Sinful Rewards 7 Read online

  Dedication

  To my dear, wonderful hubby for accepting me the crazy way I am, to Zee Hayat, Melissa Weeks, and Jessica Leonard for being so very supportive of Sinful Rewards (tackle hugs), and to Elle Keck for bringing her editing talents and a fresh exciting perspective to this story. You all rock!

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About the Author

  Also by Cynthia Sax

  An Excerpt from Holding Holly by Julie Brannagh

  An Excerpt from It’s a Wonderful Fireman by Jennifer Bernard

  An Excerpt from Once Upon a Highland Christmas by Lecia Cornwall

  An Excerpt from Running Hot by HelenKay Dimon

  An Excerpt from Sinful Rewards 1 by Cynthia Sax

  An Excerpt from Return to Clan Sinclair by Karen Ranney

  An Excerpt from Return of the Bad Girl by Codi Gary

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  PASSION IS MESSY.

  Hawke’s deep voice rolls through my mind as I sweep broken glass into the trash. This morning, Cyndi, my best friend and roommate, proved my tattooed biker’s insight to be correct. She melted down over her failed relationship with movie star Cole Travers and smashed a bottle of wine against the wall.

  I vigorously scrub the red liquid off the white surface, removing the stain and some of the paint. Judging by the label, the wine must have been another gift from Francois. The former army man feels bad about calling me a whore, his angry words setting off an avalanche of gossip that threatens my future and the safety of the people I care about.

  Hawke is working to control the damage, and Nicolas, my billionaire, has a plan to restore my good-girl image. I’m trying my best not to freak out as my carefully constructed world crashes around my ears.

  My phone buzzes and I glance down at the small screen. It’s Hawke’s number, “Boyfriend” plastered across the display. I shouldn’t answer, shouldn’t tell him I’m meeting with his rival, shouldn’t encourage him in any way.

  “Bee Carter.” I press the phone against my heated face, the case cool. “I can’t talk for long. I’m meeting Nicolas at his penthouse in thirty minutes.”

  “At his penthouse.” Hawke’s low rumble communicates his displeasure.

  “Cyndi is here,” I whisper, walking into my bedroom. “I didn’t have a choice about the location.”

  “There’s always a choice, love.”

  “Is there?” I roll my eyes. “Does that mean you chose to punch Nicolas Rainer, a billionaire with a team of lawyers at his disposal? That rash decision could have landed you in jail.”

  “I chose to hit him with my weaker left hand, using a fraction of my strength,” Hawke replies. “And it wasn’t a rash decision. He was being—”

  “An asshole.” I complete his sentence. “I know. He told me.”

  “Did he tell you what he said?” Hawke asks.

  “No, and I don’t want to know.” I’m not an idiot. I realize their fight was about me. Nicolas likely relayed some of the gossip he’d heard and Hawke retaliated with his fists. “He has a plan to stop the rumors about me. That’s why I’m seeing him.”

  “How much of him are you seeing?”

  My lips curl upward, Hawke’s possessiveness thrilling me. He must care a little. “I doubt the first step in Nicolas’s plan to redeem my reputation is to seduce me.”

  “You would never allow that, even if it was. You don’t lose control around him.” Hawke, the arrogant bastard, sounds smug. “Listen to his plan, sweetheart, but don’t agree to anything until you discuss it with me.”

  “I’ll discuss it with you.” It costs me nothing to agree with him. “That doesn’t mean you’ll change my mind. We’re running out of options.” Shit. Did I use the word we? “I’m running out of options,” I correct. Hawke and I aren’t a couple.

  He chuckles. “You said it right the first time. Anything affecting you affects me. You’re my girl.”

  “I’m not your girl,” I protest.

  “You’re a terrible liar, sweetheart.” Hawke calls me on my bullshit, the man’s ability to read me scary. “Call when you need me.” A click signals the end of the call.

  He assumes I’ll need him, and he’s likely right. I’ve grown to rely on the former marine, valuing his insights and his experience. This scares the shit out of me. I toss the phone on the bed and stomp into the bathroom, smacking my bare feet against the tiles.

