Sinful Rewards 11 Read online

  He gazes at me, not answering.

  “Right, you don’t talk about clients.” My laugh is semihysterical. I’m screwing this up. “I realize you don’t like to attend fancy society events, and I’m okay with that. I can go with a friend.” It’s the only way I can go. Nicolas is the person with the invitation.

  “You’ll go with Nicolas,” Hawke says the billionaire’s name with distaste. “Why do you want to attend this ball?”

  He isn’t buying my “it’s like a fairy tale” excuse. I push my food around my plate, considering my words carefully. “I’ve been excluded my entire life, not considered good enough.” I can’t look at him, can’t see the judgment in his eyes. “I want to know what it feels like to belong, to just once walk into a room filled with important people and know I deserve to be there.”

  My little speech is followed by silence.

  Hawke doesn’t like the idea, doesn’t think my foolish dream is worth the risks. That’s why he isn’t saying anything. I set down my fork and brace myself for his refusal.

  Hawke rubs his barbed wire tattoo. “You really want this?”

  “Yes.” I nod. This could be my only chance to attend this type of event. As no one knows Hawke is wealthy, he’ll never be on any invite list, never be part of this world. I’d be a fool not to push for this.

  Hawke stares at the wall for one, two, three heartbeats. “Okay. I don’t like it, but we’ll make this happen for you . . . safely.” He wraps his left arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him, dragging the bar stool across the floor. “You’re taking Mack and Ellen and Prick with you.” His lips flatten, his expression grim. “And you’ll save all your kisses for me.” He isn’t happy, but he’s agreeing because I want this, because this is important to me.

  I beam at him. “Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.” I vibrate with excitement, imagining the night. “Ohhh . . . I’m going to a ball, a real live ball.” I clap my hands, unable to stay still. “I’ve never been to such a fancy party.”

  “You didn’t go to your prom?”

  “No.” My smile wavers. “A prom is an event for respectable young ladies, not the daughter of Happydale’s wild woman.” I quote Mrs. Davis, imitating her condescending tone. I would have fought her decree if I’d had support. But all of my friends had deserted me by graduation, chased away by rumors and peer pressure.

  Hawke’s face darkens. “Do you want me to have them killed?”

  My military man’s bloodthirsty reaction extinguishes the sadness of my past. “I don’t want them killed today.” I grin. “Because today, I’m going to a ball.” I barely contain my squeal. “I’ll be one of them, one of the beautiful people. Smartly dressed waiters will circulate, serving guests champagne in crystal glasses, serving me.” I wiggle. “I won’t be working. I’ll be a guest.” My chest expands with pride.

  “Only have one glass of champagne,” Hawke advises gruffly, his voice raw. “You’re a lightweight.”

  He’s right. I can’t risk getting drunk. I want to remember every minute of tonight. “I’ll ask for sparkling water.” I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t like it, but I doubt they’ll serve Chicago tap.” I wish Hawke could be there, could share this wonderful experience with me. It won’t be as magical without him.

  I chatter about the ball, speculating about the fashions, the décor, the looks on Dru and my old boss’s faces when they see me, as a guest, not a worker bee. Hawke listens, devouring his eggs and toast with gusto. He places his dirty dishes in the dishwasher and gathers his things. Lines are etched in his broad forehead and around his mouth.

  “You’re worried about tonight.” I state the obvious, linking my fingers with his as we walk toward the door.

  “We prefer clients give us a week’s notice at the minimum, for media-saturated events.” Hawke’s tone is businesslike, his stance clear. I’m now a client and this is a job for him. My shoulders slump. I want to be more. “There are precautions we have to put into place, staffing issues, notifications to the organizers.”

  “Oh.” I’ve created a shitload of work for him and his team. “Sorry.” I squeeze his hand. “What can I do to help?”

  “Pay attention to your surroundings tonight and notify us if you see anything suspicious, an unaccompanied purse, a shady-looking employee, anything. If there are any security breaches, you’re leaving.” Hawke gazes down at me. “You’ll obey our orders and ask questions later, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” I resist the urge to salute him. He’s in a tizzy about gaining me as a client at the last minute and won’t find that response amusing.

