by Cynthia Sax
“Yes, he is.” Nicolas’s lips curl upward. “But his daughter is nothing like him. She chose your friendship over her family, her wealth, her future.”
He sounds as stunned as I continue to feel. Cyndi chose me, Belinda Carter, daughter of a waitress and a no-account drifter.
“He disowned her because of me,” I say, guilt softening my voice. “Cyndi is no longer a Wynters.”
“Harry Wynters’s actions had nothing to do with you.” Nicolas squeezes my fingers. “My sources confided that he cancelled his daughter’s security access twenty minutes before their meeting.”
Hawke said Mr. Wynters was looking for a reason to cut Cyndi off. “Her father is evicting us.”
“My offer remains open,” Nicolas quietly states. “There are rooms in the penthouse for both of you.”
I stare at him. “I spent the night with—”
“I know where you spent the night.” My billionaire looks pointedly toward Hawke. “That’s in the past.”
He’d take me back, knowing I slept with Hawke. That’s how much he cares for me. “And you’d allow Cyndi to live with us?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Nicolas shrugs, the movement as elegant as he is. “She’s proven she’s not her father.”
I could have everything—this intelligent, wealthy, handsome, sometimes sweet man, a forever commitment, a beautiful home, my friendship with Cyndi, financial security for my mom, the designer fashions I love. I wouldn’t have to sell my Salvatore Ferragamo purse, my Louboutin shoes, my Chanel suit. There would be no possibility of reliving my mom’s life, of being homeless, poor.
My gaze returns to Hawke. My military man strides back and forth, back and forth. He’ll never be rich, has no interest in amassing a fortune, yet the little he has, he’s offered to me. He gave me a place to stay, risked his job to keep me safe. He accepts my perversions, my loyalty to my loved ones, is willing to move across the country for me. Hawke cares for me, greatly.
Nicolas cares for me also. I study him, reading the earnestness on his beautiful face, the sincerity in his eyes. Does he love me?
“If I left Chicago, would you follow me?” I ask.
“My business is here.” The billionaire frowns. “My employees rely on me.”
And for Nicolas, his employees and his business always come first. He doesn’t love me. This knowledge should devastate me. Instead, a strange sense of relief sweeps over me.
“That’s why I won’t move in with you.” I lean toward him. “You deserve to be with a woman you’d follow to the ends of the earth, someone you could never live without.”
Nicolas examines me, his gaze lingering on the marks on my neck, my possessive bastard of a former marine having branded his ownership all over my body. “If I had said yes, I’d follow you, would you have moved in with me?”
I hesitate. Would I? I glance at Hawke.
Nicolas follows my gaze. “You wouldn’t have,” he states, and I can’t say anything because it’s the truth. I wouldn’t have.
Silence stretches. I want to ease his pain. I don’t know how, but I have to say something. “Nicolas, I—”
“You don’t have to justify your decision.” He stops my sure-to-be-inadequate explanation. “I understand. Hawke is a good man and I’m . . . not.” A bleakness fills Nicolas’s eyes, an utter hopelessness, as though a light has flickered and died within him.
My heart twists. He doesn’t believe himself worthy of love. That’s why he believes I chose Hawke, rejecting him.
“Nicolas, look at me,” I command. He complies, the devastation in his face sucking the air from my lungs. I did this to him, destroyed this wonderful man.
I have to fix this.
“You’re everything I could ever want in a romantic partner, in a potential husband.” I hold his gaze, not hiding any of my emotions, letting the truth shine from my eyes. “The more I grow to know you, to know all of you, your past, your secrets, your true self, the more I wish I could be the woman you’ll fall in love with, the woman you’ll commit completely to.” I pat his arm. “But I won’t be that lucky lady.”
Nicolas says nothing, his normal response to any uncomfortable situation.
“Instead, I’ll have to tease you mercilessly when you meet her.” I bump my shoulder against his. “Because that’s what friends do.”
There’s another gut-wrenching pause. I chew on the inside of my cheek. Did I make matters worse, hurt him more?
“Will we remain friends?” Nicolas finally asks, his voice soft. This matters to him, that I remain his friend. My chest warms. “Would Hawke tolerate that?”
