Sinful Rewards 8

by Cynthia Sax

“He called, said he talked to you.” Cyndi’s smile fades.

  “He told me he’d take you back if you apologized.” I don’t mention this offer had been prompted by her mom, that if her dad had his way, he’d cut his losses.

  Cyndi’s eyes glitter. “My dad wants more than an apology, Bee. He demanded that I end my relationship with Cole, move home, adhere to a ten o’clock curfew, and follow a long list of stringent rules.” Her face flushes with anger. “I wouldn’t be allowed to work in the family business or handle my own money.”

  Hawke is right. Mr. Wynters wants Cyndi to remain a child, the four-year-old girl he failed to protect. My fingers fold into fists. That would destroy my bubbly friend. “You’re not apologizing.” Her dad didn’t protect her, and I won’t allow her to trade her pride for financial security.

  “I’m never apologizing.” Cyndi shakes her head. “Tonight, we’re going to R and drumming up business.” She appears as determined as I feel. “We’ll show the world what a dirty whore and a useless party slut can do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I salute her as Hawke’s men salute me.

  Her lips twitch. “We’re wearing the corsets we wore to the biker bar, black skirts. You’ll sport your new Louboutins.”

  I’m tempted, so very tempted to don my new shoes, but we need cash. “They’ll resell for a higher price if they’ve never been worn.” The only alternative is wearing the black ballerina flats. I gaze down at my dreadful no-name shoes. “I’ll wear these.”

  Cyndi curls her top lip. “The goal is to attract customers. Who wants someone in cheap shoes dressing them? No, you’ll wear the Louboutins.”

  I open my mouth to protest.

  “You’ll need an outfit to wear while dealing with our customers.” Cyndi’s tone is as curt and businesslike as Nicolas’s. “Pull the Chanel suit from the sell box also. That’s all you need—one suit, one pair of shoes.”

  I press my lips together, forced to admit she’s right. I have to earn customers’ trust by dressing the part. No one knows the importance of appearance like I do.

  I wish I could justify saving my beautiful Salvatore Ferragamo purse. Maybe if we attract a deluge of business tonight, I won’t have to sell my things. I can have everything—money for Cyndi and my mom, the fashions I love, and more nights with Hawke.

  Chapter Six

  BY THE TIME we shower, dress, perfect our hair and makeup, it’s ten o’clock. I tug on the bodice of my red silk corset, remembering the last time I wore the garment. Hawke unhooked the front, spread the formed fabric, and sucked my nipples until they throbbed. He then marked my right breast with his teeth, tattooing his claim on me.

  Tonight, his ownership is stamped over my neck. The black silk scarf, wrapped like a thick collar, covers his love bites and accentuates the paleness of my skin. I resemble a Goth princess, my red lipstick matching my corset, my brown hair straight and fine, its length reaching my ass.

  And my shoes. Oh my God. The Louboutins are a work of art, fitting my feet perfectly. My damaged big toe pains me like a son of a bitch, but that’s the price of being fashionable. Simply gazing at my designer footwear makes me feel better.

  “We look hot.” Cyndi hooks her arm in mine as we exit the condo. Her green corset pushes her generous breasts upward, her curves threatening to spill from their restraints.

  “We do look good,” I agree. In the past, my bubbly best friend’s serious slut vibes intimidated me. Tonight, I’m confident that at least one hunky man will give me his undivided attention. We stride along the hall, our steps in sync. Hawke said he’d be watching me.

  I press the button for the elevator, the doors open, and we enter, our images reflecting in the mirrored walls. Cyndi is curvy, blonde, golden, sultry. I’m slight, dark-haired, pale, sophisticated.

  Cyndi carries a purse containing her phone, the limo chits, and our invitation to the club. I have my passcard, ID, phone, and a credit card tucked into my corset.

  “We’re not buying any drinks tonight,” my best friend declares.

  “I’m not drinking.” I’m abstaining unless Hawke arrives. I won’t lose control with anyone else.

  “Smart thinking.” Cyndi bumps against me. “You’re a lightweight. Two drinks and you’re under the table. That won’t help us attract clients.” She remains surprisingly focused on our business, giving me more hope that our venture will succeed.

