Sinful Rewards 1 (2 page)

I'd resisted that temptation, focusing on making macaroni and cheese for the two of us, the recipe snagged from the diner my mom works in. After we scarfed down dinner with Cyndi licking her plate clean, she left for the club and hasn't returned.

Three eleven north is the mirror condo to ours. I straighten the telescope. That position looks about right, but then the imitation UGGs I bought in my second year of college looked about right also. The first time I wore the boots in the rain, the sheepskin fell apart, leaving me barefoot in Economics 201.

Unwilling to risk Cyndi's friendship on “about right,” I gaze through the eyepiece. The view consists of rippling golden planes, almost like . . .

Tanned skin pulled over defined abs.

I blink. It can't be. I take another look. A perfect pearl of perspiration clings to a puckered scar. The drop elongates more and more, stretching, snapping. It trickles downward, navigating the swells and valleys of a man's honed torso.

No. I straighten. This is wrong. I shouldn't watch our sexy neighbor as he stands on his balcony. If anyone catches me . . .

I glance behind me. There's no one here to catch me. Cyndi won't know I looked. The hunk in three eleven north won't know I looked. I'm not harming anyone.

I bend over and take another peek.

The sunlight casts interesting shadows across his stomach, accentuating the ridges of muscle, the dip of his navel. I dart my tongue over my suddenly dry lips. His skin is marred with silver scars, some round, some slashes, this proof of hard living, of survival, arousing me, tightening my nipples and moistening my pussy.

I shouldn't lust after him. He's the wrong kind of man, the leaving kind, too virile and feral to stay in one place for long. I can tell this from his stance, from his brazen exhibitionism. He wants me to look at him, to care for him. I tilt the telescope downward. His hips are slim. More scars are etched along the bones. Fine brown hair trails from his navel to . . .

My mouth drops open. He's completely naked. And he's erect. The biggest, thickest cock I've ever seen juts from brown curls. I adjust the zoom. A dab of precum glistens on his tip. Veins lift on his shaft. His balls hug his base.

He's proud and strong and defiantly free, everything I've ever secretly yearned to be, the type of man the women in my family have always been attracted to, the type of man I should never have. I want him, need him, my body shaking with desire.

I can't have him. I won't make my mom's mistakes, won't settle for less than forever. My resolve doesn't stop me from looking, from perusing him slowly, thoroughly, memorizing every inch of his glorious form, committing his fit physique to memory. I lower the telescope. His muscles are defined, his knees striped with silver and his feet braced apart as though he is preparing for an attack.

I'll dream of his legs between my thighs, of his hips slamming against mine, his massive cock filling me, stretching me to the point of pain. He'll drive into me hard and fast, and I'll grip his back, digging my fingernails into his skin, holding on with everything I have as he ravishes me.

I tremble, my arousal uncomfortable and unnerving. I've seen naked men. I'm not a virgin. But I've never had such an instant reaction to a man, not even to Nicolas.

Because I haven't seen Nicolas naked. Ignoring my feelings of guilt, of disloyalty, I allow my gaze to travel up the stranger's body, over his thighs, groin, stomach, chest. A thick scar slashes through his right nipple and four letters are tattooed over his left pec—USMC—United States Marine Corps. He's a military man, trained to protect, to kill. This should dampen my unseemly fascination with him.

I want him even more.

A larger tattoo stretches over his collarbone, the design depicting a sun framed by a pair of wings, the ink black and gray and achingly beautiful. The feathers are finely detailed, the softness appearing out of place on such a hard body.

The stranger's spine is straight, his shoulders squared and his arms raised. A third tattoo encircles one huge bicep, the barbed wire in black ink serving as a warning. Danger. Do not enter. A wise woman would heed this sign.

I should heed this sign. I should look away. I can't; my gaze is drawn to him. The man's chin is square, brown stubble shadowing his golden skin. His nose is flattened, his nostrils are flared, his—

I step backward, my heart pounding. No, my luck can't be that bad. I look into the telescope once more. It is that bad. Military-style binoculars cover the man's eyes. These lenses are pointed directly at me.