“Hawke expects that.” As I say this, I realize it isn’t a lie. Hawke will expect me to remain loyal to my friends, even to a friend who wanted to become my lover. “He knows how much your friendship means to me because he knows how much your friendship means to him.”
Nicolas winces. “I was a terrible friend to him.”
“You’re a terrible friend to me also,” I tease him, forcing the levity. “Yet here I am.”
“Here you are.” Some of the sparkle returns to the billionaire’s eyes.
We sit on the bench, side by side. Hawke continues to pace. The birds sing and the sun shines. I have a tattooed biker as a lover and a billionaire bachelor as a friend. That’s not bad for an unemployed daughter of a waitress.
“I should ask my driver to buy some more ice cream,” Nicolas comments.
Your driver’s name is Isaac, I silently scream. “Cyndi and I will be temporarily staying with Hawke,” I tell him, not wanting anyone else to tell him this news. “Friends help friends move.”
“Hawke won’t want my involvement.” Nicolas stands. “And I don’t remember reading anything about moving in that article you sent me.” He offers me his hand.
I take it, allowing him to draw me upward. “I’ll send you some more articles.”
Nicolas treats me to one of his rare laughs. “You’re priceless, Bee.”
That’s what Hawke always tells me. I glance toward him. My former marine stalks across the grass toward us, his stride long and fast. My stomach flutters. He is large and strong and mine.
“I’ll call you later for a boost of your honesty,” Nicolas promises. “Too many people have been sucking up to me lately.”
“We can’t have that.” I smile. “You’re already a complete asshole. Sucking up will only make your condition worse.”
“True.” Nicolas walks away from me, a grin on his face. He exchanges a curt nod with Hawke as the two men pass.
“Your smile is mine,” Hawke growls.
Before I can respond, he pulls me into his arms and covers my lips with his, the force of his embrace driving my head back. Hawke plunders my mouth with a mind-spinning intensity and rubs his hands over my body, as if he’s trying to erase all remnants of Nicolas.
I clutch his shoulders, allowing him to ravish me, to vent his frustration on my appreciative form. Sparks fly between us, lighting me inside and out, warming me to my curled toes. My lips hum and my nipples tighten, pressing against the flimsy fabric of my blouse.
Moments later, Hawke breaks our kiss and searches my face. “Do you want me to kill him?” His tone is scarily serious. He’d kill Nicolas if I asked him to. I know this in my heart.
“I want you to forgive him.” I grasp his calloused palms, the roughness of his skin reassuring, proof that he’s faced adversity and survived. “He made a mistake. We’ve all made mistakes.”
“Yeah, we’ve all made mistakes.” Hawke swipes his fingers over the barbed wire tattoo on his arm, my military man blaming himself for his best friend’s death. “But if Nicolas hurts you, love, that will be the last mistake he ever makes.”
I tremble with feminine appreciation. “Nicolas can’t hurt me.” I meet Hawke’s gaze. I suspect only he has this power.
Whatever Hawke sees in my eyes must reassure him because his shoulders lower, the stiffness easing from his body. “Then he has nothing to worry about.”
Chapter Three
I CONVINCE HAWKE to leave me at the door of the condo, not wishing to spring his presence on an unprepared and likely seminaked Cyndi. He brushes his lips over mine, promises to send men to help us move, advises me to call if I need him, and then leaves, moving silently along the hallway.
Preferring not to see a movie star’s bare ass, I make a big production out of rattling the door handle and bumping against the wood. After I’ve given my roommate and her Hollywood man candy enough notice, I swing the door open and cautiously step into the condo.
“Bee,” Cyndi squeals. Five feet four inches of curvy best friend tackle me and we fall, my ass smacking against the hardwood floor.
I groan, aching all over. “Where’s Cole?” I push Cyndi off me. Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose red, and my smile wavers. She’s been crying again. “That rat bastard,” I fume. “I told him if he hurt you again, I’d kick his—”
“He didn’t hurt me. Cole has been wonderful.” Cyndi lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling, surrounded by plastic storage boxes. “He makes me feel safe, Bee, and I haven’t felt that way in . . . forever.”
