Sinful Rewards 5: A Billionaires and Bikers Novella

by Cynthia Sax

  “And if it doesn’t?” I breathe in, breathe out, trying to calm myself. “Lona is counting on me.” I want, need this lunch to be successful. If the aging escort can find her forever, there’s hope for me.

  “You won’t let her down.” He places his hand on my hip, his presence soothing me. Our images reflect in the mirrored walls. He’s big and strong and casually dressed, a wall of black and blue behind me. I feel tiny, delicate, and pretty standing before him. “If you forget your lines, simply be yourself.”

  I frown. Being myself has never worked out well for me in the past.

  “Though you might not want to cuss.” Hawke’s lips twitch.

  “I don’t cuss in public.” I glare up at him. He’s not helping. “I’m a good girl.” I add accidental cussing to my list of things to worry about.

  “You’re sweet and innocent.” Hawke’s voice lilts with amusement.

  “Exactly.” I glower. “I’m sweet and innocent and I’ll get through this damn lunch even if it fucking kills me.”

  My tattooed biker laughs.

  Chapter Three

  HAWKE WALKS WITH me through the lobby. We pass Jacob seated behind his desk, the security guard sleeping with his head tilted back and his mouth open, and we exchange amused glances, the silently shared joke taming some of the butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

  We exit the building, stepping outside into the humid air. A long black limousine is waiting for me. Shit. This is truly happening. I can’t remember any of my lines. “I wish you’d never told me I was a terrible liar.” I release a ragged breath. “This would be easier if I thought I could lie.”

  “Most people don’t pay attention.” Hawke squeezes my hip. Quentin, Lona’s tall bald driver, opens the door to the limo. “You can do this.” He pushes me forward.

  “Morning, Quentin.” I smile at the dour-looking man. He grunts something I can’t hear, not returning my smile. I wave at Hawke and enter the vehicle.

  It’s empty. There’s no sign of Lona, the man she’s in love with, or his hostile son. I’m alone. My shoulders slump.

  “Quentin, is Lona meeting me at the restaurant?” I ask.

  The partition is open. I know he can hear my voice, yet the grumpy man doesn’t answer me. There will be no help coming from him.

  Lona must have included this detail in her deluge of information. I extract my phone and search through the messages. There are repeated mentions of a car being sent for me. She never once says she’ll be in the car.

  I’ll arrive at this lunch alone. This shouldn’t bother me. Before seeing Hawke, before meeting Nicolas, I’d spent most of my life alone. Now, I feel scared, abandoned.

  Pull yourself together, Bee. I give myself a mental shake. This lunch isn’t about you and your daddy issues. I read Lona’s notes, reviewing my lines once more, memorizing the openings she needs to make a good impression on the son. She has requested that I lead the men into discussions on wine, art, travel, discussions she’d then participate in, winning over the son. It’s a crazy plan and it might work, as long as I’m successful in doing my part.

  The vibrations under my ass stop. I gaze out the tinted windows and sigh. It’s showtime. We’ve arrived at the French restaurant in Streeterville.

  Quentin opens the door, his expression as disapproving as always. I thank him. He says nothing, returning to his post behind the wheel, leaving me to fend for myself.

  Dark clouds hover overhead, the humidity in the air thick and heavy. A man in a cheap black tuxedo stands by the front door, his face blank. I’ve never eaten in a restaurant that had a doorman. This must be the type of place Nicolas frequents. I’ll be visiting his world today.

  It scares the shit out of me. I take a deep breath, count to five, and release it. Time to razzle-dazzle the son. I stalk toward the entrance.

  The big, burly employee opens the door, wishing me a good afternoon. I return the greeting and he blinks as though he didn’t expect a response.

  The scent of freshly baked bread and fermented grapes fills my nostrils, and my stomach rumbles. Loudly. I grimace. Perhaps skipping breakfast hadn’t been the right decision.

  A man in an equally awful tuxedo stands behind a tiny wooden podium. His gaze flicks to me. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Que puis-je pour vous?”

  I have no idea what he’s asking. “Ummm. . .I’m meeting with Lona LaMarre.”

