by Cynthia Sax
“I’d never give up on you.” I knock his sucked-clean spoon away and huddle over the tub, protecting the ice cream from impatient-billionaire-induced contamination. “Hawke doesn’t love me,” I blurt, needing to voice this, to share this with someone.
“He said that?” Nicolas steals a spoonful of ice cream from the bowl I’m filling.
“No.” I frown, scooping as fast as I can. “But he’s never said he loves me, either.” I push Nicolas’s bowl toward him.
His eyes sparkle. “I’ve never said I love ice cream.” He shovels the sweet treat into his mouth with a boyish glee. “But I do. Very much.” His lips curl upward. “The name of this flavor is perfect. It is heavenly.”
“Hawke doesn’t love me,” I repeat stubbornly, dishing out a smaller portion for myself.
“A good friend would agree with you.” Nicolas’s head is bent over his ice cream.
“You’re not a good friend.” I place the tub in the freezer compartment of the fridge. “What would you do?”
“I’d tell you that neither of you are acting rationally, that if craziness is a sign of love, Hawke has it much worse than you.” Nicolas licks his spoon. “He guards you like you’re the last piece of prime real estate on the planet. I’m taking my life into my hands by simply eating ice cream with you.”
I climb onto the bar stool beside him, his observations about Hawke’s protectiveness appeasing me, banishing some of my melancholy. “He cares about me.”
“No, he cares about his team.” The billionaire’s lips flatten grimly. “Disregarding all of my advice about maintaining his distance.” Nicolas believes remaining aloof from his employees makes painful staffing decisions less traumatic. “What Hawke feels for you is in an entirely different category.”
“It isn’t love.” Or is it?
Nicolas shrugs his suit-clad shoulders, not answering. He’s said more than he normally does. We eat our ice cream in silence as I mull over the situation with Hawke. Could he love me?
“The men in the movies make grand gestures when they’re in love,” I point out . . . to myself. Nicolas doesn’t care.
“That’s your point of reference—the movies?” The billionaire lifts one finely arched eyebrow. “Don’t you have an article on this?”
“Fine.” I pick up my phone and search through the back issues of my favorite online magazine. “Here’s one. Five signs he’s in love with you.” I scan the article.
1. A guy who loves me cares about my feelings. Check.
2. He makes me a priority. Check.
3. He desires what’s best for me, even when it isn’t best for him. Check.
4. He’s trustworthy and loyal. Check.
5. He wants people to know about me. Check.
“Oh, shit.” The cuss word escapes my lips before I remember I’m not alone. “Hawke might love me.”
“Good,” Nicolas replies. “Now we can stop talking about him.”
“He could genuinely love me.” I ignore my insensitive friend. “I could have thrown away our forever.” I had it all and I tossed it in the trash. Feeling nauseated, I set down my spoon, unable to eat more.
“Are you eating that?” Nicolas gazes longingly at my ice cream.
“No.” I nudge the bowl toward him. “You can have it.”
The billionaire hooks one of his palms around the white china, happily commandeering my portion.
“How do I fix this?” Can my relationship with Hawke be saved? Or did I fuck it up beyond redemption?
The sweet-loving real estate developer eats faster, not answering.
I don’t need any contribution from him. This is my problem to work out. I know Hawke better than Nicolas, better than anyone. “I shredded his pride, broke—”
The doorbell rings.
“Saved by the bell,” the billionaire mutters.
Hawke has finally remembered my reward. I haven’t destroyed his love for me. I run to the door and swing it open.
Francois stands in the hallway, the tortured Frenchman holding cut flowers and a bottle of wine. He wears a navy blue suit, white shirt, violet silk tie. “Ma petite.” He smiles, the scar on his cheek creasing. “The security guard in the other building told me you now lived here.”
Jacob told him where I was. “This is a surprise, Francois.” I force my tone to lighten, hiding my disappointment. He’s not Hawke, will never be Hawke, but that’s not my friend’s fault.
