Sinful Rewards 11

by Cynthia Sax

  His team had entered the condo. “We’re not in danger.” I sag against him, trusting my former marine to keep me upright.

  “We’re not in danger.” Hawke straps his arms around me, catching me as I fall. “But I want you to pay as close attention to your surroundings tonight,” he commands. “If you see anything unusual or are at all uneasy, leave immediately. Don’t try to save Nicolas.”

  I won’t abandon my friend. I open my mouth to protest.

  “Our team will protect him.” Hawke’s tone is firm, allowing no refusal. “You protect yourself and get the hell out of there, understand?” His gaze holds mine, his jaw jutted, his face set in stone. He’s serious about these instructions.

  I swallow hard and nod.

  “Good girl.” He crushes me to his chest, pressing my face against his black cotton T-shirt. I inhale his distinct scent, savoring the way his body curves protectively around mine. He strokes my hair, skimming his palms along the straight tendrils, grazing my ass.

  “I could save Nicolas if that was required.” I force my light tone. “Ellen told me how to kill a man with my heels.”

  “Keep your shoes on your feet and leave the killing to her.” Hawke straightens to his full impressive height. He’s a brute, my man, a giant wall of muscle.

  I want him again, still, forever. My nipples tighten, passions I thought sated resurfacing. “Hawke?” I lower my hands, navigating his abs with my fingertips.

  He groans. “Gisele will arrive soon, love.”

  Right. We’re pet parents now. We can’t merely think about our own desires. “We should inventory our new cat supplies.”

  The water and food bowls are set on the kitchen floor, both filled, ready for her arrival. We find the kitty litter in a closet, and dry and wet food in the kitchen cabinets. A box with her grooming supplies and more cat toys than any pet ever needs is positioned on the counter. Catnip growing in a ceramic planter is placed near the window.

  “Where’s the litter box?” I turn, surveying the main room. “Mack couldn’t have forgotten it.”

  “He didn’t.” Hawke grins. He lifts the photos off the metallic trunk serving as his table and opens the lid. “Look.”

  I gaze into the trunk. A litter box is placed inside, a hole large enough for a cat carved in the exterior. “That’s clever.” The litter box is completely concealed.

  “She won’t track litter all over the condo.”

  “She’d never do that,” I defend Gisele. “She’s a good cat.”

  “She’s still a cat.” Hawke laughs, his joy filling the space, as large and unfettered as he is. “You can’t expect cats to be neat, love.” He closes the lid, replacing his photos. “They’re animals.”

  “You’d still love her if she tracked litter all over the place?” If she isn’t worthy? I chew on the inside of my cheek.

  His rugged face softens. “Yes, I’d still love her.” Hawke’s voice is husky. “Come here.” He draws me against him, surrounding me with his warmth, with his scent. “I’m not perfect, am I? And you love me.”

  “Your clothing is awful,” I mumble against his hideous T-shirt, not knowing why I’m so emotional. “You have no sense of style.” This no longer bothers me. I’d happily spend a lifetime cradled against his serviceable fashions.

  His chest shakes. He’s laughing again.

  “And you’re not a handsome man,” I add. “Your face is more interesting than pretty.” I touch his square chin, tracing the silver scar carved into his stubble. “I could look at it forever and never become bored.”

  “Because you love me.” Hawke has no doubt in his voice.

  “Because I love you.” I’m certain about my feelings but not his. Could he look at my face forever and never become bored? Will he someday embrace my faults, love me, never let me go?

  The doorbell rings. “Gisele is here.” I bounce out of his arms. “She’s here, Hawke.” I dance around him.

  He looks through the peephole and grins. “Yes, she is.” Hawke opens the door. Mack stands in the hallway, holding a gray pet carrier, a big smile illuminating his scary face. They talk, their words too low for me to decipher.

  I wiggle with excitement. “Invite Mack in.”

  Hawke clasps the carrier. “He’s leaving.”

  “He doesn’t have to leave.” I flutter around the space, my stomach a jumble of nerves. “I’ll make him lunch.”

  Mack’s eyes light up and his smile widens.

