Sinful Rewards 4 Page 7

  “I thought you might require retinal identification.” Nicolas smiles, his white teeth flashing in his tanned face, and I inhale sharply. He’s so damn handsome, even when exhausted, his black hair swept back from his gorgeous face, a hint of darkness under his eyes, a shadow of stubble on his chin.

  My body hums with excitement. I’ve gained an appreciation for stubble, loving the feel of it against my soft skin. “Welcome to my, or rather the Wynterses’, humble abode.” I give the main room a game-show wave, showing Nicolas all of its fabulous features, features he installed.

  He looks around him, his gaze stopping at Cyndi’s bedroom. “Their humble abode is a mess.” Nicolas shakes his head. “That must be the Wynters girl’s room.” He strides toward it.

  “Don’t go in there.” I hurry after him, intent on protecting Cyndi’s privacy. “That’s her private space.”

  “I’m closing the door.”

  “Don’t close the door,” I shout. Nicolas stops abruptly and I smack into his back. He turns and gazes at me as though I’ve lost my mind, which I suppose I have. “I like having it open,” I explain, my voice lowered to a normal volume.

  Nicolas raises his eyebrows. “Her room is a disaster zone. You want to look at that?”

  “Yes,” I admit, avoiding his gaze. Seeing Cyndi’s things reassures me she’ll return to the condo, to me. She’d never leave all of her stuff behind.

  “Come on,” I urge, not sharing any of this with Nicolas. “We’re serving ice cream at the kitchen counter.”

  Nicolas looks at the bedroom, bewilderment flitting across his beautiful face. I wait, my heart pounding, my fears admittedly irrational yet real to me.

  He shrugs his broad shoulders and follows me into the main living room-kitchen space. He’s a smaller man than Hawke, yet his tread is heavier, noisier.

  Relieved that the bedroom crisis is over, I saunter to the fridge and extract the carton of Heavenly Hash ice cream from the freezer compartment. The glass cups and spoons are already laid out on the counter.

  Nicolas perches on a stool, touches the bowl of jelly beans, and frowns. “These look familiar.”

  My face heats. My roommate tossed a bowl of jelly beans out of the window recently, earning all building residents a memo from Nicolas’s management team. “It sometimes rains jelly beans.” I scoop ice cream into the cups. “Chicago weather is strange.”

  Nicolas sprinkles a handful of jelly beans onto his ice cream. “Your messy roommate is the strange one.”

  “Cyndi is my best friend.” I jump to her defense. “And she bought the ice cream you’re eating.” I place the tub back in the freezer. “Be nice.”

  “I’m not a nice man.” Nicolas swallows a spoonful of ice cream. “But she does have good taste in ice cream. Does this have marshmallow in it?” He dissects the creamy treat. “It does, and almonds. God, this is good.” He sucks on his spoon, appearing adorably boyish.

  I sit beside him and we eat ice cream. My billionaire’s blue silk tie is loosened, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone. His navy blue suit hugs his lean body. His leather dress shoes balance on the bar stool’s footrest.

  He’s here alone. He arrived alone. “Shouldn’t you have a bodyguard with you?”

  Nicolas’s lips curve around his spoon. “Am I in danger? Should I be scared?” His dark eyes sparkle.

  “Be serious.” I slap his shoulder. “I’m told crazies target wealthy people. You should have a bodyguard.” I frown. The movie stars and rappers are always surrounded by big, burly men in bad suits. “Maybe a gang of bodyguards.”

  Nicolas blinks slowly. “You’re worried about me.”

  “Of course, I’m worried about you.” I roll my eyes. “Do I have to send you another article on how to be a good friend? Clearly, you also need articles on how to be a billionaire. You’re supposed to have a huge entourage to keep you safe.” I huff, aggravated. “Isn’t the Organization taking care of security for you? What do you hire them for?”

  “I hire them for investigations, special projects, events,” Nicolas answers. “They trained my security team—my driver, my security guards, others. They also set up the cameras and other sensors in all of my buildings and in my vehicles. Every public inch of this building is monitored by a variety of technology. This complex is one of the safest places on the planet. I can tell you the contents of your purse, the fabric blend of your blouse.”

  “Oh.” Some of my anxiety deflates. “Okay then.”