  My shower is quick, as I haven’t time to linger. Nicolas is always punctual, and he’ll expect me to arrive at his penthouse at our designated time. I dress speedily, without much thought. The pale blue blouse I don with my black pants and ballerina flats is the sixth-closest top hanging in my closet. That’s why I chose it. That the color matches Hawke’s eyes is a coincidence, nothing more.

  I yank my beautiful silver brush through my hair, loosening some of the long brown strands. My tattooed biker prefers that I wear my hair down, but I’m dressing for Nicolas and he’s more formal. I twist the tendrils into a tight chignon and pin them in place, the style making me look older, more sophisticated.

  This is how I want to appear, cultured and dignified, a woman who fits into my billionaire’s world, who belongs among the wealthy. Clipping my passcard and my phone to the waistband of my pants, I stride into the main room. I will be a classy lady, damn it, earning my place by Nicolas’s side, deserving my safe and secure forever.

  Cyndi’s door remains closed, my roommate taking her sweet time this morning. Her family owns the candy company she’s employed at. She has no concerns about getting fired.

  I toast two bagels, spreading cream cheese on all four halves, topping one half with fresh raspberries and the other three with sliced strawberries. I inhale the sole raspberry-topped half, eating standing up. Then I set its companion on a plate for Cyndi and place the bagel I prepared for Nicolas in a brown bag. My billionaire tries to survive on black coffee, not taking care of his sexy body. This morning, I’ll feed him.

  Because he is my billionaire. I pop an abandoned strawberry slice into my mouth and chew. Hawke isn’t the man for me.

  My fingers close around the dog tags he gave me to hold. He’s broke, unable to help my mom and unable to help me. I can’t risk everything on a lover who can’t afford furniture for his condo.

  Minutes pass, and Cyndi doesn’t emerge from her bedroom. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, dancing in place. Nicolas won’t appreciate it if I’m late.

  Unable to wait any longer, I grasp the bagged bagel in one hand and knock on my best friend’s door with the other. “Cyndi, are you okay?”

  “I hate work.” Her voice is muffled.

  “Everyone hates work.” My lips twitch. “That’s why they have to pay us to show up.” Cyndi mumbles a reply, her words inaudible. If she’s at the I-hate-work stage of her morning routine, she’ll be in her bedroom for another half an hour. I can’t wait for her. “I left your breakfast on the kitchen counter,” I relay through the wood. “I have to go out.”

  “Men suck.”

  Taking this response as agreement, I stride out the door. The locks buzz behind me, my shoes sink into the hallway’s rich red carpet, and the scent of vanilla fills my nostrils. This condo building is where I belong . . . permanently.

  I press the button for the elevator and the doors open instantly, as though confirming this statement. This is my home. I wave my passcard over the sensor and select the penthouse floor.

 
; The plastic circle illuminates and I’m gripped by guilt, my stomach twisting into tight knots. Nicolas has given me access to his floor and Hawke, being part of his security team, will know this. He’ll realize this is more than a casual meeting. We’re moving our relationship to the next level.

  If Nicolas’s plan works.

  If it doesn’t work, I’ll end my association with both men and leave Chicago forever. I won’t have a choice. My shoulders slump. I know from my mom’s experience that some gossip never dissipates. She’ll always be known as the wild woman of Happydale. Unless Nicolas saves me, I’ll always be known as the whore of Chicago.

  The elevator ascends excruciatingly slowly, giving me too much time to think, to worry about betraying Hawke, about what will happen if Nicolas’s plan isn’t successful and what will happen if it is successful.

  As I watch the red digital numbers change, I clutch the dog tags I constantly wear. There’s no future for Hawke and myself in either scenario, and I shouldn’t be crushed by this realization. I knew we wouldn’t, couldn’t last. My military man can’t give me the security I need.

