Sinful Rewards 11 Read online

  “How would I know that?” I blink rapidly, striving to appear as innocent as possible. I’d hoped for exactly this result.

  Hawke’s shoulders shake. He’s laughing at me. “Your evasion tactics are worse than your lying, love.” His voice lilts with humor. “I know when I’m outgunned. We won’t attend the ball, not tonight, but I own this tuxedo.” He brushes the curls away from my face, his calloused fingertips skimming along my cheeks. “If there’s another fancy event you want to attend, we’ll make an appearance.”

  “Okay,” I agree, touched by his offer. He’d don the dreaded tuxedo again, put his team on high alert, risk his privacy for me. “How do I look?” I gather my curls, baring my neck, and stick the diamond comb in my hair. “Will the bouncers at the Road Gator allow me inside?”

  “You look pretty.” Hawke’s words are sweet yet offer little reassurance. He thinks I look pretty without makeup. “Everyone at the Road Gator will also know what we’ve been doing,” he warns.

  I glance toward the front of the limousine. The partition is open and the men have phones. I suspect everyone at the Road Gator is already aware of what we’ve been doing. “No one will doubt you belong to me.” I cover his lips with mine, staking my claim on my military man.

  Hawke captures my face between his rough hands and opens to me, uncaring that I taste like him. Our tongues tumble and tangle, dancing in a rhythm only we hear. I curl my fingers over his shoulders and press my breasts against his chest.

  His mouth is familiar. His smooth chin is not, the combination intriguing me. I feel naughty, as though I’m cheating on Hawke with himself. He strokes my cheekbones with his thumbs and I purr with happiness, undulating against him.

  “I do belong to you.” Hawke rests his forehead against mine, the tips of our noses touching. “I won’t allow anyone to doubt that.”

  “No?”

  “No, I won’t.” He raises his head, his voice growing more powerful. “We’re going to the Road Gator.”

  The men in the front seat cheer.

  Chapter Nine

  BY THE TIME the limousine slows and stops, my lipstick has been kissed clean and Hawke’s face wears as much glitter as mine. My military man doesn’t wait for Mack to open the door for us. He exits the vehicle, blocking the gap with his body, glances to the left and to the right.

  He’s looking for hostiles. I stifle a sigh. Once a bodyguard, always a bodyguard.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” He doesn’t sound happy. I tense. Is the Road Gator under attack? I gaze around me, looking for a weapon, determined to defend Hawke, to protect the man I love.

  A deep voice replies, the words too mumbled for me to decipher.

  “You did the right thing.” Hawke barks with laughter, his joy dissipating my fears. “She’ll love it.” He steps to the side and extends one of his hands. I grasp his creased palm and allow him to pull me to my feet.

  Brightness blinds me. “Hawke?” I increase my grip on his fingers, unable to see my surroundings, to see the threats he’s trained me to detect.

  “Too much, men.” He bats the air with his free hand.

  The lights dim and my eyes adjust. Bikes of all shapes and sizes and colors are lined up on both sides of us, the barrage of polished chrome and immaculately clean leather reaching from the limousine to the door of the bar.

  Men in black leather and denim, sporting tattoos, scars, and excess body hair, proudly straddle these machines, sheepish grins on their faces, their eyes gleaming with excitement. They direct their bikes’ headlights toward the center, illuminating the narrow pathway left between the front wheels. A green army tarp has been carefully folded and placed on the black pavement.

  Oh my God. I cover my mouth with my hand, realizing what they’ve done.

  These men, these wonderful, crazy, tortured men, have created their version of a red carpet. They went to all of this work, all of this effort, to make me happy, to make my dreams come true, creating the grand entrance I’ve always wanted.

  “You did this for me?” I struggle to hold back my emotion, emotion I know these rough, tough men won’t be comfortable seeing.

  “It isn’t a red carpet, miss.” Dawg, Hawke’s second in command, steps forward, his head bowed, his left foot dragging. “But it was the best we could do on such short notice.”

  “It’s perfect.” I blink back tears, stunned that they crafted this magical moment for me. “It’s absolutely perfect. Thank you, Dawg.”

  “It was a team effort, miss.” He ducks his head, red streaking over his weathered cheeks. “We all worked together.”

