on thick, trying extremely hard, his southern accent rolling his syllables.

  Cole is clad in an expensive black suit and a designer black crewneck shirt. His black hair is spiked upward, and he carries a bouquet of red roses in tanned hands.

  All of this effort is wasted on me. I know how he’s hurt Cyndi. “You didn’t call her.”

  The movie star’s face turns crimson. “I didn’t know if she’d take my calls.”

  I lift my eyebrows, not buying his line.

  “I had some contract bullshit that delayed me or I would have been here earlier,” he adds, craning his neck, looking over my head. “Is she home or is she on the run again?”

  “Why should I tell you anything?” I resist the urge to punch him in his perfect nose. “You’ll just hurt her again.”

  This captures his complete attention. “How did I hurt her the first time?” Cole meets my gaze, appearing sincerely perplexed. “She’s the one who left me in the middle of the night, sneaking out of the house before I woke up.”

  Oh God. I slump against the door, my anger fading. That does sound like Cyndi. “She doesn’t think you care about her.”

  Cole scowls, his boyish face darkening. “I lost my mind, believing someone had snatched the woman I loved. Thank the sweet Lord for the security cameras, or your Hawke would have received one crazed-assed phone call.”

  It takes a couple of seconds for his words to penetrate my brain. “You love her?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Cole replies, acting as though any red-blooded male would fall hopelessly in love with my best friend.

  Hawke didn’t fall in love with her. I stand a little straighter. He has eyes only for me. “Cyndi, get out here,” I bellow. “I don’t care what you’re wearing.”

  I keep my gaze on her movie star, using my newly acquired powers of observation. He appears eager and a little bit nervous, his eyes shining, his fingertips drumming against the rose stems.

  “If you hurt her, I’ll kick your ass all the way back to California,” I warn.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gives me a mock salute.

  “You don’t care what I’m wearing?” Cyndi yanks her bedroom door open. “You always care about fashion.” She stomps toward me, clad only in Cole’s T-shirt, the hem hitting her legs midthigh. “Have you completely lost your—” She stops midsentence, her eyes rounding. “You . . . you . . . you . . . ” She points at Cole, her index finger shaking.

  “I’m blocking the exit.” He grins. “You won’t get away from me this time.”

  “Oh my God.” Cyndi runs to him and jumps into his arms. Cole isn’t as big or as strong as Hawke is. When Cyndi collides with him, he falls over, landing flat on his back.

  I wince. That has to hurt, not that these two idiots notice, their lips sealed together in one gut-sucking, envy-inspiring kiss. It’s a good thing I drilled Cole about his neglect because Cyndi certainly isn’t asking for explanations.

  I wait for a second. It doesn’t appear as though their embrace will end anytime this century, and my perversions don’t extend to watching my best friend make out with a movie star on our hardwood floor.

  “Okay. I’ll go now.” I edge around them. “Cyndi, call if you need me.” I close the door behind me, doubting they noticed I left.

  Where should I go? I tap my shoe-clad toes on the rich red carpet, only one place, one man appealing to me. If I go to Hawke’s condo, see him, we’ll have sex, and once we have sex, our connection will strengthen even more.

  I toy with my phone. I shouldn’t call him. I know I shouldn’t.

  Oh shit. I press his number, calling him.

  Hawke answers on the second ring. “I’ve missed you, sweetheart.” His deep voice coils around me, the sound warm and rough and soothing.

  “Cole’s here,” I whisper, not wishing the entire floor to know we have a movie star in our condo. “Can I come over to your place?”

  “My place is your place, love,” Hawke drawls. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Chapter Eight

  I APPROACH THE north building. Hawke, true to his word, is leaning against the brick, one foot crossed in front of the other. He’s wearing his usual ugly black T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and military-style boots. The light above the door shines on his closely cropped brown hair, adding a glitter to his pale blue eyes.

  He spits out the toothpick he’s chewing on. “Your big brown eyes are red, love.” Hawke straightens to his full impressive height, casting a long shadow on the sidewalk. “Tell me who made you cry and I’ll kill him.”

  My former marine’s eagerness to inflict violence on my behalf is a balm for my battered heart. “Cyndi was disowned because of me.” My lips quiver. “Her dad fired her, took away the condo and her credit cards.”

  “Come here.” Hawke folds me into his big body, his heat and scent calming me. “Mr. Wynters was looking for a reason to cut your bubbly friend off.” He tilts my chin upward. “If it hadn’t been you, it would have been her weekend in LA or something else.” He holds my gaze, sincerity reflecting in his eyes.

  “I feel so guilty,” I murmur.

  “I know, sweetheart.” Hawke rubs my back, massaging my tense muscles. “Harry Wynters made a mistake involving you.” His face hardens. “We had a little talk, and it won’t happen again.”

