Sinful Rewards 5: A Billionaires and Bikers Novella

by Cynthia Sax

  His brown eyes glitter. “Your good friend Lona should have helped you.” Francois reverts to full-ass status.

  “My good friend Lona is in love.” I close my fingers around my dog tags, wishing I was in the condo or anywhere but here. “At least one of us has a shot at happiness.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “You don’t have a shot at happiness?” Francois asks.

  Is he serious? I stare at him. “I’m unemployed and now, thanks to you, everyone in this restaurant is talking about me.”

  “At least you’re alive.” His voice is quiet.

  I sigh, finding it damn difficult to be angry with a man who is hurting more than I am. “Yes, at least I’m alive.” I grip the dog tags tighter. Francois went to war to protect our country, to protect me. I should cut him some slack about being such an ass.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Francois admits, a stricken look on his handsome face. “I’m angry. All the time.” He’s in pain, a pain I can’t help him with.

  I know people who might be able to assist him, men who might understand what he’s going through. “Give me your phone.” I hold out my hand, wondering if I’ll regret this gesture.

  The former soldier places the device in my palm. “Why do you need it?”

  “You need it.” I add the information for the Road Gator to his database. “This is a place where veterans hang out. It’s a biker bar, a little rough, but I suspect you’ve visited rougher places. Tell them Hawke’s girl sent you.” I give his phone back to him.

  Francois gazes at the small screen as though it is the only hope he has in the world, his sole lifeline in a sea of turmoil, and my heart twists. How many more men are wandering around the city, emotionally lost and alone?

  “Who is Hawke’s girl?” he asks.

  “That’s me,” I reply, realizing this is the truth. A part of me belongs to my military man. “And before you ask, yes, he knows I’m here. Yes, I’m holding the dog tags for him. Yes, you’ll lose your front teeth if you touch me.”

  The Frenchman swallows hard. “You’re not an escort, are you?”

  “Nope.” I tap my fingertips against the table. “Though now, thanks to you, everyone in the restaurant thinks I’m a whore.” I tilt my head toward the chattering ladies at the next table. They’re strangers. I don’t have the courage to look at Mrs. Wilkie, preferring not to know if she has recognized me.

  “Hawke won’t like that either,” I state casually. Nicolas really won’t like that. He gives away million-dollar condos to save his reputation. He won’t align with a source of gossip. I push that disturbing realization aside, focusing on surviving this lunch.

  “My man is a former marine,” I say proudly. “Lona,” I call across the table. The escort looks at me. “How tall would you say Hawke is?” I ask.

  “Six-five. Six-six. Something like that.” Her shrug is as elegant as she is. “He’s one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen.”

  “Merde,” Francois mutters.

  Yes, merde. I smile with grim satisfaction, recognizing a cuss word when I hear one.

  Chapter Four

  AN HOUR LATER, I stare down at the tiny serving of chocolate mousse. I wouldn’t mind the itty-bitty dessert if the soup, salad, and raw steak Francois ordered for me had been human-sized, but those had been miniscule also.

  “No wonder you’re so grumpy,” I tell him. “You’re starving. If you ever want a real meal, give me a call. I make a macaroni and cheese you’d kill for.”

  Francois flinches and I make a mental note to eliminate kill and die from my vocabulary, wondering if these references cause Hawke pain also.

  I demolish the mousse in thirty seconds flat, sucking my fork clean. Francois slides the plate with his miniature puff pastry toward me, extending yet another peace offering. He feels bad about being an ass, and I shamelessly take advantage of his guilt, gobbling the small treat.

  The three of them drink fancy coffee out of equally tiny cups.

  “This is small.” I place my hand beside Francois’s cup. “I’m average-sized.”

  “You are si belle but si delusional,” Francois states, his accent thick. “Has she always been this way?” he asks Lona.

  Her eyes widen. This is the first time during the meal that he has addressed her directly. “Belinda thinks she’s bigger than she is.” My friend blithely betrays me.

  “I know I’m average-sized,” I retort and they laugh. Jacques, Francois, and Lona are finally in harmony about something—mocking me. I’m alone, as always.