  “Here are some business cards.” She extracts a small stack from her purse. “Hand them out to anyone you see.” She gives them to me and I tuck them into my corset, excited by my mission. Soliciting business will give me something to do, other than avoiding grabby men and listening to cheesy pickup lines. I have no interest in clubbing, unlike Cyndi and Angel.

  I shouldn’t ask about Angel. I know I shouldn’t. Inquiring about Cyndi’s nasty friend might prompt my new business partner to invite her. But I have to know.

  “I’m surprised Angel isn’t going out with us,” I not-so-casually mention.

  Cyndi’s smile wobbles. “I haven’t been able to get through to her since yesterday.”

  Angel stopped returning her calls the minute she was disowned. That bitch. My lips flatten. She abandoned Cyndi as my high school friends discarded me, tossing her out of her life as if she was trash.

  “She’ll probably be there tonight.” Cyndi’s face brightens, my best buddy always believing the best of people.

  The elevator doors open and I swallow my snarky comment. Tonight is about us, about our business, not Angel and her treacherous ways. I stride with Cyndi arm in arm through the lobby, determined to make our new venture a success.

  Herb, the security guard, stands. “Good evening, Miss Belinda, Miss Cyndi.” He salutes us.

  “Good evening, Herb.” I return his salute, the action feeling more natural.

  “General Bee, reporting for duty.” Cyndi giggles as we push against the front doors. “You’ve been here a day and you already fit in.”

  That’s true. Pride straightens my spine. I do belong here.

  A long black limousine waits for us. Mack, Hawke’s man, opens one of the doors. He looks semirespectable, dressed in a cheap black suit, a cap on his bald head, all of his tattoos and scars covered by cloth.

  “Miss Cyndi, Miss Belinda.” He winks at me, his expression conspiratorial, as though I’m part of a shared plot, a member of the team.

  I like this. I like this very much.

  “Will you sit in the back with us?” I ask, ignoring Cyndi’s widening eyes.

  Mack’s smile spreads across his face, adding a boyish charm to his normally scary demeanor. “If it’s all right with you . . . ” His gaze flits to Cyndi. “Ma’am,” he adds for her benefit, “I’ll keep Prick company in the front seat.”

  “Oh, of course.” I reach out my hand and allow him to help me into the vehicle, his calloused grip comforting. He’d wish to spend time with his buddy.

  My best friend plops her generous ass in the leather seat beside me. The light dims as the door closes, and I gaze at her downturned face. Does she think I’m crazy for inviting our bodyguard to sit with us?

  Do I care what she thinks? Making the offer was the right thing to do. My mom would have approved. Hawke would have approved. That’s enough for me.

  “My mom is a waitress in a diner,” I share with Cyndi, no longer willing to live a lie, to ignore a link to one of the strongest women I know. “Every second weekend, I help her serve customers.”

  “I won’t book appointments on those Saturdays.” Cyndi’s expression doesn’t change.

  I frown. “You’re not shocked?”

  “Shocked? God, Bee, I’ve known about your trips home forever.” She rolls her eyes. “Daddy . . . Mr. Wynters had you investigated, remember?”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek, not realizing how thorough his investigation had been. My secrets hadn’t been hidden from anyone.

  “That’s why this is the perfect arrangement,” my best friend continues. “You’ll serve our
customers, patiently putting up with their petty demands, and I’ll socialize, talking them into parting with a shitload of their money.”

  She chatters about her plans to sweet-talk the bouncers into distributing our business cards, a strategy I doubt Nicolas will endorse.

  As I listen to her scarily clever schemes, I wonder why the thought of serving our wealthy customers doesn’t bother me. Is it because I’ll be dressing them, working in a field I love, or because we’ll be profiting greatly from the exchange? Or is it something more significant? Have I changed? Am I becoming like my mom, settling for a lesser lifestyle, downgrading my dreams?

  No. I glance at Cyndi. My wealth-loving best friend won’t allow me to downgrade my dreams. She loves the good life too much to accept less.

  The limousine slows and stops on Hubbard Street, between Dearborn and Clark, outside of a two-story concrete and glass structure. A spotlight beams into the sky. Music booms. A long line stretches in front of the building.

  “I see Angel,” Cyndi exclaims, exiting the limo before Mack can open the door.

  I follow her, hoping I’m wrong about her friend, hoping Angel was busy or lost her phone, that she wasn’t ignoring Cyndi’s calls.

