Sinful Rewards 12 (4 page)

My phone hums. It's an unknown number. It could be Hawke. He could have lost his phone. “Bee Carter,” I answer.

“Hi, honeybee.” My mom's voice is light, holding all of the happiness I could ever wish for her. People laugh in the background. It sounds as if she's at a party. “Tell me all about it.”

I frown. “Tell you all about what?”

“About Hawke's proposal. What else?” My mom laughs. “How did he do it? What did he say? Have you set a date?”

My brain spins. “How did you know he proposed?” Had Hawke called my mom immediately after he left the condo? Why would he do that?

“He asked my permission to marry you.” My mom's words are infused with pride. “Can you believe that? He was so nervous too, his hands clutched in front of him, his face pale, like he thought I'd say no. I said yes, of course. He's such a good boy, hardworking and considerate. Look at how he arranged for Long Haul to bring me to his parents' so we could get to know each other before the wedding.”

This was the big news my mom has been asking me about. I sit on the end of the bed, stunned. Hawke asked her for permission to marry me days ago, before the pregnancy scare, before I'd admitted I loved him.

He loves me. He offered me forever.

I turned him down.

My stomach bubbles. Acid burns the inside of my throat. “Mom, I love you and I promise to give you all of the details later, but I gotta run. There's an emergency.”

“What?”

“It's a minor happy emergency.” I hope this is the truth. “I'll call you later.” I end the call, look down at my phone, my reasons to fight for him, for us, compounding.

I press Hawke's number again. The call goes to voice mail. I don't leave a message. What I have to say should be conveyed in person.

“Gisele.” I look under the bed, meeting our cat's unblinking yellow gaze. “You'll have the place to yourself. I'm finding Hawke and fixing this before he has any second thoughts about us.”

First, I have to encourage our guests to leave.

I grab my phone and passcard, open the bedroom door, and march into the main room, filled with purpose, with confidence.

The men are seated on the bar stools, drinking wine. Francois is talking quickly in French, his expression earnest, his hands moving. Nicolas appears to be ignoring him, his focus split between his phone and the bag of jelly beans he managed to locate in the mere minutes I was away.

“I have to go,” I announce.

The men turn their heads toward me and frown. Their faces are different, a handsome perfection versus a scarred hardness, yet their expressions are the same. They both disapprove of my plan.

“I have to meet with someone.” Someone whose love I have to claim.

“Belinda,
ma petite
.” Francois turns his palms upward, a physical plea for my company. “I'm only in Chicago for a couple of days. I wish to spend some time with you.”

“This can't wait.” I don't know why I'm explaining my actions. I don't answer to him or to Nicolas.

“The paparazzi are stalking you outside.” The billionaire scoops one of his elegant hands into the bag and tosses a couple of jelly beans into his mouth. “You should wait for Hawke to return.”

“No.” I lift my chin. “I'm not waiting for anyone any longer.”

“Bee—”

“No,” I repeat, my voice firmer. Nicolas stares at me. I stare back at him, my gaze as unblinking as my new cat's.

The billionaire sighs. “You're taking his men with you—all of them.” His long, slender fingers fly over his phone's keys.

“Okay.” I require their help to locate Hawke.

“They'll be here within minutes.” Nicolas eases off his bar stool, his movements fluid. “We're leaving.” He levels a hard glance on Francois.

The vineyard owner swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Belinda, I—”

“We're leaving.” Nicolas's tone doesn't allow for any refusal.

The two men lock gazes for one, two, three heartbeats.

“We're leaving,” Francois concedes, standing.

Nicolas's eyes gleam with triumph, my friend in full business-bastard mode. “I'm taking the jelly beans with me.” He clutches the bag with one hand and his phone with the other as he strolls to the door. “Wait for Hawke's people.”

I'm tempted to refuse, but I need my military man's people to track him. “I'll wait.” I open the door, leaning against the wood. “Thank you.” I glance at Nicolas and then at Francois. “Both of you. You're good friends.”

“I'm a terrible friend.” Nicolas's lips twitch. He's so damn handsome and powerful and nice. Some woman will be lucky to call him hers.

That woman won't be me. Hawke owns my body, my heart, my soul. He's my future, my forever. I'll ensure he never again doubts this.