  Francois sets his spoon on the saucer. “The next time I’m in Chicago, the four of us should do this again.” He gazes pointedly at Lona.

  Her breath hitches. “I’ll arrange that.”

  “Visit us soon, son.” Jacques wraps his arm around Lona, hugging her close to him, love and pride radiating from him. “We like seeing you.”

  I shift in my chair, feeling as though I’m intruding in a private family moment. “I should go.” Restaurant patrons continue to watch us, continue to talk about us. Mrs. Wilkes must have figured out my identity by now. I swallow a sob. This lunch might have repaired the relationship between Lona and Francois, but the cost might be my forever with Nicolas. “I have an appointment.” With my broom. Cleaning will make me feel better.

  Francois stands. “I’ll drive you home, Belinda.” He holds out his hand, his palms as calloused as Hawke’s. “You’re living in Lona’s building, yes?”

  “Yes, I live in her building.” I grip his fingers, allowing him to help me to my feet. His father must have told him this information during one of their side conversations. “And I’d appreciate the ride.” I glance at Lona and Jacques. They’re in a couple daze again, oblivious to the world around them. “You’re a brave man.”

  “Why am I a brave man?” Francois guides me through the restaurant, his hand placed at the small of my back. Heads turn and a swell of whispers trail us, whore mentioned again and again. I lift my chin, acting as though I don’t hear them. “Do you live with your big marine?” he asks.

  “No.” Conscious of the gossip and the gazes, I laugh semihysterically. My carefully crafted world is tumbling around my ears and I don’t know how to prevent its destruction. “Our relationship is new. We haven’t even—” I stop myself in time. He doesn’t need to know about our sex life—or lack of one.

  “Ahhh. . .” Francois smiles and I want to slap the pleased expression off his gorgeous face. “I was very wrong about you, wasn’t I?”

  I don’t answer. He knows he was wrong about me.

  A woman hisses at me, a sound I grew accustomed to while growing up, and the floor tilts beneath my feet. I’m reliving my mom’s life, something I swore never to do.

  Francois straightens, his face turning red. “Will you ever forgive me, mon mignon?”

  No, I won’t ever forgive him. He has made me the center of gossip, has caused me to lose my forever with my reputation-conscious billionaire. Nicolas will never claim me for his wife now. That dream is dead.

  The uppity maitre d’ opens the door for us, saving me from replying. The man simpers before Francois and ignores me. Folded bills discreetly exchange hands.

  I step outside. The air is heavy with moisture and crackles with energy. The wind whips my long hair against my face. Francois hands the valet a tag and encircles my waist with his arm, holding me to his warm form. I allow him because there’s no point in resisting. The damage has been done.

  A giant black Hummer rolls to a stop in front of us and I groan. What is the deal with military men and Hummers? I eye the running board. It’s impossible to reach in my skirt and heels, not that I’d ever admit this out loud. “I have a limo chit. I’ll use that to get home.”

  “I’m driving you home.” Francois opens the door, holds out his hand, and waits.

  He’ll be waiting forever because there’s no way I can get into his huge vehicle. I clutch my purse. “I’d rather use other means to get home.”

&n
bsp; Hurt flickers over his face. “Because you’re angry about what I said. It is inexcusable what I did but—”

  “Because I can’t reach the seat,” I blurt, stemming the flow of guilt. “Hummers aren’t designed for average-sized women wearing formfitting skirts and high heels.”

  “Average-sized women?” His lips twitch.

  “I’m not talking about this again.” I turn my back on the vehicle and open my purse to extract my phone, prepared to call the limo company.

  “I’ll help you into the Hummer, ma petite.” He grips my waist and lifts me, his arms shaking. He doesn’t have Hawke’s size or strength or sense of honor. I grasp Francois’s shoulders, assisting him, and he sets me on the seat, his expression smug.

  “I know petite means small.” I yank on the seat belt, angry with him and with the judgmental world.

  “Ma petite is a common French endearment.” Francois takes the buckle from me and clicks it, his warm body close to mine. He smells of wine and expensive cologne. “The French have an appreciation for small things.” He presses his lips against my forehead, a brief, unexpected kiss.

