Sinful Rewards 8 Read online

  “Sweetheart.” Hawke’s face softens.

  He doesn’t say anything more because he won’t lie to me, won’t promise a future filled with wealth and belonging. I avoid his gaze, my mood darkening. He can’t give me my fantasy.

  I wish he could. I wish Hawke was my forever love.

  But he can’t be.

  “It’s a dream. That’s all it is.” Disgruntled with the world, I roll off his big body and stomp naked into the bathroom, putting much-needed space between us.

  Chapter Two

  I TAKE MY sweet time in the bathroom, lingering in the shower, allowing the warm water to cascade over me. There’s no washing away the memory of Hawke’s touch. The stimulating roughness of his big hands have been imprinted on my soul.

  My military man has one fluffy white towel, the biggest bath sheet I’ve ever seen, covering me from my collarbone to my ankles, the terry cloth smelling of his skin. He owns a comb I doubt he ever uses and no hair dryer.

  Hawke also has a spare toothbrush, brand-new, in the package, which I assume he purchased for me. As I brush my teeth, I gaze in the fogged-up mirror and wonder how I’ll conceal the two glaring red bite marks on my neck. He has tattooed his ownership all over me.

  And the sick thing is . . . I like it.

  I rake the comb through my hair, the tendrils clinging to my skull, my eyes appearing larger than usual in my pale face. Hawke has complicated my life, destroying my plans, making me question what I want.

  This can’t happen. My mom depends on me. Cyndi, my best friend, now relies on my financial assistance. I can’t let them down, can’t allow myself to be put in a position where I’m unable to help them.

  Having delayed the day as much as I can, I emerge from the bathroom. The bedroom is empty, the door closed. My clothes, minus my panties, are set on the neatly made bed. I finger the waistband of my black pants. They’ve been sewn, the stitches straight and fine.

  I dress quickly, tuck my passcard and phone under my bra strap, stuff my feet into my ballerina flats, the faux leather polished to a shine, and I pad into the main room. Hawke lounges in the leather chair, clad in his usual ugly black T-shirt, worn blue jeans, and gleaming-black military boots. A computer tablet rests in his lap, and he barks instructions into his phone.

  His head lifts as I enter the room. Our gazes meet and his eyes glitter with a reassuring masculine appreciation, as though he lusts after me as I am, not caring that I’m wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday, that my hair remains wet, my face bare of any makeup.

  He returns to his call, busy with whatever FUBAR situation has hit the fan this morning. I skip to the kitchen nook and snoop in his fridge. It’s surprisingly well stocked, the assortment of fresh veggies and herbs impressing the hell out of me.

  Hawke must cook. My shoulders droop. Which means he doesn’t need me. I shouldn’t care. We’re temporary. Once Cyndi and I earn income, find another apartment, I’ll leave him. It shouldn’t matter that I can’t contribute to the household.

  I take out ingredients for an awesome omelet and search for a pan. He has one frying pan, still in the packaging. My lips curl upward, an irrational joy filling my chest. No, he doesn’t cook. As Hawke works, I prep and wash and cook, putting everything I have into this first, perhaps last, breakfast, wanting to impress him.

  The cooking gods reward my dedication. I place one and a half perfect pan-sized omelets on a plain white china plate, the remaining half on another mismatched plate, and set both directly on the counter. There aren’t place mats. I find the silverware, using paper towels as napkins.

  “Breakfast smells delicious.” Hawke lowers his big body onto one of the bar stools.

  I hesitate, holding a carton of orange juice I found in the fridge. “This is all you have,” I offer as an apology. “You didn’t have any oranges.” The diner my mom works in always serves freshly squeezed juice. Karl, its quality-obsessed chef, insisting on this labor-intensive offering. “Do you want coffee instead?”

  Hawke’s lips twitch. “I bought the juice, love. It will do.” I pour the juice into the glasses. He pulls out the second bar stool. “Come, eat.” He smacks the seat. “Tell me what you’ve created for me this morning.”

  He says this as though cooking is an art, a finely honed skill. I climb onto the bar stool and chatter about the ingredients, how I chose the flavor combinations, my childhood trials and errors. Karl taught me how to cook during downtime at the diner, patiently guiding me through the process, transferring his passion for food to me.

