by Cynthia Sax
“Never,” Hawke vows, pressing his lips against my forehead.
I smile at him, my bliss bittersweet. “You shouldn’t lie to me.” I close my eyes and fall into the darkness.
I WAKE TO the annoying beeping of the alarm and a pounding in my skull. The pounding confuses me until I remember flashes of last night.
Oh my God. I went home with Hawke. Panic fills me. I sit upright in the bed, the sheets falling to my waist. There’s no sign of my humongous biker. He’s gone. My bedroom is empty, the condo quiet. The light in the bathroom remains on.
I’m clad in my usual threadbare camisole and see-through boy shorts, neither of which I remember changing into. All memories of last night stop at the finger-fucking of the century and the promise Hawke made. He assured me he’d never leave.
Then he left, as I knew he would.
What else happened? I cup my breasts. They ache in an I-was-sucked-senseless-by-a-former-marine sort of way. I pull my camisole away from my chest and look down. My right breast sports a distinct set of bite marks, the skin around my nipple purple. The possessive bastard has tattooed his claim on me.
This should piss me off, not please me. I rub my fingers between my eyes, trying to ease the painful throbbing in my brain. Hawke had his one-night stand. He won’t be sticking around to protect his claim.
How far did we go? We didn’t have sex. Judging by the size of my biker’s bulge, I’d know if we’d taken that step. I’d feel it for days.
But Hawke promised to show me his junk. He must have come too. Did I stroke him? Suck him? I release a sigh, wishing I could remember. It irks me that I’ll never know.
I look around me, searching for clues. My clothes are neatly folded and placed on top of the white hope chest. My black flats are lined up, facing the bed, the faux leather appearing surprisingly polished. A glass of water and two Tylenol capsules are set on the nightstand, along with my phone, passcard, the limo chit, and credit card. I down the drugs and sip the water, Hawke’s thoughtfulness making his absence even more difficult to bear.
It shouldn’t hurt this much. I flop back onto the bed and pull the sheets over my head. He’s the leaving kind. I knew this when we met. We had our one night of fun, and now I’m alone.
I’m worse than alone. I have nothing. Hawke is gone. I fold the sheets down, the cooler air allowing me to think clearer. Nicolas is in love with a beautiful actress and won’t be sending me any more challenges by text message. I no longer have a job. Who knows what happened to Cyndi.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. One thing remains constant. It is my Saturday to return to Happydale, and I’ll wager my last paycheck that my mom will be working in the diner today. I walk to the bathroom. That means I’ll be working also.
Chapter Eight
I SHOWER QUICKLY, reluctantly washing Hawke’s scent from my skin, unable to scrub his mark from my breast. That memento of our one night will linger for days.
I dry my hair, pulling it into a high ponytail, and don a brown peasant blouse, blue jeans, and a brown belt with a silver buckle. Brown leather shoes would tie the ensemble together, but the cheap pair I have gives me blisters.
I slip my feet into white sneakers, the same type of shoes my mom wears with her ugly waitress uniform. The uniform is mandatory for diner staff. I’m an unpaid worker and I refuse to wear it. This is my small act of rebellion.
I stuff my phone, makeup, credit card, and wallet into a green canvas backpack. There’s no need to pack clothes. My mom’s one-bedroom apartment is too tiny for overnight guests, her accommodations restricting my visits to mere hours.
I pad into the main room. The balloons hover close to the floor. Some of the streamers have fallen. Cyndi’s bedroom is dark, the door is open, and there’s no sign of my roommate anywhere. Which means. . .
I tap my lips with my fingers.
Cyndi got lucky with Cole Travers. The man is a movie star, rich, young, and famous, yet he was no match for my best buddy. She’s an unstoppable sexual force. I grin. Hawke was right. Cole was a goner.
My roommate’s dating success gives me hope. Maybe Hawke was as smitten with me. Maybe he didn’t leave. Maybe I’ll see him again.