He's watching me. I move away from the window, retreating into the shadows. He saw me looking at him. He knows. Heat rushes over me, making the world spin. This stranger knows I'm a pervert. He knows I'm not the good girl I've allowed others to believe. If he tells Cyndi, Mr. Wynters, anyone . . .

I hold my breath, count to five, and release it, repeating the action until the fog surrounding me dissipates and my rational thought returns. He won't tell anyone, and if he does, who will believe him? He's standing on his balcony naked. This fact alone disqualifies him as a credible source.

Not that gossip ever originates from credible sources. I twist my lips, disgusted with myself for making this error. This is why I shouldn't take risks. I take one look through the telescope and I get caught. My mom has one wild night with a bad boy and she conceives me.

I hastily don my purse, wearing the strap across my body. Leather smacks against my thigh, the fashion accessory designed for tall supermodels, not for my slighter proportions. If I leave the condo now, I can pretend I was never here.

I march out of the unit and into the hallway. The door closes behind me and the state-of-the-art lock buzzes, electronically clicking into place. My heels sink into rich red carpet. Gold light fixtures illuminate the common areas. Vanilla fills the air, the scent appealingly light. I'm surrounded by opulence and beauty. It feels good and right, as though I belong here, and no one, certainly not some tattooed stranger, will take my new home away from me.

I press the button for the elevator and study my reflection in the metal doors. My shirt is an impeccable white, the cuffs neatly folded at my elbows, the style copied from one of this month's fashion magazines. The designer shirts in that spread had been expensive silk. My shirt is cotton, purchased at a discount department store. I've raised the hem of my black formfitting skirt so it skims my bare knees. My shoes match my skirt, the Louboutin knockoffs sporting the distinct shiny red-lacquered soles, the heel height and toe shape perfectly duplicated.

I brush a stray strand of hair behind my right ear. Even my hairstyle is borrowed from the pages of a magazine, my straight brown tendrils swept upward and contained by a plain clip. I might not be able to afford the real designs, but I can look damn close.

The doors open. Lona LaMarre, the notorious occupant of five oh one south, stands in one corner of the elevator. I hesitate, silently questioning if sharing space with her is wise. The aging beauty is rumored to be a high-class escort, a character no decent woman would ever associate with, a woman who makes my perversions appear normal.

She's profited well from her perversions. Lona is clad in a gorgeous black Chanel suit, the detailing on the buttons and collar exquisite. She clutches a gold phone in one hand and a red Alexander McQueen bag in the other, the leather in mint condition.

Her flawless fashion sense lures me closer. I step inside the elevator car and press the button for the lobby.

The doors close and Lona raises her gaze from her phone. Her blue eyes are cold and assessing, not missing a single aspect of my appearance. I shift my weight from my right foot to my left, uncomfortable with her perusal, suspecting she's determining my net worth down to the penny.

My measly net worth must amuse her. Lona's lips twitch, her peach-colored lipstick immaculate. “Good morning, Belinda.” Her voice is husky, hinting of smoke and sex. Her floral perfume teases my nostrils, the scent expensive and refined.

Lona would never wear fake anything.

“Good morning,” I mutter as I claim the far corner. Our images reflect in the mirrored walls, and I wince. Standing next to her, I resemble a girl playing dress-up, short, slender, and insignificant, a cheap imitation of the real thing.

Even my good-girl reputation is a lie, as the tattooed man uncovered this morning. I gaze morosely at the red digital numbers, willing them to change faster. My telekinetic abilities are weak. The elevator descends agonizingly slowly.

“Your purse won't last the day,” the escort murmurs, breaking the silence. “You should replace it before it falls apart.”

“It's not that easy.” Her assumption that everyone has money irritates me. This week's paycheck is already spent, the money needed to pay my mom's rent.

“It could be that easy.” Lona smiles, her teeth straight and white and perfect. “You're a beautiful young woman.”

I'm beautiful? I snort softly. Is she looking at the same reflection as I am?

“I have principles.” I want security and safety, a man who won't leave me as my dad left my mom.

