Sinful Rewards 1 (3 page)

The phone rings twice and a woman answers. “Ellen speaking.” Her tone is cool and professional. “What can we do for you, Mr. Rainer?” It sounds as though I've contacted a service.

“Ummm . . .” I hesitate. Can this service be trusted? “I need to speak to Mr. Rainer.”

“You're calling us from his phone, miss,” Ellen points out.

I roll my eyes. I'm not the only person who thinks I'm an idiot.

“Can you relay a message to him?” I try again. “I found his phone.”

“Give me your address and the Organization will send one of our employees to collect it.”

I'm not giving the phone to a complete stranger. For all I know, her Organization causes emergencies, rather than solves them.

“I'd feel more comfortable if I gave the phone to Mr. Rainer directly.” I glance around me, ensuring no one is listening. “It's unlocked,” I whisper, cupping my lips with my palm.

“It's unlocked and you don't know who we are. I understand completely.” Ellen's voice rings with approval. “Text your contact information and your location to this number, and I'll personally ensure your message reaches Mr. Rainer. It could take a few hours for him to reply to you. He's a busy man. But he will contact you about retrieving his phone.”

“Thank you.” I end the call. Nicolas will contact me. I grin, ecstatic. He'll finally know who I am.

Chapter Two

I
TEXT MY
name, phone number, and work address to Ellen. Nicolas's phone hums seconds later, the incoming call originating from the mayor's office. Should I answer his phone? I tap my lips with my right index finger. What would I say? I have Mr. Rainer's phone. Can I take a message? They'll send the police after me, thinking I stole it.

The call goes to voice mail, and I slip the phone into my purse. The increased weight strains the strap even more. Lona may be right. My purse might not last the day.

There's nothing I can do about that. I stride to the bus stop. No one is waiting there because no one else living in this neighborhood takes public transportation.

The number three bus arrives. It's four minutes late, and there's standing room only in the vehicle. Two confused tourists are trapped in the morning rush hour, their faces rosy as though they've spent too much time enjoying the sun.

I squeeze onto the bus, pay the fare, and wish the driver a good morning. He scowls at me and hollers to the other passengers to move to the back. The two tourists move. The native Chicagoans ignore him, staring at their tablets and phones.

I doubt anyone ignores Nicolas. Everyone listens to wealthy people. The average hardworking person like the bus driver or my mom is overlooked. I hold on to a metal pole, my body swaying as the bus moves.

“Young lady. Young lady.” An elderly woman seated to my left whacks me hard across the shins with her cane. Pain shoots up my legs, and I press my lips together, swallowing my shriek.

“Your purse is torn.” The woman waves her makeshift weapon at the offending accessory.

I pivot around the pole, attempting to move my body out of my gray-haired assailant's reach. “I know about the strap. Thank you.” I don the same polite smile my mom wears while dealing with challenging customers at the diner.

“In my day, young ladies didn't wear their purses across their bodies.” The deceivingly sweet-looking woman squints at me through thick lenses, the bridge of her eyeglasses covered with clear tape. “We held on to the handles. If the boys got fresh with us, we'd wallop them with our purses.” She laughs, clearly treasuring this violent memory. “Are you going to school, Miss I-know-about-the-strap?”

“I'm not going to school,” I reply, wondering why she's asking about my plans for my day. She can't care about me. We're strangers. “I'm twenty-three years old and I'm going to work.”

The man sitting beside the elderly woman smiles.

“What are you grinning at?” The woman turns her steely gaze to him. “In my day, men gave up their seats when women or children entered the bus.” The man's smile dims. “Well?” She brandishes her cane and the man hastens out of his seat, pushing his way to the back of the bus. “Sit, child.” The elderly woman pats the red covering with one wizened hand.

“I'm not a child,” I mumble but I sit because I don't want another whack across the shins and because she truly is concerned about me.

“You think you're not a child, but you are.” The lady smacks my knee hard, her warm, wrinkled fingers inflicting less damage than her cane. “You're all in such a rush to grow up nowadays, wearing high heels and short skirts.” She clucks her tongue, and I glance down at my hemline. I suppose my skirt would be considered short half a century ago. “Being an adult isn't as exciting as it looks.”