Buoyed by these maybes, I drift toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and gaze across at three eleven north. The balcony is empty. My shoulders slump, my foolish dreams dashed. We’re done, finished, ended. I play with Cyndi’s telescope, not bothering to peer through it as there’s nothing, no one to see. Having had his fun with me, my tattooed military man has ridden his pretty bike out of town, never to return again.
My gaze lowers. The tree in the middle of the park dominates the green space, a reassuring symbol that some things don’t change, some things I can always rely on.
I once viewed a certain billionaire the same way. Nicolas’s schedule hasn’t varied this morning. Although it’s a Saturday, he sits on his usual park bench at his usual time. He never takes a day off.
I frown, pressing my fingertips against the brass. Nicolas stares straight ahead, his forehead furrowed, his mouth set in a grim line, dark stubble covering his chin. He’s wearing the same suit, the same shirt, as yesterday. His papers and devices are stacked in a rather messy pile, his phone held in one of his hands.
He must be in love. I roll my eyes. The real estate developer seldom deviates from his routine.
He’s my friend. I should wish him joy.
I don’t. He was supposed to fall in love with me.
Nicolas jabs his phone with his right index finger.
My phone rings. I rummage through my backpack and retrieve it. The display says unknown caller, the phone number belonging to Nicolas. I grit my teeth. If he’s calling me to ask for relationship advice, I’ll throw the telescope at his handsome head.
“Good morning, Mr. Rainer.” I gaze out the window, watching him.
He grimaces. “You called me Nicolas yesterday.”
“Yesterday, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” I cut through the bullshit, letting him know he’s not fooling anyone. “She’s very beautiful,” I concede. “You looked extremely happy in the photo, the happiest I’ve ever seen you look.”
“I should look happy.” Nicolas leans back on the bench. “Mere minutes before the photo was taken, the woman I care for called me an asshole.”
The woman he cares for. I struggle to contain my jealousy. “She’s intelligent as well as beautiful.”
“I thought she was.” He rakes his fingers through his black hair. “But then she accused me of dating an actress, a woman who makes a living by pretending to be other people, a professional liar.”
“Oh.” I’m an idiot. Nicolas is too careful, too cautious, too concerned with his privacy to be involved with a Hollywood star. “You didn’t come home last night.” He must have been with someone.
“The electricians for the New York build decided Friday afternoon was the prime time to threaten to strike.” Nicolas rolls his shoulders. His suit is rumpled. His shirt cuffs are no longer impeccably white. “It took me all night to convince them not to walk out.”
He was working, not having sex with another woman. Oh, God. I threw our relationship away on a misunderstanding. What have I done?
“I should have asked you.” My voice is small.
“I should have volunteered the information,” Nicolas admits, generously taking part of the blame. “We’ll start over. Again.” He nods. “We’ll get this right eventually, Bee.”
Can we start over? My gaze flicks to three eleven north. The condo remains dark. Hawke won’t be returning, won’t muddle my heart with conflicting loyalties. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” Nicolas’s shoulders lower. “I need a dose of your honesty. Too many people have been sucking up to me lately.” I smile as I cradle the phone against my ear, wishing I had that problem. “Do you need a ride somewhere this morning?” he asks.
I doubt Nicolas considers Happydale somewhere. My hometown, situated an hour’s drive from C
hicago, has a population smaller than his condo complex.
“I don’t need a ride this morning, but I do need someone to help me finish off a huge pan of lasagna tonight,” I counteroffer. Karl, the diner chef, always sends me home with pasta.
“You’re assuming I like lasagna.” I hear the smile in Nicolas’s voice.
“You’re assuming that was an invitation,” I quip. “You’re American. Of course you like-a lasagna.” I do my best Italian chef imitation, which isn’t very good, but he laughs anyway. “I’m supplying the pasta and tap water. If you want something fancier to drink, that’s your responsibility.”
