Sinful Rewards 11 (3 page)

He’s Friendly, my mysterious texter, the person pushing my sexual limits, embracing my exhibitionistic side. I now know this without a doubt, suspect a part of me has always realized this.

I trace the silver teeth, the metal cool against my fingertips. Hawke has seen all of me, my perversions and my messes, yet he has deemed me worthy of precious jewels. I’ll look like a princess tonight with my beautiful hair comb and black Prada gown.

The doorbell rings. “Just a minute,” I yell. Shit. I gently set the comb in the leather case, place the case in the cardboard box, jump to my feet, and hurry into the bedroom. There aren’t many places to hide a priceless treasure. I tuck it into the closet, behind one of Hawke’s rifle-shaped black bags.

The doorbell rings again. “I’m coming.” I rush through the condo and open the door.

Ellen glares at me. “You didn’t even look through the peephole.” The beautiful mercenary is wearing a body-hugging green T-shirt, unattractive cargo pants, and the big black boots all of Hawke’s team members are wearing this season. “You had no idea who was waiting for you.” She pushes me aside and clomps into the main room. “And Hawke is allowing you around possible hostiles.” She gives a very unladylike snort. “That’s a bad fucking idea.”

She must be talking about tonight’s ball. “You won’t tell Hawke that you think it’s a bad idea, will you?” Panic swells within me. He already has misgivings about my attendance.

“No.” Ellen glowers. “But I should tell him. You’re worse than our clients.”

My shoulders lower. “I’ll be a great client, the best client you have.”

“You’ll be a terrible client,” she argues. “And if that was all you were, it wouldn’t matter. We lose one client . . . ” Ellen shrugs. “The team will be pissed off and frustrated as hell, but that’s the price of war. Causalities happen.”

I shiver at her callous tone.

“You, on the other hand, are more than a client,” she continues. “You’re family, and that’s an irreplaceable loss.”

I gaze at her, stunned. She thinks I’m irreplaceable, one of a kind, designer. “Am I family?”

“Yeah, you’re like our little sister.” Ellen’s boots ring on the hardwood. “Our helpless little sister whom we clearly have to protect. These are for you.” She reaches into her back pocket and hands me a package.

They’re acrylic toenails, the kind the stars use. I blink, my emotions dangerously close to the surface. I can wear my sandals tonight. “Did Hawke buy these for me?”

“He asked me to source them. Can you believe that?” Ellen sounds disgusted. “He’s worried about whether or not you feel beautiful when he should be concerned about hostiles icing your tiny ass. Men.” She makes a face. “They only think with their dicks. Because if he thought with his big brain, he’d bar you from attending tonight. This event is advertised all over the place. Every homegrown terrorist in the country knows about it.”

Yet I suspect I’m the only client she’s warning. Because Ellen cares about me. My chest heats. “I’ve never had a sister.”

“What are you talking about?” Ellen shakes her head, her ponytail slapping against her shoulders. “You have Cyndi, that blonde bouncy friend of yours. You’ve been in the trenches together. That makes you sisters.”

“I guess it does.” I smile. Cyndi is my sister, in all but name and blood. “If you don’t want to work tonight, I’m sure Mack and Prick can safeguard me.”

“Mack and Prick can’t safeguard their own asses.” Ellen rolls her big brown eyes. “Thankfully, you’ll have the entire team looking out for you.”

“I have the
entire
team looking out for me?” She must be exaggerating.

“Hawke drafted Mack, Prick, and me, and then he asked for volunteers,” she clarifies. “Everyone who was in the city and wasn’t working or busy volunteered. We protect our own.” She lifts her chin proudly.

Oh God. They’re giving up their precious nights off so I can go to a ball. “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

“Then you shouldn’t be entering a potential war zone.” Ellen stomps around the room, clearly agitated. “Why you want to attend this thing, I don’t know. Your Mr. Rainer will talk on his phone all night. Susan, your former coworker, will be working. You have no other allies there.”

I frown. “Does everyone know everything about me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She doesn’t bullshit me. “Because that’s what we do. We gather intelligence on our clients to protect them. Our friends and our family deserve the same treatment.”

They know everything about me and they still accept me, consider me part of their family. “I’ve never been to a ball.” My reason for attending sounds weak even to me.

“I’ve attended too many of these stupid events.” Ellen plucks at her T-shirt. “Unless you have someone to talk to, they’re as boring as burning out four-holer heads.”

