Sinful Rewards 6

by Cynthia Sax

  “He didn’t have to show up.” Cyndi hugs me to her generous bosom. Her breath smells of salsa and peaches. I have no idea what kind of alcohol she’s been drinking, but she’s clearly wasted, her body swaying.

  “It was like he was there, by my side, whispering in my ear.” She’s talking craziness. My best friend gets a little paranoid when she’s drunk. “I met this tall, blond, hunky man. He was perfect and charming and generous, buying me drinks all night.” She leans more and more into me and I struggle to carry her weight. “I kissed him and felt absolutely nothing.” Cyndi chops the air with her hands, the vigorous motion knocking her off balance.

  She lurches forward, smacks her head against my chin. My knees collapse and we topple to the floor. I land hard on my ass and she falls on top of my prone body, flattening me. I gasp for breath, trapped underneath her.

  “He grabbed my boob, giving it a good squeeze,” Cyndi continues, unaware that she’s squishing me. “That always makes my panties wet, but tonight it didn’t do anything for me. It was like my brain and my body were disconnected.”

  I fight for air, smothered by my much larger, curvier best friend. Black spots dance in front of my eyes. I might not survive until tomorrow, might never find out if the woman wearing the closed-toe shoes is the suspect, might never have sex with Hawke.

  “Say something.” Cyndi straddles my waist, relieving the pressure on my chest, and I inhale deeply, thankful to be alive. “Tell me I’m being an idiot, that this is a temporary thing and it will pass,” she demands. “I can’t live without sex, Bee. I’m not you.”

  “According to the gossip, I’m a hooker,” I joke, my voice breezy, my lungs aching. “Sex is my job.”

  “Be serious.” She pounds my shoulders with her fists, knocking me back to the floor. “He’s in a relationship, happily committed to some woman he thinks is too special to share with the world, and I’m alone, all alone.” She crosses her arms under her breasts. “Before I met him, I was happy. I didn’t realize how cold other men’s kisses were.”

  “Yeah.” I shove her away from me. “I feel the same way.” If I hadn’t met Hawke, I would have been happy with Nicolas, not knowing what I was missing.

  “Is it the hunky Frenchman?” Cyndi follows me around the bed. “Is that why you won’t answer his calls? The two of you fell in love at first sight, and in a fit of jealousy, he called you a whore. Society grabbed hold of your tiff, the rumors started, and he tried to apologize, but your pride won’t allow you to take him back.”

  “No.” I look at her, wondering where she gets her wild ideas. “It’s not the hunky Frenchman.” I climb into my bed, my escape pad from reality.

  “It can’t be your birdman.” Cyndi crawls onto the mattress, following me, not bothering to undress. “If you loved him, you would have let him into your panties by now.”

  “I don’t love anyone.” I frown at the ceiling. This sounds like a lie, but it can’t be. I can’t love Hawke or Nicolas or the Frenchman, as Cyndi calls Francois. I’m leaving.

  On Wednesday.

  “I don’t love anyone either.” Cyndi gazes at the ceiling also, the moisture on her cheeks glistening under the lights. “No one falls in love over a weekend.”

  “That rarely happens even in the movies,” I agree, admittedly having no real-world experience with the emotion. “Love takes time to develop. It’s slow and steady and lasts forever.”

  “That sounds boring.”

  “Love isn’t boring, but it isn’t easy either. You’ll have to work at it every day, and you’ll want to do that because you’ll want him.” I paraphrase lines from movies I’ve watched. “He’ll complete you.”

  “Cole completes me.” She sighs. “I’m so fucked.”

  “Maybe you fell in lust at first sight,” I suggest. That’s what happened with me. I took one look at Hawke and wanted him, craving his touch, his kisses, his big hands on my breasts.

  “I like talking with Cole, hearing his opinion on everyday things.” Cyndi shifts restlessly beside me. “You don’t talk about normal stuff with guys you only feel lust for. You don’t tell them about your job or your family or your crazy best friend back in Chicago. That’s not sexy.”

  “It’s sexy if your crazy best friend is a hooker.” I grin. Cyndi is wrong about lust, as I’ve talked to Hawke about my lack of a job, my messed-up family, and my jelly bean-tossing best friend, but she’s right about the rumors. They are easier to handle when we make jokes about them.