Nicolas sighs. “I might be late.”
“We have an oven. I’ll reheat it for you,” I offer, wanting to feed him, to take care of him, to offset my inadvertent betrayal with the normalcy I suspect he needs. “Call me before you come over.”
“I will.” There’s a click, followed by silence.
I glance at my phone’s small screen. My billionaire has hung up on me. Again.
This pleases rather than irks me. He always hangs up on me. He always sits on the same park bench every morning. I can count on him to remain the same just as I could count on Hawke to leave after one night.
I gaze at his balcony, wondering if he’s thinking of me as I’m thinking of him. He could have had sex with me last night. He wanted me, and I was semiwilling and very drunk.
Yet he didn’t, and I’m glad. My relationship with Nicolas couldn’t have survived that. My worldly billionaire might have forgiven me, but I couldn’t have forgiven myself.
The doorbell rings, interrupting my musings. I run to the door, a bounce in my step. Is it a delivery? I gaze through the peephole. Jacob, the security guard, stands in the hallway, a white envelope and a brown box in his hands.
I open the door. “Morning, Jacob. I didn’t expect you to be working this weekend.”
“I’m covering Dave’s shifts, Miss Bee.” The older man grins at me. “Picking up some extra money while he’s touring the good ol’ USA. He’ll be gone for a month.” Jacob rests the box on his hip, flips the envelope in his fingers.
“That’ll be a long month for you,” I observe, envious. At least someone has a job.
“To tell the truth”—Jacob looks around him and leans closer—“I’m more rested when I’m working.”
I laugh. “Don’t let Mr. Rainer hear that,” I tease. Nicolas must know about Jacob’s afternoon naps. They aren’t a secret.
Jacob chuckles. “A mutual friend asked me to deliver this.” He hands me the envelope.
My name is written with a feminine flourish on the rich ivory paper. The note isn’t from Hawke. I hide my disappointment under a polite smile. I don’t know why I thought it was.
“And there’s another mysterious package for you.” The security guard holds out the box.
I tuck the envelope under my arm and take the package. It’s marked with the printed white label and is heavier than yesterday’s delivery.
“Your secret admirer is a clever devil.” Jacob shakes his head. “I didn’t catch him today either.”
“I’m sure you’ll catch him eventually,” I lie, doubting that the kindly security guard will ever catch anyone. “Thank you, Jacob.” I wave and close the door.
The envelope will be opened later. The package has my full attention. Friendly sent my reward. Since I’m certain Friendly is Nicolas, this gift means even more to me today. Nicolas was watching me. He knew about Hawke, yet he forgave me.
I weigh the box in my hands. It’s smaller than the first box, but larger than the second. I place both the package and the envelope on the hardwood floor and kneel beside them. What do I need most? I run my fingers over the cardboard.
A job. I desperately need a new job. Anyone who has been watching me will know this. However, setting me up with a job will expose my mysterious texter. Friendly wouldn’t do that.
Unless he wants to be exposed. Nicolas mentioned sharing more information. I turn the box, examining it from all angles, looking for clues, finding none. He might want to stop the charade, have a normal relationship with me.
My phone chimes, warning me that it’s time to leave. I have to catch the bus to Happydale, spend the day in the diner with my mom.
This leaves me mere minutes to enjoy my reward. I rip the flaps away from the box and peer inside. Oh my God. My fingers flutter. Tucked between brown tissue paper is a pair of real Louboutins, the black leather, finely stitched red soles, and elegant design making the imitation shoes appear like dollar-store knockoffs.
I wish Cyndi were here to ooh and aah over my reward. She’d appreciate the craftsmanship, understand my happiness, ask to touch them. I wouldn’t allow that. They’re mine, my very first pair of designer shoes.
I drape my body over the box, inhaling the delicious scent, reveling in their beauty. These are the genuine articles, wearable works of art as exquisitely crafted as my Salvatore Ferragamo purse. They’re almost too gorgeous to connect with the dirty ground, to be worn with bare skin.