  “He’s leaving.” Hawke closes the door in his friend’s face. “This is a family moment.” He sets the carrier carefully on the floor. “Only the three of us should share it.”

  This is a family moment. Hawke, Gisele, and I are a family. My chest expands until I fear I’ll explode.

  “Wait.” I grab my phone and switch to video mode. “I want to capture this moment.” Hawke’s right hand hovers on the plastic lattice gate. I zoom out to record his harsh countenance. “Okay, now.” He opens the carrier and we wait.

  Nothing happens. Our new cat doesn’t exit.

  “You can come out now, Gisele.” I drop to my knees. “This is your forever home.” I glance inside. She’s curled in the far end of the space, her yellow eyes shining, her little body trembling. “I know how scary it can be, to enter a room, not knowing what people will do or say, if they’re friendly or if they want to hurt you. But Hawke is here and I’m here, and we won’t let anything bad happen to you.” I extend one of my hands, trying to coax her forward.

  She doesn’t move.

  “What do we do?” I gaze up at Hawke. “She doesn’t like to be touched.”

  “She’s accustomed to being alone.” His voice is low and deep and reassuring. He’s dealt with the barn cats on his family’s orchard. He knows what he’s doing. “We could force her to exit or we could wait, allow her to come to us.”

  I’m superexcited and I want to force her, but I know that isn’t the right approach. She could resent it and then hate me forever. “We’ll wait.” I stand and hold out my hand, needing his touch. Hawke curls his fingers around mine, his palm rough and calloused. “She’ll come to us.” Eventually . . . I hope. I glance down at the pet carrier. Our cat hasn’t left the small space. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.” My big man beams.

  I cook chicken breasts and bacon, slice tomatoes, separate lettuce leaves, and toast thickly sliced bread, constructing three classic club sandwiches for Hawke and one for myself. He sets place mats and silverware on the counter, fills glasses with ice water. His phone rings and he doesn’t answer it.

  I shouldn’t ask. I place the sandwiches on plates. Hawke’s focusing on me. I’m his priority. I should savor this time together and keep my mouth shut.

  Oh shit. I have to ask.

  “Aren’t you answering your phone?” I slide his plate toward him. “It could be important.” One of his men could be calling him, supplying a reason why I should stay home tonight.

  “We’re preparing lunch.” Hawke claims his bar stool.

  I sit beside him. “I could have prepared lunch by myself. It’s the least I could do. You’re working and I’m—”

  “Working.” He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, dragging the bar stool across the hardwood. “You’re starting a business. I expect an invoice from you and Cyndi for the fashion advice you’re giving Ellen.”

  “That was a friend helping a friend.” I shrug. “I can’t charge for that.”

  “You can and you will.” Hawke’s voice is firm. “She’s not the only member of the team requiring help with her clothing. I want to track these requests and make it worthwhile for you to agree.”

  But to charge his friends? That’s not right. My lips part.

  “Would Cyndi have charged Ellen?” he asks, the damn man knowing the answer.

  “Yes.” My business-minded best friend likely would have overcharged Ellen simply because she could. “Are you serious about this? You want us to invoice the Organization?”r />
  “I do. I’ll also be hiring you for future projects. Your assistance with the surveillance tapes has been invaluable, exposing a gap in the team.” Hawke holds one of the sandwiches in his big hands. “No one notices fashion like you do.”

  He says this as though I have a gift, as though I’m special. “And you need that?”

  “Yep.” Hawke nods. “You have a unique skill. I planned to hire you full-time but treating you as a vendor is a better solution. I prefer not to be your boss.” He bites into the sandwich and his lips curl upward. He does love my cooking.

  And he thinks I have a unique skill. I sit straighter, pride fusing my vertebrae. “I’ll talk to Cyndi and we’ll invoice the Organization.” I squirm, my excitement building. “You’ll be our very first client.”

  Hawke slides his glance to my face. “I expect to be a preferred client.”

  He believes we’ll have many more clients. I swing my legs. He believes in us.