“Belinda,
ma petite
.” Francois kisses my cheeks, his eyes reflecting his sadness. “Call me when you have time and I'll return
tout de suite
.”

“I will,” I promise. He's a nice man, traumatized by his time at war, paying a high price for defending his beliefs, safeguarding our country. “Drive safely.”

“I—”

“She said she'd call you.” Nicolas pushes the Frenchman into the hallway, not allowing him to finish his sentence. “Call me too.” The door closes behind him.

M
ACK AND
P
RICK
arrive at my door six worry-filled minutes later. Convincing them to help me eats up more precious time.

“Take me to Hawke,” I insist.

Mack shifts his weight from his right foot to his left, his body clad in an army green T-shirt, khaki pants, the usual black ugly boots on his big feet. Prick is dressed similarly, their outfits hideous yet practical.

“He's busy, ma'am.” The normally foul-mouthed military man is all politeness today, this tweak in his character indicating he's hiding something.

“Did he take an assignment?” I narrow my eyes. “Because Hawke promised me he wouldn't.”

“No, ma'am.” Mack's bald head reddens.

“It's personal business,” Prick adds. “He—” Mack's elbow connects with his gut and the smaller man stops talking, bending over, clutching his middle.

“It's
personal
business.” I hear the crazy in my voice. What type of personal business would prevent Hawke from calling me? “I'm tracking him down. You can help, or I can ask the paparazzi waiting outside to assist me. That's your choice.”

I exit the condo, marching through the door and into the hallway, my ballerina flats sinking in the lush blue carpet. The men follow me, their treads not as silent as Hawke's. No one matches my former marine's skills.

The men murmur to each other. I suspect they're texting their boss.

Maybe he'll answer
them
. My lips twist. Because he hasn't called me, despite the the multiple calls and the voice mail I left him. I press the button for the elevator. The doors open and I step into the small space.

“We'll take you to Hawke.” Mack holds the doors, allowing Prick to slide through. “But you have to follow our orders.”

I lift my eyebrows. “I'm your client.” They should be following my orders.

“This operation will run smoother if you listen to us.” Mack selects parking level three.

“I'll listen to you.” I'm not agreeing to anything. Mack's next command could be to return to the condo. “Do you know where Hawke stores my helmet?” If he has taken his bike to wherever he is, I want to have the option to ride with him.

“Demo will retrieve your helmet.” Mack's fingers move over his phone. “I don't advise riding a bike. The paparazzi will spot and stop you.”

I don't plan to ride alone or with anyone other than Hawke. “Are we taking a limo?” That's how we escaped last night.

“That only worked because we had a carefully planned distraction.” Mack's forehead furrows, his expression concerned.

Considering I didn't see Demo last night, I suspect that distraction involved blowing something up. The elevator descends, the red digital numbers counting down. Mack and Prick mutter back and forth, speaking in that indecipherable code all of Hawke's men use.

I glance at the mirrored walls and cringe. My makeup is nonexistent and my hair is mussed. Preoccupied with finding Hawke, I left the privacy of our home without checking my appearance.

I rake my fingers through the strands, concentrating on fixing my hair, the only mess I can rectify at this moment. Mack and Prick are the experts at exiting the building unseen. My former marine isn't communicating with me.

He still loves me. He must. I smooth my eyebrows. He's gathering the proof I no longer need. That's his mysterious personal business.

God, I hope he doesn't break any laws or risk his life to prove his love. My anxiety increases. I have to talk to Hawke before he does anything extreme.

The elevator rings and the doors open. I walk into the underground parking garage, my flat heels smacking against the concrete.

“This way.” Mack leads us toward a little red sports car.

“
This
is your ride?” My eyes widen. This tough-looking man drives a sports car.

“This is
my
ride.” Demo swaggers out of the shadows, my helmet held under one of his big arms. He's dressed as deplorably as Mack and Prick in a gray T-shirt and black pants. “Baby is a hot stick of dynamite.”

“Baby?” I struggle to contain my disbelief. “You named your car?”

Crimson creeps up his tattooed neck. “You named your cat.” He places the helmet in the passenger seat.

I straighten. Is he comparing his car to Gisele?

“She won't fit in the trunk.” Prick eyes the car, openly dubious.

“She's small. She'll fit.” Mack dismisses his concerns.