  “You might not be at the ball long,” my former marine warns.

  “All I need is twenty minutes, thirty tops.” I willingly sacrifice the rest of the evening to earn my grand entrance. “Then your team can go home or to the Road Gator or wherever they spend their Saturdays.” They don’t have to give up their entire night for me.

  “You want to walk into the room and feel like you belong there.” Hawke repeats my words.

  “That’s all I want.” That has always been my dream—to belong. “Do you think they’ll have a red carpet again this year?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Oh my God.” I dance in place, imagining my entrance. I’ll sweep into the venue like a movie star, my black gown framed against the red carpet, the camera flashes lighting every detail on the bodice and skirt. “It’ll be so beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful.” Hawke’s eyes glitter.

  I meet his gaze, wishing yet again that he were my date for tonight. He’ll be watching me. He always watches me. But that isn’t the same.

  “Call if you need me.” He brushes his lips over mine, a tempting, teasing taste of man. “You can distract me whenever you want now.”

  Distracting him won’t place him in danger. “You’ll be busy today.” I flatten my palms over his black T-shirt, craving contact with him.

  “I’m never too busy for you.” Hawke says the words I need to hear.

  “Put your safety first.” I pat the center of his chest, where the sun is tattooed on his skin. “You might not be on assignment, but don’t stop being careful.”

  “I won’t.” Hawke kisses me once more, squeezes my hips, and strides out the door, leaving me alone.

  I gaze around the empty condo, horrified at its messy state. Hawke is working hard to keep people safe. He deserves better than this.

  I wash the pans, scrub the oven and counter, sweep the fallen petals from Francois’s bouquet. As always, the cleaning soothes me and puts my thoughts in order.

  I send Hawke a list of items Gisele, our new cat, will need, being very specific about colors and designs. Knowing his taste, I’m not taking any chances.

  As I press Send, the doorbell rings. I glance through the peephole to see Jacob, the security guard in the south tower, standing in the hallway, a plain brown box in his hands.

  He has my reward. I swing the door open. “Good morning, Jacob.”

  “Good morning, Miss Bee.” The middle-aged man smiles. “Your secret admirer delivered your package to the south tower yet again this morning.” He holds out the box.

  My secret admirer knows that five of Hawke’s best men are monitoring the north tower. “Thank you.” I grasp the brown cardboard package. Today’s reward is small and very light. “You haven’t caught him yet.”

  “Not yet.” The security guard winks as he turns to leave. “He’s a clever fellow.”

  “He is.” Is Friendly a single person? I close the door, set the box on the gleaming hardwood, and kneel beside it.

  Hawke is involved with the challenges. He was my mysterious assistant yesterday, watched me during all of my prompted performances. I squirm, aroused and animated. He can afford the rewards. I know this now.

  However, my former marine is also seriously fashion-impaired. He doesn’t notice clothes, doesn’t appreciate designs, yet every outfit, every accessory sent, has been exquisite. The Chane
l suit is a garment our mutual friend Lona would choose. Chanel is her favorite designer.

  She must be overseeing the challenges.

  I open the box. The expected ivory card stock with “Your Reward” is set on top of brown tissue paper. I brush it aside. The note will be saved, treasured as all of the previous ones are, tucked into one of my plastic storage boxes.

  I peel the tissue paper away, revealing a distinctive sapphire blue leather box with an HW etched on the top. My breath catches. Harry Winston. My fingers tremble. I’ll own something from the jeweler to the stars.

  Cyndi has to see this. I snap a photo of the box on my phone and send it to my best friend, wishing she were here, instead of in LA. She’d dance around the room, cheering.

  She’d also open the box. I prefer to speculate on its contents, to dream about the possibilities. It isn’t a ring. The box is long and flat. Not that I want a ring from Hawke. I tilt my head. Do I?

  No, I don’t, I decide. It’s too soon. He isn’t in love with me, hasn’t said the words. He’s with me because he feels obligated. I haven’t yet earned my forever.

