Sinful Rewards 1 (10 page)

A sigh escapes my lips.

I close the curtains and walk away from temptation, going through my morning ritual, showering, drying my hair, dressing, as Cyndi sleeps. I wear a charcoal gray sleeveless sheath dress, the hem adjusted to match the length of the dresses in the Calvin Klein ads. This dress is paired with my imitation Louboutins. My hair is slicked back into a tight ponytail, my makeup minimal. I appear stylish and sophisticated yet proper and refined.

“Not the Mini-Me Crypt Keeper outfit again,” Cyndi mutters from the bed. “Would it kill you to wear some color? Even Rainer, your priggish boyfriend, mixes it up a bit.”

“Rainer is not my boyfriend, and I do mix it up.” I reluctantly place the strap of my beat-up purse over my shoulders. It now hangs around my right hip, the way the original was worn by the much taller Ralph Lauren models. “I wore a pink blouse on Tuesday.”

“Pale pink isn't a color.” Cyndi staggers toward the bathroom. “Bright pink is a color.” The door closes. Water runs, drowning out her mumbling.

Color is almost impossible for the fashion pirates to faithfully duplicate. I wander into the main room, searching for something to eat. Tara, my high school tormenter, had taught me that lesson.

When I was a freshman, my mom bought me a red leather belt from a discount store. I loved that belt . . . until I wore it to school. Tara spotted the knockoff from the far end of the hallway, bringing its cheap design to everyone's attention, loudly pointing out the lack of a label, the cheesy faux leather, the already peeling gold paint on the plastic buckle.

I rummage through the fridge. At the end of that long, humiliating day, I vowed to never again wear a knockoff in a bright color. I lift my left heel. The red soles of my imitation Louboutins don't count. No one can spot the bottom of a shoe from the far end of a hallway.

I grab half of a bagel, hesitate, and then grab another half, tossing both of them into the blue enamel toaster. Cyndi will be hungry. She always is after one of her wild nights. I tap my blunt, plainly polished fingernails on the countertop, ignoring the windows and the telescope.

Does Hawke have a job, or does he strut around his balcony naked all day? My dad had a job . . . for a while. He was a mechanic at the sole auto shop in town. He'd been there a week when he had that fateful one-night stand with my mom. He stayed there for two and a half months in total, leaving the night she told him about me.

He never came back. He knew where we were. He simply didn't care enough about my mom, about me. The bagel pops out of the toaster. I spread cream cheese on both of the halves, place raspberries on mine. I like a bit of tartness. Cyndi gets her customary sliced strawberries, her sweet tooth inherited from her dad.

All my dad left me was a lesson on the types of men to avoid. I glance toward the window, toward one of the men I should be avoiding, and I bite into the bagel, eating standing up. Cyndi doesn't emerge from my bathroom.

I can't wait for her. She could linger in the shower for hours. I pop the last bite into my mouth. Unlike my roommate, I have to arrive at work on time, prove my commitment to Mr. Peterson. I brush a crumb off my chest. My list of initiatives has been printed, ready to be discussed with my boss.

The doorbell rings. I frown, setting the empty bread and butter plate on the counter. Cyndi's friends know not to bother her before noon.

“If it's Angel, tell her I'm not talking to her,” she calls, my best buddy having the uncanny ability to sense visitors. “She can apologize to me later.”

“If it's Angel, I'll eat my shoe,” I mutter. Angel is even more of a diva than Cyndi is. I peek through the peephole. Jacob, the security guard, jiggles a brown box on his hip. We have a delivery.

I open the door. “Good morning, Jacob.” I smile.

“Morning, Miss Bee.” The older man smiles back at me, his wrinkled face creasing even more with his genuine joy. His gray uniform stretches tightly over his protruding stomach, and a gold band gleams on his ring finger, the security guard having been happily married to his loving wife, Jolene, for thirty-two years, their marriage lasting longer than I've been alive.

“Delivery for you.” Jacob holds out the box.

Expecting the box to be heavy, I brace my legs and grasp the corners securely with both hands. Then I feel like an idiot because my crammed messenger bag is heavier than this package.

“Delivery for Cyndi, you mean.” I cover up my embarrassment with a laugh. “She does love to shop online. Don't worry. I'll give it to her.”

“Your name is on the label, Miss Bee.” The security guard lifts his cap and scratches his balding head. “I don't know where the package came from. It was left on my desk this morning. There was no note, no return label. I didn't notice anyone carrying the box through the doors. Maybe you have a secret admirer.” He grins.

“Maybe I do.” I study the large white address label. It's typed, not handwritten. There are no other markings on the box. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, miss.”

I shut the door and stare at the box. My heart pounds. Good girls earn rewards. Is this a reward I want to open? What if Friendly is a stalker? There could be something dead inside, something dangerous. My palms moisten. It could be a bomb.

“We got a package,” a very wet, towel-wrapped Cyndi squeals. She rushes across the room, her green eyes sparkling. “Gimmee. Gimmee. Gimmee.”

“Cyndi, no.” I yank the box away. “It could be—”

My dainty little roommate jabs her pointy elbow into my stomach. I bend over, the air whooshing out of me. She wrests the box out of my hands, plunks it on the floor, and tears the flaps open.

“Oh my God.” Cyndi stares into the box, her mouth dropping open.

Everything inside me constricts. It's a bomb. The room spins merrily around me. I've killed us all. “Is it—”

“It's beautiful!” She dances around in a tight circle and then takes another look. “So beautiful.” She flips one of the flaps over, reads the address. “Bee, you sly dog, and you said you couldn't afford a new purse.”

