Sinful Rewards 6

by Cynthia Sax

  Dedication

  To my dear, wonderful hubby for supporting me in this crazy adventure, to my newsletter subscribers for appreciating my dirty jokes, and to book blogger and reviewer buddies for believing in Sinful Rewards.

  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 An Heiress for All Seasons by Sophie Jordan

  An Excerpt from Intrusion by Charlotte Stein

  An Excerpt from Can’t Wait by Jennifer Ryan

  An Excerpt from The Laws of Seduction by Gwen Jones

  An Excerpt from Sinful Rewards 1 by Cynthia Sax

  An Excerpt from Sweet Cowboy Christmas by Candis Terry

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  YESTERDAY, MY WORLD fell apart, shattering into a million jagged pieces. Standing near the window in the main room of the condo, I gaze down at the park, a sliver of green situated between the three buildings. Men wearing hard helmets and hideous orange fluorescent vests saw and hack at Nicolas’s beloved tree, the tree my billionaire built the luxurious condominium complex around.

  The majestic maple stood tall for over a century, its roots secured by the rich, dark soil, its trunk too wide for me to encircle with my arms. One storm, a single bolt of lightning, destroyed it, toppling it to the ground.

  At yesterday’s lunch, one wrong sentence, three ugly words, obliterated my carefully crafted good-girl persona, putting my dream of a forever love in jeopardy. I’m now labeled a whore by Chicago’s polite society.

  For some wondrous reason, Nicolas, my reputation-conscious executive, is overlooking this mistake and has arranged to meet with me in a couple of minutes. Hawke, my tattooed biker, went one step further, claiming partial responsibility for my downfall.

  I glance at Hawke’s balcony, the outdoor space empty, devoid of my nude military man. He had a work emergency early this morning, leaving my bed at daybreak.

  My palm closes around my phone. I shouldn’t have allowed Hawke to sleep over. If Nicolas finds out about his visit, he’ll assume we had sex, think I betrayed him, and end our relationship.

  I certainly shouldn’t call Hawke, shouldn’t encourage him, shouldn’t prolong an affair that has no future, but I can’t stop myself. I press his number.

  He answers after three rings. “Are you missing me, love?” Hawke’s deep voice curls my bare toes, my body humming with awareness. Sirens wail and men shout in the background.

  “I didn’t notice you were gone,” I lie, and he chuckles, not believing my bullshit. My former marine knows I miss him, that I yearn for the press of his hard muscle against my soft curves, his unique scent—a mixture of leather, engine grease, and man—filling my nostrils, the rasp of his stubble against my skin.

  The sirens grow louder and my heart beats faster. “What’s happening? Are you in trouble?” Will I be spending the windfall from Lona’s lunch on lawyers and bail money?

  The background noise disappears. “It’s video feed, not live,” Hawke assures me, and the tension in my shoulders eases. “We have more work to do tonight.” He says this as though we’re a team, assuming I’ll help him. My chest warms, the sense of belonging appealing to me too damn much.

  It’s a foolish reaction, as Hawke isn’t the man for me. Last night, my meltdown about the power outage and the possible rodent invasion proved this. He can’t afford the lifestyle I require to feel safe. We have no future, yet I can’t hurt him, can’t keep secrets from him.

  “Nicolas is coming over,” I blurt. “He needs somewhere quiet to take a nap, and I volunteered my bed. No one will find him here.”

  “I can find him there,” Hawke growls, his baritone rolling through my body.

  “But you won’t,” I retort, his reaction thrilling me. He wants me, would fight to keep me. “You won’t visit and you won’t call. Nicolas is exhausted. He needs to sleep.”

  There’s a long stretch of toe-tapping silence. I press my lips together, smothering my bizarre urge to apologize, to offer more explanations.

  “Is that all he’ll be doing, sweetheart—sleeping?” Hawke finally asks, his voice scarily soft.

  “We won’t be having sex, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I reply, having no doubts about this prediction. “Nicolas knows I’m a good girl.”

  “And you don’t lose control with him.” Hawke’s smug tone implies my lack of restraint when I’m with him is a good thing.