  He sniffs, his top lip curling with disdain. “Please come with me.” He pivots on his heels and walks at a breakneck pace through the dimly lit restaurant.

  The tables are placed an obscenely far distance from each other, one table taking the same square footage that three tables in the diner would occupy. The tablecloths and napkins are an immaculate white. The silverware shines. Candles flicker, the light making the crystal stemware sparkle.

  The men wear ties and dark suits. The women wear a variety of designer dresses. I smooth my trembling hands over my skirt. None of the dresses equals mine, but the women’s hair is swept into sophisticated chignons and French twists, making my loose, flowing style appear girlish by comparison.

  I recognize one of the women—Mrs. Wilkie from six twenty-one south. Although I’ve wished her good morning three times and a pleasant evening once, the long-suffering wife of a horndog athlete doesn’t acknowledge me. Her gaze darts to my face and then back to her tiny salad, her thin lips set in a perma-frown of disdain.

  That’s a good thing, I remind myself. I’m having a secret lunch with an escort, her client, and his son. It’s best that I remain incognito.

  “Mademoiselle.” The maitre d’ interrupts my inner dialogue. “Votre hôtesse.” He waves his ringed hand toward a corner table. Lona and a distinguished man with thick gray hair sit side by side, holding hands, their heads bent toward each other.

  “Thank you.” I smile.

  The man sniffs again, signaling that I’ve made another mistake. I chew on the inside of my cheek. Am I supposed to tip him? I didn’t bring any money.

  “Belinda, I’m so glad you could join us.” Lona finally notices my arrival, rising to her feet. She’s wearing another beautiful Chanel suit, this ensemble in violet. “I’d like for you to meet Jacques.” She gazes adoringly at the tall man standing at her side. He wears a dark suit, white shirt, with a burgundy tie.

  “It is a great pleasure to meet such a good friend of Lona’s.” He kisses me enthusiastically on both cheeks, smelling of cigar smoke and aged cognac. “Please have a seat.” He pulls out my chair. I sit, the experience surreal, and he pushes me closer to the table. “My son is late as always.”

  I relax. Until the son arrives, I don’t have to worry about scripts or lines. “It’s Shark Week at the Shedd and today’s the last day. If he’s passing by the aquarium, he’ll be stuck in traffic.” I don’t know why I’m making excuses for his son, my mouth disconnecting from my brain.

  “That must be it, then.” Jacques’s shoulders lower. “He’s coming from that direction.” He gestures elegantly with his hands as he speaks.

  “I like your dress.” Lona appears adorably nervous and excited and so in love, it is almost sickening to see, her body tilting toward Jacques’s larger form.

  “Thank you.” I place my purse on the table, not knowing what else to do with it. “A dear friend with impeccable taste gave it to me.” Lona’s smile widens.

  We make small talk for several minutes until a stiff-necked waiter hands us menus. I study the offerings, allowing the couple to whisper and coo, their display turning my already turbulent stomach.

  It’s not that I’m jealous. I pause, unable to lie to myself. Okay. I’m jealous. No man has ever looked at me as Jacques looks at Lona, as though she’s his entire world.

  I peruse the menu, my head bent. I could examine it for a thousand years and not decide on my order. The damn thing is written in French.

  It has no prices either, which shouldn’t bother me because, as Lona has reminded me three times, Jacques is footing the bill. This irks my prid
e, but this lunch isn’t about my pride. It’s about fixing the chasm between Lona and Jacques’s missing son.

  “This is the reason you invited me here?” As though summoned, a younger, dark-haired version of Jacques looms over the table, his brown eyes blazing with a breathtaking fury, a deep scar etched across his right cheek. He’s clad in a dark suit, white shirt, and gray tie.

  “You bought me a woman too?” He waves his hands at me. Under his open fury, I detect agony, the same agony I saw on the faces of the veterans at The Road Gator. “Sex won’t fix me, Father. I’ve tried that.”

  Lona gasps. Heads turn. Jacques’s face hardens. I feel as though I’ve stepped off a cliff, falling down, down, down, only air beneath my feet.

  None of this is in my script.

