by Cynthia Sax
What the hell was that? “Hawke can’t be your real name.” I cover my reaction with this bitchy observation. “Who in their right mind names their kid after a bird?”
“Who in their right mind uses black marker on a vinyl purse?” He reaches behind his back, under his jacket, and extracts a wicked-looking knife. I step backward and his grin dims. “I won’t hurt you, sweetheart, ever. You can count on that.” He slices the strap into two pieces, straightening the ragged edge. “And Hawke isn’t my real name. Someday, if you behave, I might tell you what it is.” He makes two slits in the vinyl.
“Someday, I might care . . . though that is unlikely,” I reply, enjoying this interchange more than I should. “And I always behave. I’m a good girl.”
“Could have fooled me this morning.” Hawke threads the shortened strap through the metal loop. “Good girls don’t stare at a man’s junk.” He strips a silver stud off the discarded piece of leather and wiggles it through the slits, using it to fasten the strap, his resourcefulness impressing me.
“I didn’t stare at your junk.” I can’t remember the last time I’ve told this many lies in this short of a time.
“Don’t worry.” Hawke holds out my repaired purse. I clasp it and he pulls me forward, drawing me closer to him. Heat radiates from his big body, enthralling me. “I didn’t mind that you looked.” He leans toward me. He smells of leather, engine grease, and man, a toe-curling combination. “I was hard for you.” His lips buzz against my left earlobe.
I close my eyes, wanting him, needing him. His hot breath wafts against my cheek. His distinct scent surrounds me. My chest rises and falls. My breasts brush against him, a slight, subtle caress lighting fires inside me.
He’ll kiss me now, slant his smiling lips over mine, cradle my head in his big hands, not allowing me to escape him. I won’t want to escape. I—
Somewhere in the distance, tires squeal, the sound bringing me to my senses. I pull away from Hawke, bewildered by my reaction.
What the hell am I doing?
The man isn’t as handsome as Nicolas, his face broad, his nose flattened, his chin square. I doubt he has any money. Wanderers like Hawke never stick around anywhere long enough to build wealth. His motorcycle proclaims his permanently single status louder than a roadside sign. When he leaves, and he will leave, he’ll have no room for passengers.
Yet I want him. Hot primal lust pumps through my veins, the crazy kind of desire that makes a woman do stupid things like contemplate one-night stands with unsuitable men.
I can’t risk seeing him again. The best way to deal with temptation is to avoid it, and Hawke is a temptation, a tall, broad, too-sexy-for-my-senses temptation.
I take two more steps backward. “Thank you for this.” I wave my purse in the air, not meeting his gaze. “See you around.” I turn and hurry away from him.
“I’m sure you will see me around.” Hawke chuckles, the sensual sound following me into the building.
Chapter Four
I’M STILL UNNERVED as I walk through the front door of the condo unit. Cyndi lies facedown on the couch, her designer-clad ass in the air. The local entertainment news blares on the TV. An Al Capone movie is filming in the city, and a horde of reporters follows my best friend’s Hollywood obsession, Cole Travers, down a busy Chicago street. The flick’s lead actor repeats “No comment. No comment.” to every question. He appears harassed, his shoulders hunched over, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.
“You’re early.” Cyndi lowers the volume on the TV and turns her head, her blonde curls bouncing around her rosy cheeks. “Dinner won’t be ready for another thirty minutes.”
“You made dinner?” I glance upward as I kick off my heels. My culinary-challenged best friend can’t be using the oven. The smoke detectors haven’t been disconnected and the alarm isn’t ringing.
“I ordered dinner.” Cyndi rolls her big green eyes. She isn’t wearing contacts, and her hair isn’t dyed. My roommate won both the good-looks and wealthy-parent lottery. If she wasn’t so damn nice, I’d hate her guts. “It should arrive in thirty minutes or less.”
“I could have cooked.” I frown. Cooking is one of my contributions to the household, to our friendship. I push her legs off the couch and sit down.
“It was my turn.” She slips to the hardwood floor. “What happened to your shirt?”
“You noticed the stain. Hawke noticed the stain,” I grumble. “That nasty piece of work Dru didn’t notice.”
“Oh, I bet she noticed. She just didn’t care enough to tell you.”