  “I didn’t know you were a dirty whore when I talked to him.” Cyndi jostles me, her feet freakily cold.

  “Would that bother him?” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Would he care if you were friends with a dirty whore?” Nicolas would care. He’d pressure me to abandon this friend.

  “He’d think it was edgy and cool.” She sighs. “Not that I’ll ever get the chance to tell him. I’ll never talk to him, never kiss him, never ride on his bike again.” Cyndi tilts her chin upward. “We spent Sunday traveling along Pacific Coast Highway. It was an awesome experience, one of the best days of my life.” A small smile curls her lips. “Did you ride on the birdman’s bike?”

  “Yeah.” I shiver with excitement as I remember how the wind rushed over Hawke’s broad shoulders, the vibration of the seat under my ass, the blur of pavement below my feet. My body was pressed snug against his, every bump in the road pushing us closer together, meshing our molecules, our souls. I felt alive and free yet safe and secure, confident in his abilities, knowing he’d never allow anything to harm me.

  I don’t have the same confidence in Cole’s biker skills. “Did you wear a helmet?” I ask my reckless best friend.

  Cyndi nods. “They’re ugly and I didn’t want to wear one, but it’s the law in California and Cole said he wasn’t taking any chances with me.” She snuggles closer to me, the alcohol fumes from her mouth making me light-headed. “Why did I fall in love with him, Bee? He ruined everything.”

  “How could you not fall in love with him?” I reply. “He’s young and rich and handsome, a movie star.” Hawke is young, but he isn’t rich or handsome and I have no idea why I can’t stop thinking about him.

  “I like that he’s rich,” Cyndi admits, my wealthy friend honest about her requirements. “I know he isn’t after Daddy’s money. You’re lucky, Bee. Any man who wants you truly loves you.”

  She’s right. I don’t have to be concerned about Hawke or Nicolas or Francois using me for my money. Everyone knows I’m poor, one best friend away from a rodent-infested apartment. “Do you worry about that?”

  “Constantly. Daddy has been paying men to stay away from me since I was eighteen.” Cyndi sighs. “I’m not enough to make them stay. They always take the money.”

  I shouldn’t tell her. She’ll think less of me, judge as everyone else does. Shit. But I can’t keep quiet, not when she believes she’s the only person unworthy of love.

  “I wasn’t enough to make my dad stay.” The words gush out of me. “My mom had a one-night stand with a tattooed biker, and when she told him about me, he left town and never came back.”

  “He won’t ever come back.”

  I blink. She sounds certain about this. “He might remember about us . . . eventually.” And my mom will be right where he left her, in Happydale. He’ll be able to find us.

  “He won’t come back, Bee.” Cyndi clasps my hand, her fingers cold. “Your dad died years ago. I heard the investigator tell that to Daddy. They were worried he’d use you to get to me.”

  My dad is dead. He won’t ever return for me. A tear trickles down my left cheek, pooling in the seams of my lips, one of my foolish dreams dying.

  Hawke must know about my dad. My locked-down military man, during his investigation of me, would have uncovered that my dad wasn’t alive. He would have also known my nefarious parent was the type of man who would use his daughter to get to her wealthy friend.

  Hawke is honorable. He was raised on an apple orchard by two loving parents,
served his country in the marines, and now protects the world’s wealthy. I have no job and I’m a product of a one-night stand, my parents being a dead criminal and Happydale’s wild woman. Shame fills me and I wiggle, wishing to escape.

  “You’re making me nauseous,” Cyndi warns. “If the bed bounces any more, I’ll hurl and that won’t be pretty. I tried to smother my sorrows with nachos and gummy worms.”

  “That’s a disgusting combination.” I wrinkle my nose.

  There’s a long pause.

  “Did it work?” I ask.

  “No.” My best friend burps and I cough, the disgusting fumes from her mouth making the room spin. “All it did was upset my stomach and make me think of Cole. He likes gummy worms, eats them headfirst. When we took a tour of the San Diego plant, he claimed he was in heaven.”

  “There’s been no word from him?” This dumb-ass question slips out of my lips before I can stop it. Of course, there’s been no word from him. Cyndi would have told me if Cole had contacted her.