  “Good, because I’m not having sex with you.” I throw the script out the window. “Ever.” I continue to gaze at the menu, ignoring him, ignoring our audience. If I pretend this isn’t happening, that wealthy patrons aren’t staring at me, watching this embarrassing scene, I can survive this, perhaps with my pride intact. “Your father doesn’t have enough money to buy me.”

  “Every man in this restaurant has enough money to buy you.” The son turns toward me, skewering me with his heated gaze. “And they probably already have.”

  “Francois.” Jacques stands. “You do not speak to a lady that way.”

  “She’s not a lady.” Francois scans his surroundings as though he’s looking for hostiles. “She’s a whore.” His glare returns to me.

  I meet his gaze squarely, my cheeks heating to the surface temperature of the sun. The entire room heard his reply. If Mrs. Wilkie remembers who I am, she might tell Nicolas, the other occupants of his building, Cyndi’s friends, my roommate’s daddy, his acquaintances. They’ll talk. They’ll never stop talking. I’ve spent my entire life carefully crafting my good-girl façade, hiding my perversions, my cussing, and this stranger has destroyed my image with one sentence.

  “I’ve heard enough,” I tell him, my voice quiet, controlled, the scene viewed as though from a distance. “We’ve all heard enough.”

  Francois opens his big mouth.

  “Sit down, soldier,” I snap, unable to tolerate any more of his theatrics.

  He sits, his ass smacking against the seat of his chair.

  I blink, surprised, and Francois appears as stunned by his response. His fingers curl into big fists. I grab a fork, prepared to defend myself.

  “If you take a swing at me, I’ll stab you in the eye,” I warn.

  “I’d never hit a woman,” he mutters, glancing over his right shoulder.

  “Really?” I raise my eyebrows, calling him on his bullshit. “You verified the gender of the enemy before you defended yourself? It’s a wonder you’re alive.”

  Pain flashes across his face, pain I’ve seen on Hawke’s face too many times. Not everyone Francois knows, cared for, fought beside remains alive. “You’re a whore. What do you know?”

  “I’m not a whore, and I can’t begin to understand what you experienced.” I open my purse, extract the dog tags, and return them to their rightful place, wearing the chain around my neck. They don’t match my outfit but, for once in my life, I don’t care. I have bigger concerns.

  Francois’s gaze lowers to the tiny pieces of metal. “You’re too small to be military.”

  “I’m average-sized.” I straighten in my chair, trying to look as tall and as intimidating as possible. “And I’m not military. I’m holding these for a friend.”

  A dish drops across the room and Francois jumps. He’s nervous, his anxiety compounding an already volatile situation. He glances over his shoulder yet again.

  He can’t see the other patrons. Francois sits with his back to the room, something Dawg, Hawke’s friend, would never do. The old military man would choose a seat by the wall, a seat like mine, where he could watch everyone and everything.

  I press my lips together, part of me tempted to make Francois suffer, payback for the mess he carelessly made of my life. A chair scrapes against the floor, he twitches, and I sigh, knowing I can’t be a bitch about this. His discomfort is adding to mine.

  I glance upward at the elaborate ceiling moldings, the silver-brushed swirls against the white plaster, and I frown. “I feel a draft.” I shiver dramatically. “Would you mind changing places with me?”

  “Yes, I would mind,” Francois retorts, determined to be an ass.

  “Francois.” His father shakes his head.

  A glass shatters behind Francois and he leaps to his feet, lowering his right hand to his hip, reaching for a gun he thankfully isn’t wearing. I take advantage of the distraction, slipping into Francois’s chair before he retakes his seat.

  “Merde.” He shakes his head, grumbling more words I don’t understand, and he switches places with me, backing the chair up until it is flush against the wall. Some of the stress lines around his mouth flatten, the tension in our corner of the room lowering.

  I’ve eliminated the cause of his anxiety. I don’t yet have a solution for the problems he has caused for me, a way to stop the rumors his anger-filled words have started.

  I don’t dare look at Mrs. Wilkie. If I don’t meet her gaze, she might not recognize me. That’s my crazy theory and I’m sticking to it.