  The opposite is true, the passion I feel for Hawke making me nervous. He tempts me to deviate from my plan, to walk away from Nicolas, my constant, steady billionaire, to risk security for a wild whirlwind romance.

  “He can sleep in our bed,” Hawke concedes.

  “It’s my bed, not our bed, and I wasn’t asking you for permission,” I mutter, titillated by his audacity. “I called because I don’t want you interrupting Nicolas’s nap.”

  “Liar.” Hawke laughs and a tremor of awareness shoots along my spine, the connection between us strengthening with every encounter. “You called because you missed me, because you know in your heart you’re mine.”

  “No,” I whisper, unable to accept this truth, to accept a future filled with minimum-wage jobs, poverty, rodent-infested apartments, a cycle of evictions.

  “You’re mine and I’m yours, love.” Hawke’s words are heavy with desire. “I miss you, every inch of your beautiful self. I still feel your wet heat against me, the way your body cradled mine. I taste the sweetness of your mouth, hear your sexy little pants when you’re about to come, how you call my name as you writhe under me.”

  My nipples tighten, aching for his touch, yearning for his rough hands against my sensitive skin. “We can’t do that again.” My words lack conviction, my need for him numbing my brain.

  “We will do that again,” Hawke vows. “Once my work is done, I’ll please you, make you scream my name.”

  Can I wait that long? I squeeze my right breast, the breast he marked with his teeth, seeking to alleviate my building need. My feeble attempt at self-pleasuring has no impact. I hunger for his sure fingers on my nipples, his hot mouth covering my curves.

  “Hawke.” My voice is husky with passion. “I—”

  The doorbell chimes and I swallow a groan. “Nicolas is here.” I move toward the door. “I have to go.”

  “Call if you need me,” Hawke urges. “Anytime. I’m here for you, love.” He tells me what I want to hear, that I’m his priority, his everything.

  There’s a click followed by silence. I clip the phone to my waistband, my movements sharp. Hawke has left me sexually frustrated, wanting him. Damn him.

  I take a deep breath, count to five, and exhale, seeking to dampen my unruly desires. Nicolas is my priority. He’s the man I need, the man I should want. I fix a smile on my face and swing the door open.

  My smile wavers. Nicolas’s face is pale, his black hair mussed, shadows hugging his dark eyes and stubble covering his jaw. His previously immaculate black suit is rumpled, his forest green tie loosened. My beautiful billionaire looks like hell.

  “Bee.” Nicolas sighs, his chest rising and falling, and he says nothing more. He’s past the point of making sense, too exhausted for words, having stayed awake all night dealing with the power outage.

  “Come in.” I grab his hand and pull him into the condo, marching him toward my bedroom. His skin is warm and smooth, lacking Hawke’s creases and calluses. “Where is your phone?”

  Nicolas holds out the device, his hand shaking.
I grip the phone and glance at the screen. “Good.” I nod. “It’s turned off. You won’t need it for at least an hour.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Nicolas mumbles. “Must work.” He stumbles over nothing, tugging on my arm, relying on me to keep him upright.

  “You must sleep.” I pull back the covers on my bed, the sheets clean, freshly changed, smelling of the lemon-scented laundry detergent. “Take off your jacket.” I set Nicolas’s phone on the nightstand, next to Hawke’s emergency lantern.

  My billionaire struggles with the garment. I cluck my tongue and help him, placing his jacket temporarily on the foot of the bed. His white shirt clings to his broad shoulders.

  “Come closer,” I command. Nicolas obeys, dipping his head, and I remove his tie, sliding the strip of decadent silk around his neck. I flick the top button of his shirt open, revealing a V of tanned flesh. My tongue skims over my bottom lip, the temptation to taste his skin tremendous, Hawke having primed my body, tormented me to the point where I hunger for release.

  Nicolas sways on his feet, in no state to indulge my passion. I drift my hands down his long, lean form to his belt. That can’t be comfortable. I unfasten the expensive leather and unzip his dress pants, slide the black fabric to his ankles. He’s wearing crisp white boxer shorts, his legs golden, unmarred by scars, perfect, his muscles defined.