  The elevator doors open and the vanilla scent intensifies. I step into the most gorgeous condo I’ve ever seen. Greek columns frame the entrance, stretching from the marble floors to crazy-high ceilings that must require a stepladder to clean. A bust of a bearded emperor guards the space, his expression grumpy.

  I frown back at him, wondering why my billionaire would choose him as a greeter. “Nicolas?” I call.

  There’s no reply. An eerie ticking noise breaks the silence, the same noise heard in thrillers before a building explodes. Tension stretches across my shoulders, the unoccupied penthouse scary as hell.

  Nicolas must be stuck in a meeting or negotiations or whatever workaholic real estate developers do during the day. I should sit close to the elevator doors and wait for him.

  I glance around me, my gaze settling on a settee placed against the white plaster walls. The legs are spindly and the seat is a pale striped silk. The delicate piece of furniture wasn’t designed to be used. This is a show settee.

  Nicolas must have more casual seats positioned deeper inside his penthouse. I trek into the space, following the path between the antique furniture, passing a huge grandfather clock, the source of the unnerving ticking, an ornate hallway table, several large green plants set in fancy pots, a huge statue of a winged headless woman. The French-tailored loveseat placed in front of a stone mosaic appears as uncomfortable as the settee.

  I enter the dining room. A cabinet displays shining silver serving sets. Twenty stiff-backed seats surround a massive table. I sweep my fingers over the rich wood and no dust coats my skin, the surface immaculately clean. He can’t eat here. This piece of furniture is built for board meetings, not family meals.

  Nicolas must devour his dinners on a smaller, more intimate table, because he’s normal and that’s what normal people do. They cook meals, sit around tables, lingering over food and talking about their days, their hopes, their dreams, giving each person the attention he or she craves. They don’t eat the free food at their workplaces and then bring home leftovers for their daughters, too exhausted to listen to their news.

  I increase my pace, desperate to find Nicolas’s private space, to prove to myself that he can give me the normal life I want.

  Oil paintings hang on the walls, surrounded by gold-gilded frames. A Chippendale chair is set in one corner, its claw feet pinning a priceless carpet to the hard floor. There aren’t any personal photos or any other indication that this is someone’s home.

  A chill creeps up my legs, permeating the fabric of my pants. Visually, this is the home I dreamed I’d have, the residence I expected Nicolas to own, similar to the houses and luxury condos I’ve seen in style magazines and TV shows.

  Emotionally, it’s empty, as cold as a Chicago winter. My lonely billionaire lives in a museum, the rooms showcasing his wealth, saying nothing of the man, of his desires.

  I finally locate the kitchen, the heart of every home, and my disappointment compounds. Nicolas has the best of everything. The cabinets are dark cherrywood, the countertop is enameled lava, and the appliances are black. But the space is as impersonal as the rest of the penthouse, lacking personality, love, a soul.

  Nicolas needs me as much as I need him. I can give him the warmth he craves, add a richness to his life money can’t buy, make his condo a home.

  I should want to do this, not feel guilty, as though I’m betraying my former marine, a man who hasn’t promised me anything except a good time. Hawke’s face fills my mind, his flattened nose, broad forehead, scarred skin, lopsided smile.

  He’s not your forever, Bee, I reprimand myself. Focus on what you need. I remove a delicate white plate from a cabinet and set the bagel I’d prepared for Nicolas upon it.

  Sesame seeds fall from the paper bag, dirtying his tiled floor. I open the cabinets, looking for a broom or dustpan. Nicolas has the best pans, pots, small appliances, and dishes, but there are no spices, no dry goods, and nothing to sweep the floor with. Who doesn’t have cleaning supplies?

  “Bee?” Nicolas calls.

  “I’m in your kitchen,” I reply as I search more drawers, finding nothing. He’ll be here in minutes, seconds, and see how I’ve messed up his pretty penthouse. I bend over and brush the sesame seeds into my palm.

  “What are you doing?” my billionaire drawls.

  I fold my fingers over the seeds. “I’m cleaning.” I straighten and turn to face him.