  I nibble on my sandwich. Hawke inhales two sandwiches and raises the third one to his lips. A black bundle of fur streaks up his jeans, claws her way along his T-shirt, and perches on his left shoulder, her tail swiping back and forth, back and forth, her yellow-eyed gaze fixed on his lunch.

  Our cat has joined us, accepting us as part of her family. I glow with happiness.

  “Someone likes chicken.” He offers Gisele a small square of cooked white meat. She eats it daintily and then licks her fur clean.

  “It’s your turn.” Hawke hands me a piece.

  I hesitate, not knowing what to do, having no experience with cats. “I’ll scare her.”

  “You won’t scare her. All of my girls are fearless.” He gives me one of his lopsided grins. “Hold it out to her.”

  I do as he advises, my fingers shaking. Gisele bites into the chicken, pulling it from my grasp. “She took it,” I whisper.

  “Your food is delicious.” His eyes twinkle. “How can she resist?”

  I beam. My cat and my man appreciate my culinary efforts.

  Hawke selects slivers of meat and I feed her. I can’t look away from her cute little face. We have a cat, the pet I’ve always wanted, and we’re taking care of her, together.

  Gisele twitches more and more with every movement Hawke makes. Eventually she loses interest in the chicken, her suspicion overcoming her hunger. He reaches for his glass of water. She jumps from his shoulder to my lap to the floor and dashes into the trunk with the litter box.

  “Gisele found her bathroom.” I hop off the bar stool and place the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Hawke will leave to supervise his security scan soon. I wish he could stay home, but at least I won’t be alone. Gisele and I have each other.

  “Maybe I should stay in tonight.” I’m responsible for our cat. Her needs come first. “She might be frightened being here all alone.”

  Hawke’s jaw moves as though he’s debating with himself. I wait for his advice. He’s the expert on cats.

  My former marine sighs, finally coming to a decision. “She’ll be fine, love, better than fine. It will allow her to explore, to learn her territory, make the condo her home.” He stands, clipping his boxy phone to his belt. “She’s used to being solitary.”

  “Should I give her more space?” I slide my fingers into his calloused palm.

  “Allow her to decide how much space she needs,” he advises as we walk toward the door. “Cats are perverse. If you act like you don’t care, she’ll want your company.” Hawke dips his head and skims his lips over mine, a teasing, tempting touch promising future passion. “Call if you need me.”

  “I always need you.” My voice is husky, my body warmed by his embrace.

  Hawke’s eyes gleam. He wants me also, the ridge in his blue jeans pronounced, his form hard with desire. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect for me.” He kisses me again, a quick playful smack on the lips, and he saunters out the door, his shoulders square, his stride long, leaving me with our new cat and a very dirty condo.

  Chapter Six

  I CLEAN THE condo, sweeping the floor and wiping the counters. Gisele watches me from the hiding place in the trunk, her yellow cat eyes not blinking once. Cyndi texts me. I tell her our good news, that we have our very first paying client. She sends me a video of her doing a happy dance, Cole gazing at her, his movie-star handsome face soft with caring. She also promises to send me an invoice I can forward to Hawke.

  I wish my best friend were here. In the movies, the ugly-duckling-soon-to-become-the-prom-queen’s girlfriends convene en masse at her house. They help her with her hair, makeup, and dress, laughing and teasing her and exchanging boy advice. I want this full experience, but don’t know whom to ask. My mom is four states away. Susan is sick. Hawke is busy with security. Nicolas would be bored out of his brilliant mind. My scary new friend Ellen isn’t the teasing and laughing type.

  I press Lona’s number before I think about the possible consequences.

  “You shouldn’t be calling me, hon.” The high-class escort’s voice is husky, hinting of smoky clubs and carnal delights. “What would your friends say?”

  “I don’t know. What would you say?” I counter, realizing only now how much I’ve missed the older woman.

  Depriving myself of her company, her wisdom, and her friendship because I was afraid of what some judgmental strangers might think was foolish. Hawke considers Lona to be his friend. My mom approves of her. Nicolas allows her to live in one of his precious buildings, and Cyndi doesn’t care. I shouldn’t care either.

  “I need some style advice.” I use this as the excuse for the call, not wanting to sound too desperate. “I’m attending a charity ball tonight.”

