Sinful Rewards 1 (4 page)

“I guess we'll find out on Friday if you're right.” Arguing with Dru is a waste of time. I know the truth. That's good enough for me. I straighten my shoulders and march into Mr. Peterson's office.

Our manager leans back in his chair, the desk in front of him cluttered with paper. His ink-stained fingers are linked over his rounding stomach, his eyes are half-closed, and his expression is drowsy.

I smother a laugh. If there was ever a man least likely to be an office lothario, it is Mr. Peterson. His brown hair is starting to thin, his complexion is ruddy, and his suits never fit him, the sleeves a little too long, the pants a little too short.

Dru's aspersions about his character are ridiculous. She's desperate because she knows I'm the employee he's hiring full-time on Friday.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” I smile, eager to please him, to be everything he wants, to show him that he's making the right decision by choosing me.

My boss's gaze lifts slowly. “Please sit down, Belinda.” He waves at one of the mismatched guest chairs.

I perch on the edge of the nearest seat, my hands folded on my lap, a smile fixed on my face, and I wait for his next words. I'd sent over eight hundred applications to various Chicago-area organizations before Mr. Peterson took a chance on me. Patience is one of my strengths.

“What's the status of the mailings?” Mr. Peterson meets my gaze.

“The last reminder notice should be sent today, two full days ahead of schedule,” I share proudly. I will have addressed all but two of the notices, conquering both Dru's list and my own.

“Good.” My boss nods. “I'm impressed with your work ethic. You should be very successful in life.”

My smile wavers. This sounds as if I'm leaving. “I'll be very successful here, sir. I'm fully committed to the organization.”

“Yes, ummm . . .” His gaze shifts from mine as though he doubts my words. He shouldn't. I've worked my ass off, coming in early, laboring through lunch, never taking a sick day, not even once.

“The organization appreciates your commitment.” Mr. Peterson picks up an invoice, studying it. “We'll have to find you something to do for the next two days.”

This
response, I expected. Mr. Peterson plays by the rules. He wouldn't wish for me to start my new role before it was officially announced.

“I have a suggestion.” I lean forward. Writers for my college's online magazine are always yapping about how managers like employees to take initiative. “Susan at reception needs help in the mornings. I could cross-train with her, arrive early and lend her a hand, be her relief person when she goes on break. This would broaden my skill set.” I use as many of the buzzwords as possible.

“That's a suggestion.” Mr. Peterson frowns at the paper, his cheeks turning an alarming shade of pink. “But, as Susan doesn't report to me, your cross-training might cause conflict within the organization.”

I should have known this. My stomach twists. My boss would never interfere with another manager's department.

“I have other ideas,” I lie. I have no other ideas. “I'll make a list.”

“Belinda, ummm . . . I should probably tell you that ummm . . .” My boss falls silent, his mouth moving, as though he wants to say something yet can't, the words stuck in his throat.

People never have trouble communicating good news. My palms moisten. I can't lose the full-time job. My mom counts on my paycheck.

“Allow me to make the list, sir.” The desperation in my voice makes me inwardly cringe. “You'll see how committed I am.” I'm the right employee for him. I know this.

Mr. Peterson sighs, his chubby cheeks puffing out. “Do that. Make your list.” He sets the invoice on top of one pile. “I'll review it tomorrow.” He doesn't look at me, his attention on the papers in front of him.

I stand. “Thank you, sir. I won't let you down.”

I return to my desk, determined to work even harder. Tonight, I'll draft the best damn list of initiatives Mr. Peterson has ever seen, knocking his sagging socks off. He won't have any reservations about hiring me.

Dru smiles smugly at me as I sit down. I curl my top lip. I know she caused my boss's doubts similar to the way she caused me to doubt him.

Thinking she's won, that she's secured the full-time position with her antics, my troublemaking coworker doesn't attempt to do any work. She props her feet on the desk and chats on the phone.

Dru doesn't know that I've dealt with girls like her my entire life. I write the next financial supporter's name on a reminder notice. Tara, my high school tormenter, had been the worst, making those years a living hell for me.