  Mack trails us at a respectful distance, a menacing shadow on the sidewalk, providing protection yet maintaining the illusion of privacy.

  “Angel,” Cyndi shouts, genuine joy lilting her voice.

  The anorexic blonde glances toward her, her angular face hardens, and she turns away from Cyndi, showing my friend her shoulder. Angel is clad from head to toe in silver, her Hervé Léger gunmetal dress clinging to her skinny ass.

  I don’t know what she is saying, her voice is too soft to hear, but, when her friends look at Cyndi and laugh, I recognize the expression on their beautiful visages. They’re ridiculing my friend.

  Cyndi must have seen that also. She hesitates for one heartbeat. I reach out to grasp her shoulder. I’m too late. She surges fearlessly forward.

  “Cyndi,” I caution, wishing to protect her.

  “Don’t.” Cyndi lifts her right index finger, her eyes wild. “Just don’t.” She’s determined to have this sure-to-be humiliating confrontation with her fickle friend.

  There’s nothing I can say that will stop her. I position myself directly behind Cyndi. All I can do is protect her as best as I can and pick up the pieces.

  “Angel.” She taps the woman on her bony shoulder. “It’s me, Cyndi. Didn’t you get my messages?”

  The tall blonde pivots on her high heels, not one strand of her blonde hair moving, and she looks down her perfect nose at Cyndi, the woman she once partied with. “I only listen to messages from friends, not penniless sluts.” Angel’s cold gaze moves to me. “Or low-class hookers.”

  “But . . . ” Cyndi’s lips move. No words come out. She’s in shock, as devastated as I had been when my high school friends betrayed me.

  “Leave her, Cyndi.” I grip her left wrist. “She’s not worth it.” I pull her away from the laughing girls.

  “That’s right. Leave,” Angel sneers. “Because people like you don’t belong here.”

  She’s right. I don’t belong in her nasty little group, and I’m glad. The brittle blonde isn’t anyone I want to be.

  “Is there a problem here, ladies?” a familiar voice drawls.

  Shit. It can’t be Nicolas. My heart stutters while my brain rejects his presence. He knows my reputation. He wouldn’t risk exposing his own dark secrets by affiliating himself with us, a low-class hooker and a penniless slut.

  “Mr. Rainer, sir.” Angel gazes behind me, the awe in her expression providing confirmation of the newcomer’s identity. “I was telling these two characters”—she sniffs haughtily—“they don’t belong in your club.”

  I glance at him and my breath catches. I could look at him for decades and never become accustomed to his male-model good looks, his classic profile, golden tan, thick black hair. My beautiful billionaire is dressed in a black suit, white shirt, black tie, his brown eyes glittering with anger.

  Because I’m causing a scene, embarrassing him. My stomach sinks.

  “There’s no problem. We’re leaving.” I tug on Cyndi’s arm, seeking to run as I always run from awkward situations.

  “No.” Nicolas clamps one of his hands on my right hip, holding me in place. “You’re not going anywhere, not until I find out what is going on.”

  “Let me go.” I wiggle, trying to break free. He ignores me.

  “You.” Nicolas addresses Angel, his tone cold, curt, and cutting. “Tell me why these two well-dressed young ladies don’t belong in my club.”

  Oh God. She’ll relate all of the nasty rumors. A crowd forms around us. Strangers hold up their phones, recording my humiliation.

  “Belinda Carter, the woman standing in front of you, is a hooker.” Angel shares this juicy tidbit, satisfaction in her voice. Women gasp and camera flashes blind me. My anxiety escalates. This footage will be all over the Internet, seen by thousands of people everywhere. I pry at Nicolas’s fingers, attempting to escape. He holds me tighter.

  “She has sex with men for money?” the billionaire solemnly asks, as though he needs clarification. He doesn’t. The damn man knows what a hooker is.

  “Pay her and she’ll do anything and anyone.” Cyndi’s friend is deriving great enjoyment from my downfall, a snide smile curling her painted lips.

  “That’s interesting.” Nicolas gazes down at me. I glare at him, not at all amused with his antics. His lips twitch. “Would she have sex with me?”

  “Ummm . . . ” Angel looks at me and then looks at Nicolas. Cyndi smirks, my best friend knowing the answer, realizing the bitch has been caught in her own lies.