“I have business in Chicago, and couldn’t visit the city without seeing you, mon mignon.” Francois kisses me on my forehead and both cheeks, murmuring more words in French, the vineyard owner smelling of soil and sun. I stand stiffly, enduring his greeting, my mind filled with thoughts of another man’s face, another man’s touch.
Metal scrapes against wood behind me and I remember our audience. Nicolas is watching us. He’ll wonder about my relationship with Francois, question my loyalty to Hawke.
“It has been too long since I’ve seen this beautiful face.” Francois cups my chin, lifting my gaze to his, and skims his lips over mine.
I pull away from him. My mouth belongs to Hawke. “Francois—”
“Bee, introduce me to your visitor.” Nicolas’s tone is edged with steel. He commands the space beside me, holding his phone.
“My name is Francois Dubois.” The Frenchman introduces himself. He passes the wine and flowers to me and extends his right hand.
“You’re the idiot who mistook Bee for a whore.” Nicolas clips his phone to his belt and clasps Francois’s palm. The skin turns white around their fingers. “I’m Nicolas Rainer.” His voice is curt, his gorgeous face hard. He’s no longer my easygoing friend. He’s the arrogant billionaire, the master of his domain, demanding respect from everyone around him. “Hawke Masters will be joining us in a few minutes.”
What does he mean, Hawke will be joining us? I narrow my eyes at the billionaire. “What did you do?”
“Hawke is my friend, and I’m an asshole. What do you think I did?” Nicolas doesn’t shift his glare from Francois, the two men continuing to squeeze the shit out of each other’s hands. “I sent him a video of our visitor’s arrival.” His dark eyes gleam. “Hawke has spent some time in France. He should find your greeting as illuminating as I did.”
“Merde.” Francois finally breaks the handshake of death.
Merde indeed. Hawke won’t appreciate arriving home to find two men in our condo. “This is America.” I take a couple of steps backward as the young vineyard owner farther invades my personal space. “Why does everyone know how to speak French?”
“I’ll teach you some words, ma belle.” Francois pursues me.
Nicolas slides between us, his maneuver smooth and graceful. “That will be difficult to do with your jaw broken.”
“Are you threatening me?” Francois straightens.
“Me?” The billionaire coolly, calmly straightens his cuffs. “No. I leave the physical skirmishes to my very large friend. Being a former marine, he has more training in that sort of brutish activity.” He shrugs his elegantly clad shoulders. “I prefer to destroy a man financially.” His sleepy, almost bored expression scares me. “Wine is a precarious business, isn’t it?”
“Why are you here?” Anger edges the Frenchman’s voice.
“A moment ago, I was eating ice cream.” Nicolas settles on his bar stool once more. “Right now, I’m attempting to be a good friend. Soon, I’ll be driving you to the hospital.”
“No one is going to the hospital.” Retreating behind the kitchen island, I stuff the flowers into the vase with the previous bouquet Francois sent me. “Should I open the wine?” I attempt to distract them.
“S’il vous plait,” Francois purrs, back to being his charming self.
I stare at him blankly. Is that a yes?
“You truly don’t know any French.” Nicolas’s eyes gleam. “Open the wine, Bee.”
“This is America.” I extract wineglasses from the kitchen cabinets. “I shouldn’t need to know an
y French.”
“You don’t know wine either.” Francois moves beside me. “This glass is correct.” He taps the stem of the glass with a wider opening and large bowl. “These two glasses are not.” He returns them to the cabinet and chooses two different glasses. “The wine I brought you is red.”
My face heats. I had no idea that different wines required different glasses. Alcohol isn’t served at the diner my mom works in. “Okay.”
Francois opens the wine bottle, holds the cork for me to smell, describing the aromas I should be noting. I detect wine. That’s it. Judging by the amusement sparkling in Nicolas’s eyes, I’m not fooling anyone.
We go through the rest of the bizarre wine-tasting ritual. Francois tries to include me, and I try to look as if I know what the hell he’s talking about. My ignorance finally overwhelms his gallantry and he concentrates on Nicolas, the two chatting about rare wines, expensive restaurants, exotic cities they’ve enjoyed. I don’t belong, not in Francois’s world, and, I suspect, not in Nicolas’s.