  The other patrons watch us as though we’re the entertainment. They murmur behind their finely manicured hands, their gazes moving from Lona to me. People whisper about my mom the same way, those whispers never ceasing.

  The snooty waiter approaches us once more, handing me a new menu. This one is also in French. I shrug, having already decided on a tactic to tackle this small problem. When he asks me what I want, I’ll tell the waiter I’ll have the same meal as Lona.

  The young man’s mouth moves. I don’t understand a word he’s saying. Jacques says something about Chardonnay, one of the few French words I know. Francois argues heatedly with him. Lona says nothing, her face deathly pale. She knows this lunch has gone to hell in a handbasket and there’s no hope of redeeming it. Her scripts are rendered useless and we’ll be winging it for the rest of the meal.

  The arguing stops and everyone looks at me. The waiter must want my drink order. “I’d like a glass of water, please.”

  The waiter rattles off some more French words, sniffs, acting as uppity as the maitre d’, and walks away with a flounce.

  “You ordered water?” Francois returns his attention to me. “Do you know who you’re dining with?”

  “I’m dining with someone who thinks I’m a whore.” I study the menu once more, ignoring him. “So I’ll drink whatever I want to drink. Thank you very much.”

  Jacques chuckles. “I like your little friend, Lona.”

  “I’m not little,” I mutter, irritated by everyone and everything. “I’m average-sized.”

  There’s a stretch of silence. I feel Francois’s gaze on my face. I don’t pay him any attention, unwilling to engage him in conversation, because if he says one more rude thing to me, I’m leaving and not looking back. My fingers close around the dog tags.

  The waiter returns, gives a bottle to Jacques. He examines the label, sniffs the cork, pours a little in a glass, and nods. The wine is distributed. A glass of water is placed in front of me. This isn’t Chicago tap. The water has bubbles.

  “If you’re not a whore, then what are you?” Francois asks as the waiter leaves once more.

  “I’m not a what. I’m a who.” I watch the air float to the top of my water.

  “Who are you?” His voice is edged with an exasperation I share.

  I tap the glass, making the bubbles rise quicker. “I’m nobody important.” I’m not sharing my family history with the judgmental ass.

  “What do you do?” Francois presses.

  “I don’t do anything.” I sip the water. It has a strange taste and I don’t like it.

  “You must do something,” he insists.

  I narrow my eyes at him. Why does he care about me? “Since
you must know, I lost my job on Friday. My coworker was sleeping with my boss so he hired her instead of me. It was devastating. I needed that job and I returned home in tears. You know who wiped my snotty nose and dried my tears?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “Lona. She’s my friend and I don’t know what they taught you in the military, but out here in the civilian world, a good friend is priceless. Call me all of the names you want. I want you to leave Lona alone.”

  “Men pay her for sex.” Francois lowers his voice.

  “Your father pays for sex,” I reply. “And you killed for your country.” He flinches as though I’ve hit him. “Does she judge you for that?”

  The waiter returns, the hoity-toity bastard addressing me in French, knowing I don’t understand a word he says. I read his face. He gazes at me as my mom gazes at the customers she serves, waiting for their orders.

  I glance down at the menu, having no idea what it says. He looks at me expectantly and I’m too damn proud to admit I don’t know a word of French. “I’d like this.” I point to a menu line.

  The waiter sniffs. “Mademoiselle, that states that vegetarian options are available upon request.” He says nothing more, not helping me at all.

  I point at another line. This seems to make him happy as he rattles off more French words. Then he waits. Again.

  Oh, God. What does he want? I gaze at Lona. She’s cuddling with Jacques, in her own happy-little-couple world. I glance at Francois.

  He sighs, shaking his head. “You don’t know a word of French, do you?”

  “This is America.” I lift my chin. “I shouldn’t need to know French.”

  “I’m American and I know French.” Francois changes languages as easily as I change outfits, talking with the waiter. “Do you have any allergies?”

  “No,” I answer. My mom works in a diner. A food allergy would have killed me in childhood.

  Francois talks. The waiter nods, gathers our menus, and interrupts the lovebirds.

  “Thank you.” I force the words, thanking the man who has destroyed my carefully crafted good-girl persona.