Sinful Rewards 4 Page 6

  I stare at her. “We’ll have a script for tomorrow?”

  “I’m not leaving anything to chance.” The escort appears grim. “The last meeting was a disaster,” she confesses. “This might be my final chance to convince Francois I’m the right companion for his father.”

  And she’s counting on me to help her. I gulp. “I’m not a good actress and I’m an even worse liar. There has to be someone else you can approach.”

  “No one else has your air of innocence.” Lona waves her finely manicured fingers in the air. “That can’t be feigned. Worldly, cynical men such as Jacques and Francois respond to it. They’ll treat you gently and offer me the same respect as to not upset you.”

  “Jacques doesn’t know about our arrangement?” This is becoming even more complicated.

  “He knows you’re a friend and you live in the same building as I do.” Lona plucks at her pants. “It’s best if no one else is aware that I’m orchestrating this. Tell your Hawke you’re having lunch with me, and that’s it. Though I suspect he might already know about my plans.” She smiles. “Your Hawke has a way of finding out everything.”

  “He’s not my Hawke,” I mumble, conscious that my lips are plumped from his kisses, that the dog tags he gave me hang between my breasts. “Send me the details tonight.” I’ll treat this as the job it is, earning my thousand dollars, ensuring Lona has the happiness she deserves.

  Chapter Five

  I RETURN TO the condo, change into my yoga pants and T-shirt, and clean the space, packing the decorations in a box. Putting the rooms in order restores my confidence.

  Cyndi texts me. Her message consists of four words—I’m in Hollywood, beyotch. I laugh. Only my vivacious, insanely wealthy friend would fly across the country on a whim.

  Cyndi is spending the weekend with the man of her dreams. Lona is in love. I wander to the window and stare across the park at three eleven north.

  The setting sun paints the sky orange and red. Shadows stretch across Hawke’s empty balcony. I bend over, peek into Cyndi’s brass telescope, the device I’ve sworn never to use again. A light deep within Hawke’s condo casts a warm glow on the bare hardwood floor, the emptiness in the space echoing the loneliness in my heart. He’s a temporary resident as I am.

  I straighten, pull on the chain hanging around my neck, and close my fingers over the dog tags, the metal warmed by my body. He hasn’t left me. Not yet.

  My phone buzzes, dancing over the red kitchen counter, and I rush to retrieve the device before it falls off the edge, shatters on the floor. It must be Nicolas calling. He hasn’t contacted me all day.

  Because he’s occupied with work, I remind myself. He warned me he’d be busy. Even if he thought about me, he wouldn’t have an opportunity to call.

  Until now.

  I glance down at the small screen. There’s a text.

  Friendly: Strip in front of your bedroom window. Good girls earn rewards.

  Since I’m convinced Friendly is Nicolas, this message excites and reassures me. He’s thinking of me, perhaps watching me on his security cameras. Hopefully not the security cameras at the entrance of the building. A flush of guilt mixed with arousal sweeps over me as I remember how Hawke kissed me in front of the cameras. . .multiple times.

  I move into my bedroom and close the door. Hawke will benefit from this striptease also. I open the curtains and stare into the twilight, the darkening grays and blacks concealing my audience. Both of my men will be watching me, wanting me, my badass biker and my sophisticated billionaire, my today and my forever.

  I’ll be pleasing them while I please myself, bringing my most perverted fantasies to life. Before I can think about the consequences of my actions, I pull my T-shirt over my head. I then hesitate, the cotton twisted in my hands. Passion isn’t tidy, Hawke said.

  I toss the garment on the floor. It lands in a messy heap. I tear my gaze away from the puddle of blue fabric, force myself to focus on my striptease, swaying, touching, teasing.

  My gaze returns to the discarded T-shirt. Oh, hell. I can’t leave it on the floor. I bend, pick up the garment, fold it into a neat square, and place it carefully on my chair. My chin lifts. I can almost hear Hawke’s chuckle, see his lopsided smile, the humor in his eyes, feel his hands on me. My nipples tighten.