With Hawke, I always belong. I fit. I feel comfortable and safe and special. Wetting a paper towel, I clean the counter, halfheartedly listening, missing my former marine. I doubt Nicolas and Francois would notice I was gone.
I stop. Then why am I standing here? Why am I listening to them when I could be talking with Hawke, making our relationship right?
“I need to make a private call.” I offer this as an excuse to escape. Francois waves his hands. Nicolas nods. They don’t care. No one, except my military man, cares about me.
Leaving my guests to entertain themselves, I hurry into the bedroom I share with Hawke and close the door, feeling deliciously naughty, as though I’m playing hooky from school. Gisele stares at me accusingly, her body curled into a small ball under the bed. She doesn’t want visitors either.
I press Hawke’s number. It rings and rings and rings. I tap my right foot. Where is he? The call finally goes to voice mail, the robot man reciting Hawke’s name.
“Hi. Ummm . . . ” Shit. I don’t know what to say. “About this morning . . . I really wanted to say yes.” I pause again. “Call me.” I end the call and stare at my phone.
What do I do now? Wait for him to call back, for him to return to me?
“Fuck that.” I’m tired of sitting on my ass while the people I love physically or emotionally abandon me. Hawke is worth fighting for, and I have the strength to win this battle, to claim the happiness I deserve.
I’m not fighting only for me. My fingers splay across my fabric-covered stomach. I have a family to protect—Hawke, Gisele, possibly a child.
This thought doesn’t freak me out as it once did. I love my former marine. A child, a blue-eyed, brown-haired baby boy, would be a part of him I could cherish forever. Every time I look at our child’s face, I’ll see Hawke, be reminded of our love, of the time we spent together.
My phone hums. It’s an unknown number. It could be Hawke. He could have lost his phone. “Bee Carter,” I answer.
“Hi, honeybee.” My mom’s voice is light, holding all of the happiness I could ever wish for her. People laugh in the background. It sounds as if she’s at a party. “Tell me all about it.”
I frown. “Tell you all about what?”
“About Hawke’s proposal. What else?” My mom laughs. “How did he do it? What did he say? Have you set a date?”
My brain spins. “How did you know he proposed?” Had Hawke called my mom immediately after he left the condo? Why would he do that?
“He asked my permission to marry you.” My mom’s words are infused with pride. “Can you believe that? He was so nervous too, his hands clutched in front of him, his face pale, like he thought I’d say no. I said yes, of course. He’s such a good boy, hardworking and considerate. Look at how he arranged for Long Haul to bring me to his parents’ so we could get to know each other before the wedding.”
This was the big news my mom has been asking me about. I sit on the end of the bed, stunned. Hawke asked her for permission to marry me days ago, before the pregnancy scare, before I’d admitted I loved him.
He loves me. He offered me forever.
I turned him down.
My stomach bubbles. Acid burns the inside of my throat. “Mom, I love you and I promise to give you all of the details later, but I gotta run. There’s an emergency.”
“What?”
“It’s a minor happy emergency.” I hope this is the truth. “I’ll call you later.” I end the call, look down at my phone, my reasons to fight for him, for us, compounding.
I press Hawke’s number again. The call goes to voice mail. I don’t leave a message. What I have to say should be conveyed in person.
“Gisele.” I look under the bed, meeting our cat’s unblinking yellow gaze. “You’ll have the place to yourself. I’m finding Hawke and fixing this before he has any second thoughts about us.”
First, I have to encourage our guests to leave.
I grab my phone and passcard, open the bedroom door, and march into the main room, filled with purpose, with confidence.
The men are seated on the bar stools, drinking wine. Francois is talking quickly in French, his expression earnest, his hands moving. Nicolas appears to be ignoring him, his focus split between his phone and the bag of jelly beans he managed to locate in the mere minutes I was away.
“I have to go,” I announce.
The men turn their heads toward me and frown. Their faces are different, a handsome perfection versus a scarred hardness, yet their expressions are the same. They both disapprove of my plan.