“That's what I hear, ma'am.” I won't ever convince her I'm not a child. My feet dangle, not touching the floor of the bus, and I suspect, by the way she's peering at me, she's half-blind.

“If you promise to go to school today, I'll give you a cookie.” The woman searches through her cat-themed tote. I settle back in my seat, preparing to be mothered, content with this notion. It's rare that anyone, even a crazy person, gives me her complete attention. I won't fight it.

By the time I exit the bus at the Ontario Street stop, I've eaten three digestive cookies and one whole-bran granola bar and had half a bottle of water spilled in my lap. My stomach hurts, my purse is damp, but my shins escape unscathed and I'm free of the morning commute.

The building where I work is located two blocks north, and these two blocks are home to the most esteemed retailers in Chicago. I look around me, and a fierce joy fills my soul. This is where I feel the happiest, among the exclusive shops and gorgeous fashions on the Magnificent Mile, the city's style Mecca.

I walk with a bounce in my step and a genuine smile on my face, my heart light. Employees sweep in front of their stores, arrange objects in the windows, take inventory in the back of the spaces. I wish everyone I meet a boisterous good morning, my small-town roots showing.

My brisk pace slows as I pass Cartier. A diamond necklace sparkles in the lit window, the elaborate design fit for a queen. I touch my collar, imagining how I'd look draped in jewels. Everyone would know I was important, that I belonged. I'd walk into these stores and be waited on, pandered to.

I wander farther along the famed street, lusting after the items in the window displays, dreaming of a life I can't afford. The scarves are so sheer, so delicate, the designs resemble images seen through a luxurious waterfall. The suits are exquisite, the buttons a work of art. The shoes are divine, too beautiful to touch the ground.

None of these treasures compares to the Salvatore Ferragamo purse. I stop in front of the window, the highlight of my morning walk. Trends will come and go. This purse, with its handcrafted red leather, dual top handles, and zippers made of real gold, will remain timeless, elegant, classic.

I move closer to the glass, my yearning to own the limited-edition purse painfully intense. It's clearly a heritage piece, designed to be passed from mother to daughter, and when it first appeared in the store ten days ago, I fell instantly and hopelessly in love.

I'm destined to have my heart broken. The price of the purse is more than the annual rent on my mom's one-bedroom apartment. My fingertips hover near the window. I can't spend that much money on myself, not now, maybe not ever.

It tortures me that some woman in Chicago can. That soon, perhaps tomorrow, I'll pass the window and the purse will be gone, sold, never to be seen again. I sigh, my breath fogging up the window.

As though mocking me, the phone in my scuffed knockoff purse starts to hum. I could trade the phone for the Salvatore Ferragamo purse. Some media outlet would pay that much. No one would know.

Except I'd know. My shoulders slump. Sometimes I wish my ethics were a little less ingrained. I take one long, perhaps last, lingering look at the purse of my dreams, and I stroll away, turning west on Huron. I continue walking for two minutes and reach the side entrance to the Magnificent Ball's temporary headquarters.

There's no difference in the air temperature as I enter the building. The windows are open, the air conditioner broken. My friend Susan is already seated at reception. Bike couriers set their packages on her desk as the busy blonde signs slips. She smiles and waves her pen in the air as I walk past her.

The off-Michigan Avenue address implies glamour. The rented office is no-frills, the drywall chipped and the carpet worn bare. The furniture was contributed by the local businesses, and nothing matches, the combination of colors and wood grains offending my sense of style.

I'm the only one offended. Financial supporters never see the office. They're wined and dined at surrounding restaurants. The other workers are too busy to care.

They rush along the narrow hallway, file folders clutched to their chests, their expressions strained. I wish them good morning, seeking to make the connections my boss says are critical for the full-time job. They smile, not slowing their strides. Many of them are volunteers and their time is limited, donated to the event by their employers. I'm paid temporary staff, one of two women hired to address the invitations and reminder notices.

