Sinful Rewards 10

by Cynthia Sax

  When we return home, I silently repeat. Warmth spreads over my chest. I have a home and a man and a cat. “We can’t leave until Gisele returns.”

  “Who is Gisele?” Hawke frowns.

  “She’s our cat,” I explain. The furrows on his forehead deepen. “She’s here all alone, Hawke.” I hold his hands, willing him to understand. “Someone abandoned her and she needs our protection. She—”

  “Did this stray cat bite or scratch you?” Hawke asks, his tone angry. My stomach churns. I thought he liked cats.

  “Her name is Gisele,” I emphasize. She’s not simply another stray cat. “And she would never hurt me. She’s very dainty . . . and clean,” I add, knowing how much he values cleanliness. “But she doesn’t like to be touched, so allow her to approach you.”

  Hawke blinks. “You know this because you paid attention.” He studies me. “You read the cat’s body language.”

  “Our cat’s body language,” I correct. “A man I greatly respect taught me that.” I squeeze his fingers.

  “Yet you didn’t tell this man you greatly respect your plans for today.” Hurt edges Hawke’s words. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  He thinks I deliberately deceived him. “If I get into the habit of calling you all the time, I’ll forget and call you while you’re on assignment.” I hug him close, pressing my body against his. “A distracted marine is a dead marine.”

  “Who told you a distracted marine is a dead marine?” Hawke steps backward. “Was it the same person who mentioned I was more valuable out of the field?”

  “No,” I answer truthfully. The information was gathered from different people. “And we weren’t talking about you being distracted. Everyone knows you’re the best.” I pause, considering my next words. “Your team thinks that’s why you lead all of the high-profile assignments.” Since I’m already relaying insights, I’ll share this too. “You’re more skilled than they are.”

  “They think I question their abilities?” Hawke’s eyebrows lower.

  I stare at him. Is he serious? “You assume command of every dangerous assignment. What do you expect them to think?”

  He winces. “You’re right. That does look bad.” He rakes his fingers through his closely cropped hair. “I wanted them to respect me, not to doubt themselves.”

  “They respect you.” I touch the barbed-wire tattoo encircling his right arm. “Your team would follow you into the depths of hell. You say ‘Jump.’ They say ‘How fuckin’ high, sir?’ ” I quote Mack.

  Hawke’s lips twitch. “They talk to you, don’t they?”

  “They do.” I nod.

  “Come here, Belinda.” He pulls me into his muscular form, his seductive heat surrounding me. “How did I ever manage without you?”

  “Better than you’re managing now, I imagine.” Since meeting me, he’s taken responsibility for three women and a cat, had his condo invaded by storage boxes, gotten into a physical fight with a billionaire, and waged a war against gossip blogs.

  Hawke holds me, rubbing his big hands over my back. I snuggle against him, savoring his strength, his scent. He’s here. He came for me, as I trusted he would. “We should leave.” He releases me, but his fingers linger on my arms, shoulders. “Our men are waiting outside the gate, blocking the paparazzi.”

  “Gisele hasn’t returned.” I survey the garbage drifting around us, searching for our cat. There’s no sign of her. “We can’t leave her here. She doesn’t have anyone.”

  “Mack has a way with animals.” Hawke brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his calloused fingertips grazing my cheek. “We’ll give him a description of Gisele. He’ll tempt her out of hiding with some cat treats.”

  She deserves cat treats. “Gisele doesn’t trust easily,” I warn him.

  “None of my girls do.” Hawke’s lips hitch into the lopsided smile I adore. “The crowd outside will scare her, love.”

  My eyes widen. “With the noise and the cameras flashing, she’ll be terrified.” I hadn’t thought of that. “He’ll be careful with her?”

  “He’ll be very careful.” Hawke skims his lips over mine, his kiss frustratingly brief. “As careful as I am with you.” He scoops me into his arms and I yelp with surprise, swatting his chest.

  The idiot laughs as he strides toward the gate, his big boots eating up the pavement. I’m high off the road and, if any other man carried me, I’d be frightened, but this is Hawke and he’d never drop me.