  “Hawke is attending a ball?” Lona’s laughter is classy, controlled, as elegant as she is.

  “I’m going with someone else,” I admit, pushing aside my guilt.

  “What are you doing, hon?” My friend clucks her tongue, communicating her disapproval. “Hawke is a good man and he cares for you. You’re living together. He—”

  “He knows and he doesn’t mind.” I interrupt her spiel before she makes me feel even worse. “I’m wearing a black gown, black sandals.” I steer the conversation to the more neutral topic of fashion. “And I’m torn between the expected red toenail polish and doing something different.”

  “No red.” She rules out this classic option. “There will be hundreds of women striving for that version of sophistication. Very few can offer your youth, your freshness. Your look should be playful, a little sparkle, some whimsy, fun.”

  I like sparkle. “I don’t have the makeup for that look.” I’ve tried my entire life to fit in, to not take any fashion chances, to be perfect. “And I can’t leave the building. The paparazzi blockade remains outside.”

  “I noticed.” Lona’s tone is dry. “I’ll buy the nail polish and makeup and ask Jacob to deliver them.”

  “I wish you could deliver them yourself.” I don’t want to be alone. “But with the cameras outside, I guess Jacob is the safer choice. No one notices a security guard.”

  “Any escort worth her hourly rate can enter a building without being detected,” Lona says smugly. “Some of my clients included rock stars, high-profile politicians, and billionaires.”

  Nicolas is a billionaire. Has he ever hired my friend? I don’t ask. I’d rather not know.

  “Then you can visit me.” I walk across the room to the window. My cat watches me from her hiding place. She cares about me, about what I do, where I go. “If you have time.”

  “I have time.” Lona pauses. “There’s always a chance that I’ll be caught. The paparazzi would then link our names together again, ruin your restored reputation.”

  My reputation is only partially restored. I stare down at the park, the sliver of green flat and bare without Nicolas’s beloved tree. Some of the people attending tonight will believe I’m a whore. They’ll always believe this, as some of the people living in Happydale will always view my strong, brave mom as being wild, unworthy
, and less than.

  “I’ll risk my reputation.” I clutch the dog tags hanging between my breasts. “I want to see you.”

  Moments pass. She doesn’t say anything. I glance at my phone. We remain connected. “Lona?”

  “You’re a good person, Belinda,” she says softly. “I’ll be there in an hour.” She ends our call.

  “Did you hear that, Gisele?” I look at my cat. “We’re having company.” She licks her dainty black paws. “I agree. We should get ready.”

  I hurry into the bedroom, hang my gorgeous Prada gown in Hawke’s eerily semiempty closet, and steam the wrinkles out of the luxurious fabric. It’s almost too beautiful to wear, the skirt fairy-tale-princess light.

  I set the sandals under the dress and envision the entire outfit. The black will accentuate the paleness of my skin. The fit will be perfect, the hem skimming the red carpet.

  With this dress, I can enter the ballroom and know I belong, that I deserve to be there. Heads will turn. They’ll gaze at me with wonder, begrudging admiration reflecting in their eyes. No one will find fault with me, not Angel, not Dru, not one of my critics.

  I frown. These critics are the same people who rejected Cyndi and Lona, my friends, who labeled me as being a whore for having lunch with a tormented soldier, who treated Hawke like shit because they thought he was merely a bodyguard, merely a man devoted to protecting them, willing to die for their ungrateful asses.

  Fuck them. I step into the bathroom. It’s no wonder that Nicolas wants me by his side, that he wants a friend in his corner. I won’t abandon him . . . not until he abandons me. Then I’ll ask Mack or Ellen to escort me home.

  Satisfied with this plan, I carefully set my diamond hair comb on the vanity, quickly strip and shower, reluctantly washing Hawke’s scent from my skin. His mark on my breast remains, a brand of possession I wear proudly.

  I dress in black G-string panties and the red silk robe Cyndi forced me to wear to the English department’s senior year “pimps and hoes” party two years ago. The garment is poorly crafted and shamefully slutastic, but I need something I can remove without mussing my hair. This robe is the best choice.