Sinful Rewards 3

by Cynthia Sax

  “Love,” Hawke groans, his forehead resting against mine, the tips of our noses touching. “You’re priceless.” His hot breath fans my kiss-swollen lips, cooling my abused flesh.

  “I’ll soon be broke.” I smile, this truth no longer stinging as much. Hawke is here. . .for now. I’m not alone. Everything seems more manageable. “Do you think the Road Gator is hiring?” I joke.

  Hawke chuckles, his chest shaking against mine, torturing my sensitive breasts. “They’ll eat you up and spit you out there.” He smooths my hair. “We’ll find you somewhere else to work.” His expression grows serious. “Will your job situation cause problems with your bubbly roommate?”

  I wince. “I promised her a red velvet cupcake and a night of celebration. Other than that, we’ll be fine. She doesn’t truly need my help with utilities, but I hope to have another job, even if it is a temporary job, before those bills are due. I have my pride.” I lift my chin.

  It’s my mom’s rent that is my bigger concern. I don’t feel comfortable sharing that with Hawke or anyone else. Exposing her precarious financial situation smacks of betrayal.

  Hawke’s lips quirk upward into his adorable lopsided smile. “You have your pride and your secrets.” He taps my nose with his right index finger, and I blink. “I know you’re not telling me everything. That’s written across your beautiful face.”

  “How do you read me so well?” I stare up at him, amazed by his skill. “No one else does.” I always thought I hid my emotions.

  Hawke rubs one of his thumbs over the lines between my eyebrows. “I pay attention.”

  My confusion deepens. Does no one else pay attention to me?

  “Consider going to the Road Gator tonight.” Hawke’s pale blue eyes sparkle with mischief. “If you’re good, I’ll bring red velvet cupcakes. If you’re really good, I’ll give you another peek at my junk.”

  “I’m always good,” I reply primly. “Which is why I’m not interested in your junk,” I lie. I’m very interested in his junk. . .though I shouldn’t be.

  “You’re such a terrible liar, Belinda.” Hawke laughs. “Would you like me to carry you to your condo?” He cups my ass, squeezing my curves, and I yearn to say yes, to prolong the contact, to stretch every encounter with him into forever.

  But he’s a tattooed biker, a heart-shattered former marine. He doesn’t invest in forevers, and I can’t risk anything less. If he carries me to the condo, we’ll have sex. I’ll betray Nicolas, a man who deserves my full loyalty. And when Hawke leaves, I’ll have no one and nothing, not even my honor.

  “I can walk.” I reluctantly slide off Hawke’s lap, the shaded concrete cool against my feet. “Thanks for listening and for everything else.” I wave my hands in the air, guilt stunting my words. “About tonight.” I can’t go, can’t risk seeing him again. I know this, yet I can’t say the words.

  “All I ask, sweetheart, is that you think about tonight.” He holds out my purse.

  I grasp it, not meeting his gaze, unable to look at Hawke and then leave him. “I’ll think about it.” I turn and hurry away from him, away from temptation.

  “And think about me,” Hawke calls out.

  I’ll do that also. Unfortunately. I push through the front doors.

  Chapter Four

  LONA LAMARRE IS draped over the reception desk, a seductive smile on the escort’s flawlessly made-up face. Jacob, the security guard I thought happily married, throws his head back and laughs loudly at something she says, his rounded belly jiggling.

  I hurry past them, unable to deal with another illusion being shattered today. My bare feet smack against the marble tile. My hair swings loose behind me. I punch the button for the elevator and wait.

  Heels click against the floor. The scent of expensive perfume intensifies.

  “What’s wrong, hon?” Lona asks, her voice husky.

  I try the Nicolas Rainer technique again, not answering her question.

  “Belinda?”

  Shit. I grit my teeth. Does that technique work only for reclusive billionaires? I maintain my silence while Lona taps her toe, waiting for an answer. The damn elevator doesn’t arrive, choosing today to take its sweet time.

  “Jacob is married,” I finally mutter.

  “Jacob is happily married.” The escort’s words are weighed down with disappointment, a disappointment I caused. “He’s one of the few people who doesn’t judge me on my chosen profession.” She sighs. “That’s extremely rare.”