  I stare at him. Is he flirting with me? “I’m still mad at you,” I remind him.

  Francois chuckles. “But you’re not as mad as you once were.” He closes the door and strides around the back of the vehicle, a cocky swagger to his walk, his gaze shifting from left to right.

  I glance at the backseat. It’s a mess. Rolls of labels curl around brown cardboard boxes and empty wine bottles, the space smelling like a frat house on a Sunday morning. My fingers twitch, the urge to straighten the chaos tremendous.

  Francois fills the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb without checking his mirrors. A silver Mercedes swerves and the gray-haired man driving it honks at us. I grip my purse.

  “Is this a rental?” I ask. How untidy is he?

  “Yes. Before today, I had no incentive to spend time in Chicago.” Francois’s gaze flicks to my face and then returns to the road, the traffic as horrendous as usual. “Perhaps I’ll buy a smaller vehicle for my visits here. A sedan is ideal for an average-sized woman, yes?” His accent thickens.

  I wiggle, uncomfortable with his hinting. “Francois, I have someone.” Before this disastrous lunch, I had two someones—Hawke and Nicolas. Now, thanks to the rumors Francois started at the restaurant, rumors that have surely already made their way back to my billionaire, I just have Hawke—a man who can’t afford the lifestyle I need.

  “Your someone has not yet claimed you.” Francois waves his hands in the air. The Hummer wanders into the next lane and I tense, wishing he’d keep both hands on the steering wheel. “There is hope for me.”

  “There isn’t much hope,” I emphasize. “You destroyed my reputation today.”

  Francois’s face darkens. “I can restore it.” He sounds certain. “I have not been myself since returning to the States. I’ve been angry at my father, at Lona, at the world.”

  “You’re a road gator.” I nod. His forehead furrows with thought lines. “You were a dangerous scrap of tire left on the pavement.” I repeat the explanation Dawg, Hawke’s friend, supplied. “It was only a matter of time before you caused casualties.” Today, I was one of his casualties. God, I hate war.

  “You understand how I feel.” Francois’s voice is soft, almost wistful. “No one else does.”

  That’s my appeal. He feels isolated and alone and I understand. “Go to the biker bar I told you about.” I pat his leg, his dress pants soft under my fingertips. “Many of them have felt or feel the same way as you do.”

  He dips his head. “When I return to Chicago, we’ll go to your biker bar.” Francois covers my hand with his, his palms as rough and coarse as Hawke’s.

  “That’s another thing.” I continue my campaign to discourage him. “I live in Chicago and you live in California.” My roommate, Cyndi, flew to California for the weekend, and it feels as though she’s a world away from me. “Long-distance relationships seldom work out.”

  “If a relationship is destined to be, it can overcome insurmountable odds.” Francois yanks on the steering wheel, taking a hard right, cutting off the minivan beside us, and my heart beats faster. “Business for the winery takes me everywhere.”

  His expression is determined. He won’t be dissuaded. I swallow a sigh. I’m surrounded by arrogant, overconfident men.

  “Tell me about your vineyards.” I change the subject. “Is growing grapes like growing apples?” Hawke’s family has a small apple orchard in Upstate New York.

  “There are similarities, yes, but differences also.” Francois’s eyes glow with excitement. He explains the multidecade process, talks about the land that has been in his family for generations, lovingly details his traditions.

  I understand now how his father wooed Lona. The passion in Francois’s voice almost seduces me, the promise of family and wealth and forever luring me into believing in him, forgiving him.

  He isn’t a bad-looking man, his face lean and sharp, the scar on his cheek giving him an air of danger. Though he drives like a maniac. I keep my gaze fixed on his profile and not on the traffic lights he’s blithely ignoring. He’s unashamedly emotional and romantic, his words painting beautiful pictures in my mind.

  But he’s not Hawke and he’s not Nicolas, and there’s no room in my life for more than these two men. I don’t casually date; I have relationships, and this division of loyalties, this lack of focus, bothers me. I won’t make my life even more complicated by adding a third option.