  They did this because they care for me, because they consider me one of their own. I tilt my head back, not allowing my tears to fall.

  Hawke squeezes my hand.

  He’s here. I have to be strong for him, for his men.

  I give them a bright, brilliant smile. “Thank you all!” I wave, feeling like a Hollywood actress addressing her beloved fans.

  The men hoot and holler and honk their horns, more enthusiastic than any award-show audience. I straighten with pride. These men are looking at me, honoring me.

  “Are you ready to walk the green carpet?” Hawke bends his arm. His bow tie hangs around his neck, his pants sparkle, yet there isn’t a movie star on the planet who takes my breath away like he does.

  I slide my hand through the gap and place my palm on his forearm. “I’m ready.”

  The men create an almost embarrassing ruckus, flashing their bikes’ lights, as we walk along the green army tarp. I beam at each biker, fully relishing this experience, knowing I’m safe, cherished, protected. There are no concerns about safety, about being judged or targeted. These aren’t paparazzi hoping to cash in on an embarrassing photo or seeking to spread hurtful gossip. These spectators all care for Hawke, care for me.

  A well-dressed Prick opens the door, a grin on his face. “Ma’am, sir.” He straightens and taps his fingers to his forehead.

  “Prick.” I return the salute. Lips twitch—Hawke’s, Prick’s, mine. One day, I’ll master the movement, but not today.

  I step over the threshold, enter the quiet, dimly lit bar, and the place erupts, men and women clapping and cheering. Ellen, garbed in a long black gown, leans against a wood-paneled wall, her wolf whistle earsplitting. Eighty Proof, the bartender, fills glasses with alcohol. I recognize many of the men. They attended my impromptu lunch party.

  I wanted to know what it was like to belong, to walk into a room filled with important people and feel as if I deserved to be there.

  I’m surrounded by veterans, men and women who fought for our country, who were willing to die for my freedom. These important people are smiling, laughing, welcoming me with open arms, accepting me as one of them.

  Hawke hooks one of his arms around my waist, pulling me closer to him. “It’s not the experience you dreamed about.”

  “No, it’s not,” I agree, my voice watery. “It’s so much better than anything I could have imagined.” I gaze up at him, my emotions dangerously close to the edge. “I belong here, Hawke, with you, with your team.”

  His eyes gleam. “You deserve to be here.” He utters the words I yearn to hear.

  I look at him, unable to say anything more, trusting him to read me as he always does.

  “Oh, love.” Hawke sweeps me into his arms and covers my lips with his, kissing me soundly in full view of his employees.

  I clutch his shoulders, needing this connection, needing him. He slides his tongue along mine, our mouths meshing, our bodies becoming one. I need more. I press against him.

  “Belinda.” He pulls back, his eyes brilliant blue with desire.

  The whistles and catcalls finally pierce my passion-induced haze, and my face heats. “Sorry.” He’s the boss. I shouldn’t be kissing him like that in front of his men.

  “Don’t ever be sorry for responding to me.” Hawke’s lips hitch into the lopsided smile I adore. “Now no one will doubt you’re mine.”

&nb
sp; He tucks me into his big form, his body heat wrapping around me like a Hermes scarf, and I inhale deeply, drawing his distinctive scent into my lungs.

  “This is my girl,” Hawke declares. Another round of applause rocks the bar.

  Men slap his shoulders and back. My former marine curves his body around mine, protecting me from our rowdy well-wishers. I snuggle into his muscular physique, unconcerned. He’d never allow me to be trampled.

  The crowd eventually disperses. Men and women return to their tables and to their pool games. Some intrepid couples find space on the tiny dance floor. Hawke guides me toward the bar.

  Bodies shift, freeing the two bar stools closest to the wall. My military man grasps my hips and lifts me easily, setting me on one seat. He then claims the other, placing his huge form between me and the rest of the room, a giant mountain of muscle safeguarding me from harm.

  “We’ll have two ginger ales.” Hawke holds up two fingers. Eighty Proof, the bartender, nods, takes out two wineglasses from underneath the bar.

  “We’re being fancy tonight.” I smile, wiggling on the bar stool, my legs dangling.