  Hawke listens and asks questions, appearing genuinely interested. He also devours the omelets with a gratifying enthusiasm, his enjoyment open and honest.

  “Thank you for fixing my pants.” I place the dishes in the dishwasher, Hawke helping me. “Where did you learn how to sew?”

  “This was my first attempt.” He lifts his hideous black shirt and points to a jagged scar on his abs. “After that experience, I decided to take lessons.”

  “You sewed your own wounds?” My voice rises. “Where the hell were the doctors?” I trace the ugly mark on his stomach, picturing him alone and in pain, cut off from medical help. My fingers tremble. He could have been killed. I could have lost him, forever. “Tell me you won’t put yourself in danger again.”

  “Danger is my job, love.” Hawke draws me into his body, his warmth soothing me. He’s here, alive.

  But for how long? I twist away from him. “Then someday, you’ll die and leave me.” I glare up at him. “You said you wouldn’t do that.” I clutch the dog tags dangling between my breasts, a reminder of how fragile life is.

  “Belinda.” He reaches out to me.

  “No.” I back up. “I don’t want to hear about it.” I stop his sure-to-be inadequate explanation. “This is a temporary arrangement. Once Cyndi and I find a place, I’m leaving you and you can put yourself in all the danger you want. It won’t matter to me,” I lie my ass off. It matters too much to me, the prospect of him dying almost bringing me to my knees.

  “I protect people,” Hawke baldly states.

  “And who is protecting you?” I storm through the door, unable to hear more, the thought of losing him making me a little bit crazy.

  Hawke follows me, closing the door behind him, his tread soundless, light. “I rarely work in the field anymore, only on high-profile accounts.”

  “Which are the most dangerous assignments. Yes, I heard.” I slam my shoes down on the carpet. This makes no noise. The underpadding is too thick. Damn it. “You shun wealth because you believe it puts you at risk, yet you hold this job, which does the exact same thing.” I jab the button for the elevator with my index finger. “I won’t tolerate it.”

  “Because you care about me.” The big idiot behind me sounds bemused.

  “I don’t care.” My lies compound. The elevator doors open and I stride inside, the flat heels of my cheap shoes ringing on the tiled floor. Finally, he’ll know the extent of my wrath, realize how angry I am. My face reflects in the mirrored walls, my eyes wild, my cheeks flushed. I select the ground floor.

  Hawke stands beside me, his gaze fixed on my face, and I ignore him as much as anyone can ignore a six-foot-forever mountain of a man. “The Organization has never lost an employee,” he notes.

  “Before Friday, I’d never lost a job.” I drum my toes against the floor, the sound echoing in the small space. “Things change . . . never for the better.” I mutter the last part. With my lousy luck, he’d blow his damn self up. I clutch the dog tags, his best friend having suffered that same fate. “We’re temporary.”

  “You aren’t a temporary type of girl,” Hawke points out cheerfully.

  I narrow my eyes at him, he gives me that lopsided grin, and my fingers fold into tight fists. “I’m going to kick your ass,” I threaten.

  “So you keep promising.” His eyes sparkle.

  I can’t reach his ass, so I do the next best thing—I kick him in the shins. I don’t half-ass this attack. I use every ou
nce of strength in my much smaller body, intent on wiping the smile off his rugged face.

  As soon as my flimsy ballerina flats connect with his tough army boots, I realize my mistake. He doesn’t flinch. I howl with pain, bending over, clutching my foot.

  “What did you do?” Hawke scoops me into his arms.

  I don’t fight him because my big toe is throbbing like a son of a bitch. “It’s broken,” I whimper. “It must be. And now I’ll have a big bulky cast on my toe and hospital bills and—”

  “They don’t usually put big bulky casts on toes.” He interrupts my impending meltdown. “They straighten them, tape them to the other toes, possibly splint them.”

  I don’t want to know how Hawke gained his knowledge about broken toes. “I can’t afford a visit to the hospital.” I strap my arms around his neck.

  “Let me look at your foot.” He doesn’t wait for my agreement. Bracing me against the wall, he slips my shoe off my foot. I press my lips together, trying to be brave, while he prods at my toe.