  “Lie down.” I wave at the bed. “And I’ll remove your shoes.”

  “Yes.” Nicolas drops face-first, falling like his precious tree, bouncing on the mattress. I slip his Edward Green black wingtips off his feet. The workmanship of his shoes is exquisite, the upper decadently soft, the sole a piece of art.

  Nicolas snuggles into my pillow, my billionaire appearing adorably boyish, all of his curt business demeanor stripped from him. I gaze down at him. It should be so easy to fall in love with him.

  And I will. My jaw juts.

  Soon.

  I remove his pants and socks, fold the garments neatly, set them on the chair seat, and hang his beautiful jacket on the wooden back. Nicolas grumbles, shifting on the bed, his words inaudible. I pull the covers over him and he ceases moving, his breathing deepening.

  Leaning over him, I inhale the scent of expensive cologne and hardworking man. Chicago’s number one bachelor is here, half-naked in my bed. I press my lips to the top of Nicolas’s head. “Sleep.” I watch him for a moment to ensure he’s okay, that he doesn’t need anything else, and then I tiptoe out of the room, closing the door softly behind me.

  There’s a gorgeous billionaire sleeping in my room. I indulge in a silent victory dance, turning in a circle, smacking my feet against the hardwood. My reputation is ruined, I don’t have a job, and I might not have a place to sleep tonight, but Nicolas is here. He cares for me.

  I’ll grow to love him. I will.

  Returning to the couch, I peruse the new job listings, now having a reason to stay in Chicago. Once my fascination with Hawke fades, I’ll give Nicolas all of my heart, all of my loyalty.

  I find a posting I’m semiqualified for and tweak my resume, making me appear like the ideal candidate for the role of a social media coordinator. The mailings I coordinated involved envelopes, not e-mails, but the process is roughly the same . . . I think.

  I can’t be particular about positions. Nicolas ignored the gossip about me. Cyndi’s overprotective father won’t be as tolerant about the rumors. He’ll evict me from the condo and force Cyndi to sever her friendship with me. It will be high school all over again, except I’ll be homeless as well as friendless.

  I need a new place to stay and money for rent. Fast. I apply for eight more jobs, changing my resume and cover letter for each posting.

  They’re all entry-level positions, paying minimum wage. I’ll require a second, maybe a third job to cover the expenses for my mom and myself, simply to live a life of nothing with no security and none of the fashions I love, living in a shithole of an apartment.

  My shoulders slump. I wish I didn’t need money, wish I could make decisions about my future based on other factors like happiness, affection, passion. I have to fall in love with Nicolas and forget Hawke. That’s the ideal solution.

  My phone hums. I glance down at the screen and excitement zings through me. I’ve received a Google alert. Is there another person on this planet named Belinda Carter and is she accomplishing newsworthy things?

  I open the e-mail and my excitement turns to horror. The first post is written by a Chicago-based gossip blogger, the title being “Sex to Go.” I read, my stomach rolling.

  The speculation about Lona LaMarre’s replacement has now been put to bed. Or, I should say, on the table. As I shared with readers in a previous post, Chicago’s priciest call girl will soon be retiring to the south of France, applying all of her assorted skills to one client, the lucky bastard.

  A source has told this blogger that the luscious Lona had lunch Sunday with Belinda Carter, a fresh face on the city’s sex-for-money scene. The intriguing unknown was introduced to two of Lona’s clients, a father-son duo.

  Clearly no stranger to kinky requests, Belinda proceeded to entertain the two appreciative gentlemen with her . . . ummm . . . antics. Every other male in the upscale French restaurant also received a sampling of her charms. I can’t share the dirty details, the happy hooker’s escapades too raunchy for our censors, but I will never view dining out in quite the same way.

  Oh God. I scan the following messages. All of them are permeations of the first post. Whenever anyone searches my name, this is what he or she will find. I’ll forever be associated with yesterday’s lunch, with being a whore.

  My chest tightens. I breathe in, breathe out, trying to calm the hell down. Mrs. Wilkie from six twenty-one south witnessed the disastrous lunch. She must have been the blogger’s source.