“Principles don't buy designer purses or pay the rent, hon.” Lona's brilliant eyes flash. “What happens when your bubbly little friend finds a man and settles down? She'll want the condo to herself. What will you do then? Go back to that sleepy little one-stoplight town, work at the diner with your mom, taking orders from snotty teenage girls? Will you be content with that life?”

I jerk my chin upward and meet her gaze. “How do you know where I grew up?” How does she know about my mom, about the diner, about the teenage girls who made my high school days a living hell, forcing my mom to wait on them, to pander to their every need?

“Oh, baby.” Lona chuckles. “My sources might have given me the details, but I knew who you were the day you moved into the building.”

Don't ask. Don't ask. Don't ask. I curl my fingers around the strap of my purse and dig my fingernails into the faux leather. Shit. This sensory distraction isn't enough. I need to know. “Who am I?”

“You're me, twenty-seven years ago,” Lona informs me triumphantly.

“I'm not you. I'll never be you.” I'll resist my unnatural urges, hide my perversions. No one will ever know . . . except for the tattooed stranger. The doors open.

I stride into the lobby, leaving the escort in the elevator car. Lona is continuing to P3, where her Mercedes is parked. I'm the only person in the building without a car. Even Jacob, the security guard sleeping at the front entrance, drives a pickup truck.

I push my way through the front door, step into the daylight, and all of my irritation vanishes, melting under the bright, hot sun. It's yet another beautiful summer day. I tilt my face upward. The sky is clear and blue, the perfect weather explaining why the tattooed hunk stands naked on his balcony. It tempts me to shed a few layers of clothing.

I won't strip. Not in public. Standing naked on your own balcony is allowable. Streaking in a common area will result in eviction or jail time, and neither of these interests me.

I follow the winding sidewalk, strolling toward the park. Birds chirp happily as they flutter from branch to branch, safe and free, semiconcealed in the thick hedges. I unclip the passcard from the waistband of my skirt and wave it in front of the fence's sensor. The locks buzz, releasing. I swing the heavy wrought iron gate open and slip into the park.

The lawn is lush, watered every morning. The hedges block the view of the surrounding buildings and dampen the sound. Bright pink perennials line the patio stones, the blooms bowing in the morning breeze. The flowers will be gone next month, unlike the giant maple tree dominating the center of the park. It will remain, tall and steadfast, its trunk too thick for me to wrap my arms around.

I sigh, contented. This park is a serene sliver of green in a big, noisy city. I understand why Nicolas spends every morning here.

Few of the residents have the same appreciation for nature. The space is devoid of human life. I hurry toward the bench. This doesn't mean someone hasn't entered the park and then left, taking the phone.

I spot the edge of the metal case and exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding. It's still there. I bend down and retrieve the phone. The screen illuminates and I freeze, shocked. The device is unlocked. Anyone could have accessed the names, numbers, and other information contained within its database.

This makes returning the phone more complicated. I can't simply leave it with security. The tabloids would pay large sums of money to extract the personal and business details the device contains. This would tempt anyone, even the hardworking Jacob.

I'm tempted. With money from the tabloids, I could pay my mom's rent, buy a new purse, treat Cyndi and myself to a shopping spree. A girls' day out might fix our flagging relationship, restoring our friendship.

No. I shake my head. This isn't the route to wealth I want to take. As I told Lona LaMarre, I have my principles. I won't benefit from someone else's misfortune, especially since this someone else is Nicolas Rainer, the man of my dreams.

He's the only person I trust with his phone. I drum my heels into the paving stones as I consider my options. His penthouse suite can't be accessed without his passcard. Even if I had his phone number, it makes no sense to call it. I'm holding his phone.

I'm an idiot. My laughter startles a sparrow from the nearby branch. I'm holding Nicolas's phone. It must contain an emergency contact number, someone I can call to relay a message to him.

I tap on the address book and scroll through the names. My eyes widen as I scan the names of gorgeous Hollywood starlets, sexy supermodels, CEOs of multinational companies. Nicolas's address book is a who's who of the rich and famous.

And I have their direct numbers. My fingers shake as I force myself to call the number labeled Emergency. Tomorrow, I'll kick myself, wondering what the hell I was thinking. Today, I'll do the right thing.