  But I will. My jaw juts. I’ll be the best damn girlfriend he has ever had. My fingers close around Rock’s dog tags. Hawke will never let me go.

  My gaze returns to the box, and I ponder what treasure it might contain. Everything at Harry Winston is exquisitely designed. Today’s reward won’t outdo my red Salvatore Ferragamo purse, but it is certain to impress me.

  I hold the Harry Winston gift box in my left hand, the leather delectably soft against my skin, and I slowly open the lid.

  Oh my God. The floor shifts beneath my knees, my breath growing tight. It’s a silver comb covered with dazzling gems. I don’t need to read the certificate of authenticity tucked under the box to know these gems are diamonds, dozens of them, glittering and flawless.

  This reward rivals my purse, and it now belongs to me, the daughter of a hardworking waitress and a no-account biker. I force myself to breathe in and out, attempting to calm the hell down. Hawke gave me this treasure, gave me jewels that have existed for centuries, crafted by masters into a functional work of art. My vision blurs.

  And the comb was chosen by him, without any assistance, with me in mind. The waves on the spine resemble air currents, the wind whipping over Hawke’s big bike, his broad shoulders, our joined bodies.

  Lona might have helped him with the clothing, but this reward is too intimate, too personal to be sent from anyone other than my former marine.

  He’s Friendly, my mysterious texter, the person pushing my sexual limits, embracing my exhibitionistic side. I now know this without a doubt, suspect a part of me has always realized this.

  I trace the silver teeth, the metal cool against my fingertips. Hawke has seen all of me, my perversions and my messes, yet he has deemed me worthy of precious jewels. I’ll look like a princess tonight with my beautiful hair comb and black Prada gown.

  The doorbell rings. “Just a minute,” I yell. Shit. I gently set the comb in the leather case, place the case in the cardboard box, jump to my feet, and hurry into the bedroom. There aren’t many places to hide a priceless treasure. I tuck it into the closet, behind one of Hawke’s rifle-shaped black bags.

  The doorbell rings again. “I’m coming.” I rush through the condo and open the door.

  Ellen glares at me. “You didn’t even look through the peephole.” The beautiful mercenary is wearing a body-hugging green T-shirt, unattractive cargo pants, and the big black boots all of Hawke’s team members are wearing this season. “You had no idea who was waiting for you.” She pushes me aside and clomps into the main room. “And Hawke is allowing you around possible hostiles.” She gives a very unladylike snort. “That’s a bad fucking idea.”

  She must be talking about tonight’s ball. “You won’t tell Hawke that you think it’s a bad idea, will you?” Panic swells within me. He already has misgivings about my attendance.

  “No.” Ellen glowers. “But I should tell him. You’re worse than our clients.”

  My shoulders lower. “I’ll be a great client, the best client you have.”

  “You’ll be a terrible client,” she argues. “And if that was all you were, it wouldn’t matter. We lose one client . . . ” Ellen shrugs. “The team will be pissed off and frustrated as hell, but that’s the price of war. Causalities happen.”

  I shiver at her callous tone.

  “You, on the other hand, are more than a client,” she continues. “You’re family, and that’s an irreplaceable loss.”

  I gaze at her, stunned. She thinks I’m irreplaceable, one of a kind, designer. “Am I family?”

  “Yeah, you’re like our little sister.” Ellen’s boots ring on the hardwood. “Our helpless little sister whom we clearly have to protect. These are for you.” She reaches into her back pocket and hands me a package.

  They’re acrylic toenails, the kind the stars use. I blink, my emotions dangerously close to the surface. I can wear my sandals tonight. “Did Hawke buy these for me?”

  “He asked me to source them. Can you believe that?” Ellen sounds disgusted. “He’s worried about whether or not you feel beautiful when he should be concerned about hostiles icing your tiny ass. Men.” She makes a face. “They only think with their dicks. Because if he thought with his big brain, he’d bar you from attending tonight. This event is advertised all over the place. Every homegrown terrorist in the country knows about it.”