I don’t know what that means. “There are other guests. You always have someone to talk to.”

“When the guests think you’re one of them, sure, they’ll talk to you,” she concedes. “But if they suspect you’re security, a professional paid to protect them, someone willing to die for their bony asses, they’ll treat you like shit.”

“They don’t treat Hawke like shit,” I insist. They wouldn’t dare.

“Not to his face,” Ellen mumbles.

I want to tell her she’s wrong. Hawke is a six-foot-forever former marine, brave and intelligent and strong, easily one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known.

But in my heart, I know she’s right. He’s viewed by the privileged guests as a replaceable employee, not as important or as worthy as they are. This makes me angry.

It also makes me question my objective. Do I want to be embraced by people who don’t respect Hawke, who treat him like shit?

Ellen tweaks her shirt again. I push my misgivings aside and focus on her outfit. It isn’t pretty, but it’s a vast improvement over her usual wardrobe. “Your T-shirt shows your curves.”

“Yeah, well.” The stone-cold mercenary’s gorgeous face turns pink. “It doesn’t hide my weapons as well as the men’s shirts do.” She plunks at the cotton. “I suppose Hawke hasn’t given you a gun.”

I blink, completely diverted. “I’m going to a ball.”

“There might be hostiles at your precious ball.” She enunciates slowly, as though speaking to a small child. “A stiletto through the eyeball will bring down even the largest man.” Ellen’s idea of girl talk horrifies me.

“What are you wearing tonight?” I redirect the conversation to a more pleasant topic.

She yanks on the short sleeve of her T-shirt. “That look you put together for me yesterday worked well.”

My eyes widen. “That was a cocktail dress. You can’t wear it again. It’s not fancy enough for tonight.” I grab my laptop. “I’ll find you a suitable gown.”

An hour later, there’s a dress waiting for Ellen at a small Chicago boutique and I know how to break a man’s nose with the heel of my hand. She leaves, grumbling about the things she does for the people she cares about.

I smile. Ellen is talking about me. I’m the person she cares about.

She’s worried because tonight, I’m going to a ball. I dance in place, smacking the soles of my shoes against the hardwood floor, my happiness bubbling over.

Once I’ve purged some of my excess energy, I press Nicolas’s number. It rings twice.

“Nicolas Rainer.” My billionaire’s voice is curt. Voices yell in the background.

“This is Bee Carter, your date for tonight.” Some leftover squeal permeates my voice. “If you still want me to go with you.”

The voices in the background grow quiet. “I do,” Nicolas confirms.

My heart squeezes, my soul wishing the words had come from another man, in another context. I’d wear white, a designer gown specially crafted for me. The handmade veil covering my face would also be new, an heirloom I can pass to my daughters. As my family’s first bride, our wedding traditions would start with me. My mom would walk me down the aisle, having earned the right by raising me on her own, and—

“I’ll pick you up at six.” Nicolas interrupts my fantasy. “I won’t make you stand on the corner like a two-bit hooker,” he teases, repeating the words I once said to him.

“Yes, please pick me up. We’re trying to stop the hooker rumors.” I force a laugh, my anxiety returning. The people attending this ball will be the same people who spread the stories about me, labeling me a whore. “Are you certain you wish to be seen with me? Some of your friends will think I’m that person, the whore of Chicago.”

“My friends won’t think that, not if I say otherwise,” Nicolas declares arrogantly. “But there will be very few of them in attendance tonight.” His voice flattens as though he dreads the evening. This is a chore for him, an event he must attend.

Hawke and his team view the ball as a security problem. Nicolas sees it as work. “I’m your friend and I’ll be attending.” I hold on to my happiness with both hands. “I’ve never been to a fancy ball.”

“I’ll send you an article with survival tips,” Nicolas promises. A door must have opened, the noise around him increasing.

“Why would I need an article?” My forehead furrows. “You’ll be standing by my side.”

Male voices murmur in the distance. I can’t decipher the words. My hardworking executive doesn’t say anything.

“You’ll stand by my side, right?” I need this clarification, alarm threatening to breach my bliss. “You won’t walk away and leave me alone like you did at your club.”

Nicolas had stationed me in his office and never returned, forgetting about me completely. Hawke rescued me. He always comes for me.

Nicolas remains silent. The voices around him grow louder, angrier.