  “Your skin is pink but not torn,” Hawke declares as though this difference is crucial to my diagnosis. He wiggles my big toe. There’s no additional pain. “The bone isn’t broken. At worst, you’ll lose your toenail.”

  “How do I prevent that?” I ask, unhappy with this worst case.

  “The first step is to improve your aim.” He carefully slides my shoe back onto my foot. “You kicked my boots, sweetheart, not my ass.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m serious. If I have ugly feet, I’ll have to wear closed-toe shoes all summer.”

  Hawke’s eyebrows lift. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  I wiggle and he lowers me, sliding my curves along his muscle, until my feet touch the floor. “That’s a fashion disaster. It’s sandal season. I won’t be able to wear my flirty sundresses or lighter fabrics.”

  “Why can’t you wear them with different shoes?” His forehead furrows with thought lines. He’s a man and he doesn’t understand.

  “It’s like a biker having the wrong patch on his jacket.” I use my newfound knowledge of the motorcycle club dynamics to explain girl-world to him. “I’ll break the rules of style and be excluded from the group.” As I was excluded in high school because I wore cheap knockoffs.

  “Ahhh . . . ” Hawke nods. “That is a disaster. I like your flirty sundresses, especially the white one with the little holes in it.”

  The eyelet-lace sundress is one of my favorites also. Wearing it makes me feel like a bride. “I’ll Google how to save my toenail,” I decide.

  My mom and best friend depend on me. I have no job and five thousand dollars to my name. The only person standing between me and homelessness is determined to get himself killed. Saving my toenail is the least of my worries, but this is what I focus on.

  The elevator doors open and I limp beside Hawke, leaning into his huge body, relying on his strength. The big, burly security guard glances at us, greets Hawke by name, wishes me a good morning. Hawke asks him to look at camera number seven, as the feed isn’t working.

  I wait until we exit, stepping into the sun, to speak. “Since you’re already monitoring the buildings, why don’t you get paid for it, be added to Nicolas’s payroll?” We need the extra income.

  “I don’t monitor the buildings for him.” Hawke’s lips flatten, his face growing scarily hard. “I monitor them for you.”

  He safeguards the buildings because he promised to protect me from my newly acquired reputation. Men, assuming I’m a hooker, have been trying to contact me, to hire me for sexual services. One or more of these men could be a stalker, wishing me harm.

  My shoulders slump. “I’m sorry.” I’ve added more tasks to his heavy workload.

  “You’re my girl.” Hawke rubs my back, the warmth of his palm felt through the thin fabric of my blouse. “I’d do anything for you.”

  He’d do anything except find a better-paying job.

  We walk toward the south building, Hawke shortening his long stride to match mine. It’s another perfect summer day, the sky blue, the sun fierce. Although my toe aches and I’m trapped in the condo’s grounds, my heart is filled with an irrational joy, my body humming with awareness, thrilled with my military man’s proximity.

  We pass in front of the complex’s small private park, the green space wedged between the buildings. Nicolas won’t be there. I push away my apprehension. It’s late in the day, and he’ll stick to his usual schedule. My luck isn’t that bad.

  The gate swings open and the billionaire strides out of the park, his lean body clad in a form-fitting black suit, white shirt, gray silk tie.

  Shit. My luck is that bad. I stop abruptly, Hawke bumping into my back. Don’t see me. Don’t see me. Don’t see me, I silently plead, my heart pounding.

  Nicolas turns his head toward us. I catch my breath, dreading this confrontation. His gaze meets mine and his already grim expression becomes more severe. “Bee.” There’s a wealth of want and need in his voice.

  “Nicolas.” I attempt breezy and casual, achieve high and squeaky.

  Hawke, the possessive bastard, hooks his arm around my waist. I twist, trying to break his hold before Nicolas notices.

  I fail miserably, a heartbreaking pain flashing across the billionaire’s handsome face. My stomach twists. He cares for me, considers me a friend, as more, and I’ve hurt him. “I—”

  “Is this why you refused to live with me?” He curls his top lip, baring his teeth. “Because you were fucking—”

  Hawke rushes forward, lifts Nicolas off the ground, and pins him against the wrought-iron fence, his hands wrapped around the man’s neck, the barbed wire tattoo encircling his bulging right bicep rippling.