I address the envelope, giving the wealthy supporter the personal touch he expects. Tara also taught me more about fashion than any magazine ever has. If I wore an ill-crafted knockoff to school, she'd ridicule me for weeks. I quickly learned how to distinguish the good fakes from the bad fakes. This is a skill I continue to use today.

I haven't gained any new skills from associating with Dru. My coworker twirls her fingers in her hair. I ignore her and work like a woman possessed until noon. Dru leaves for a two-hour lunch. I run out of the office, purchase a hot dog from a corner street vendor, and return to eat it at my desk.

There should be no more confusion about which one of us deserves the full-time job. I put extra effort into my penmanship, making each reminder notice a thing of beauty, the gold ink gleaming on the black card stock. Dru spends the afternoon filing her nails and reapplying her makeup.

At ten minutes after four o'clock, Mr. Peterson opens his door and stands on the threshold. I look up from the reminder notice I'm addressing and meet his gaze. Does he need to speak with me again? I smile. Has he noticed my commitment?

Mr. Peterson's gaze shifts to my lazy coworker, and I slump in my seat. He plans to talk to Dru. He should save his breath. Her last day is on Friday, and there's no need for her to work hard now. I've almost completed both of our lists.

“Greg wants me.” Dru smirks at me and struts into Mr. Peterson's office, her hips swaying. As she turns to close the door, she unbuttons her blouse, revealing a red lace bra and gravity-defying curves.

Dru can flash him all the skin she wants. Good managers value hard work, not big breasts. They also follow the rules they uphold. I have faith in Mr. Peterson's integrity. He's my boss. He won't let me down.

At four thirty, my phone rings, the sound echoing in the closed drawer. I remove the phone and peer down at the display. The caller is unknown. I frown. It might be a telemarketer.

“Bee Carter,” I cautiously answer.

“I'll be there in twenty minutes to retrieve the phone.” The voice is curt, undeniably male, and vaguely familiar. “Wait on the corner of Michigan and Huron.” There's a click followed by silence.

I stare at the small screen. Who pissed in his cornflakes? I did Nicolas a favor by retrieving his phone, by keeping it safe for him, and this man, whoever he is, treats me like the hired help. I press my lips together, tempted to ignore his instructions.

I won't ignore them because Nicolas needs his phone, but I also won't be nice to the arrogant jerk. My handwriting becomes sharper, the characters jagged, spaced closer together. The clock on the far wall ticks, the hour hand creeping toward five o'clock.

My boss's door remains closed. I stand, considering my options. Dru is making trouble for me, I know she is, and if I wait, work late, I can manage this trouble and prove to Mr. Peterson that I'm the diligent employee he wants.

But work late doing what? I finished the reminder notices. There's nothing left to address. I also have an irate mystery man to meet. Nicolas, my future husband, requires his phone.

I put the completed notices in the outgoing mail bin, place the supplies in my desk, and sweep over the surfaces with a disinfectant wipe. If Dru was here, she'd ridicule me, calling me a good little waitress. She doesn't care that her disgusting mess of a desk might attract rats and other rodents, leading to a horrific infestation and possibly the zombie apocalypse.

No one will die on my watch. I remove my purse. The strap is now held together by three flimsy threads, and I feel like even more of a dumb ass for not selling the phone for cold, hard cash. If I had caved to temptation, I'd have a new purse and I wouldn't have to deal with a grumpy, ungrateful stranger. Damn my ethics.

I stalk through the office, mumbling good-byes to coworkers as I leave. Susan remains at her desk, surrounded by impatient deliverymen, the blonde appearing as harried as usual. My friend unfortunately won't receive any help from me. She doesn't report to my boss.

I walk toward the designated meeting spot, my heels clicking on the sidewalk. It's a beautiful summer day, and the tattooed hunk in three eleven north is likely still naked. This thought shouldn't excite me as much as it does. He's not a man I should develop an interest in. He's one-night-stand material and I'm a living, breathing example of how badly a one-night stand can end.

A trickle of moisture drips down my spine, sliding between my ass cheeks. I won't relive my mom's life. If a man's not interested in marriage, I'm not interested in him. I reach the corner seven minutes early and watch the cars creep along the street, wondering how the hell I'm supposed to recognize the man I'm meeting.