  She sniffles. “He hasn’t called or texted me, Bee. Not once.”

  “Did you call or text him?”

  “I can’t,” she wails. “I don’t want to look desperate.” My best friend may have sex with anyone and everyone, but she has her pride. “I love him. Why doesn’t he love me back?”

  “Because he’s an idiot and doesn’t know a good woman when he sees her.” I clench my fingers into fists, angry for her. “And you’re a good woman, Cyndi. You’re nice and funny and beautiful and you never have a mean thing to say about anyone.”

  “I have pretty eyes,” she adds. “An important producer told me that.”

  “You do have pretty eyes,” I agree. “And gorgeous hair. I’d kill for your curls.”

  “I also have big breasts.” Cyndi arches her back.

  “True, though bigger isn’t necessarily better. Some men love small breasts.” I stick out my less-than-magnificent chest. “The flowers in the main room attest to that.”

  “They want you for your ass.” Her voice sounds less watery, and the panic inside me eases. “Men want me for my breasts. They always go straight for them, like I have homing beacons on my nipples.” Cyndi poses with her hands in the air. “Must. Touch. Tits.” She squeezes the imaginary pair of breasts.

  I grin. “I missed you so much.”

  Cyndi lowers her hands to her sides. “Remember that when we receive a priggish memo from Rainer.”

  “Why would we receive a memo?” I stare at her. My usually talkative friend doesn’t say anything, increasing my trepidation. “He had a horrible day, with the power outage and losing his tree.” I don’t mention how angry Nicolas must be with me. He trusted me not to embarrass him, and I’m now labeled as the whore of Chicago. “What did you do?”

  It’s Cyndi’s turn to wiggle.

  I consider the possibilities. “You made it rain gummy worms, didn’t you?” The last time she threw candy out the window, we received a curt memo.

  “How could I resist?” She laughs.

  My lips twitch. She should have resisted. Nicolas will be even more upset with us than he already is, but I don’t have the heart to protest her actions. I imagine the expressions on the gardeners’ faces when they arrive to a lawn covered with candy worms, and I chuckle.

  Chapter Seven

  THE DOORBELL RINGS, drawing me from my sleep yet again. “Will the world please leave me alone?” I tug the pillow away from Cyndi. The cotton is smeared with black mascara, lipstick, and a wet spot I suspect is drool. “I’m buying you a guest pillow.”

  She mumbles words I can’t decipher, her face smooshed into the mattress.

  The doorbell rings again. “Oh God.” I place the filthy pillow over my aching head, trying to drown out the sound.

  “It’s your room.” Cyndi steals my pillow. “Make the noise stop.”

  “That noise is the doorbell.” I shove her closer to the edge of the bed. “It’s your condo. You make it stop.”

  “It’s the doorbell?” She pushes her body off the mattress, her green eyes widening. “Oh my God, Bee.” She shakes me, rattling my teeth. “He’s here. Cole came for me.” She bounces out of the bed, takes two steps toward the door, pivots, and rushes back to the vanity. “How do I look?” She tidies her blonde curls with my beautiful silver brush. I press my lips together, allowing her to manhandle my reward, because this is an emergency and she’s my best friend.

  “Bee?” Cyndi requires my reassurance.

  “You look surprisingly good,” I begrudgingly admit, grabbing two tissues from the box on the nightstand. The box had been in the bathroom yesterday morning. Hawke must have moved it last night. “It could be Jacob delivering one of my rewards,” I caution, trying to temper her excitement.

  “It’s not,” Cyndi insists. “It’s Cole.”

  “Why do you think it’s him?” I scrub the makeup off her cheeks. “Did Cole call you after I fell asleep?”

  “No, but I know it’s him. I feel it here.” She places her hands over her heart. “I’ve met hundreds of men.”

  “Thousands,” I correct, removing the trails of mascara on her skin.

  “I’ve met thousands of men,” she amends, dancing in place, her curves jiggling. “And I’ve never felt like this, Bee. We’re connected, linked in some mysterious way, and we must be meant to be together. He has to love me.” The doorbell rings for the third time and her agitation increases.