  My guilt multiplies. I judged her based on her profession.

  “Your concerns about Jacob didn’t cause these tears.” Lona takes my purse from me and searches through it. “What happened? Are you having problems with your Hawke?” She opens a container of pressed powder, dabs the pad into the ivory particles.

  “He’s not my Hawke,” I mumble, tilting my face upward, allowing her to disguise my splotchy skin, my red nose. She has her work cut out for her. I’m an ugly crier.

  Hawke didn’t see the ugliness. He looked at me as though I was beautiful, as though I was his. Guilt carves into my chest. I’m not his. My loyalty belongs to Nicolas.

  “The problem’s not him.” I take a ragged breath, count to five, and release it. “I didn’t get the full-time job. My last day of work was today.” The words rush out of my mouth.

  “Ah.” Lona’s eyes harden with speculation. I brace myself for the offer, the temptation of fast cash in exchange for meaningless sex with strange men. She doesn’t say anything, patting the pad over my nose, caring for me in a way my mom never had the time or energy to do.

  “My coworker seduced the boss.” My lips flatten. “That’s why he gave the job to her, instead of awarding it to me.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this. Maybe it’s a halfhearted apology for the assumptions I made about her relationship with Jacob, or maybe it’s because I feel remorse over Hawke’s kiss and need to punish myself.

  “No one can seduce someone who doesn’t want to be seduced.” Lona closes the powder container with a dramatic snap. “Not even I have that power.” Her eyes sparkle and my mood lightens a smidgeon. “There. You look human again.” She drops the makeup into my purse.

  I glance at my reflection in the mirrored doors. “I look barely human.” My hair is mussed, my lips are swollen, and my bare feet are dirty, dust coating my ankles. “But thank you.” I catch her hand and squeeze her fingers.

  The doors open. I step inside. Lona follows me, pressing the buttons for our floors.

  “Your purse.” She hands my prized possession to me. “What will you do now? Will you return to your one-stoplight town?”

  “No.” My reply is a bit too vehement, and Lona smiles. “I’ll look for a replacement job,” I continue with a more measured tone. “And pick up some temporary work somewhere.”

  “There are all types of temporary work,” she says softly.

  I ignore her comment, as I have no plans to consider her brand of temporary work. “How do you know Hawke?” I ask. This has been bothering me.

  “He has a sexual history, almost every man does, but I’m not part of it.” Lona studies me. “He helped me with a security problem.”

  The tension seeps from my shoulders. They didn’t have sex. I don’t know why that possibility upset me, because Lona is right. Hawke isn’t a virgin. He’s slept with women. He’ll sleep with more women in the future. That’s what one-night-stand type of men do.

  “What kind of a security problem did he help you with?” What does Hawke do for a living? Is he a bodyguard or a bouncer?

  “You’re asking a lot of questions about a man you’re not interested in,” Lona teases. “I thought he wasn’t your Hawke.”

  “He isn’t,” I lie. I do consider him mine, that fool-hearted notion destined to cause me pain. “I’m curious. That’s all.”

  “Yes, curiosity is a powerful emotion.” Lona laughs. She knows I’m full of shit. “I had an unwanted admirer. Hawke convinced him I wasn’t interested.”

  I
n other words, my big, tough former marine put the fear of death into the stalker. I shiver with delight, finding that extremely sexy.

  The elevator doors open at my floor. I edge toward the hallway.

  “If you’re ever curious about anything else, you know where I live,” Lona offers.

  “Thank you,” I mumble. I’m now friends with a hooker. My bare heels sink into the lush hallway carpet. I’m jobless and shoeless, and I have two attractive men interested in me and a friendship with a woman who has sex for money.

  The gold light fixtures cast interesting shadows on the beige walls. My pace slows as I approach the condo. Cyndi should be at work. . .if she went to work today. I wave the passcard in front of the sensor, the locks click, and I push the door open.

  I step into the space and stop, the door closing behind me, the air squeezing from my lungs. Every inch of the open living room-kitchen has been decorated with streamers and balloons. Congratulations is written across a huge banner. Shock and pain and love sweep through my battered soul.