This
is their bright idea, to stuff me in the trunk? “Hell, no.” I place my hands on my hips. “I'm not getting into the trunk. I'll suffocate, get carbon monoxide poisoning.” Freak out because it'll be dark. Rats and mice like small dark places.

“We've done this before,” Mack reassures me.

“Not with my Baby.” Demo opens the trunk. All three men lean over, look at the space and then at me.

“She won't fit,” they all agree.

Good. My shoulders lower. I don't have to face the darkness. “What are our other options?”

The three men exchange glances, communicating without words. “There are no other options.” Mack speaks for all of them. “You'll have to return to the condo and wait for Hawke to return.”

“I'm not waiting.” I have to talk to my former marine before he does something crazy to prove his love. “I'll get into the trunk.”

“An average-sized woman wouldn't fit.” Mack, that shithead, grins, his eyes sparkling with humor.

“I'm not average-sized,” I admit, accepting this fact about myself. Hawke doesn't mind that I'm vertically challenged. I shouldn't care either. “I'm short and I'll fit.”

The idiots laugh. They don't know their leader might be in danger.

I twist my lips. “Hold these.” I hand Mack my passcard and phone. “I'm getting in.” He helps me into the trunk. Shit. It is tight. I curl my body into a ball, barely fitting into the tiny space.

“Are you okay?” Prick gazes down at me.

No, I'm terrified. “Yeah.” I summon a smile. “You've really done this with people before?”

“A few times.” Demo grins as he slowly closes the trunk. “ 'Course, all of those people were dead.” The men laugh. I glower, not at all amused by his joke.

The trunk snicks, locking, and my panic escalates. The space is dark and confined, and smells of carpet cleaner. I fold my fingers into fists and dig my nails into my palms, trying not to lose my mind.

“I'm strong.” My voice echoes. “I can do this.” The floor vibrates under me. “For Hawke, for our forever, I can do this.”

Something brushes against my bare ankle. The rational part of my brain realizes it must be a burst of air. The scared-shitless portion
knows
it's a mouse. Somehow a rodent got inside Demo's trunk and will crawl over me and nibble on my legs, and I can't do anything about it because I'm unable to move, to see. Oh my God. I'm going to die.

My terror grows with each passing mile. By the time the vehicle stops, I'm a sweaty, semidelirious mess, mumbling to myself and twitching. The trunk opens. Light blinds me.

“Now, that wasn't so bad, was—” Demo stops talking.

“Oh, fuck,” Mack cusses. “You broke our girl. I told you to slow down.” Two large shadows fall over me. “Hawke is going to stuff one of your precious firecrackers up your ass and light you up like the Fourth of July.”

“Fuck. She
does
look rough.”

“I'm . . . fine.” I rub the back of my hands over my cheeks, brushing away my shameful tears. They're military men, scared of nothing, and I lost my mind because it was dark. “Help me out.” I stagger to my knees.

“Are you sure you're fine?” Mack lifts me out of the vehicle. “You're damp and looking a bit shell-shocked, like you took enemy fire back here.”

“Hawke is going to kill us.” Demo sweeps his fingers over his short hair. “He'll tear our limbs off and jam them down our throats.”

I roll my eyes. “He won't kill you.” I hold on to Mack's arm, my legs stiff and unsteady. “I asked you to do this, remember?”

The two men nod, looking slightly mollified.

I glance around us. Boxy metal-covered industrial buildings line a familiar side street. The pavement is perfect and the area is surprisingly tidy, not one piece of garbage floating in the breeze. “The Road Gator is close to here.”

“It's a block north.” Mack studies me, appearing genuinely worried. “Hawke's in there.” He waves his hand toward a shockingly graffiti-covered structure, a burst of color, of rebellion, on the otherwise gray street. Even the vintage vehicles parked in front of the place are bright hues, the shiny chrome reflecting the sunlight, adding a touch of sparkle. Hawke's pretty bike is parked with the cars.

He's in there. I gaze at the American flag spray-painted on the door. The area doesn't appear dangerous. Is he working? Did I make another mistake by coming here? Should I have waited for him?

“Ma'am?” Mack and Demo gaze at me expectantly.