  I push my yoga pants lower and lower, swiveling my hips, dancing to a song only I hear. More skin is revealed with each undulation. I pivot, shimmying and shaking as though I’m a belly dancer entertaining her sultans. In my fantasy, I’m clad in a fuchsia bra and sheer harem pants. Golden coins jingle from the jewelry around my waist, wrists, and ankles, wealth surrounding me.

  My pants drop to the floor. I fold the stretchy fabric, set it on top of the T-shirt, and return to my show. Snapping my fingers, I undulate, my body rippling to my own rhythm.

  Is Nicolas viewing my striptease on his tablet, his body hard, an unmistakable ridge in his expensive dress pants? Is Hawke standing naked on his balcony, the night breeze brushing over his tattoos, his military-style binoculars trained on my bare skin?

  I cup my bra-clad breasts, squeezing my curves together as Hawke did this afternoon. The dog tags dangle in the hollow. Nicolas will see only the reflection of light off metal. He won’t know they belong to Hawke.

  I unhook my bra, add the flimsy silk to the stack of garments. He won’t be able to detect the bite marks around my right nipple either. I play with my breasts. He’ll see shadow, a hint of color, and nothing more.

  I turn, caressing my form with my fingertips, gyrating to the pounding of imaginary drums, a driving tempo heard only in my mind, the sounds primitive and raw. Cool air sweeps over my bare skin, the ribbons of my white G-string nestled between my ass cheeks. I’m naked except for the triangle of silk covering my mons, my body exposed to the world. Hundreds of men could be viewing my breasts, my legs, my ass, watching me as I dance.

  This thrills me, moistening my pussy. I play with the flimsy strips of silk hugging my hips, offering my audience tantalizing glimpses of my brown curls, my pale skin. The drums in my head beat faster and faster, driving my performance into a frenzy.

  I pivot until I face away from the window, pull my panties down, and bend over, pressing my ass against the cool glass. My audience will see a hint of pink, the wetness glistening on my upper thighs. I step out of my panties, place the silk with my other clothing, roll my spine until I straighten once more.

  Closing my eyes, I dance, uninhibited, free, powerful, a woman secure in the knowledge I’m desired. I may be a pervert, a sexual freak, but I’m not alone. Hawke and Nicolas watch me, encourage me, embracing my deviance. They want me to be this way.

  My movements slow. I lift my chin, gaze across the park at three eleven north, my body bare to Hawke’s perusal. My fingers twitch, the urge to touch myself tremendous.

  I’ll save that passion for Nicolas. Leaving the curtains open, I scoop up my clothes, place them in the laundry hamper, and saunter naked into the bathroom, my hips swaying. A long cold shower is required.

  I SHOWER FOR the third time today, fix my hair, and fuss over my outfit, finally deciding on a white bra and panty set, a white blouse, and black pants, stealing Lona’s sophisticated yet casual look. The escort hasn’t yet sent the information for tomorrow, and Nicolas hasn’t contacted me. I finish the laundry, washing Cyndi’s dirty clothes also, and I piece together the lasagna, compiling one large serving from the flattened bits, eating the rest of it.

  It’s Saturday night. Normally, I clean, watch TV, surf the net, retire embarrassingly early. Tonight, I’m restless and lonely. I pace the condo. This is Hawke’s fault. I’ve been spending too much time with him, becoming accustomed to his company.

  I flop down on the couch and text Cyndi, asking her what she’s doing. Minutes later, she sends me a photo of Cole Travers. The movie star is bare-chested. I smile. My crazy friend must be doing the handsome young actor. I glance toward the window.

  No. No thinking of Hawke. I text Ni
colas, asking if there’s anything I can help him with work-wise. Minutes pass. He doesn’t reply. He must be very busy.

  I turn on the TV and scan through the channels. The fashion channel is featuring the next season’s collections. I watch, unable to focus on the clothes. Instead, I study the models’ faces, seeking to read their expressions. At first glance, their countenances appear blank, emotionless. On closer perusal, I spot the flickers of fear in the models’ eyes as they enter the runway, the relief as they exit, the embarrassment when they stumble.

  Before my brain registers what my fingers are doing, I’ve pressed Hawke’s number. The phone rings twice.

  “I thought you’d never call, love.” His deep voice curls my toes. In the background, shots fire and sirens wail.