  My military man rests his left hand on my hip. “Only the best for my girl,” he teases me, his eyes twinkling with humor. “Tell me about this dress.” Hawke caresses the soft fabric. “What makes it special?”

  “Didn’t Lona tell you?” I tilt my chin upward. Did she help him buy it?

  “Lona approved of my choice,” he confirms. “She said you could wear it multiple times. Not that you need to.” He squeezes my hip. “But I know you like items that last.”

  “I don’t like it when relationships, even with things, ends,” I admit. If our relationship ever ends, I’ll be devastated. I know this, dread this, and don’t want to think about this right now. “The gown I’m wearing has a classic style.”

  I talk about my clothes, about fashion, about the business I’m starting with Cyndi, how we could help everyone have the same sense of belonging I experienced tonight. Hawke asks questions, shares stories about his childhood, his time with Rock, his best friend. Every once in a while, he pats his jacket. I suspect his phone is humming and he’s not answering, his focus on me making a great evening even better.

  I spot Dawg moving toward us, a grim expression on his weathered face, and I stifle a sigh, knowing our date night is coming to an end. If Hawke ran a different business, I might begrudge his split loyalties, but he protects people. His job makes the world a safer place, allowing men, women, couples, families to live their lives without fear.

  “Hawke, sir.” Dawg snaps into a salute.

  Hawke pats his tuxedo jacket. “Not tonight, Dawg.”

  His second in command grimaces. “I wouldn’t approach you if it wasn’t important, sir.”

  Hawke glances at me, indecision in his pale blue eyes.

  I fix a smile on my face. “Go.” I pat his arm. “Your men need you.” He hesitates. “We’re partners, which means they’re my men also,” I add. “I can’t enjoy myself if I know they’re in danger.”

  “You’re so damn perfect for me.” My former marine skims his lips over mine. “I’ll be back as soon as I fix this.” He looks around us. “Where is Mack?”

  “I’ll take his assignment, sir.” Ellen steps out of the shadows and I blink, her presence surprising me. Has she been watching us all this time?

  “Thank you, Ellen.” Hawke nods at the sexy assassin. “Belinda, love.” He cups my face and holds my gaze. “You have my number. If you need anything, call.”

  I smile at him, trying to lessen his guilt. “I will.”

  “Good.” He kisses me hard on the lips. “Anything my girl wants, she gets,” he instructs as he walks with Dawg through the bar, the crowds parting before him. I lift my chin, pride filling me. My man is a badass, and everyone knows it.

  Ellen hikes up her skirt and slides on the bar stool beside me.

  My gaze lowers. “You’re wearing boots with a Versace gown?” The contrast of her clunky black military footwear against her designer dress horrifies me.

  “I switched my footwear when you finally came to your senses. Heels inhibit movement.” The beautiful assassin shrugs, the movement as unladylike as she is. “At least I didn’t show up with glitter on my crotch.” She smirks. “Fun times with the boss in the limo, huh?” She elbows me.

  “He’s not my boss.” I sip my ginger ale, trying to cool my heated cheeks.

  “What’s with this?” Ellen flicks a finger against my glass. “Drinks are on the house, didn’t you hear?” She whistles, getting Eighty Proof’s attention. “Two whiskeys, straight up,” she tells the bartender.

  Eighty Proof rushes to fill her order, his hands shaking, his movements a blur. My lips curl upward. Everyone, except Hawke, is scared shitless of Ellen. My military man is fierce.

  Eighty Proof plunks the drinks in front of Ellen, she slides one glass to me, and my smile fades. “I’m fine with my ginger ale.”

  “No one is fine with ginger ale.” Ellen scowls. “You’re one of us now. Stop being a pussy and drink.” She tosses hers back.

  Wanting to belong, to truly be one of them, I take a deep breath and do the same. The liquor burns on the way down, warming my stomach. I don’t feel any different. Maybe I’m learning to hold my alcohol.

  “Two more,” Ellen orders.

  Oh God. I stare at my empty glass. Drinking another whiskey will push my limits. “Ellen—”

  “Never refuse a drink.” Ellen puts me in a mock headlock and rubs my head. “Anyone other than me would be insulted.” She abruptly releases me and I almost fall off my bar stool. “Bottoms up.”