“I have to meet with someone.” Someone whose love I have to claim.
“Belinda, ma petite.” Francois turns his palms upward, a physical plea for my company. “I’m only in Chicago for a couple of days. I wish to spend some time with you.”
“This can’t wait.” I don’t know why I’m explaining my actions. I don’t answer to him or to Nicolas.
“The paparazzi are stalking you outside.” The billionaire scoops one of his elegant hands into the bag and tosses a couple of jelly beans into his mouth. “You should wait for Hawke to return.”
“No.” I lift my chin. “I’m not waiting for anyone any longer.”
“Bee—”
“No,” I repeat, my voice firmer. Nicolas stares at me. I stare back at him, my gaze as unblinking as my new cat’s.
The billionaire sighs. “You’re taking his men with you—all of them.” His long, slender fingers fly over his phone’s keys.
“Okay.” I require their help to locate Hawke.
“They’ll be here within minutes.” Nicolas eases off his bar stool, his movements fluid. “We’re leaving.” He levels a hard glance on Francois.
The vineyard owner swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Belinda, I—”
“We’re leaving.” Nicolas’s tone doesn’t allow for any refusal.
The two men lock gazes for one, two, three heartbeats.
“We’re leaving,” Francois concedes, standing.
Nicolas’s eyes gleam with triumph, my friend in full business-bastard mode. “I’m taking the jelly beans with me.” He clutches the bag with one hand and his phone with the other as he strolls to the door. “Wait for Hawke’s people.”
I’m tempted to refuse, but I need my military man’s people to track him. “I’ll wait.” I open the door, leaning against the wood. “Thank you.” I glance at Nicolas and then at Francois. “Both of you. You’re good friends.”
“I’m a terrible friend.” Nicolas’s lips twitch. He’s so damn handsome and powerful and nice. Some woman will be lucky to call him hers.
That woman won’t be me. Hawke owns my body, my heart, my soul. He’s my future, my forever. I’ll ensure he never again doubts this.
“Belinda, ma petite.” Francois kisses my cheeks, his eyes reflecting his sadness. “Call me when you have time and I’ll return tout de suite.”
“I will,” I promise. He’s a nice man, traumatized by his tim
e at war, paying a high price for defending his beliefs, safeguarding our country. “Drive safely.”
“I—”
“She said she’d call you.” Nicolas pushes the Frenchman into the hallway, not allowing him to finish his sentence. “Call me too.” The door closes behind him.
Chapter Four
MACK AND PRICK arrive at my door six worry-filled minutes later. Convincing them to help me eats up more precious time.
“Take me to Hawke,” I insist.
Mack shifts his weight from his right foot to his left, his body clad in an army green T-shirt, khaki pants, the usual black ugly boots on his big feet. Prick is dressed similarly, their outfits hideous yet practical.
“He’s busy, ma’am.” The normally foul-mouthed military man is all politeness today, this tweak in his character indicating he’s hiding something.
“Did he take an assignment?” I narrow my eyes. “Because Hawke promised me he wouldn’t.”
“No, ma’am.” Mack’s bald head reddens.
“It’s personal business,” Prick adds. “He—” Mack’s elbow connects with his gut and the smaller man stops talking, bending over, clutching his middle.
“It’s personal business.” I hear the crazy in my voice. What type of personal business would prevent Hawke from calling me? “I’m tracking him down. You can help, or I can ask the paparazzi waiting outside to assist me. That’s your choice.”
I exit the condo, marching through the door and into the hallway, my ballerina flats sinking in the lush blue carpet. The men follow me, their treads not as silent as Hawke’s. No one matches my former marine’s skills.
The men murmur to each other. I suspect they’re texting their boss.
Maybe he’ll answer them. My lips twist. Because he hasn’t called me, despite the the multiple calls and the voice mail I left him. I press the button for the elevator. The doors open and I step into the small space.
“We’ll take you to Hawke.” Mack holds the doors, allowing Prick to slide through. “But you have to follow our orders.”
I lift my eyebrows. “I’m your client.” They should be following my orders.