Chapter Three

A
T EXACTLY TEN
minutes after five, a sleek black limousine rolls to a stop in front of me. The door opens and a man barks, “Get in.”

The urge to give him the finger is intense, but I obey because there's no mistaking that irate tone. The man works for Nicolas, my husband-to-be.

I settle back into the comfy leather seat, meet the man's gaze, and suck in my breath. Correction. The man is Nicolas.

He sprawls across from me, his arms and legs stretched out, his dark brown eyes glinting with intelligence. He's well dressed, the craftsmanship of his suit even more impressive up close. He's handsome, his countenance kissed by the gods.

And unfortunately he's a bit of an ass.

As soon as this disloyal thought crosses my mind, I smother it with excuses. He's had a bad day. He's a busy man. He doesn't know me. Once he realizes what type of a woman I am, how perfect we are for each other, he'll treat me as I should be treated.

“This wasn't supposed to cost me any additional time,” Nicolas grumbles, his gorgeous face twisted into a very ugly scowl. “That wasn't the plan.”

“What plan was that, Mr. Rainer?” I ask, not brave enough to call him by his first name. Once I uncover the problem, I can fix it and fix us. Then our relationship will be back on track and my world will right itself.

Nicolas ignores my question. His gaze sweeps over me, pausing on my purse. I wiggle, acutely aware of its embarrassingly ragged condition. “Do you have my phone?” He gets straight to the point.

“Yes, I have your phone.” I hide my frustration under a polite smile. This isn't how this meeting played out in my fantasies. There are no expressions of eternal gratitude or undying love. Nicolas appears grumpy, as though I inconvenienced him by finding his phone.

I dig through my purse and hand the device to him. His fingers brush over mine, his hands soft and cool. He's a vampire, minus the sparkles. My smile spreads, my heart lightening. And it's daylight hours. This explains his foul mood
and
the tinted windows.

Nicolas slides the phone into his inside jacket pocket. His form is firm and lean. He's not all bulging muscle as the tattooed stranger is, but he's fit.

And damn nice to look at, despite his grimly set lips. His male beauty is classic, timeless. Again, like a vampire. I continue to smile, and Nicolas's eyes harden. “Do you find this situation amusing?”

“No, sir,” I immediately reply. He raises one of his black eyebrows, expecting me to elaborate. “You waited a long time to retrieve your phone,” I observe, suspecting he won't find the vampire comparison amusing. “Most people can't last an hour without their devices.”

“I have a spare phone and forwarded the calls.” Nicolas adjusts his shirt's crisp cuffs.

“You should lock your phone,” I advise, seeking to help him, protect him. “I could have answered those calls, and anyone could have accessed your address book.”

“
Anyone
didn't access my address book.” He rotates his cuff links until the edges of the silver squares are aligned with his cuffs. “
You
did, and you accessed only the phone number for my security detail.” There's no doubt in his voice.

If he wasn't so grumpy, his arrogance would be kind of cute, in a cocky, I'm-accustomed-to-ruling-the-world sort of way. “How do you know I accessed only the one number?” I lift my chin, challenging him.

“I had the activity on the phone monitored.”

The seat vibrates under my ass. We're moving. I don't know where. “I could have written the other numbers down and called them from my own phone,” I point out.

“I had the activity on your phone monitored as well,” Nicolas says smugly. “I also had you thoroughly investigated. I don't leave anything to chance.”

I roll my eyes. “Yet you forgot your unlocked phone at the park.”

Silence stretches. I'm an idiot. He doesn't leave anything to chance. “You meant to leave your phone. How did you know I'd retrieve it, that I wouldn't use the information?” I pause. “Was the information real?”

“Does it matter?” Nicolas shrugs, his suit flowing with his body, the garment fitting his lean form perfectly. “You didn't use the information, did you?” He holds my gaze.

He was testing me, determining if I'm worthy. Worthy of what? I don't know.

“I didn't use the information.” I squirm in my seat, growing increasingly uneasy with our conversation, wishing he'd stick to the script I'd imagined for this meeting. “I'm not that type of person.”