  After the second whiskey, my night blurs. Mack returns, triumphantly waving a bottle of champagne he found. He hunted down the bubbly for me. I have to have a glass or two or three. I lose count. Members of Hawke’s team toast and I drink.

  I also slip off my bar stool. Mack catches me twice and misses once, the floor hard and unforgiving. Then someone gets the bright idea to duct tape my ass to the seat.

  “Hawke won’t like this,” I advise, hugging the bar, the wood cool against my cheek. I’m clenching a rag in one of my hands, the scent of furniture polish soothing me.

  “She’s right, jackass,” Ellen snips. “When he sees you duct-taped his girl to a bar stool, he’ll have your balls in a jar.”

  “We duct-taped Prick to a chair once and Hawke laughed,” Mack points out, a healthy dose of fear edging his words. “Belinda is one of us now.”

  “Yeah.” I lift my head. The room tilts, lights and colors spinning around me, and I return my chin to the steady surface of the bar. “I’m one of you. I’ll explain that to him and he’ll understand. He always understands,” I mumble. “I love him so much.”

  Ellen groans. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve told us that a million times.”

  Hawke has been gone for hours. An assignment must have gone bad. I shouldn’t ask this question. I’m almost certain I’ve already mentioned it.

  Oh shit. I have to ask. “Hawke’s not in danger, is he?”

  “She asks us this every fifteen minutes like fuckin’ clockwork.” Ellen confirms my suspicions, exasperation in her voice. “It’s your turn to answer this damn question.”

  “Hawke’s not in any danger.” Mack is more patient with me. “If his expertise is needed, that means a situation already went FUBAR and the hostiles are long gone. He’s no longer taking assignments. He trusts me to lead them.” The man’s chest puffs out.

  “You can’t lead your own ass out of a latrine.” Ellen rolls her eyes. “I’m leading the assignment Tuesday night.”

  “I’m leading the assignment Tuesday afternoon,” Mack counters, his new role giving him the confidence to challenge his scary coworker. “He awarded me the first one.”

  “My assignment is higher profile.” Ellen curls her top lip. “My team is larger.”

  Mack bares his teeth also. “Larger isn’t always better.”

  “Do you use that line with
your big-breasted bimbos?” She glares at him. “Because it isn’t true in bed, and it certainly isn’t true in the fuckin’ field.”

  They natter back and forth, exchanging insults. I listen, not understanding half of the things they’re talking about. The passion is clear though, as is the realization that Hawke made the right decision, delegating his assignments.

  Ellen insults Mack’s choice of fuck bunnies for the fifth time. Mack tells her she’d be in a better mood if she got laid. Ellen bounces off her bar stool, slams her fists down on her hips, and glowers at him. He glowers back. Silence stretches.

  “Was the team surprised about Hawke’s decision not to lead assignments?” I venture into the quiet.

  “The team might have been surprised, but I wasn’t.” Ellen climbs back on her bar stool. “I knew I could count on you, short stack. You can’t fight worth shit, but you complete missions. That’s one of the reasons I haven’t duct-taped your damn mouth tonight.”

  Her comments don’t bother me. I hear the affection in her voice. “You like me.” I turn my yawn into a smile. “You consider me a sister.”

  “An irritating little sister who constantly steals my best knives.” Ellen’s view of the world frightens me. “You—”

  “Wait.” I hold up my cleaning cloth. The air around us changes, snapping with electricity. “Hawke is here,” I sing, happiness filling my soul.

  “Shit,” Mack cusses, not as thrilled with his boss’s arrival. “Help me free her.” Knives slice through the duct tape.

  I squeak a protest, alarmed by the sharp steel slashing too damn close to my skin. Ellen and Mack ignore me, peeling the tape from my designer dress, leaving a sticky trail across the cloth.

  I start to slide across my seat. Mack presses against me, keeping my ass in place.

  “Why are you touching my girl?” Hawke booms. Mack steps away from me, I topple off the bar stool, and strong arms scoop me up before I hit the hard floor.

  “Hi.” I gaze into my military man’s beloved face, his features blurry.