“I’m glad.” But I’m also confused. She’s upset about something. “He told me he loves you.”
“He told me that too.” Cyndi’s smile fades. “And I know he’s not saying that because I’m wealthy . . . because I no longer am.” She sighs. “Mr. Wynters sent a man this morning to collect the keys to the Bimmer.”
I stand and brush the dust off my pants, my actions jerky. Mr. Wynters sent a stranger to pick up the keys from his daughter, deliberately humiliating her. My fingers fold into tight fists. If he were standing in front of me right now, I’d jab him in his eyeballs.
“He took away my car, Bee.” Cyndi curls her bottom lip. “What am I going to do?”
I know better than to suggest she take the bus. Cyndi, a self-proclaimed princess, has never taken public transportation. “Come with me.” I grasp her wrists and pull her to her feet. “And I’ll show you what you’re going to do.”
“You can’t help me, Bee,” she grumbles as I march her into my bedroom. “You don’t even have a car.”
“I have it on good authority”—I extract the limo chits from my frayed knockoff messenger bag—“that no one drives their own car.” I hand them to Cyndi, the good authority I was quoting.
Her green eyes widen. “I can’t take these. Reward Man gave them to you.”
“Reward Man”—a.k.a. Friendly, a.k.a. Nicolas—“wants me to be happy. Giving them to you makes me happy.” It also eases some of my guilt. Cyndi’s dad took her car away because she refused to sever ties with me.
“Oh, Bee.” Cyndi tucks the chits down the scoop neck of her yellow Giambattista Valli printed silk-chiffon top. “You’re my bestest friend in the whole world.” She hugs me. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d still have your condo, your car, and your job,” I answer, tortured that I caused this fight with her dad.
“I’d still be doing nothing, achieving nothing.” A small smile plays on her lips. “Cole was proud of me, you know, and he thinks your idea about being stylists for average people is brilliant. We even came up with a name—Covert Couture. What do you think?”
“Covert Couture.” I try the name out. “Covert Couture.” The military ring to it appeals to me. “I like it,” I decide. “It’s classy yet fun.”
“Just like us.” Cyndi grins. “Now that we have a name, we’ll need business cards, a bank account, our name registered.” Her face grows pale. “Fuck me. How will we pay for all of this? Daddy cancelled my credit cards. I have no cash.”
“I have cash.” I dig through the messenger bag once more and remove Lona’s envelope, realizing how much I miss the escort. The communications between us had been halted during the French restaurant Bee-being-called-a-whore-fiasco fallout. “How much do we need?”
“Whoa.” Cyndi gazes at the wad of bills, her mouth hanging open. “You’re loaded.”
“We’re loaded.” We have to pool our resources to make this venture work. “This has to last until we find other sources of income,” I caution.
She nods. “We’ll need rent money.”
“Hawke said we could stay with him for a while.” I avoid Cyndi’s gaze.
“You did it,” my best friend squeals. “You finally fucked the birdman.” She hugs me, gyrating with excitement. “And he covered you with love bites, you dirty whore. Was his fucking as nice as his kisses?” she teases me. “It must have been good if you scored us a place to stay.”
My night with Hawke was too good, tempting me to abandon my dreams. “Focus.” My cheeks burn. “We have to snag clients quickly to pay the bills. That means we have to get things done. How much money do you need?”
“I don’t know.” She scrunches her beautiful face. “The bank will want a deposit, lawyers are expensive, and, if we’re marketing to image-conscious women, we can’t have cheap business cards.”
“This should be more than enough.” I reluctantly give her half of the five thousand dollars. “It might take us a while to sell our clothes. Try to delay payment on everything. Maybe the lawyer will accept installments.”
Cyndi tucks the roll of bills into her bra. “This useless party slut has been negotiating from birth.” Her words are tinged with bitterness, her dad’s label hurting her more than she’d ever admit. “And I’ve been listening to business bootstrapping stories for as long as I can remember. Leave this to me, boss.”