  “You’re worried about me,” Nicolas repeats, a smile on his handsome face. I shovel the remaining ice cream into my mouth, covering up my embarrassment with my vigorous eating. This is all Hawke’s fault. He put these ridiculous ideas in my head.

  I think about the military man, about our earlier discussion, about my billionaire. Hawke works for the Organization. Nicolas hired the Organization to investigate me. My world tilts, my breath catching. “Are you paying Hawke Masters to watch me?” Is my former marine spending time with me because that’s his job? My chest tightens.

  Nicolas’s smile fades. “I paid for the standard occupant background check on you, nothing more. My own staff monitors the common areas, and they don’t target any one resident.” His words are sharp and his tone is grumpy, as though I’ve offended him by asking the question.

  Hawke watches me because he cares for me. My shoulders lower. And my billionaire is irritable because he’s tired. “You know”—I fiddle with my spoon, clinking it against the glass cup—“if you ever need help with work, I’m here for you.”

  Nicolas places his spoon beside his empty cup. “Are you asking for a job?” His voice is even more curt than usual, the tone of a prospective boss, not a friend or potential lover.

  This is not the overflowing gratitude I expected.

  “I’m not asking for a job,” I deny. “I’m offering help.” I stride around the counter and place the dishes in the dishwasher. “No compensation is needed, though ice cream is always welcomed.”

  My joke falls flat. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even smile.

  I touch the ball chain hanging around my neck. Hawke would tell me to pay attention. I study Nicolas’s gorgeous face. Lines are etched between his dark eyebrows. His jaw is set. His arms are held close to his body.

  My billionaire doesn’t trust me.

  Not yet.

  “I’m waiting for interviews.” I fill the silence with babble. “It could be days, weeks before I find a replacement job. Until that miraculous event happens, I could assist you.”

  Nicolas offers no response.

  “You need the assistance.” I gaze pointedly at the clock on the microwave. It’s almost time to wake up. His hours are insane.

  “I have assistance,” Nicolas finally answers me. “Some of my employees work Saturdays and Sundays.” He stands. “There are plenty of eager new grads willing to help me. Some would pay me for the privilege.”

  I purse my lips, making a sour face. He’s an arrogant bastard.

  “Yes.” Nicolas’s eyes gleam as he rounds the counter. “They suck up to me, Bee. They pander to my already inflated ego.”

  He stalks toward me, his movements fluid and graceful, his dark gaze fixed on my face. My stomach flutters with nerves, my body screaming that this is wrong, so very wrong, advising me to run.

  It’s his approach, I rationalize, nothing more. A primitive part of me recognizes him as a predator and is responding, urging me to retreat.

  “Help with work isn’t what I need from you.” Nicolas catches my hands, his fingers smooth and warm, his grip firm.

  He’ll kiss me now. I swallow hard, my heart pounding. “What do you need?”

  “Truth.” Nicolas brushes my right hand over his stubble-covered cheek, his gentle touch calming me, soothing my fears. He means me no harm, would never hurt me. “I need someone who calls me on my bullshit, who isn’t afraid to call me an asshole.”

  I curve my palm around his handsome face and he nuzzles against my
wrist, his eyelids partially lowered, his lips curling into a small smile.

  “You’d never call your boss an asshole, even if that boss didn’t pay you.” He presses a kiss into the heel of my hand. “You’re too much of a good girl.”

  I gaze up at him, bemused by his teasing. He knows I’m not a good girl. No good girl would accept the challenges Friendly, his alter ego, presents.

  No good girl would wish another man stood before her.

  “You don’t like good girls.” I push aside my misgivings, my feelings of disloyalty, and step closer to Nicolas, into his heat. His expensive cologne, a rich mixture of sandalwood and exotic spices, fills my nostrils, drugging my senses and easing my guilt.

  Nicolas’s eyes darken. “Oh, I like good girls, too much.” He licks my palm and I tremble, captivated by his slow, careful advance. “Your hand tastes sweet.” His fingers fold over my hips. “Does your mouth taste as—”

  A phone rings. Nicolas pauses, indecision reflecting in his face. He’s considering answering a call in the midst of his seduction, this realization dousing my arousal as effectively as a bucket of ice water. I’m not important, not a priority for him.