  Judging by his tone, Hawke threatened the multimillionaire, risking his job, his reputation, perhaps his safety for me. I swallow hard, my guilt compounding. “I didn’t ask you to have a little talk with Mr. Wynters.”

  “You didn’t ask to be involved in their family drama either.” Hawke presses his lips against my forehead. “Do you need help moving?” He clasps my hand, his palm creased and calloused.

  “I’d appreciate that.” I link our fingers together, savoring his warmth, his strength, his support. “Once we find a place to stay.”

  “My place is your place, love.” Hawke repeats his earlier words.

  I glance up at him, surpris
ed by his offer. “You’d allow us to crash at your place? It’d only be temporary,” I hurriedly add, not wanting him to get any ideas.

  “You aren’t a temporary type of girl.” Hawke already has these ideas.

  I ignore my concerns about our rapidly progressing relationship and focus on our housing situation. “Will having two women staying in your condo cause trouble for you with the Organization?”

  “No trouble I can’t handle.” Hawke grins, one corner of his lips hitching higher than the other, and the bubbling in my stomach eases. Cyndi and I have a place to stay. We won’t be homeless.

  “From what I hear”—Hawke holds the door open for me—“your macaroni and cheese will be worth any possible problems we might have.”

  “I make my own noodles.” Normally, I use Karl’s machine at the diner, but the perfectionist chef also taught me to make pasta by hand. We enter the north building.

  The lobby is as opulent as the similarly designed space in the south tower. Oil paintings in gold gilded frames decorate the walls. A huge chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

  “I can’t wait to taste it.” Hawke’s eyes sparkle.

  He assumes I’ll make him pasta. “You’re an arrogant bastard.” My lips twitch.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hawke squeezes my fingers. “This is Belinda Carter from the south tower, Herb.” He addresses the security guard. “She’s my girl, so grant her access to the building and to my condo.”

  “I’ll add that immediately, sir.” The older man pushes himself upward and salutes both of us. “Ma’am.”

  “You know his name,” I observe under my breath, returning the security guard’s salute. Nicolas, my busy billionaire, never calls any of his staff by their names.

  “Herb always works nights,” Hawke murmurs into my ear as he bends to press the button for the elevator. His lips hum against my skin and I tremble, vividly aware of him, of his size, his virility. “And he has a great name.”

  “Herb is a great name?” I laugh, entering the elevator car.

  Hawke selects the third floor. “All of the hottest men are named Herbert.” He crowds me against the wall, trapping me against hard muscle and harder mirror. “I know for a fact that tiny brown-eyed brunette women can’t resist men with that name.”

  Understanding dawns on me. “Luckily, I’m average-sized, not tiny.” I smile up at him. “I might be able to control myself.” I flatten my palms against his chest.

  “Not around this Herbert.” Hawke’s eyes glimmer with erotic promises. “And not tonight.”

  “Ah yes, tonight.” I swirl my fingers into the soft cotton, and a low rumble rolls up his torso, the sound exciting me. “We have work to do.” I push my hips forward, pressing against the large bulge in his jeans. “Surveillance videos to study.”

  “We aren’t getting any work done tonight.” Hawke’s voice deepens. “Reviewing the footage will have to wait until tomorrow.” He cups my ass, lifting me. “After you move in.”

  “I didn’t agree to move in.” I tilt my head back, clinging to his shoulders, my feet dangling inches above the tiled floor. “I have to talk to Cyndi first.” I roll my hips, teasing my former marine.

  “She’ll say yes.” Hawke assists me as I rub up and down, up and down.

  “As for your footage, look for the closed-toe woman,” I pant. “She should be easy to spot. If I had dressed her, she—”

  I halt my dry humping, my arousal doused by a different type of excitement. “Hawke, I could dress her.”

  “You’d want to do that?” Lines etch between his eyebrows.

  “I don’t want to dress hostiles,” I clarify. “I’d dress regular law-abiding people. Stylists to the stars earn big bucks. Wouldn’t an average woman invited to a fancy party appreciate the same service?” I vibrate with excitement. “She could attend the event, confident, knowing she’d fit in. If I had money, I’d pay for that.”

  Hawke lowers me to the floor, a grin on his blunt countenance. “Sounds like you have a solid idea for a business, love.” He unclips my phone from my waistband and places the device in my hand. “Share the details with your friend before you forget them.”

  “This is perfect for Cyndi.” My fingers fly over the keys. “She’ll go to clubs, parties, premieres as she always does, and drum up business. I’ll work behind the scenes, choosing outfits for our customers, taking care of the details.”

  “You don’t want to be in the spotlight?” Hawke’s eyes glint with approval.

  He thinks I’m rejecting fame. I’m not. I’m avoiding gossip. “With my current reputation, I’ll bring the wrong type of attention to our company.”

  If I dress hundreds of women, I’ll build a support group and should be able to redeem myself. I’ll be one of them.