  “If she’s a hooker, she would . . . providing I offer her enough money.” Nicolas, that arrogant ass, sounds as though he’s enjoying this. I slap his thigh. He catches my waving hand. “Stop hitting me,” he mutters into my ear.

  “Stop being an asshole,” I mutter back.

  He grins and a big-breasted redheaded woman hovering near us gasps. Nicolas’s smiles are rare and lethal to the female libido.

  “Would a billion dollars buy a night with her?” He continues the make-Bee-die-of-embarrassment show.

  “Hell yeah,” a scantily clad blonde standing to the right replies, teetering on her six-inch heels.

  “I’d have sex with you for free, Mr. Rainer,” a girl in the line calls out and the crowd titters.

  “Don’t joke about this.” I twist in Nicolas’s arms, his lean form surprisingly strong. I’m going to kick his ass . . . as soon as I’m free.

  “I rarely joke,” he pompously informs me. “Blaine?”

  “Keep me out of this, Rainer.” A tall man steps forward. He’s dressed similarly to Nicolas, in a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, and he has the same aura of power. He isn’t as handsome as my billionaire, his edges too sharp to be beautiful.

  More flashes light the concrete. Murmurs of Gabriel Blaine, billionaire, West Coast, swirl around us. I must be the only person here who doesn’t know Nicolas’s friend.

  “Vouch for me and you can return to your hotel suite,” Nicolas demands. “See your wife and baby.”

  The two men exchange hard looks, Blaine’s vivid green eyes shrewd. “If this is how you want to spend your money . . . ” The man shrugs. “I’ll vouch for Rainer. Have sex with him and he’ll pay you a billion dollars.”

  Nicolas is serious about this offer. I stare at him. He doesn’t pluck at his sleeves or play with his cuff links, showing no signs of uncertainty. Chicago’s most sought-after bachelor would pay me a billion dollars to sleep with him.

  A hush falls on the crowd. Men and women lean closer to us, waiting for my response, recording this bizarre exchange with their phones.

  They expect me to take the deal. Nicolas is smart, gorgeous, nice when he wants to be. Rumors say he’s fabulous in bed, and he’s willing to pay me a billion dollars, more money than anyone ever needs. My mo
m would be financially secure for life. Cyndi and I could afford our own place. I’d never have to work again.

  I can’t say yes. I can’t take all of the wealth Nicolas has worked so hard to accumulate, possibly destroying his precious company in the process.

  I skewer him with my eyes. He smiles back at me, the big handsome fool.

  I can’t betray Hawke, can’t have sex with anyone other than him, the former marine owning my body, my soul, perhaps even my heart.

  And most importantly, I can’t sell my integrity for a shiny buck. I won’t become the whore everyone thinks I am, disappointing Hawke, my mom, myself.

  Tomorrow, I might regret this. Tonight, I have to do the right thing.

  “I don’t have sex for money.” I hold Nicolas’s gaze, speaking slowly and clearly, wishing for there to be no confusion over my answer. “You know that.”

  There’s stunned silence followed by an explosion of commentary.

  “What? She said no?” a woman blurts.

  “She’s crazy.”

  “I’ll do it, Mr. Rainer!”

  The consensus from the crowd is I’m an idiot, and I likely am, but I’m true to myself and that’s what counts . . . right?

  Nicolas squeezes my hip. “I knew you wouldn’t have sex for money.” His lips curve into a small smug smile.

  He knew? I gaze up at him, confused.

  “Now everyone else knows that too,” the billionaire adds, appearing extremely satisfied with himself.

  He’s a conceited bastard. My lips twitch. And he’s so fucking cute. I wonder for the millionth time why I’m not in love with him. “Was that the plan? You wanted to show everyone I couldn’t be bought?”

  “It wasn’t the original plan. I improvised.” Gold sparkles in Nicolas’s brown eyes. “I said I’d redeem your reputation.”

  “You told me you’d redeem my reputation if I moved in with you.” I tilt my head. Is this his way of forcing me to choose him? “This doesn’t change our relationship, Nicolas. We’ll never be anything more than very good friends.”

  His smile wavers. “This wasn’t about changing our relationship.” Nicolas touches the dog tags around my neck. “This was about changing me. I want to become the very good friend you deserve.” He pauses. “And it was also about proving I could do it. I’m Nicolas Rainer, after all,” he boasts, his normally grim expression boyish and carefree. “I can do anything.”