It's not a bomb. I release the breath I didn't know I was holding. It's a . . . “What?” I step forward and peer into the box, spotting distinctive red leather, dual top handles, zippers made of real gold. It isn't merely any purse. I sink to the floor, my knees smacking against the hardwood. It's the purse, the Salvatore Ferragamo I've been lusting over for days.

It's a work of art framed in delicate brown tissue paper. My eyes sting. And it's here in our condo. This must be a dream.

“Can I touch it?” Cyndi asks.

“No!” I drape my arms over the edge of the box, guarding its perfection from my hyperactive friend. “I mean we shouldn't touch it.” I try to soften my response, the moment unreal. Is it mine? It can't be mine. I've never owned anything so beautiful.

“Awww . . . Bee, you're crying.” Cyndi hugs me from behind. Her chin rests on my shoulder. “There's a note.” She reaches out with her hand and flicks her fingers. “Can I read it?”

I retrieve the rectangular piece of heavy card stock. Two words are written in black arial font across the unmarked white surface.

Your Reward

This exquisite bag, a limited-edition piece of functional art, is mine, simply because Cyndi accidentally left my curtains open. Stunned, I hand the note to my friend.

“Your reward,” she reads. “He's not a big talker, is he?” Cyndi tosses the note back into the box. “So spill.” She smacks my shoulder. “Who sent the purse, and why is he rewarding you?” She pauses. “It's Rainer, isn't it? This must be your thank-you gift for retrieving his beloved phone.” She releases a heartfelt sigh. “We're never getting into R, are we?”

“The purse might not be from Rainer,” I confess. It definitely wasn't a thank-you gift for retrieving his phone. This reward was sent by Friendly.

“What do you mean the purse might not be from Rainer?” Cyndi circles me, her eyes wide. “Did you meet another guy and you didn't tell me?” Her bottom lip curls. “I thought we were friends.”

“You're my best friend, idiot.” I look down at the purse, reassuring myself that it's still there, still gorgeous, so very gorgeous.

“Earth to Bee.” Cyndi snaps her fingers in front of my face.

“I'm here.” Barely. I lift my gaze to hers. “You're right. It must be from Rainer. Who else could have sent it?”

“You could have a secret admirer.” Cyndi shakes with excitement. “He saw you on the street. You shared a glance.” She clutches her chest. “It was love at first sight, and this is your reward for being wonderful you.”

“Jacob said the box was left inside the building.” I interrupt my friend's Hallmark moment with this more practical insight. I can't tell Cyndi the real reason I was sent the purse, that someone is watching me.

And I like it.

“He saw you in the elevator,” she amends. “Fell in love instantly and decided to save you from your fashion disasters. He's your knight in designer armor.”

I ignore Cyndi's unhelpful musings. “He has to be wealthy.” I peek into the box one more time. The red leather begs to be petted, stroked, caressed, but I don't dare touch it. It's too perfect. “This purse isn't cheap.”

Cyndi adjusts her towel, her breasts threatening to escape from their terry cloth confines. “Everyone living in the buildings is wealthy.”

“Except me,” I mumble.

“And Jacob, your security guard friend.” Cyndi hooks her fingers over the edge of the box. “Can I touch it now?”

“No.” I lean across the opening. The leather scent reminds me of Hawke, and that's too damn appealing for my comfort. “I don't think the tattooed hunk in three eleven north has money either. His kind never do.” Building wealth requires staying in one place.

“He doesn't have much furniture.” Cyndi, disappointingly, doesn't argue with me. “It's almost as though he's squatting in the condo.”

That's great. Hawke's a criminal. My libido sure knows how to pick men. I push thoughts of him out of my mind and concentrate on the mystery before me.

“Rainer must have sent this purse,” I decide. Nicolas had me investigated, and I've made no attempt to hide my fascination with the purse, lingering in front of the Salvatore Ferragamo window every morning. He'd know that I wanted it, that this would be the reward I would have asked for. As he told me multiple times, he doesn't leave anything to chance.

“Or it could be from a secret admirer,” Cyndi argues.

“No, it's from Rainer.” The more I think about it, the more I'm certain. The request to keep the curtains open was one of his tests, and I must have passed it or he wouldn't have sent me such a beautiful object.

What was he testing? With the phone, it was obvious—my honesty. With the request to leave my curtains open—I tap the brown cardboard as I consider the values a reclusive billionaire might wish for in a partner—likely obedience. Will I follow him unquestioningly?

I suspect, in the future, there will be more tests and more rewards. This possibility excites me more than it should, more than I can ever allow Nicolas to see. Tests are supposed to be arduous, not stimulating, and there are costs if I fail, if I succumb to the wrong man. I gaze at the window, wondering if Hawke can see us, if he's watching me, and then I look at Cyndi, my best friend, appearing as happy as I am with my new purse. I can't lose her. I can't return to my small hometown, work at the diner, reside in a crappy, creepy apartment, live my mom's life.

“Touch it, Bee,” Cyndi urges. “It's yours.”

The purse is mine. Unable to resist the red leather a second longer, I skim my fingertips over one of the handles. The stitching is impeccable, perfectly spaced, not one thread loose. My vision blurs, tears running down my cheeks. The craftsmen put a piece of their hearts, of their souls into creating this exquisite purse, and now it belongs to me.

Whoever sent it to me thought I was worthy of such beauty.

I won't disappoint him.

 

Want to know what happens next for Bee, Nicolas, and Hawke?

SINFUL REWARDS 2

is available August 12

About the Author

CYNTHIA SAX
lives in a world filled with magic and romance. Although her heroes may not always say “I love you,” they will do anything for the women they adore. They live passionately. They play hard. They love the same women forever.

Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world together, meeting fascinating people and finding inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.

Please visit her on the web at www.CynthiaSax.com.

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