  The elevator doors open. I curl my hand in Hawke’s big palm and allow him to lead me down the empty hallway, my mind remaining occupied with plans for the future. The third floor resembles its counterpart in the south building except the carpets are blue, not red, and the walls are painted cream instead of beige.

  “Have you met your neighbors?” I whisper, wondering if the entire complex will know I visited him.

  “The other units are owned by an Asian investor.” Hawke waves his passcard over his door’s sensor and pushes the door open. “Once a month, they’re cleaned by Alma and Itzel, two very talkative women hired by a service.”

  Hawke’s condo doesn’t require cleaning. The hardwood floors gleam, reflecting the lights. I stride into the bare space, gazing around me. There are two bar stools tucked under the kitchen island’s plain black countertop. Screens hang on the white painted walls, displaying video footage of hallways and entrances. I peer closer. The windows of my condo appear on two screens. “You’re a pervert.”

  “I’m your pervert.” Hawke grins at me, unrepentant, proud of that label.

  I’m a pervert also, liking that he’s watching me. I continue to explore. A collection of cameras and other electronics hangs from the ceiling, the lenses pointed out the window. One black leather chair is pushed beside a large metal case. Photos are placed on top of this makeshift end table.

  I pick up the photo of me. I’m standing in front of the Salvatore Ferragamo window on the Magnificent Mile, wearing my imitation Louboutin heels, a white blouse, and black skirt. A breeze lifts the hem, revealing my bare knees. My upswept hair is unraveling, a long tendril falling down my neck.

  “I’m a mess.” I set the photo down.

  “You’re a hot mess.” Hawke looms over me, his face soft with an emotion I don’t want to label. “You gazed at that window display for almost ten minutes.”

  I was looking at the red Salvatore Ferragamo purse, the same purse Friendly gave me, the same purse I must sell. Regret coils around me, squeezing, squeezing.

  Seeking to distract myself from my purseless future, I study the other photos. An older man and a woman grin over a bushel of shiny red apples. The man’s chin is as square as Hawke’s. The woman has his pale blue eyes. “This must be your mom and dad.”

  “Yeah.” There’s an endless amount of love wrapped in this one-word response.

  In the third photo, a younger, less scarred Hawke has one of his arms draped over the shoulders of a dark-skinned man. They’re both wearing fatigues and big black army boots. The man sports a toothy smile and a white plaster bandage on his nose.

  “And this is Rock.” I touch the dog tags dangling between my breasts, the pieces of metal having belonged to Hawke’s best friend. “What happened to his nose?”

  Hawke gazes down at the faded photo, a heart-tugging wistfulness radiating from him. “The official story is he fell off the top bunk and broke his nose.”

  “And the unofficial story?” I raise my eyebrows.

  “We thought three in the morning was a great time to try our hand at camel racing.” Hawke shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his expression appealingly sheepish. “I won.”

  “Judging by his face, you did.” I
smile. The two of them must have raised hell on multiple continents. “I wish I could have met him.”

  “Rock would have liked you, Belinda.” Hawke wraps his left arm around my waist. “He would have said you were too good for me.”

  “I am too good for you.” I scan the room. The layout is exactly the same as our condo but the décor is nonexistent, the furnishings sparse to the point of unlivable.

  It reminds me of the apartments my mom and I temporarily resided in. This scares the shit out of me, the possibility that I might be reliving my mom’s life horrifying me.

  I struggle not to show this terror, to maintain a blank expression and hold it together. Hawke is opening his home to me, and I don’t want to insult him. I force myself to breathe, to will away my impending meltdown.

  Hawke grips my hip, reminding me he’s here. I’m not alone in this poverty. “If you think this room is bad, the spare bedroom is worse. It’s completely empty.” He waves his right hand at the closed door. “I haven’t had time to decorate. I’ve been too busy watching a hot little brunette clean the condo she shares with her friend.”

  “I’m average-sized.” My cheeks heat. He’s been watching me. “And you don’t have the furniture to decorate your space.” I tilt my head, studying him. “Do you?” Could he be secretly wealthy, able to help me, help my mom?

  “I don’t have any furniture,” Hawke admits. “But that’s easily remedied.” He slides his hand in his back pocket and extracts a platinum credit card. “Use this to buy anything you want, love.” He turns my right wrist and places the warm piece of plastic in my palm.

  I can buy anything I want. My heart races. Hawke has the money to purchase furniture and possibly to support my mom.

  I gaze down at the card and my excitement dissipates.

  This is a business credit card. My shoulders slump. He can’t afford to decorate his condo. “The Organization will pay for our furniture?” Shit. Did I say our? “I mean your furniture.” I slide the credit card into my pocket.

  “It will be our furniture.” Hawke taps the tip of my nose, and I blink. “You got it right the first time.” He guides me toward the second bedroom. “Decorate the space any way you wish. The only stipulation is, if possible, we purchase from companies employing veterans. Our fighting men and women need jobs.”