“Nicolas?” I clutch the dog tags dangling between my breasts. He must be distracted. That’s why he isn’t reassuring me.

Not that I should need reassurance. Hawke will be watching me. Ellen, Mack, Prick, and, from the sounds of it, most of Hawke’s team will be there, invisible but contactable. Susan, my friend, will be working the event. I can talk to her.

I’ll know other people attending—Angel, Cyndi’s bitchy friend; Mr. Peterson, my former boss; and Dru, the nasty coworker who slept with him and stole my job. They won’t help me. I shudder. They’ll mock me as Tara did when my high school friends abandoned me.

A man yells Nicolas’s name.

“I said I needed a Goddamn minute,” my billionaire yells back. “I’ll see you at six, Bee.” There’s a click, followed by silence.

A knot forms in my stomach, pulling tight. This evening can’t be a mistake. I’m attending a ball with a dashing billionaire. The man I love is fine with my escort. I have the perfect gown, strappy heels, and a priceless hair comb to wear.

Tonight will be wonderful, damn it.

Chapter Three

M
Y FEARS OF
being deserted are irrational. I worked at the charity organizing the ball. I know people attending. Susan, my friend, will be there.

Seeking to banish my doubts, I phone her.

“Hello,” she croaks, her voice raw.

“You sound terrible.” I swallow my howl of despair. My friend isn’t going anywhere. I’ll have only one workaholic billionaire for company. Nicolas will be my sole buffer against my critics. “They can’t be making you work tonight.”

“No.” Susan coughs. “They don’t want me to infect the donors.” She sounds as though she’s hacking up a lung. “I’m dying, Bee. Have you called to say your final good-byes?”

“You’re not dying.” I roll my eyes at her drama and concentrate on my friend, ignoring my worries about tonight. “Did you see that sexy doctor of yours?”

“He said it was a summer cold.” She sniffles. “He didn’t even want me to take my shirt off.”

I smile. Susan has been trying to get her hot single doctor’s attention for months. “Maybe you should see him again, get more tests done.”

“I’ll see him once I’m feeling better.” Her voice is fading. “I look like shit.”

I laugh, wondering how many of the sexy doctor’s patients make appointments when they’re perfectly healthy. His waiting room must be full of single women.

She’ll live and I’ll survive. Nicolas will stay by my side during our stroll along the red carpet and our grand entrance into the ballroom. Then some lady will leave her purse on her chair and Hawke will order me to vacate the premises.

A part of me is glad. I won’t have to face Dru or Angel alone, won’t be abandoned in the middle of the dance floor, won’t have to tolerate anyone treating Hawke’s team like shit. It won’t be the prom experience I’ve seen in the movies, but I won’t be missing anything.

Will I?

I shouldn’t ask Susan. It’s a struggle for her to speak and I should let her return to her bed. Oh shit. I have to ask. “What was your high school prom like?”

“It was one of the best nights of my life.”

I relax. Tonight will be one of the best nights of my life also.

“My friends and I rented a stretch limo. We drove around all night, drinking champagne and yelling out the windows. Hmmm . . . ” Her hum turns into a cough. “Come to think of it, we never ended up going to the prom. But that didn’t matter. All of the people I wanted to see were with me.”

“I understand.” My concerns return. If Nicolas abandons me, distracted by one of his business calls, I’ll be surrounded by people I
don’t
want to see. “Go back to bed, Susan. Dream of your doctor.”

I end the call, scroll through my phone, and stare at the selfie Hawke loaded. His face is blunt and broad, his nose flattened, scars carved into his perma-stubble. There’s devilment in his pale blue eyes, his lips hitched into a lopsided smile.

I love him. My heart swells with emotion. I love him so damn much.

And I don’t want to spend one evening apart from him.

Which is ridiculous. Hawke will likely be working away from home tonight as he did last night. I have a beautiful dress, a dazzling hair comb, and there will be no other opportunities to wear them. My military man wears T-shirts, not tuxedos. He goes to biker bars, not balls.

A bar filled with people who love and respect him, good people who consider me part of their family.

My phone vibrates in my hand. “Bee Carter,” I answer.

“Hi, honeybee.” It’s my mom, again. She’s called me three times in three days, and every day she sounds happier. “Stop that.” She laughs.

I’m not doing anything. “Mom?”

“I’m talking to Long Haul. He’s making faces at me.”

“I’m a security professional.” A deep voice joins our bizarre conversation. “I don’t make faces.”