  “Watch your mouth, Rainer,” he growls, leaning forward, staring directly into his opponent’s eyes. “That’s my girl you’re talking to.”

  He’s a brute, hell-bent on protecting me, not caring that Nicolas is one of the most wealthy men in the country. My nipples tighten, my body responding to the primitive power in his stance, while the more rational part of me recognizes the danger in this situation.

  “Hawke, release him.” I hurry toward the two men, the billionaire’s reddening face alarming me.

  My former marine’s grip on Nicolas’s neck tightens.

  “Let him go.” I slap Hawke’s shoulder. He glances at me, his eyes wild, his jaw jutted. “I want to speak with him.” I have to explain the situation to Nicolas, attempt to ease the pain I’ve caused him.

  Hawke doesn’t loosen his hold on the billionaire. Nicolas’s legs kick, his eyes bulging. The damn man will kill his friend because of me.

  I can’t wrap my mind around anyone caring for me this much. “Nicolas is my friend.” I pinch the tattoo on Hawke’s arm, reminding him of the buddy he lost. “He won’t hurt me.”

  “He won’t have the opportunity to hurt you.” Hawke finally lowers Nicolas. The billionaire sways on his feet, gulping air. “No one disrespects you and remains standing.” My big man levels a frighteningly hard glance on his rival.

  “He won’t disrespect me.” I stand protectively in front of Nicolas and meet Hawke’s gaze. “I have to talk to him.” I plead for his understanding. “He deserves an explanation.”

  “I don’t deserve anything,” Nicolas mutters behind me.

  Hawke glowers at him. “If Belinda says you deserve an explanation, you deserve an explanation. You’ll listen to what she has to say and treat her with respect. If you touch her, raise your voice, or even look at her funny, I’ll pummel you into the ground, understood?”

  Nicolas glares at Hawke. Hawke glares back.

  “Great. That’s settled.” I feign my chipper tone. “We’ll talk in your park.” I glance expectantly at Nicolas.

  The billionaire grits his teeth and waves his passcard over the sensor. The light turns green. Hawke opens the gate and follows us inside, watching me with a pussy-moistening intensity.

  “Take a walk around the space, Hawke,” I dare to order my
former marine, hoping the activity will sap some of the lethal energy radiating from his physique.

  “I’ll stay by your side,” he rumbles.

  “You’ll take a walk.” I lift my chin, not backing down. “Remain where you can see us,” I concede.

  “You’ll never be out of my sight,” Hawke huffs. He glares at Nicolas one more time and lumbers off, his gait even, his tread impressively quiet.

  “I might be an asshole, Bee, but I’d never harm you,” Nicolas states, his body stiff with indignation. “There’s no reason for you to be scared of me.”

  My stomach twists. I’ve offended his pride and dented his closely guarded heart.

  “If he can see us, we can see him,” I explain, leading Nicolas to his favorite bench, aware that Hawke is observing us. “He moves quickly for a big man.” I plant my ass on the wooden slats. “Keeping him in our line of vision will give us time to react.”

  “I’ve never seen him guard anyone like he guards you.” Nicolas sits beside me. The scent of his expensive cologne fills my nostrils. The sun’s rays kiss his black hair and dance across his golden tan. He’s so damn handsome, a work of art come to life. “I’m surprised he allowed us to speak.”

  “He knows you’re my friend.” I slide my palm along Nicolas’s, his skin warm and smooth, devoid of calluses or scars. “He’d never ask me not to speak to you.”

  “He said I couldn’t touch you.” The billionaire pulls on his hand.

  I clasp his fingers tighter, not letting go. “He said nothing about me touching you.” I glance at Hawke. He stalks the width of the park, pivots on his booted heels, and retraces his steps, a wild animal testing the perimeters of his cage.

  Nicolas and I sit, holding hands, both of us warily watching the former marine. I don’t know what to say, how to make my decision to fuck another man easier for my billionaire to accept.

  “I thought the Wynters girl would be as judgmental as her father.” Nicolas breaks the silence. “I didn’t want her to hurt you.”

  He was trying to protect me. “Mr. Wynters is a self-righteous ass,” I concede.