  The phone rings three times, there’s silence for two heartbeats, and it rings again.

  “Hell,” he curses. “I have to get this.” He doesn’t wait for my nod of acceptance. He reaches inside his jacket and removes his phone. “Nicolas Rainer.”

  As he listens to the caller, I wipe the counter with a soapy sponge, dry it with a paper towel, comforting myself with the act of cleaning, a task I excel at.

  Nicolas barks questions into his phone, asking about risk levels and access points. There’s been a security breach. I gaze at the window, suspecting I know who prompted the call. My billionaire paces the perimeter of the small kitchen.

  I find my phone and text Hawke. “I’m going to kick your ass.”

  My phone buzzes.

  Boyfriend: He didn’t have to answer his phone.

  My lips twist. Hawke is right. I glance at Nicolas. He didn’t have to answer his phone. “He takes security seriously,” I text back.

  Boyfriend: I take YOU seriously.

  I laugh. He’s such a liar. Nicolas turns his head and frowns at me.

  “You don’t take anything seriously,” I text, my fingers flying over the keys. “We were standing away from the windows. Did you install cameras while I was sleeping?” This thought should anger, not thrill me.

  Nicolas’s voice rises. I shake my head. Hawke is causing havoc for my powerful man. He does like living dangerously.

  Boyfriend: There’s no need for cameras. Infrared sensors pick up hot messes.

  He’s watching my date with Nicolas. That’s wrong, so very wrong. “If you insist on watching me, I’ll give you a show,” I text Hawke and set my phone on the couch.

  Nicolas strides back and forth, his face dark, his expression fierce, and my steps falter. I have to do this. I push myself forward, toward my billionaire. I can’t allow Hawke to win this foolish game.

  Nicolas’s gaze meets mine. He holds up his index finger, silently asking me to give him a moment.

  I don’t believe in delayed gratification. In the past, a moment given meant an opportunity lost forever. “Your workday is done, Nicolas.” I snatch the phone from his hand, end the call, and place the device on the kitchen counter.

  Nicolas’s eyes flash. “Bee, that was important.”

  “So is this.” Acutely aware of our audience, I brazenly hook my fingers over my billionaire’s nape, tug his face lower as I lift onto my tiptoes. I cover his parted lips with mine, kissing him with all of the pent-up passion in my heart.

  Passion for another man.

  I close my eyes, imagining it’s Hawke’s stubble grazing my chin, his mouth I’m surging my tongue into. Arms strap around me, the muscles too lean, the fabric too rich. Slender fingers splay over my lower back. I’d need all of them to fill me, to satisfy the yearning in my body.

  I suck on Nicolas’s tongue, tasting sweetness, press against him, feeling hardness, inhale deeply, smelling cologne and man. He’s perfect yet wrong, my soul screeching a protest, recoiling from him. He’s not mine. I belong to another. This is disloyal. I force myself to continue, to stroke into him, seeking the forever I know Nicolas can provide.

  Phones ring, first his and then mine. My billionaire stiffens. I clasp his neck tighter, open my mouth wider. The kiss is prolonged but our ardor cools, his response hesitant, distracted, as though he’s thinking of work and not me.

  I embraced him with everything I had and it wasn’t enough, I wasn’t enough.

  Nicolas’s fingertips skim along my waist as I pull away from him, his lingering touch unable to reach me. “Answer your phone.” I hand the device to my business-focused billionaire.

  Nicolas’s handsome face flushes. “Bee—”

  “It’s okay,” I lie, because it’s not okay, not at all. There’s a crater where my hopes and dreams once were. I walk toward the door, open it for him, unable to deal with more rejection. “We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re not busy.”

  “I’m always busy,” Nicolas replies, his tone rueful. “This is a security issue. I never would have—”

  “Yes, you would have.” I summon a smile, the hole inside me growing larger with each passing second, the void threatening to swallow me entirely.

  “Yes, I would have,” he admits. “Hell.” Nicolas tugs at the cuffs of his shirt, an action he takes when agitated. “I am an asshole.”

  I force a laugh. “You’re a complete asshole.” I kiss him on his chin. “But I knew that the first day I met you, and I’m still here.”

  “You’re still here.” Nicolas’s eyes glow with a breath-stealing warmth. “Don’t give up on us, Bee.” He dips his head, brushes his lips over mine.