Nicolas must not have cared enough to tell me either. My foul mood increases.
“Who is Hawke and how do you know him?” Cyndi asks, her eyes wide with curiosity. If I had an all-night drunkfest, I’d look like a cross between a ghost and a raccoon. She appears fresh, as though she spent the evening at home.
“Hawke is your hunk from three eleven north,” I share. Gossip runs rampant in the buildings. She’ll eventually discover I know him. Hiding our connection will only hurt her feelings. “He fixed my purse after the contents splattered all over the sidewalk.”
“He’s noble and hot.” She sits upright. Princess is written across her bright pink T-shirt, the letters curved around her huge breasts. “That’s a delicious combination.”
“He has a motorcycle,” I mutter.
“Even hotter.” The motorcycle doesn’t dim Cyndi’s interest. She doesn’t have my hang-ups about bad boys. Her dad stuck around. “I’ll ask him to give me a ride sometime.”
I want to say no, he’s mine, but he isn’t mine. He isn’t anyone’s. Bad boys like Hawke don’t make commitments. “Motorcycles are dangerous.” I try a different tactic.
“Crossing the street is dangerous, yet we do it all the time.”
I lift one of my eyebrows. Cyndi doesn’t walk anywhere.
“Okay, you do it all the time,” she amended. “Yet here you are, alive and well.” Her gaze lowers to my blouse. “Maybe a little smudged.” She grins. “But otherwise fine.”
“You’re an idiot.” I laugh. Cyndi always makes me feel better.
“This idiot brought us candy.” She bounces to her feet and crosses the room to the counter. “More jelly beans.” Cyndi holds up a bag labeled Wynters Confectionary. “I don’t know what happened to the last batch.” She pours the candy into a crystal bowl.
“You dumped them out of the window, making it rain jelly beans, and then wore the bowl as a hat,” I remind her. “The next day, every occupant of the south tower received a memo from management forbidding us to throw candy or any other food item off our balconies.”
“That memo was a waste of paper.” Cyndi pops a handful of gourmet jelly beans into her mouth and chews. “And it clearly didn’t refer to us. We don’t have a balcony, thanks to Rainer’s wacky sense of design, and he said nothing about throwing candy out of windows.”
“I met him today, you know.” I feign interest in my newly repaired purse.
“What!” Cyndi shrieks, rushing toward me. Jelly beans skitter everywhere, bouncing on the counter, pinging against the hardwood floor. “You did not!” She tackles me, her technique honed by dating half of the college football team. “Rainer doesn’t meet anyone.” She shakes my shoulders.
“Rainer met me.” I push her off me. “I found his phone.” I leave out the bit about the lost phone being some sort of test. “After he retrieved it, he gave me a ride home in his limo.” Everyone in the building will know this story by breakfast tomorrow, if not earlier. “He says your dad has all of the dirt on him, so give it up, girl.”
“Why do you want to know?” Cyndi’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Do you love him? Do you want to have his baby? Be Rainer’s first wife? Rainer and Bee sitting in a tree,” she sings.
“I just met him today,” I answer, not addressing any of her questions. If Cyndi knows I’m interested in Nicolas, she’ll say something superembarrassing to someone, likely during one of her drunkfests, and I
won’t be able to show my face outside the condo ever again.
“I’m teasing you, goof.” Cyndi slaps my arm. “He’s not your type, at all. My dear daddy won’t even allow me to talk to him, says all of the money in the world won’t make up for Rainer’s naughty past. Nope, he isn’t one of your safe, accountant-wannabes. He’s done stuff.”
This worries but doesn’t shock me. A man doesn’t become a self-made billionaire by taking the safe route. “What kind of stuff?”
“Bad stuff.” Cyndi scrunches her nose as she thinks. “He’s broken laws, harmed or destroyed competitors. Daddy didn’t go into details, but I got the impression from him that Rainer doesn’t always play fair.”
When he sees something or someone he wants, he’ll do anything to stake his claim. I shiver. Nicolas warned me. “Is this bad stuff in his past?”
“Hell if I know.” Cyndi shrugs. “I’m surprised it’s even in his past. I can’t imagine Rainer doing anything more than writing his competitors one of his incredibly boring memos. He’s such an uptight prig.”