  My overprotective man raps on the metal with his scarred knuckles, and the gate swings open. I’m blinded by flashes of light. People call my name, none of them voices I recognize. They want me to look at them, to give them a selling shot for their tabloid magazines, papers, online sites. I press my face against Hawke’s black T-shirt, not wishing to reward their bad behavior.

  The paparazzi snap photos as we move, and I grimace. I’m dirty and smelly, my hair must be a mess, and I’m wearing that god-awful waitress’s uniform. This is the image the world will see of me.

  Hawke shifts me in his arms. I suspect he’s pushing people away from us, but I can’t verify this. The paparazzi are waiting for me to look up. Determined to thwart them, I cling to my big man’s neck and keep my face hidden, trusting him to keep me safe.

  His body folds over mine and we enter a vehicle. Hawke sets me on the seat. Someone tosses a leather jacket on top of me. It belongs to my military man, his scent soothing me.

  “Go,” my military man barks. The seat vibrates under my ass. “Fuck, they’re aggressive.” He draws me closer to him. “Are you okay under there, love?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble, warm but healthy. “Don’t forget about Gisele.”

  “Right, our cat.” The rough edges in his voice smoothen. “I’m sending a text to Mack. What does she look like? Be specific. We don’t want him returning with fifteen cats.”

  There could be fifteen cats living in that back alley, abandoned, left behind by the humans they loved. I touch the dog tags hanging from the chain around my neck, wishing I could save them all. “Gisele is skinny; you can count her ribs. She has short black fur, yellow eyes, a bite out of her right ear, scars on her chin and back of her head and body, a huge deep gash on her left hind leg.”

  “Gisele doesn’t sound like one of those pampered purebred Persian cats I see all of the rich ladies carting around in their big designer bags,” Hawke says. “Was she in your plan?”

  I lift the jacket a smidgeon and glare at him. “None of this was in my plan.” I lower the leather, concealing myself once more. “My plan was blown to hell the moment I met you.”

  Hawke chuckles, his big body shaking. I pinch him and he laughs harder. My lips flatten. I’m living with an idiot.

  “You like that I blew your plan to hell.” He peeks under the jacket, his eyes sparkling. “Admit it.”

  “I shouldn’t like it.” I jut my chin. My plan was to marry Nicolas, a handsome, steadfast, well-dressed billionaire, a man who could financially take care of my hardworking mom. We’d own a home, fit into Chicago society, be accepted everywhere.

  “But you do like it,” Hawke presses.

  “I shouldn’t,” I insist. There’s nothing about the situation I should like. I’m living with a man too weathered by his past to be considered beautiful. He has appalling taste in clothes, risks his life in a minimum-wage security job, can’t financially help anyone. The condo is owned by the Organization, the company he works for, and, even if, by some miracle, he was accepted by Chicago society, Hawke wouldn’t attend any of the events. He’d deem the publicity surrounding them too dangerous, the media coverage possibly attracting hostiles.

  “I like it.” He kisses my dirty forehead. “A pampered Persian cat wouldn’t have protected you in the alley.”

  And Nicolas might not have protected me from the paparazzi today. He would have been too busy running his real estate empire. I would have been alone, as I’ve been in the past.

  Hawke puts me first. “Will you get into trouble for
ditching work?” I snuggle closer to him, reveling in his strength, in his caring.

  “The clients will survive,” he drawls. “Go to parking level one,” he tells whoever is driving the vehicle. Hawke might not have a lot of money, but he always has a group of men willing to help him. He has also vowed never to leave me. If I stay with him, I’ll never be on my own.

  I suppose I can’t walk away from him now. We have a cat. I smile.

  Once the media attention surrounding me dissipates, I’ll find another job and buy her some cute collars, in different colors and styles. She’ll have a cat bed and a fancy scratching post and all of the food she can possibly eat.

  Gisele will know she has a permanent home and a human who loves her. I’ll read articles and watch documentaries and be the best damn pet mom on the planet.

  I splay my fingers over Hawke’s stomach. His muscles ripple under my palms.

  First, I have to get through this next month, my lack of money worrying me. I barely have enough cash left to pay for my mom’s rent. If Cyndi needs more help, we’re fucked. I chew on the inside of my cheek. My best friend isn’t accustomed to being on a small budget.