  Yet I suspect I’m the only client she’s warning. Because Ellen cares about me. My chest heats. “I’ve never had a sister.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ellen shakes her head, her ponytail slapping against her shoulders. “You have Cyndi, that blonde bouncy friend of yours. You’ve been in the trenches together. That makes you sisters.”

  “I guess it does.” I smile. Cyndi is my sister, in all but name and blood. “If you don’t want to work tonight, I’m sure Mack and Prick can safeguard me.”

  “Mack and Prick can’t safeguard their own asses.” Ellen rolls her big brown eyes. “Thankfully, you’ll have the entire team looking out for you.”

  “I have the entire team looking out for me?” She must be exaggerating.

  “Hawke drafted Mack, Prick, and me, and then he asked for volunteers,” she clarifies. “Everyone who was in the city and wasn’t working or busy volunteered. We protect our own.” She lifts her chin proudly.

  Oh God. They’re giving up their precious nights off so I can go to a ball. “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be entering a potential war zone.” Ellen stomps around the room, clearly agitated. “Why you want to attend this thing, I don’t know. Your Mr. Rainer will talk on his phone all night. Susan, your former coworker, will be working. You have no other allies there.”

  I frown. “Does everyone know everything about me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She doesn’t bullshit me. “Because that’s what we do. We gather intelligence on our clients to protect them. Our friends and our family deserve the same treatment.”

  They know everything about me and they still accept me, consider me part of their family. “I’ve never been to a ball.” My reason for attending sounds weak even to me.

  “I’ve attended too many of these stupid events.” Ellen plucks at her T-shirt. “Unless you have someone to talk to, they’re as boring as burning out four-holer heads.”

  I don’t know what that means. “There are other guests. You always have someone to talk to.”

  “When the guests think you’re one of them, sure, they’ll talk to you,” she concedes. “But if they suspect you’re security, a professional paid to protect them, someone willing to die for their bony asses, they’ll treat you like shit.”

  “They don’t treat Hawke like shit,” I insist. They wouldn’t dare.

  “Not to his face,” Ellen mumbles.

  I want to tell her she’s wrong. Hawke is a six-foot-forever former marine, brave and intelli
gent and strong, easily one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known.

  But in my heart, I know she’s right. He’s viewed by the privileged guests as a replaceable employee, not as important or as worthy as they are. This makes me angry.

  It also makes me question my objective. Do I want to be embraced by people who don’t respect Hawke, who treat him like shit?

  Ellen tweaks her shirt again. I push my misgivings aside and focus on her outfit. It isn’t pretty, but it’s a vast improvement over her usual wardrobe. “Your T-shirt shows your curves.”

  “Yeah, well.” The stone-cold mercenary’s gorgeous face turns pink. “It doesn’t hide my weapons as well as the men’s shirts do.” She plunks at the cotton. “I suppose Hawke hasn’t given you a gun.”

  I blink, completely diverted. “I’m going to a ball.”

  “There might be hostiles at your precious ball.” She enunciates slowly, as though speaking to a small child. “A stiletto through the eyeball will bring down even the largest man.” Ellen’s idea of girl talk horrifies me.

  “What are you wearing tonight?” I redirect the conversation to a more pleasant topic.

  She yanks on the short sleeve of her T-shirt. “That look you put together for me yesterday worked well.”

  My eyes widen. “That was a cocktail dress. You can’t wear it again. It’s not fancy enough for tonight.” I grab my laptop. “I’ll find you a suitable gown.”

  An hour later, there’s a dress waiting for Ellen at a small Chicago boutique and I know how to break a man’s nose with the heel of my hand. She leaves, grumbling about the things she does for the people she cares about.

  I smile. Ellen is talking about me. I’m the person she cares about.

  She’s worried because tonight, I’m going to a ball. I dance in place, smacking the soles of my shoes against the hardwood floor, my happiness bubbling over.

  Once I’ve purged some of my excess energy, I press Nicolas’s number. It rings twice.

  “Nicolas Rainer.” My billionaire’s voice is curt. Voices yell in the background.