  She did this for me. Tears roll down my cheeks. I thought I was all cried out, but Cyndi, my crazy roommate, my best friend in the entire world, has managed to restart the waterworks with her vibrant show of support, of love.

  How did I ever think I was alone? Nicolas sent his limousine for me. Hawke held me as I sobbed. Cyndi decorated the condo while I was at work. Even Lona, the escort from five oh one south, fixed my makeup for me.

  They all believe in me. I set my purse down on the gleaming hardwood floor and retrieve my laptop, determined to apply for a bajillion jobs, to be worthy of their support.

  FOUR HOURS LATER, I’ve applied for 152 jobs, sending my updated résumé to marketing firms, retail head offices, tourist venues, and banks. If I was remotely qualified, I sent my résumé, even answering ads for positions at two funeral homes.

  My progress is slow. The reporters in my college magazine suggested tailoring cover letters for each specific position. This requires researching the different industries, deciphering the acronyms used in the ads, and twisting my inadequate work experience to appear appropriate for their requirements.

  By the time I finish answering the last applicable ad in the employment database, my eyes burn and the strain in my shoulders has returned. However, my confidence is partially restored because I’m doing something, taking control of my future. Nicolas will be pleased.

  I sit on the couch in the main room, amid the streamers and balloons. Although it hurts my heart to look at them, they’re Cyndi’s decorations and it isn’t right for me to take them down.

  It also isn’t right for us to go to the Road Gator tonight. Hawke will be there, and when he smiles that lopsided smile of his, my rational thought and my sense of loyalty vanish. Nicolas deserves my full attention, all of my passion.

  Not that I have all of his attention. My busy billionaire hasn’t called, texted, or dropped by the condo to ensure I’m okay. My shoulders sag. I don’t know what that means, but I suspect a man in love would contact the woman he’s interested in. He wouldn’t allow another man to comfort her.

  Hawke did comfort me. . .a little too well. I curl my bare feet under my ass and glance toward the window. It’s another beautiful summer day, the sky a gorgeous shade of blue. Is Hawke standing naked on his balcony, allowing the sun’s rays to warm his skin? Is he thinking of me, his cock hard, his balls aching with desire?

  I tap a blue balloon and it floats out of my reach, escaping me, as elusive as lasting love. Not that I should be thinking of Hawke and love. That’s even more foolish than wanting him. He thinks so flippantly of love that he uses the word as a casual endearment. Love means nothing to him.

  It would mean something to Nicolas. I can’t imagine my billionaire uttering the word, but if he ever does, he’ll be sincere. He’ll mean it with all of his heart.

  The locks buzz. The doorknob rattles. The door opens and Cyndi barges into the condo, a purse slung over her shoulder, a black shopping bag in her hands. She looks at me and her eyes widen. “No!”

  “Yes.” I nod.

  It’s unnecessary to say more. My best friend drops her purse and shopping bag, runs across the room, and tackle-hugs me into the leather couch. I grunt, two more tears slipping down my cheeks.

  “That bitch got your job.” Cyndi’s green eyes flash.

  “She got your red velvet cupcakes also.” I sniffle.

  “Who cares about the red velvet cupcakes?” She waves her hands in the air. “I work in a candy company. I don’t need more sweets.” I wait. Cyndi always needs more sweets. “Though red velvet cupcakes are delicious,” she admits. “That job-and-cupcake-stealing bitch.”

  I push my friend off me. “You might want to add boss-seducing.”

  “No!” Cyndi’s jaw drops. “She did your balding boss? That cupcake-eating slut.” My friend remains focused on the cupcakes. “She’s worse than that hooker in five oh one south.”

  “Dru’s much worse. Lona is a nice person,” I mumble, the escort’s kindness toward me today earning my loyalty. “I’m sorry you went to all of this trouble for nothing.” I indicate the streamers and balloons. “The room looks pretty.”

  “Wait until you see what I got you for tonight.” Cyndi hurries to the door and rummages through the shopping bag. “Look at this.” She holds up a beautiful corset crafted from red silk. It has black piping around a tasteful sweetheart neckline and steel hooks cascading down the front. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” She runs her fingers over the fabric. “You can wear it with your black mini. I laid that out on your bed.”