  “How much longer will I be stalked by the paparazzi?” I ask.

  “They typically get bored after a week.” Hawke slides me along the leather seats. “The week starts on the date of the newsworthy incident. Discovering that a woman who has been offered a billion dollars for sex prefers to work as a busboy at a burger joint is an incident.” His tone is underlain with disapproval. He’s still angry that I left the condo. “You shouldn’t need this now.” He tosses his black leather jacket to the side.

  We’re sitting in the backseat of a massive Hummer, the vehicle parked in the condo complex’s underground garage. Demo and Prick sit in the front, talking, their voices too low to hear.

  Parking level one belongs to Nicolas. This north tower space is as congested as the south tower, different makes and models of vehicles filling the spots. Nicolas has a huge collection of cars and trucks, yet I’ve never seen him drive. He takes his limousine everywhere.

  “Nicolas is one strange bird.” I shake my head.

  “Says the woman who pulled off an elaborate escape from our comfortable home so she could wipe down tables.” Hawke opens the door, planting his booted feet on the garage floor. “If you needed more messes to clean, I could have orchestrated that.” He scoops me off the seat.

  I grab my messenger bag. “You don’t have to carry me. I can walk.” I frown up at him. He ignores me, stalking toward the elevator, his grip on my body almost painfully tight. “And I didn’t take the job at the restaurant simply to clean. I’d never do that. Everyone expects me to become my mom, to wait tables for the rest of my life. Donning that uniform today nearly cost me a piece of my soul.”

  It didn’t because I donned it for him, for us. I wasn’t merely waiting tables. I was protecting the man I care for, the man I might grow to love . . . some day. I lower my gaze to Hawke’s chin. The day isn’t today. It can’t be.

  “You look pretty in your uniform,” he grumbles.

  “I’m dressed in red-and-white polyester.” I pluck at one of my short sleeves. “I look like a ketchup bottle.”

  Hawke’s lips don’t twitch at my joke. This is how upset he is. “If you hate the uniform so much, why did you take the job?”

  Does he have to ask that question? I gaze up at my military man. “We need the cash.”

  He jabs the elevator button with his finger. “Tell me how much cash you need and I’ll give it to you.”

  I shouldn’t say anything. I’ll damage his fragile male ego and make the situation worse. Oh shit. I have to say something. “Yes, you’ll get the cash by working more hours, taking dangerous assignments, and you’ll get your damn self blown up.”

  The elevator doors open and Hawke steps inside, carrying me easily. “I’ll get it by going to the bank machine and withdrawing the cash from our account.” He waves his passcard over the sensor and selects the third floor.

  “You have to put money in to get money out.” I state this obvious and unfortunate truth. “I know you want to take care of everyone.” I pat his chest. “But you don’t have to, not alone. We’re partners. I can earn money also.” How will I do that? I don’t know.

  “You don’t need to earn money.”

  “I need to.” I meet his gaze squarely. “You can’t support three households on minimum wage.”

  “Minimum wage?” Hawke’s eyebrows knit together.

  Hell. He must be making a dollar or two over minimum wage, and now I’ve put more dents in his pride. “Or whatever you’re making,” I hastily add. “We’re equals. That means we both contribute.”

  “You contribute. You help me with the surveillance footage, take care of the condo, making it a home. You’re starting that business with your friend.” He stares at me. “Did Nicolas tell you I made minimum wage?”

  He’s fixated on his rival again. It takes an effort not to roll my eyes. “I haven’t discussed your financial situation with anyone,” I assure him. “And it doesn’t matter how much you make. It isn’t enough to support four people living in three different towns.”

  “It does matter,” Hawke insists. “Why do you think I’m poorly paid?”

  Because he buys his ugly black T-shirts in bulk, has no furniture and very little belongings. I press my lips together, knowing any answer I give will hurt his feelings.

  “Is that why you’re selling your pretty things?” He tilts his head, studying me. “Ellen has been blocking calls all day.” The elevator doors open and he moves quickly, silently along the hallway, my body cradled in his arms.