  “Cole would be a fool if he didn’t adore you.” I hug her, wanting this happiness for my best friend. “Go.” I push her toward the exit, almost as excited as she is. “Dazzle your movie star.” She rushes away from me, her leather-clad ass wiggling.

  Everything will be okay. Hawke’s men are monitoring our condo. They have fancy military gadgets, including infrared sensors. One of Lona’s overenthusiastic clients won’t sneak past them.

  And fate wouldn’t disappoint a wonderful, worthy person like Cyndi. Our early morning guest has to be Cole. I close the door behind her, giving them some much-needed privacy.

  Fate isn’t as kind with me. I’ll be labeled a whore forever, Cyndi’s dad will force her to evict me, my billionaire won’t risk his reputation by being seen with me, and Hawke, the only person who will remain by my side, is unable to afford the safe, rodent-free home I require.

  Though he does take care of me. I gaze around the bedroom. The beautiful glass dildo and its box have been hidden somewhere. My dirty clothes have been placed in the laundry hamper. My phone is set on the nightstand beside my passcard.

  I grab both of these, clip the passcard to the hem of Hawke’s black hideous T-shirt, and stride to the window. It’s another gorgeous Chicago day, the sun shining and the sky blue. The park isn’t as beautiful, a huge gaping pit where Nicolas’s beloved tree once stood. Workers in hard helmets and unsightly coveralls shovel rich, dark earth into the hole, leveling the ground.

  My billionaire sits on his bench and watches his employees, the sun’s rays gleaming on his black hair, his perfect profile taking my breath away. He’s so damn handsome, clad in a black suit and crisp white shirt, pairing this classic ensemble with a conservative gray tie.

  He turns his head toward me, and I inhale sharply. The left side of his face is flawless, a countenance a male model would envy. The right side is a mess, his bottom lip split, a shadow of a bruise coloring his chin. Either he was mugged, which is highly unlikely with Hawke’s team protecting him, or my sophisticated, refined executive has been fighting.

  I’m betting on fighting, guilt sweeping over me. He has been physically defending my honor. I did this to him, lowered him to this brutish level. Before my brain registers what my fingers are doing, I’ve pressed his number.

  “Nicolas Rainer,” he answers immediately, holding his phone to his battered face.

  “Let them talk about me.” My voice chokes with anguish. “Don’t risk your safety or your reputation by defending me.”

  “Who is this?” Nicolas’s lips curl upward.
He knows damn well who this is. “A beautiful woman once told me to introduce myself when I answer the phone.” He tsk-tsks. “Do I have to send you an article on proper phone etiquette?”

  My normally grim billionaire chooses now to make a joke? I roll my eyes. “I’m serious.”

  “I know you’re serious.” He sighs. “I wasn’t defending you.” Nicolas wiggles his jaw and winces, his pain tugging at my heart. “I was being an asshole again, and a rather large someone didn’t appreciate one of my snide remarks.”

  There’s no need to ask for his name. I know who that rather large someone is. My gaze lifts to three eleven north. Hawke stands on his balcony, gloriously naked, his arms raised, binoculars shielding his eyes. He’s too far away for me to see details, but my mind fills in the gaps. Tattooed wings spread across his collarbone. Black ink encircles his right bicep. Sunlight dances across his tanned skin, the hardness of his body.

  This rugged, unruly idiot of mine dared to punch a billionaire, a man with a team of lawyers on his payroll.

  “Hawke should be guarding you, not hitting you.” My lips twist. He’s lucky his tight ass isn’t in jail.

  “He knocked some sense into me,” Nicolas graciously admits. “This situation is my fault, Bee. I allowed Lona to live in one of my buildings, and you assumed I approved of her.”

  “You should approve of her,” I retort, defending my friend. “She’s a nice person.” I repeat Hawke’s words.

  “She’s an escort,” Nicolas replies, sounding slightly irritated.

  “All of Chicago thinks I’m an escort also.” I state this harsh truth. “They’ll always think that. Nothing you say or do will fix that.”

  “I can minimize the damage,” my arrogant executive insists.

  “How will you minimize the damage?” And why does this prospect fill me with alarm? He’s an executive, not a thug . . . or an overprotective former marine.