  I frown, tucking my feet under my ass. “What are you watching?” I change channels, trying to find the same program.

  “I’m watching a mess.” Hawke sighs. He sounds tired. “I’m missing something and I can’t figure out what it is.”

  I’m missing someone and I know exactly who he is. “Do you need a fresh pair of eyes?” I doubt I can help him with whatever he’s working on, but I feel obliged to make the offer.

  “What happened to your dinner date?”

  “He’s delayed.” My lips twist. Nicolas hasn’t responded to my text. “I’m at your disposal. . .for now. Later, I have to do something for a friend.”

  “For Lona.”

  I blink. She’s right. Hawke does know everything that happens in the buildings. “We’re having lunch tomorrow. I’m not supposed to say more than that.”

  Hawke chuckles. “You don’t have to say anything more.” His words are punctuated by clicks. “I’m sending you a video. Watch it and tell me if anything or anyone doesn’t feel right.”

  My phone hums. “Is it really violent? Gore makes me queasy.”

  “There’s no gore,” he assures me. “This footage was taken before the event went FUBAR.”

  Nothing says fucked up beyond all repair like the wail of sirens. I chew on the inside of my cheek, the urge to assist him growing. “What am I looking for?”

  “I can’t say,” Hawke replies. “I shouldn’t even be showing it to you. I’m trusting you, sweetheart.”

  He trusts me. My chest warms. “I won’t let you down,” I vow, touching the dog tags under my blouse.

  “I know you won’t,” he states with no hesitation, his confidence humbling me. “Call me if you see anything out of the ordinary.”

  I e-mail the message to myself and access it on my laptop. The video is surveillance feed of a cocktail party at a ritzy mansion. The floors are Italian marble, and a huge crystal chandelier glitters in the center of the room. In the corner, a woman in a black velvet dress plays a piano. The men wear tuxedos and the ladies wear long, flowing gowns. Diamonds sparkle and champagne flows. I recognize some of the faces, models, actresses, and a couple of politicians attending.

  This is what I want. I want to be the guest at a fancy party, wearing the styles I love, surrounded by beauty. For this event, I’d choose a red strapless Dior gown with a bit of ruffle around my hips. My hair would be swept back. Diamonds would encircle my neck.

  My reality is I spent the day serving customers in a small-town diner and I’m watching the video, not appearing on the feed. I sigh, replaying the footage.

  Hawke is the expert at reading expressions, so I focus on what I know—fashion, noting the combinations that don’t make sense. I draft a text to Hawke pointing out the waiter wearing Barker Blacks, expensive shoes no minimum-wage worker can afford, the socialite clad in a wispy light chiffon gown and closed-toe shoes, not the expected strappy sandals, the suspicious bulge in the back of an Armani suit jacket, the slightly too large handbag no fashion-conscious woman would ever take to a party.

  My phone buzzes once more. Lona has sent me the itinerary for tomorrow, listing the preparations needed. She’s outlined everything, including the color and brand of polish I’m to wear on my finger- and toenails. I groan. Hawke’s assignment will have to wait.

  I send him what I have, promising to look at it again tomorrow, and I switch my attention to Lona’s requirements. As I give myself a mani and pedi, I recite the script, changing words to make it feel more natural.

  My phone rings. Boyfriend appears on the display. I smile as I answer, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, Hawke. I have to work on Lona’s list.”

  “Don’t take any more jobs.” Even Hawke’s voice arouses me.

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll take the first job I get offered. I need the income.”

  “Your mom requires the money that desperately?” he asks.

  I frown. How does he know I’m helping my mom? “I can neither confirm nor deny that statement.” I echo his earlier words.

  “You’re priceless, sweetheart.” Hawke chuckles and I wiggle my newly polished toes. “Before you take another job, call me. Can you do that?”

  “Okay.” I can call him. It won’t change my decision, as I can’t afford to turn down any paying positions.

  “Can I share your text with the team?”

  “Sure.” It touches me that he asked. “But don’t allow them to laugh at me.” I tap the phone. “Remind them I’m an amateur.”

  “That’s what worries me.” Hawke’s tone becomes serious. “And there will be no laughing. I can guarantee that.” There’s a stretch of silence. “You look pretty.”

