Sinful Rewards 11 (2 page)

Chapter Two

W
E NAVIGATE THROUGH
our morning routines. Hawke dresses in his usual hideous uniform. Wanting to look pretty for him, I don the red-and-white sleeveless Dolce & Gabbana dress my friend Lona gave me.

Then I have second thoughts about my choice. “I guess I shouldn’t wear designer dresses.” I stroke the fabric. “People will wonder how we can afford them.”

“Most people don’t pay attention like you and I do.” My military man’s eyes gleam with pride. “The rare few who notice will assume you’re either a very good shopper or companies have given you the dresses. You’re a stylist now. Fashion is your business.”

It is my business now and designers do give influential people samples. When I shop, observers will believe I’m buying clothing for my clients.

The first thing I’ll buy is a nice pair of black ballerina flats. My lips curl as I slip my feet into my cheap knockoff footwear.

Hawke frowns down at my shoes. “I thought you’re supposed to wear those flimsy red shoes with your Dolce & Gabbana number.”

I gaze up at him. He remembered this small detail about my outfit. “The Gianvito Rossi sandals are open-toe.”

“And?” He raises his eyebrows.

“And I’m missing a toenail.” I wander into the main room, my big man following me. “I can’t wear sandals if my feet are ugly.”

“You have pretty feet.” Hawke’s tone says he truly believes this.

I don’t say anything. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t know how critical other people can be, how their harsh comments can shred a young woman’s confidence.

“Do you mind if I make some calls?” Hawke cradles his brick of a phone in one massive palm.

“Go ahead. I’ll prepare breakfast.” I move into the kitchen nook, my happy place, taking care of morning rations, as his military men would call them, while my big man rumbles into his phone, talking in a code I don’t understand.

I slide the food in front of him, claim the second bar stool. Hawke sets down his phone and shifts, pressing one of his legs against mine.

“I’m thinking about moving my schedule around, sleeping in a bit.” He carves his eggs and toast efficiently into bite-sized squares.

I nibble on a piece of buttered toast. “Are you moving your schedule around for me?” Or because he has finally realized that no rational human being wakes at the crack of dawn?

“I’d move my entire world around for you, love.” He pops a forkful of food into his mouth, chews slowly, a blissful expression on his face, and swallows. “It turns out our new cat doesn’t like mornings either. Gisele hissed when the veterinarian’s assistant woke her up to feed her.”

I beam. My fur-baby is like her human mama. “She’s a very intelligent cat.”

“I’m not saying anything.” Hawke chuckles. “I know when I’m outnumbered. Mack will drop her off around noon.”

Noon is when I have to tell Nicolas, my lonely billionaire and good friend, whether or not I’ll attend the Magnificent Ball with him. I swirl my juice around the glass, creating an orange tornado.

“The Magnificent Ball is tonight.” I keep my tone casual, informational.

Hawke slides his glance to my face. “You want to go.”

Sometimes I wish he wasn’t able to read me. I set my glass on the counter. “I sent out the invitations. My friend Susan says the room will be beautiful with a gorgeous chandelier hanging from the ceiling and lights everywhere. The women will be dressed in floor-length designer ball gowns, diamonds sparkling around their necks and in their hair. The men will be wearing tuxes.” My voice warms. “It’ll be like a fairy tale. Anyone who is anyone will be there.”

“I know everyone will be there.” Hawke stabs an egg. “The hostiles know this as well.”

He worries about me, about all of the guests attending. “The event will have security.” He’s security. I look at him. “Will your team be there?”

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 Chanel 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.