  I walk toward her, entranced by the corset’s sophisticated yet sexy design. “I didn’t get the job, Cyndi.” I touch the garment. The material is sinfully soft.

  “There are no returns.” My friend’s eyes glitter. “And you need something to wear tonight, for the club night to end all club nights.” She grins.

  I stare at her. “Are we still going out tonight?” She wants to celebrate the job I didn’t get?

  “Of course.” Cyndi doesn’t appear to see anything wrong with this concept. “It’ll just be the two of us. Angel is going to R. Cole Travers will likely be there again.” She searches through her purse, locates her phone, scrolls through the messages. “He was there last night.” Cyndi hands me the device. “She sent me the coverage.”

  Angel is a bitch, deliberately taunting my friend. I scan through the photos, stop at an achingly familiar face, and a wave of pain sweeps over me. Nicolas stands with his arm around a statuesque blonde, his fingers splayed over her hip.

  Similar to how his fingers were splayed over my hip this morning.

  I turned down his invitation and he replaced me, choosing to escort this dazzling woman to the party. Had Nicolas known her before last night? Had he cared about her then?

  Because he cares for her now. The genuine happiness reflecting in Nicolas’s dark eyes communicates this heartbreaking truth. He always appears bored, lonely, or angry in photographs. I’ve never seen this warmth radiating from him.

  I’ve never seen him look at me this way.

  My knees weaken and I sit on the hardwood floor, my gaze fixed on the small screen. I’m not special, not worthy, not his forever. I’m his friend, and that’s it.

  “The woman with Rainer is pretty.” My voice is flat.

  “Pretty?” Cyndi snorts, sitting cross-legged beside me. “She’s the movie’s lead actress, named one of the most beautiful women in the world. I’m not surprised she’s with your boyfriend. She has a thing for powerful men.”

  Cyndi makes this joke because she doesn’t think I’m serious about Nicolas. She doesn’t know I consider him mine. I stare at the photo, at the hint of a smile on Nicolas’s grim lips. She doesn’t know how devastated I am.

  This has to be a misunderstanding. I stand, determined to uncover the truth, to stop the pain before it festers and spreads. “I have to make a call.” I search through my purse, locate my phone, walk into my bedroom, close the door,
and press redial.

  The phone rings twice. “This is Nicolas Rainer,” he answers, his tone even more curt than usual. Men yell in the background.

  I cringe. “This is a bad time.”

  “Yes. No.” The voices fade. “It’s always a bad time. What is it?” Nicolas sounds stressed and tired.

  I can’t discuss our relationship now, not while he’s in the midst of some sort of business battle. “Can I see you tonight?” I ask.

  Nicolas sighs. “I’m working.” A man yells his name. “Give me another Goddamn minute,” he snaps. A door slams.

  He’s working tonight, likely going to R again. Will the actress be there also? I gaze at the photo on Cyndi’s phone. They look so happy together.

  “Drop by whenever you return home.” I try again, wanting that happiness for myself, desperate to save us, whatever us is. “I don’t care how late.”

  There’s a long pause. “I won’t be returning home tonight.”

  “Oh.” The last flicker of hope inside me dies. He’s spending the night with the actress. I’m merely a friend, a novelty, an amusement for him. “Okay.”

  “Do you need more ice cream?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically warm. “I can send my driver for another scoop.”

  “No, I’m fine.” I summon a smile. “You’re a good friend, Nicolas.” And that’s all he is, all he will ever be.

  “I’m not a good friend.” He laughs, his joy painful to hear. “I’m a complete asshole.” There’s a click and silence.

  He is a complete asshole. I throw the phone against my mattress, the device bouncing across the bedspread. Shit. Shit. Shit. Nicolas and I are over. That dream is dead, likely wasn’t ever alive.

  I pace around the small room. My job has ended. My relationship with Nicolas has ended. I rake my fingers through my hair, sweeping the strands away from my face. I should end things with Hawke too, have that one-night stand we both want. Then he’ll leave and never come back.