  A third option, implying there’s a second. I close my fingers around the dog tags. When did Hawke become a candidate for a forever relationship? We turn onto my street and my heart leaps. When did returning home mean returning to him? The Hummer rolls to a stop in front of the building. I unbuckle my seat belt.

  “Wait. I will assist you, ma petite.” Francois exits the vehicle, hurries to the passenger’s side, and opens my door. “I must be on the flight to California tonight, but I will call you, often.” He clasps my waist, lowers my feet to the concrete sidewalk, my body sliding along his. His form is hard and fit, lean like Nicolas’s, yet different. “We will talk, learn about each other.”

  I gaze up at him, my nape prickling with awareness. Hawke is watching us. I can’t see him, but I know this. “Francois, I—”

  He covers my lips with his right index finger, stopping my protest. “Talking won’t cause any harm to anyone.” He sweeps his finger back and forth. “Your Hawke can’t make a fuss about mere words.” He dips his head, replacing his finger with his lips, his kiss fervent yet chaste. “Mon mignon. Ma belle.” He kisses me enthusiastically on my forehead and both of my cheeks, mumbling more French phrases I don’t understand.

  Francois finally releases me, returning to his massive vehicle. “Au revoir.” He waves.

  I wave back. “Bye.” I watch as he drives away, wincing as the Hummer nearly collides with a speeding delivery truck. If he survives Chicago traffic, it will be a miracle.

  The feeling of being watched intensifies and I’m not surprised when Hawke emerges from the shadows. “He’s French. Friends kiss in France,” I explain, uncertain if I’m trying to convince my marine or myself.

  “I’ve been to France, multiple times. No friend ever told me he wanted to lick me all over, nibble on my fingers and toes, make love to my neck.” Hawke approaches me, his form huge and solid and too damn appealing for my sanity. A scowl darkens his rugged countenance.

  “In that flow of French, he also mentioned suckling on your small breasts, love. Twice.” He sweeps his rough fingers over my forehead, cheeks, lips as though he’s trying to erase every trace of his rival. “Your Hawke can make a fuss about words.”

  Oh my God. Francois said all that? “He knows I don’t understand French.” My face heats. “That was brought to everyone’s attention when I couldn’t read the menu or understand what the asshat of a waiter was saying.” My shoulders slump.

  Hawke pulls me into his
arms and wraps his muscles around me, shielding me from a hostile world. I bury my face in his cotton-covered chest and inhale his unique scent, a combination of engine grease, leather, and man.

  He rubs my back. “It didn’t go well.”

  “It was a disaster.” My voice is muffled by his shirt. “Francois called me a whore, and everyone in the restaurant heard him.”

  Hawke’s body stiffens. “What?” he bellows, temporarily deafening me. “I’ll kill him,” he fumes.

  I shiver with a feminine appreciation, all of this fury expressed for me. “He didn’t mean to hurt me. It was a misunderstanding.”

  “He’ll have a misunderstanding with my fist when I see him,” Hawke growls. “No one insults my girl and remains standing.”

  “Your girl needs you here, not across the country, tracking some messed-up military man.” I hold on to my former marine, seeking to sooth his anger. “I might be worrying for nothing. Mrs. Wilkie from six twenty-one south was there, but maybe she didn’t recognize me. Maybe no one else will hear about today. Maybe my reputation won’t be destroyed.”

  I don’t believe in any of these maybes. Mrs. Wilkie is an intelligent woman, and, according to my wealthy roommate, Chicago society is small, smaller than Happydale, my hometown. Everyone knows everyone else’s business, gossip spreading faster than a run in a cheap pair of pantyhose.

  “This is my fault.” Hawke takes responsibility for this fuckup as he took responsibility for the mistake that killed his best friend. “Lona thought the public table in a secluded corner would prevent a scene. I should have insisted on a private room.” His grip on me tightens. “I should have done a better job protecting you.”

  “You talked to Lona about the lunch, without asking me first?” My voice rises.

  “She’s my friend. You’re my girl,” he says, as though this explains everything. It doesn’t. I narrow my eyes. “I was trying to look after you,” he adds. “But clearly I failed.”

  My anger dissipates. No one has looked after me in a long, long time.