I caress the leather, the smoothness divine. Any woman would stand tall in these shoes. This confidence could make a difference, helping me to secure the job I desperately need, winning the man of my dreams.
That man is Nicolas. I carry the shoes into my bedroom. As I move, my silk bra rubs against Hawke’s mark, the erotic ache reminding me of the heat of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the passion in his pale blue eyes.
The memories of last night will fade with the bruise. Hawke’s face will be replaced by Nicolas’s. My handsome, generous, hardworking billionaire is my forever. He deserves all of my desire, all of my love.
Want to know what happens next for Bee, Nicolas, and Hawke?
SINFUL REWARDS 4 is available October 14
from Avon Red Impulse.
About the Author
CYNTHIA SAX lives in a world filled with magic and romance. Although her heroes may not always say “I love you,” they will do anything for the women they adore. They live passionately. They play hard. They love the same women forever.
Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world together, meeting fascinating people and finding inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.
Please visit her on the web at www.CynthiaSax.com
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Cynthia Sax
Sinful Rewards 2
Sinful Rewards 1
Breaking all the Rules
Flashes of Me
The Seen Trilogy
He Claims Me
He Touches Me
He Watches Me
Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at eight brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
THE COWBOY AND THE ANGEL
By T. J. Kline
FINDING MISS MCFARLAND
THE WALLFLOWER WEDDING SERIES
By Vivienne Lorret
TAKE THE KEY AND LOCK HER UP
By Lena Diaz
DYLAN’S REDEMPTION
BOOK THREE: THE MCBRIDES
By Jennifer Ryan
SINFUL REWARDS 1
A BILLIONAIRES AND BIKERS NOVELLA
By Cynthia Sax
WHATEVER IT TAKES
A TRUST NO ONE NOVEL
By Dixie Lee Brown
HARD TO HOLD ON TO
A HARD INK NOVELLA
By Laura Kaye
KISS ME, CAPTAIN
A FRENCH KISS NOVEL
By Gwen Jones
An Excerpt from
THE COWBOY AND THE ANGEL
By T. J. Kline
From author T. J. Kline comes the stunning follow-up to Rodeo Queen. Reporter Angela McCallister needs the scoop of her career in order to save her father from t
he bad decisions that have depleted their savings. When the opportunity to spend a week at the Findley Brothers ranch arises, she sees a chance to get a behind-the-scenes scoop on rodeo. That certainly doesn’t include kissing the devastatingly handsome and charming cowboy Derek Chandler, who insists on calling her “Angel.”
“Angela, call on line three.”
“Can’t you just handle it, Joe? I don’t have time for this B.S.” It was probably just another stupid mom calling, hoping Angela would feature her daughter’s viral video in some feel-good news story. When was she ever going to get her break and find some hard-hitting news?
“They asked for you.”
Angela sighed. Maybe if she left them listening to that horrible elevator music long enough, they’d hang up. Joe edged closer to her desk.
“Just pick up the damn phone and see what they want.”
“Fine.” She glared at him as she punched the button. The look she gave him belied the sweet tone of her voice. “Angela McCallister, how can I help you?”
Joe leaned against her cubical wall, listening to her part of the conversation. She waved at him irritably. It wasn’t always easy when your boss was your oldest friend, and ex-boyfriend. He quirked a brow at her.
Go away, she mouthed.
“Are you really looking for new stories?”
She assumed the male voice on the line was talking about the calls the station ran at the ends of several news programs asking for stories of interest. Most of them wound up in her mental “ignore” file, but once in a while she’d found one worth pursuing.
“We’re always looking for events and stories of interest to our local viewers.” She rolled her eyes, reciting the words Joe had taught her early on in her career as a reporter. She was tired of pretending any of this sucking up was getting her anywhere. Viewers only saw her as a pretty face.