I duck into the small side room allocated to this task. The windowless space is dreary, the walls and carpet painted prison gray. Fluorescent lights flicker over our workstations, two large hideously ugly wood veneer desks. I'm alone. My boss's office door is closed, and my coworker is missing.

Mr. Peterson must be giving Dru yet another work-or-get-fired speech. I plunk my purse into the top drawer of my desk and sit down, the chair seat as hard as concrete under my ass. He talks to her every morning and almost every evening. Nothing he says or does changes her attitude. She refuses to exert herself.

Publicly, I act dismayed. Secretly, I'm delighted. I'm the only employee Mr. Peterson needs. I've proved this to him again and again.

And, on Friday, he'll announce which of us has landed the one available full-time job. There's zero doubt in my mind that the new hire will be me.

I extract the reminder notices and the list of prominent financial supporters from the bottom drawer of my desk. This list is Dru's. I completed mine two weeks ago. I've mailed hundreds of reminders. She's sent out two. Mr. Peterson's choice is clear. I almost feel sorry for Dru.

Almost. I need this job. I uncap my gold felt pen, the fumes tickling my nostrils. Most of the information has been printed in a stylish font on the black card stock. My task is to write the supporter's name on the reminder notice and his or her address on the envelope, and then leave the assembled package in the outgoing mail bin.

The names and addresses are familiar. I sent their invitations a few months ago and processed their replies as they were received. These are the high-net-worth financial supporters, the list comprising Chicago's elite . . . sort of like Nicolas's phone book. He's on the financial supporter list also. I had assembled his invitation and subsequent reminder notice first, lovingly writing his name, giving each letter an extra flourish, wishing I was his “and guest.”

I shouldn't need his invitation. Last week, Mr. Peterson mentioned that the permanent employee would attend the event, greeting the honored guests, helping to set up the tables, and arranging the flowers.

The ballroom will be fairy-tale beautiful. I hum softly, fantasizing as I work. Nicolas will exit his limousine, wearing the French tuxedo I spotted him in five weeks ago. I'll stand at the top of the stairs, clad in a black velvet Versace gown, the rubies and diamonds around my neck adding a hint of color, a touch of sparkle. Nicolas will look upward, and our gazes will meet. He'll remember I was the woman who found his phone and stride toward me, his eyes filled with love and admiration. The other attendees will watch us, slack-jawed, wondering who I am and how I know him.

The door to Mr. Peterson's office opens, severing my reverie, and Dru flounces out, her short black skirt hiking upward with every bouncing step. Her curly auburn hair is loose and mussed, her bright red lipstick is smeared and her nose is shiny.

“Greg wants to see you.” Dru touches her right index finger to the corner of her lips, drawing my attention to the drop of liquid clinging to her freckled skin.

It's very similar to the drop of liquid I saw beaded on the tip of the tattooed stranger's huge cock. I stare at her mouth. It's almost identical.

Which means . . .

Nothing. I shake myself. Because this is Dru, and Dru is skilled at deception. Just last Wednesday, she slipped a gold pen into my purse and then told our boss I was stealing office supplies. Mr. Peterson believed me when I said I wasn't. He deserves my loyalty now. I meet Dru's gaze squarely.

“I'm willing to do whatever it takes to land this job.” She smirks.

Is sucking off our boss something she's willing to do? Maybe. I wouldn't trust her as far as I could throw her, and she's a foot taller than I am.

But Mr. Peterson would have to cooperate, and our rule-following manager lives and breathes the employee handbook. Clause 3.2 clearly states there is to be no fraternization between employees. He would never violate that rule.

Dru is merely making trouble, starting more hurtful rumors, and I'd be an idiot to listen to her. “You won't land this job.” I stand, knowing this for a fact. “It will be awarded to the most capable employee. Mr. Peterson is a smart man. He knows which one of us has worked hard and which one of us hasn't.”

“You're so naïve, Bee.” Dru laughs. “Greg may be a smart man . . .”

I grit my teeth. I hate it when she calls Mr. Peterson by his first name, as though he's a friend and not our boss. It's disrespectful.

“But he's still a man,” she continues, her tone condescending. “Men want only one thing, and that isn't a hardworking employee.”