  The bitch would have also told Cyndi, Mr. Wynters, and anyone else who’d listen about the encounter. Reading about it again on some trashy site won’t change their impressions of me.

  Hawke doesn’t care. Nicolas is already aware of the gossip yet he’s here, sleeping in my bed. He hasn’t turned away from me.

  I have to ignore the talk and focus on finding employment. A job will solve some of my problems.

  I apply for more positions, stretching my resume credentials until they’re unrecognizable. It’s a vicious circle. Employers won’t hire me without experience, but I can’t gain experience without being hired.

  I lose track of time, absorbed in my task, and surface only when I hear a deep voice murmuring in my bedroom. Nicolas is awake and working once more, answering calls, dressing in his wrinkled suit, preparing to leave me. Foreboding builds within me, the feeling that when he exits the condo, he won’t return.

  I push this trepidation aside and concentrate on Nicolas’s needs. My hardworking billionaire will be hungry. I move to the small kitchen, take a bagel out of the fridge, put both halves in the toaster, making a mental note to order groceries today. Grocery shopping is one of the ways I’ve contributed to the household, and I won’t leave Cyndi without food. I put on a pot of coffee, adding coffee beans to my mental grocery list.

  The doorbell rings and I scowl. If that’s Hawke, I’ll kick his tight ass. I peek through the peephole. Isaac, Nicolas’s driver, stands in the hallway, his weathered face blank.

  I open the door. “Good morning, Isaac.”

  “Good morning, Miss Bee.” The man smiles, lines forming around his eyes and mouth. “These are Mr. Rainer’s clothes.” He hands me a heavy suit bag, Nicolas’s cologne clinging to the leather. “And these are his essentials.” The driver wheels a small black suitcase into the condo. I blink. Nicolas has as many essentials as a supermodel. “If he requires anything else, ask him to call me. I’ll be happy to assist.”

  “Thank you.” I close the door, pleased that Nicolas isn’t hiding our connection. He’s publicly claiming me as I’ve always wanted to be claimed.

  I roll the suitcase toward my bedroom, draping the suit bag over one arm
, and knock on the door. Nicolas doesn’t say anything. I press my ear to the wood. Water flows. He must be in the shower.

  I slip inside my bedroom and suck in my breath. Nicolas hasn’t closed the bathroom door. He stands under the showerhead, clearly visible through the shower stall’s glass door, my billionaire facing away from me. Liquid streams over his black hair and his golden skin, dripping along his spine. His shoulders are wide, his hips are narrow, and his ass is as perfect as the rest of him, a lighter tan spotlighting his clenched cheeks. His feet are braced apart on the wet, white tiled floor, his legs lean and muscular, his calves defined.

  I sigh, expressing my appreciation, the sound muffled by the running water. Nicolas is one beautiful man and he’s showering in my bathroom, standing naked only a couple of steps away from me. He lathers his shoulders with soap, rubbing his hands over his lean form. Bubbles float in the air and I’m tempted to stride forward and pop them.

  A good girl wouldn’t join a man in the shower. She also wouldn’t watch him. I force myself to move, to place the suit bag on the bed and set the suitcase by the far nightstand. His things look good in my space.

  The shower stops, the room becoming ominously silent. Oh my God. I glance around me, frantic, looking for somewhere to hide, unable to exit the room without passing the bathroom.

  “Could you bring me my shaving kit?” Nicolas asks.

  Shit. I’m busted. He knows I’m in the bedroom. My face heats. Does he also know I was watching him as he showered? I search through his suitcase, drifting my fingertips over his things. Everything he owns is quality, expensive, the best. I find the kit and bring the small plastic container to him, my heart pounding.

  Nicolas stands in front of the mirror, my towel wrapped low on his slim hips, his chest bare. Dark hair trails downward from his navel, disappearing under the white cotton. There’s not a single mark or blemish on his fit physique.

  He’s almost too perfect, a blank canvas that the harshness of life has yet to draw upon. There are no tattoos relaying stories from his past, no scars communicating that he’s faced adversity and emerged victorious, no bulging muscles crafted from hard labor.