“Go away, you big goof,” my mom tells him. “I’m talking to my daughter.” Skin smacks against skin and alarm sweeps over me. Are they naked?

I want my mom to be happy, but I’m not ready for this, not yet. “We can talk later.” When they’re both dressed.

“No, we won’t,” she insists. “I might have someone new in my life now, but you’re my daughter. You will always be my first priority.”

I stare at my phone. I’ve never been able to be her first priority. The customers at the diner always came first. “I’m okay, Mom.”

“Do you have any big news? Something you should tell your mom?”

I frown. She asked a similar question yesterday. “I’m going to a fancy ball tonight.”

“Ahhh . . . ”

What does that noise mean? “Mom, do you know something I should?”

“Yes. No. Maybe.” Her voice fills with panic. “I have to go.”

“Mom.” I’m talking to air. She’s ended the call. My lips twist. My mom is a horrible liar, even worse than I am. I tap my phone’s case. She knows something and she doesn’t want me to find out.

I call her back. She doesn’t answer. Can she answer? Do throwaway phones accept incoming calls? I could ask Hawke for his parents’ number. I chew on the inside of my cheek. No, I won’t do that. She’s fine. I’m fine. There’s no need to bother them.

My phone hums again. I gaze down at the small screen. Nicolas has sent me an article on attending charity balls.

I skim over the words. The writers advise to eat before I attend and to wear comfortable shoes, as I will be spending the night standing. I wiggle my wounded toe.

There are also tips to deal with crowds.
Crowds
, I repeat silently. Being average-sized, I don’t deal well with masses of people. The last crush of heaving, sweating humanity almost trampled me.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m pressing Hawke’s number.

He answers on the first ring.

“What’s wrong?” The concern in his voice unleashes the butterflies in my stomach.

“Nothing is wrong,” I assure my overprotective man. “Will there be a crowd at tonight’s ball? I sent the invitations. There weren’t that many people invited.”

“You sent the invitations for the high-net-worth guests.” Hawke points out the flaw in my reasoning. “They’ll pack as many people as they can into the venue. It’s a security nightmare.”

Voices murmur in the background.

“I don’t care if the guest is the president of the United States,” he snaps. “Everyone entering the building gets screened by one of our men.”

“The chair won’t approve that directive, sir.” Dawg’s reply is barely audible.

“If the chair wants our clients to attend and donate, he will.” The dominance in Hawke’s tone tightens my nipples. “This is an unusual situation calling for unusual precautions.”

“Has something happened?” Will he tell me I can’t go to the ball?

“Nothing has happened and nothing will happen.” He is adamant.

I’m still attending the ball. My disappointment confuses me. This is a fancy event, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’ll be the envy of everyone, arriving in a designer gown on the arm of Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. I’d be an idiot not to want to attend this ball.

“Do you need me, Belinda?”

“Yes,” I answer without thinking. I always need him. “I mean . . . ” Oh hell, I don’t know what I mean or what I want. “You’re busy. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Tell me what you want and I’ll get it.” Hawke sounds eager, as though he also wants to escape, to have a reason to see me.

“Ummm . . . ” I search my brain for an excuse, any excuse. “I haven’t received any texts from Friendly this morning.” This is the first thing I think of.

Hawke hesitates and I cringe, certain I’ve made a mistake. He has work to do, preparations for tonight to oversee, and I’m distracting him with trivial matters, asking him to bring my erotic fantasies to life.

“Do you want to receive a text from Friendly?” he finally asks.

“I’m wet, hot, empty.” I rub one of my hands over my skirt. “So empty.” I lift the hem, hook my fingers in the waistband of my panties, and draw them down to my knees. “I’m bare under my skirt.”

“You weren’t bare this morning.” Hawke’s voice deepens and I smile, knowing he wants this as much as I do. “You were wearing a tiny slip of white silk.”

“I’m not wearing that now.” I step out of the circle of delicate fabric. “I don’t want any barriers between us, don’t want any delay in having you, to feel you pounding into my pussy with your big cock, making me scream your name as I come, clenching you tight.”

He growls, the primitive sound rolling down my spine.

I cup my mons, thrilled by his response. “Will you bend me over and take me from behind? Put your palm prints on my ass so everyone knows I’m yours?”

“Give me a half an hour.”