“I’m your partner, not your boss,” I correct, not wanting that additional responsibility. “While you set up the business, I’ll move us into Hawke’s place.” I push a filled storage box into the main room. “We’ll be out of here before seven.”
Cyndi helps me, her shoulder pressed against mine. “I don’t want to deal with him again.” Him being her dad.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I assure her, saddened that their relationship has deteriorated to this point. “You don’t answer to anyone now, Cyndi. You have choices.”
“I do, don’t I?” Her blindingly bright smile returns. “And I forgot.” She hurries around the boxes. “You have another package from Reward Man.” She places a plain brown box in my hands. “It’s small but large enough to contain the keys to a new car.”
Having disappointed Nicolas this morning, I hope it isn’t anything that extravagant. I blow out a heavy breath, dreading this reward, and I open the box.
A single envelope rested on a bed of brown tissue paper. This isn’t a reward. My heart sinks. This is a letter of good-bye. I hesitate, not wishing to open it, to have this testing of my sexual boundaries end.
“Well?” Cyndi peers into the box. “What are you waiting for? Open it.”
I can’t, unwilling to say good-bye to this stage of my life.
Cyndi must see the hesitation in my eyes because she plucks the envelope out of the box and tears the fine linen paper. “Your Reward.” She makes a face and tosses the card stock over her shoulder. “Oh my God.” Her curvy body jiggles, vibrating with excitement. “We’re in!” She punches the air with her fists.
“What do you mean—we’re in?” I stare at her.
“We’re going to R.” Cyndi dances around the room, looking happier than I’ve seen her in days. “Tonight.” She waves a piece of paper. “Both you and I are listed as VIPs. We’ll have bottle service and a private table and we’re going!”
“Ummm . . . ” Has she forgotten our financial situation?
“Oh my God, Bee.” She flings herself at me. I catch her, barely, landing flat on my back. “Rainer is letting us into his precious club. I love you.” She smacks a juicy kiss on my cheek.
Now that her dear daddy has disowned her, Nicolas no longer considers Cyndi to be a Wynters, one of his dreaded enemies. That’s why he’s given us this gift. “Shouldn’t we be focusing on our business?” Earning cash is more important to me than going to a club.
“Exactly.” Cyn
di bounces off me. “This will be great for our business. I’ve stood in the line at R.” Her lips flatten. In the past, she’d been barred from entering. “Do you know how many women are turned away because they’re inappropriately dressed?”
I shake my head, not having a clue.
“A zillion.” My best friend strides back and forth. “And they all have more money than brains. This is perfect.”
“Then we’ll have to go out tonight,” I conclude.
“Tonight,” Cyndi gasps. “Oh my God.” She rushes around the room, pulling a purse and a blazer out of the boxes. “We need business cards.” She finds her passcard. “I have to go.”
“Okay.” I’m speaking to an empty condo. My best friend has already left.
I CHANGE INTO my jeans and black blouse, borrow a matching scarf from Cyndi’s vast collection, and wrap it tightly around my neck. The wilted flowers my deluded male admirers sent me are enthusiastically discarded, and I pack our remaining things, including the contents of the fridge. The furniture, dishes, and pans all came with the condo and belong to Mr. Wynters.
At ten o’clock, the doorbell buzzes. I peek through the peephole, see Mack’s bald head. Prick stands beside him and a large man I don’t know flanks his other side. Their expressions are all equally dour. My heart pounds. Has something happened to Hawke?
I swing the door open. “What is it? Is Hawke okay?”
“A demanding client has him cornered, ma’am,” Mack shares, his broad shoulders clad in a mud-brown shirt, equally hideous cargo pants clinging to his thick thighs.
“Better him than me,” Prick mutters. His clothing isn’t much better.
Mack casts him a hard glance, and the man presses his lips together. “Mack, Demo, and Prick reporting for moving duty.” He snaps a sharp salute, clicking his boot-clad heels together, the two men following suit. I return the salute as best as I can, and the new man’s lips twitch.
It doesn’t take long for them to move the boxes, transitioning us completely to Hawke’s condo. I transfer the food into his fridge, leave the rest of our things in the boxes. Cyndi and I won’t be staying here long. There’s no sense unpacking.