  Nicolas appears as handsome as he always does, clad in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and gray silk tie. His hair is black, his eyes dark, and his skin golden, his only blemishes being the crack in his lip and the bruise on his chin, damage done by Hawke’s massive fists.

  “Are you saying my home is dirty?” Nicolas raises one fine eyebrow.

  My face heats. “I made a mess.” I open the cabinet under the sink and toss the sesame seeds into the trash can. “I brought you breakfast.” I wash my hands. “A bagel with cream cheese and fresh strawberries.” I wave my fingers in the air, not having found a hand towel in any of my explorations.

  Nicolas watches my antics, his lips twitching with amusement. “You don’t have to cook or clean.”

  I clean because it centers me and builds my confidence. Cooking is my small way of showing people I care. Nicolas doesn’t know this about me because I haven’t shared my innermost thoughts with him. Will he accept these quirks? I chew on the inside of my cheek, unsure.

  “I have people for that,” my gorgeous billionaire adds.

  He has people. It bothers the hell out of me that Nicolas views his employees as possessions, not living, breathing, loving beings.

  “Do these people have names?” I ask, bristling with indignation. “Do you know their birthdays, their children’s names? They care for you. Do you care for them?”

  “I pay their salaries. That’s how I care for them.” Nicolas reaches into his suit jacket, removes his precious phone, and places it on the countertop. The screen is black, the device turned off. He’s serious about this conversation. “What have I done wrong now?”

  That he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong worries me. He treats his employees as the customers at the diner treat my hardworking mom, not caring about her life, her problems, her daughter.

  Could I spend forever with a man who might not respect my mom?

  Nicolas would help her financially. He’d be polite, say all of the right things. But if he didn’t value my mom, she’d know and I’d know. I won’t expose my mom to someone who’d look down at her. My tolerance for anyone hurting her is nonexistent.

  “Bee?”

  “I wasn’t sure where I should wait.” I avoid answering his question.

  Nicolas moves toward me, his gait loose and smooth. “So you chose the kitchen?” His smile ignites the gold sparks in his chocolate-brown eyes. “I’d forgotten I had one.” He cups my chin and lifts my gaze to his. “I don’t use
it very often.”

  He has this huge kitchen, these fancy appliances, the best pans money can buy, and he doesn’t use them. “Which rooms do you use?” I ask.

  “The bedroom.” Nicolas shrugs, his elegantly clad shoulders rising and falling. “The business demands long hours, and I do my entertaining elsewhere.”

  My lips flatten. My billionaire and my mom are very much alike, always working, never home. “That will change when you have a family,” I firmly state. “You’ll put them first, spending less time with the business and more time with them.”

  “I suppose I will.” The doubt flickering in his eyes alarms me. “I suspect my wife will send me articles on how to be a good husband, a good father.” He frames my face with his smooth palms.

  I’m the only woman sending him articles. The wife Nicolas is referring to is me. He wants to marry me, thinks I’m worthy. My happiness is tempered with more guilt, my heart protesting the billionaire’s words, his touch, his scent, wishing Hawke, not Nicolas, was standing before me.

  “Ummm . . . ” I swallow hard. “I suspect she will.” I attempt a casual tone, achieve a high and squeaky response.

  Nicolas’s gaze lowers to my lips. “Yes.” He dips his head and I pull away.

  His body stiffens and I realize what I’ve done. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. It had been a reflex action, my body disconnecting from my brain.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.” I lie my ass off, trying to save our relationship, not knowing why I withdrew from him. “Your lip is a mess.” I skim trembling fingertips over his damaged lip, hoping he’ll buy this excuse.

  Nicolas awards me one of his rare smiles and the cut in his flesh reopens, the slice of red glistening. “You’re worrying about me again.”

  He hooks his arms around my waist and draws me into his long, lean physique, the scent of his expensive cologne engulfing me. The fabric of his suit is soft, his form hard. I’m confused and I shouldn’t be. Nicolas is my future. This handsome, charming billionaire considers me marriage material, views me as his partner in life.

  This is everything I’ve always wanted.

  Isn’t it?