“You have twenty minutes,” I counter, taking control of this encounter. “Or I’ll start without you.” I end the call and laugh softly. My favorite voyeur doesn’t like to miss anything. He’ll rush to arrive on time, thinking of nothing else.

My phone dances against my fingers. I glance down at the screen.

Friendly:
In 20 min, go to 501 North, strip naked & lie on the bed. Good girls earn rewards.

My smile stretches across my face. He
is
thinking of me. I scoop up my panties, venture into our bedroom, place the folded silk on the bed, and remove the box with this morning’s reward from the closet. Pulling two large strands away from my face, I slide the teeth of my beautiful comb into my hair, fastening them in place.

When he fucks me senseless, he’ll see his gift in my hair. I hum happily as I wander around the condo, ensuring the space is ready for our cat’s arrival. Minutes pass as I sweep the floors, tuck the bar stools under the counter, wipe the kitchen appliances with a damp sponge.

Cyndi texts me, asking about the Harry Winston box. I take multiple pictures of my diamond-and-silver hair comb, capturing every divine detail, and I send it to her with the caption, “Look what I got today.”

She replies, attaching a picture of her movie-star boyfriend shirtless with the same caption. I laugh. My best friend always knows how to lighten my mood.

I tuck my phone and passcard into the bodice of my dress and head out the door, striving for the same happiness. My ballerina flats sink into the rich blue carpet. The light from the gold hallway fixtures flickers against the cream walls.

I press the button for the elevator. The doors open and I stride into the small space. My face reflects in the mirrored walls, the diamonds in my hair sparkling, catching my attention. The dog tags also shine, looking patriotic and surprisingly right against the red-and-white stripes of my Dolce & Gabbana dress.

My style is eclectic yet tolerable, the lining of the skirt concealing my panty-less state. My shoes, however, are hideous, but I don’t have a choice. The ballerina flats are my only option.

I’m lying to myself. As Hawke often tells me, there’s always a choice.

Months ago, I would have chosen not to meet with a man rather than be seen wearing the wrong footwear. I hadn’t known Hawke then. He hadn’t changed me yet, hadn’t shown me that there are more important things in life than fashion.

I gaze at my reflection. Today, I’m a different person. I’m no longer a little girl playing dress-up, a carefully garbed fashionista, or a sophisticated seductress. I’m a regular woman, imperfect yet happy, my cheeks pink and my eyes glowing because I’m having a secret rendezvous with the man I love.

This encounter was initiated by me. I can’t justify my perverted behavior by pointing to the promise of a reward or by claiming ignorance of what I’ll be asked to do. Hawke is wealthy, he can buy a woman any designer treasures she covets, and I know we’ll have sex in front of an audience.

I rub my thighs together, my pussy moistening, my body heating with excitement. The doors open and I saunter along the fifth-floor hallway, my hips swaying, my worries about tonight smothered by lust and anticipation.

I wave my passcard over five oh one north’s sensor and open the door. Thick drapes cover the windows. Empty chairs are arranged in front of a raised black stage. A bed is positioned next to a glass table. The immaculately white sheets are pulled tightly over the mattress, the corners folded with a military precision. Three condom packages are scattered on the table.

I’m the first to arrive. There’s no one else in the room. I stroll purposefully down the aisle and onto the stage. He said to strip. I’ll strip.

A floorboard creaks under my shoes, a spotlight shines down on me, and the rest of the room is plunged into darkness. I gaze down at my feet and tap the stage. A circle of loose floorboards surrounds the bed, wires visible in the gaps. Stepping on one must activate the lights. Hawke, that clever bastard, has automated the process.

I wish he’d added music. The room is eerily silent. I hum and dance to the tune in my head as I reach behind me, unzip my dress. A door creaks open. Are members of my audience arriving? I shrug my shoulders, and fabric slides down my arms, breasts, snagging on my hips.

I catch it before it falls, drape it on the table. The bra soon joins it. I’m too eager, too aroused to prolong my striptease.

Turning slowly, I allow them to see all of me. My nipples are pink and taut, one unblemished, the other marked by my possessive man’s teeth. The dog tags are nestled in the shallow valley between my small breasts, another declaration of ownership. My neatly trimmed private curls are damp, my musk scenting the air. The spotlight heats the tender skin of my ass cheeks.

The men seated in the chairs can look. They can’t touch. My body belongs to one man. I climb onto the bed, position myself on my hands and knees, facing away from the audience, and I wait for Hawke.