Nicolas had acted like an uptight prig when I first met him. “He smells nice,” I say in his defense, my loyalty to him having survived our first encounter.
“And he’s handsome.” Cyndi sighs. “It’s such a waste of hot-titude. Prigs should look like prigs, wear a sign or something.”
“Maybe have big warning labels plastered across their T-shirts?” I gaze pointedly at her chest. My best buddy has no qualms about being a princess. She wears her status proudly.
“Hey, it works for me.” She laughs. “I haven’t bought a drink.” Cyndi pauses, her head tilting. “Ever.” She grins. “Come out with us tonight.” She jumps to her feet, pulling on my fingers. “I’ll snag us free drinks, more than you can guzzle. You’re such a lightweight.”
The drinks aren’t the problem. It’s the purpose of the drunkfests, to hook up. Everyone goes to the clubs, looking to score a one-night stand, and Cyndi’s no exception. In the past, she’s pressured me to go home with some random guy, and when I refused, she left me alone on the dance floor. “I have to work tomorrow.”
“Duh.” She makes a face. “So do I.”
“I’m not related to the boss,” I point out. Cyndi works in the Chicago division of her family’s candy company. She can roll into the office at noon and no one dares to comment. “And I’m still temporary. Maybe after Friday—”
The doorbell rings, interrupting a promise I don’t know if I would have kept. “Dinner’s here.” Cyndi runs to the door, my hyperactive friend not bothering to look through the peephole before opening it. The risk is low. All visitors to the buildings are screened by security.
The deliveryman’s eyes widen as he sees my friend. “D-d-delivery?” He holds up the paper bag, his hands trembling.
“Thanks.” Cyndi grabs the bag and flounces to the kitchen counter. The man stares after her, his mouth open, his expression bemused.
He continues to wait. I press my lips together. She must have forgotten the tip with her online payment. Again. I take a precious fiver out of my wallet and hand the bill to him. “Thank you.” I glance at his name tag. “Hapa.”
He drags his gaze away from my blonde friend. “Thank you, miss.” He reluctantly leaves, his steps slow. I shake my head as I close the door. He’ll be thinking about Cyndi for days. She has already forgotten him.
“I heard about this Japanese fusion place last night from Ken . . . Kevin.” Cyndi frowns. “The guy I slept with.” She dumps the contents of the containers on plates. “He said the beef short ribs were to die for, and I know how you like ribs.”
“I do love ribs.” I set place mats, silverware, and glasses of water on the counter. Cyndi hands me one of the plates heaped with food.
“That’s wasabi mashed potatoes and blanched spinach on the side.” She perches on a bar stool, and I sit beside her. “I want to design a wasabi-flavored jelly bean. Dad says it is too niche, which you and I both know is a load of hooey. It isn’t any more niche than our buttered popcorn or cream soda flavors.”
Cyndi chatters about how she’s not taken seriously at her family’s company. I play the good friend and don’t mention her variable work schedule, her past product disasters, and her tendency to quit projects midlaunch.
“So what did you and Rainer talk about?” she asks, her cheeks covered with the sweet and tangy rib sauce.
We talked about her, about how Nicolas thinks she’s a handful. If I share this with Cyndi, she’ll make it rain wasabi mashed potatoes and we’ll receive another prissy memo from management. “He wanted to give me a reward for returning his phone.”
“No shit?” Her finely plucked eyebrows rise, and I nod. “What did you ask for? Oh, please tell me you said passes to R.” Cyndi claps her sticky hands. My friend is what Hawke would call a hot mess. “I’ve been trying to get into his club for weeks.”
“Do you think it’s wise to go to Rainer’s club?” I lick my fingers, savoring each drop of the rib sauce. “Your dad doesn’t even want you to talk to him.”
“We’re living in his building, and daddy doesn’t care about that.” Cyndi waves her hands in the air, dismissing my concerns. “So what are we getting? Bottle service? The full VIP treatment? I know you didn’t forget me, your bestest friend.” She flutters her eyelashes.
I laugh. “I could never forget you. You won’t let me.” I pause. She’ll think I’m a fool for turning the reward down. Maybe I am a fool. “I didn’t ask for anything.”
A rib drops from Cyndi’s fingers. “Bee . . .”
“I don’t need a reward for doing the right thing.” I try to explain my bizarre thinking.