  “What?” I wiggle. “She shouldn’t be blocking those calls.” No wonder no one has responded to my ads.

  “You shouldn’t be liquidating all of your belongings.” Hawke enters the condo I now share with him.

  I’m home, safe. Some of the tension evaporates from my shoulders. “They’re belongings I don’t need.”

  “You’re selling your big red bag.” He walks with me through the main room and the bedroom, into the attached bathroom.

  “It isn’t a big red bag,” I retort, my voice echoing in the smaller space. “It’s a Salvatore Ferragamo purse, a work of art.”

  Hawke lowers me until my shoes touch the tiled floor, sliding my curves over his hard muscle, the full-body contact exciting me. “You love that purse.”

  “Yeah, well.” I set my not-so-beloved messenger bag on the bathroom vanity, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t need it.”

  “And you think we need the cash.” His lips curl upward. Our broke-ass status makes him happy for some bizarre reason. “Because I make minimum wage.” His hands drop to my hips, his clasp on me secure.

  “I don’t know how much you make,” I admit. I do know it isn’t enough.

  “Nicolas is wealthy,” Hawke points out, his tone cheerful. “If you chose him, you wouldn’t have to suck up your pride and don the dreaded uniform. You could keep your big red bag.”

  “It’s a Salvatore Ferragamo purse.” I suspect he calls my purse a big red bag to drive me crazy. “And I’m not with Nicolas, am I?”

  “No, you’re not.” My idiot man grins, his smile adorably lopsided. “You chose me, even though you thought I couldn’t give you any of the pretty things you like.”

  I know he can’t give me any of the pretty things I like. “Yes, yes, I’m an idiot.” I wave my filthy fingers in the air. “I’m also covered with grime.” I push on his shoulders. He doesn’t move. “I’m taking a shower.”

  Hawke’s eyes gleam. “I need a shower too.” He unbuttons my dreadful uniform top, peeling back the polyester. “If we take one together, we’ll save water and money.”

  Chapter Five

  MY NIPPLES TIGHTEN and my heart beats faster. If we take a shower together, we’ll do more than wash. Wanting this and needing him, I slip out of my shoes and reach behind me to unzip my skirt.

  “No
.” Hawke captures my hands, his calloused fingers encircling my wrists. “I’ll take care of you, Belinda.” He holds my gaze, his expression deliciously intense. “Emotionally, physically, financially, in all of the ways a man can take care of a woman.”

  “Yes, please.” I pluck at his ugly black T-shirt, knowing my honorable military man will do his damnedest to uphold this vow. “But I’m taking care of you while you’re taking care of me.”

  Hawke grins, one corner of his lips hitching higher than the other. “I like how you take care of me.” He bends over, allowing me to pull his shirt over his head, his golden skin marked with silver scars and black tattoos. “Now it’s my turn.” He yanks on my top, tearing the fabric.

  “Hey, this uniform has to be returned.” My protest is halfhearted, his savage act arousing me.

  “Don’t worry, love.” Hawke nuzzles against my neck, teasing me with his stubble-covered chin. “I’ll have it washed, repaired, and returned to Khloe.” He unhooks my bra, and that scrap of silk joins the mess on the floor. “You won’t need your bra for the rest of the day.”

  “No?” I unbuckle his belt, manipulating the leather. He’s hard, the bulge in his jeans large and defined, a dab of moisture wetting the denim.

  “You won’t need a bra or panties.” Hawke unzips my skirt, pushing the polyester over my hips. “Not with one of those pretty little sundresses you have in the closet, the dresses I never see you wearing.” He removes my panties as expediently as he did the rest of my clothing, leaving me completely naked. “You’ll feel sexy, free.”

  I would feel sexy and free. “I can’t wear sundresses while I’m working,” I explain. And I’m always working—cooking, cleaning, helping my mom. In the past, I held various jobs. Now, I’m building a business with Cyndi. “It’s not practical.” I drop to my knees, the tile cool against my skin, and I unlace Hawke’s boots, my subservient position exciting me. In our reality, we’re equals, partners. In my fantasy, I’m a maid at my master’s beck and call, obliged to do anything and everything he asks.