I spent the past who-knows-how-many minutes of my life stuffed in a trunk with imaginary mice nibbling on my legs. Facing Hawke should be a piece of Karl's cheesecake. I stride forward, blast through the door, and enter a dizzying psychedelic world.

Paint covers every inch of the shockingly spotless space, the scent of cleaners and disinfectants reinforcing this attention to hygiene. Tattooed men in black leather and denim flip through binders of photos.

An impish man with a green Mohawk larger than his torso vigorously scrubs his hands, soap frothing between his fingers, every exposed inch of his skin from his chin to his ankles covered with tattoos. A bearded giant with both arms inked is bent over a cringing redheaded woman, etching a red rose onto her pale skin. A blonde, pierced Amazon woman is laying a piece of white transfer paper on a bald man's right foot.

My man sits in a leather chair, facing away from me, his broad shoulders and crew-cut hair recognizable from across the room. A man with a gray ponytail, wearing a red-and-orange-flame-covered Hawaiian shirt, hovers over his left hand.

My worry morphs to anger. Hawke couldn't answer his phone because he was getting a new tattoo? I bristle. He put me through all of this worry and distress for some new ink?

And why didn't he tell me about his plans? I'm his girl. Damn it. I'll be the one looking at whatever design he gets.

Knowing him, it will be as hideous as the black T-shirt he's wearing and I'll have to stare at it all fucking day because I love him and I don't have a choice. I march over to him, slapping my shoes against the gray floor, prepared to tell him exactly what I think of his thoughtlessness.

“Sweetheart.” The distress in Hawke's voice escalates my anger.

“You're in pain.” I glare at his rugged face, noting the lines of strain around his lips. “Why would you do this?” I wave my hands at the gray-haired tattoo artist bent over his hand. “It clearly hurts like a son of a bitch.” My cuss filter has been destroyed by my concern. “Is another tattoo that important to you?”

“This one is.” Hawke grasps one of my hands and pulls me closer to him. “I'll be okay. I have three tattoos, remember?”

I swallow hard, wishing I could forget those three tattoos. The wings inked across his collarbone must have been agony. “You got those before you met me. I didn't have to see anyone hurt you.”

I swing my glower back to the tattoo artist. He lowers a painful-looking needlelike pen device to Hawke's finger, preparing to pierce my beloved man's skin.

“Oh my God.” My body temperature drops. “Hawke.” The world spins merrily around me, my legs weak, unsteady.

“Ed, wait,” Hawke orders.

The tattoo artist straightens. Glasses are perched on the end of his nose. I sway. He's half-blind and touching Hawke with his torture device.

“Don't faint on me, love.” My crazy former marine hooks his right arm around my waist and lifts me, setting me on his lap.

I sink into his big body, cuddling against his soft cotton T-shirt, his warmth soothing me, the scent of leather, engine grease, and man filling my nostrils. “I never faint.”

“You looked awfully pale.” Hawke strokes my hair.

“I can't watch you being tattooed.” I mumble this shameful admission into his chest. I'm not brave like he is.

“You don't have to watch.” He holds me with his right hand and extends his left arm. “Ed, strap me down.”

“Strap you down?” I frown up at Hawke. What the fuck?

“So I don't move my arm.” He presses his lips against my forehead, his mouth hot. “Ed is a friend. He'll stop if I tell him to stop.”

That makes sense. I relax. “Okay.” I brush my fingers over the stubble on Hawke's chin, savoring the contrast of short coarse hair and soft skin.

“You're not getting one of those horrible ‘Live Free' tattoos on your fingers, are you?” I ask, unable to look at his hand to verify my guess.

“No, that's not the design I've chosen.” Hawke gives me one of his adorable lopsided smiles. “You might still think it's horrible.”

Ed, the tattoo artist, mumbles something I'd rather not hear.

“I likely will hate your tattoo.” I fake a sigh, my heart light. “But I'll have to put up with it.” I meet his gaze. “Because I love you.” I let all of my emotions show. “You didn't answer your phone.”

“There's no service in this building,” Hawke explains. “We block the signals so our artists aren't bothered by clients' constant calls.”

We block the signals.
My fingers splay over his chest. “The Organization owns this place?”

“Yeah.” Hawke's pale blue eyes glitter.

He owns this business also. I gaze around us, seeing the tattoo shop with a fresh perspective. Every seat is filled. Men and women wait to be inked.