“God, Bee. Sometimes I want to strangle you.” She wipes her fingers on a paper towel, her movements jerky. “He’s a billionaire. He can afford to help us.” Cyndi stands, leaving two ribs uneaten on her plate. “All of my friends have seen the inside of R. Multiple times. I can’t even get onto the guest list. It’s like Rainer has a personal vendetta against me.”
“Paranoid, much?” I laugh, the thought of anyone having a vendetta against my bubbly friend ludicrous.
“I’m serious.” Cyndi meets my gaze. A wet sheen clouds her beautiful green eyes.
My smile fades. She is serious. “Hey, I didn’t realize how much this was bothering you.” I should have known. She’s my best friend. I touch her shoulder.
“Don’t.” Cyndi brushes my hand away from her, rejecting my weak attempt at consolation. Her bottom lip trembles.
I gaze helplessly at her, not knowing what to say, how to fix this. The distance between us has never been this vast. “Cyndi—”
“They make fun of me, Bee. Because I can’t get into his club.” She doesn’t look at me. “I’m an object of ridicule. You don’t know what that’s like.” Cyndi runs into the bedroom and closes the door, placing yet another barrier between us.
I know exactly what it’s like not to fit in. That someone dared to exclude my wealthy, gorgeous, lovable best friend blows my mind. I’ll do anything to spare her that pain.
Even suck up my pride and talk to Nicolas.
Cyndi stays in her room for hours, her TV turned to an earsplitting volume. It isn’t like my happy-go-lucky friend to sulk, and this makes me feel even worse. She’s done so much for me, and I didn’t even ask to get on some measly guest list.
Needing to do something, anything to make her happy, I decide to clean our condo from top to bottom. I change into a T-shirt, hesitate for a heartbeat, then don my yoga pants, the pair with the hole in the back. Hawke, my tattooed stranger, has already seen my panties. It doesn’t matter if he sees them again.
Nothing I do when I’m around Hawke matters because he’s the leaving kind. When he hops on that pretty bike of his and rides out of Chicago, he’ll take my secrets with him. I can be as naughty, as perverted as I like. No one else will know.
I dust and sweep and stack the dishwasher, feeling truly free for the very first moment in my life. Every time I
move in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, I imagine Hawke is watching me, wanting me.
I want him to watch me. It’s sick, I know. I bend over with my ass facing the window and I wiggle, giving him a good show. Hawke can’t judge me harshly for my exhibitionism, as he’s watching this show, watching me.
Nicolas could be watching me also. He has claimed the penthouse suites on all three of the towers, and sometimes I’ve seen him sitting in the park late at night. But, unless he has binoculars as Hawke does, Nicolas won’t be able to see my panties. All he’ll see is a sexy young woman tidying her condo.
I stand on a chair to clean the ceiling fan, swiping the blades with my rainbow-colored as-seen-on-TV duster. My T-shirt pulls upward, revealing my flat pale stomach.
Giving my audience a glimpse of exposed skin thrills me. In my fantasy, I’m a mischievous maid and my employers secretly watch me, lusting after me. They sit in the dark, hard, frustrated with desire.
The doorbell rings. I jump to the floor, my bare feet smacking on the hardwood, and I wander to the door, peek through the peephole. Ugh. It’s Angel, living proof that labels don’t always reflect the contents. I fix a fake smile to my face and let her in.
The blonde is tall, painfully thin, and is wearing five-inch heels, making the height differential between us even greater than usual. I tilt my head back to gaze up at her, envying the black Salvatore Ferragamo purse nestled in the crook of her arm, her sequined top and matching silver skirt, her effortless tan. Her parents own half of Miami, and she doesn’t look at price tags when she shops, spending more in a day than I spend in a year. She views me as Cyndi’s live-in maid, an irritant to be endured.
“Evening, Angel.” I must be civil. This is Cyndi’s friend, and Cyndi isn’t exactly happy with me right now.
“Bertha.” Angel curls her thin top lip.
“My name is Bee.” I grit my teeth. She knows this. She simply doesn’t care.
“Whatever.” She shrugs her bony shoulders, her long platinum blonde locks skimming over her nonexistent ass. The girl needs a cheeseburger desperately. “Cyn here?”