  His phone rings and I stifle a scream. I’m going to kick Hawke’s ass.

  “I’ll talk with you tomorrow.” Nicolas strides into the hallway, his phone already pressed to his ear. “Nicolas Rainer,” he barks.

  I close the door and my smile fades, the sadness returning. My phone gyrates across the couch cushion. I grab the device and head into my bedroom, walk to the window. The curtains are open. I didn’t close them after my striptease.

  Hawke stands on his balcony, his form backlit. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s watching me, using his fancy military technology.

  “Are you happy now?” I finally answer his call. “Nicolas left me.” As my dad left me before I was born, as Hawke will eventually leave me. I grip the dog tags hanging around my neck. “I’m alone.” I lean my forehead against the cool glass, weary of everything. “Again.”

  “You’re not alone, love,” Hawke says quietly, his low, deep voice sealing the abyss within me, stopping my impending implosion. “I’m here and I can’t be happy when you’re sad.”

  I move away from the window. “I had everything carefully planned.” I flop on my bed, not bothering to undress. “I watched Nicolas for months, researched him, found out as much as I could about him.” I stare up at the ceiling, my eyelids growing heavy. “He’s perfect for me, Hawke.”

  “What’s perfect about him?”

  I think for a minute, my brain sluggish from lack of sleep. “I want a home, somewhere permanent, a space I can’t be evicted from. Nicolas can give me that.”

  “You want a big house,” Hawke assumes. “A mansion.”

  “The house doesn’t have to be big—a mansion would be a cleaning nightmare—but it has to be safe and secure and ours.” It should also be rodent-free. I shudder, remembering some of the scary apartments I’ve shared with my mom.

  “His wealth makes him perfect?”

  “No, that’s not why he’s perfect.” I’m not that mercenary. “Nicolas is lonely like I am. I can see it in his eyes.”

  There’s a long pause. “That’s it?”

  “Once he makes a commitment, he keeps it,” I add. “He won’t ever leave me.”


  “You won’t be alone,” Hawke concludes. He understands me better than anyone I’ve ever met. “Have you made a commitment to him?”

  “You know I haven’t.” I blink, trying to focus. “I kissed you, touched you. That’s not a commitment, which isn’t like me. I’m a one-man woman, a good girl.”

  “Even good girls get confused sometimes.”

  Yes. I nod. That’s what I am—confused. If I was thinking rationally, Nicolas would be my clear choice. “You’re confusing me.” I put the blame on Hawke’s broad shoulders. “Before I met you, I had everything figured out.”

  “You had your plan.” He sounds as drowsy as I feel.

  “Don’t mock my plan.” My protest is weak. “Though I might deserve mocking.” I gaze upward, picturing his face, his lopsided smile, pale blue eyes. “You must think I’m a stalker, one of the crazies you protect people from.”

  “No,” Hawke murmurs. “If I was interested in a woman, I’d research her also. I’d watch her, eavesdrop on her conversations, ask others about her. Then I’d devise the perfect way to meet her.”

  “You’d do all of that for her?” I close my eyes, envying this woman.

  “Yes, I would,” he assures me. “And I wouldn’t enlist the help of any single male friends.”

  “Why?” The darkness pulls at me.

  “Because once they met her, they’d want her for themselves.” Hawke’s voice hardens.

  “Then they’re not good friends.” I can’t imagine betraying Cyndi that way. “And they also aren’t very bright because she’ll uncover their disloyalty eventually. Then she’ll reject them and choose you.”

  “I hope so, sweetheart. I hope so.”

  Time passes. I don’t know how much time. I suspect I dozed off.

  “I’m falling asleep,” I share. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “You’ll see me every tomorrow,” Hawke vows, telling me exactly what I want to hear. “Sleep, Belinda. I’ll watch over you.”

  “Okay.” Trusting Hawke to safeguard me, I drift into a dreamless slumber.

  Chapter Seven

  AN ANNOYINGLY LOUD ringing wakes me. I open my eyes and wince. The room is brightly lit, the curtains are open, and the sun’s rays stretch across my bed, warming my bare toes. I remain dressed in my white blouse and black pants, my clothes hopelessly wrinkled. My phone buzzes against my cheek.