  He knows what I’m wearing. A thrill shoots up my spine. “You shouldn’t watch me,” I tease. “It’s not right.”

  “It feels right though, doesn’t it?” Hawke repeats his reply from our very first conversation. “Knowing Lona, she’s sent you a long to-do list. You should get back to it, but if you see anything more in the video feed, text me.”

  “I will.” I end the call and stare at the display. It’s almost midnight. My mom was right. Hawke does work hard. I can’t imagine Jacob, the building’s security guard, reviewing video feed at home.

  Hawke is a former marine. He would take any new assignments seriously, I reason.

  I focus on the script for tomorrow, memorizing the openings Lona requires to impress the son of the man she loves, determined to do everything I can to ensure a fellow pervert gets the happiness she deserves. If a high-class escort can prove herself worthy of forever, there might be hope for me.

  ONE MOMENT, I’M rehearsing the lines for the zillionth time. The next moment, I’m facedown on the couch, my phone vibrating against my nose. I must have fallen asleep.

  “Bee Carter,” I murmur, not knowing who it is, my eyes unable to focus on the number.

  “This is Nicolas Rainer,” my blunt-speaking billionaire informs me. “Is it too late to drop by?”

  I glance at the phone’s small screen. It’s four in the morning. “No. I’ll warm up the lasagna.” I stagger to my feet, my legs sore. “It got a little squished and it looks like a mess, but it tastes delicious.”

  “I ate already.” Exhaustion weighs down his words. “I. . .I just want to see you.”

  Nicolas’s admission pulls at my heart. He’s handsome, brilliant, has tremendous wealth, yet he needs me. I’m important to him. “Do you want to talk about your day?”

  There’s a long pause, and my shoulders slump. My billionaire never wants to talk about anything.

  “I have to evict a major tenant,” Nicolas surprises me by replying. “I don’t want to be an asshole but—”

  “Then don’t be an asshole.” I stop the explanations, unable to hear more. He’s evicting a tenant as other landlords have evicted my mom and me in the past. “Give them an extension, another month.”

  “They’ve had six months,” he grumbles. “They’re refusing to pay rent and refusing to leave. We have to take legal action.” A car door opens and closes, metal ringing against metal. “This isn’t easy, not even for me, Bee.” His words echo. “But it’s business.”

  It’s business. He’s in the business of making people homeless. �
��Where will they go?” Where will my mom go if she’s evicted again?

  Silence stretches.

  “Do they have kids?” I ask, needing to torture myself with the details.

  “Kids?” Nicolas repeats. “I sell to individuals. It’s too risky to rent to them. This is a corporate tenant. Their executives will live in hotel rooms, not my units, when they visit the city.”

  They’re corporate tenants, executives. “So no one will be homeless?” I ask, wishing to be certain, not knowing if I could marry a man who evicts families.

  Nicolas exhales. “No one will be homeless.”

  “Good.” I return to the couch, my body trembling. “Then be an asshole. You have my full support.” I pause, thinking about the implications. “Though severing a relationship is always hard.” Especially for a man who prides himself on long-term business arrangements.

  “It’s very hard,” he agrees.

  “Are you feeling sad? Do you need ice cream?” I joke, trying to lift his spirits. “I think we have some Heavenly Hash in the freezer.”

  Nicolas treats me to one of his rare laughs. “Do I want to know what the ingredients in Heavenly Hash are?”

  “What?” I feign disbelief. “You’ve never had Heavenly Hash ice cream? No wonder you’re an asshole. You’ve lived a deprived life.”

  “I have.” His voice is soft. “But I have a feeling that is about to change.”

  “It is.” I’ll take care of my lonely billionaire, give him a slice of normal and a healthy dose of caring.

  “I’ll see you in fourteen minutes.” There’s a click and silence.

  I glance at the screen and grin. Nicolas has hung up on me yet again.

  Chapter Six

  AT FOUR SIXTEEN, exactly fourteen minutes after our call ended, the doorbell rings. I look through the peephole, see a giant brown eye, and laugh. My control-freak billionaire is trying to peer into the condo. I swing the door open. “Peepholes work only one way,” I tease.