Sinful Rewards 1 (6 page)

“Give me that.” I snatch the lipstick from him, unnerved by my reaction, and I glance down at my blouse. “Oh, God.” Black ink is smudged over the fabric. “You're right.” My heart sinks. Has it been there all day? Since I doctored my purse this morning? Nicolas, my boss, everyone must have seen it, and no one said anything, no one except my badass biker. “I am a mess.” My voice wobbles.

“You're a hot mess,” he corrects. “There's a big difference between the two.” His eyes are a faded blue, matching his jeans. “Let me see your purse.” He holds out one large hand. Calluses and scars mar his skin.

I eye his palm with suspicion. “Why do you want to see it?”

“I need to use your brush,” he jokes. “Why do you think?” I think he's full of shit. His brown hair is buzzed close to his head. There's nothing for him to brush. “I'll fix the strap for you. There'll be less of it.” His gaze drifts down my body, his perusal more stimulating than any touch. “But then there's less of you.”

“There's the perfect amount of me.” I put my free hand on my hip. “I'm average height.”

“You are average height . . . for a munchkin.” The tattooed stranger stares unabashed at my chest. My taut nipples press against the cotton, begging for his attention. “A shapely, sexy—”

“You're one wrong word away from a slap across the face.” I glare at him.

“You're feisty. I like that.” He grins. “Give me your purse. I'll repair it for you and then we can play.”

“We're not playing, ever, and why would you repair my purse for me?” I ask. He's a leather-clad tattooed biker. I'd be an idiot to trust him. “You don't even know me.”

“You're Belinda Carter from three eleven south,” he recites. “You spend every evening tidying the condo you share with a bouncy blonde. The black stretchy pants you wear while cleaning, the ones that cling to your every curve, have a quarter-sized hole right under your tailbone. Sometimes when you bend over, I can see your panties. Last night, they were red silk.” His gaze lowers to my hips. “Tonight—”

“I don't wear red silk panties,” I retort, lying my ass off. I have to lie because everyone knows good girls wear white cotton bikini panties and I'm supposed to be a good girl.

“I know what I saw, love,” tattoo man drawls, his endearment curling my toes. “Last night, there was red puckered silk nestled snugly between your tight little ass cheeks.”

He thinks my ass cheeks are tight. Pride heats my chest. “I was in the privacy of my own home,” I tell him self-righteously. “You shouldn't be spying on me.”

“And you shouldn't lie to me.” He chuckles, the soulful sound making my stomach flip. “You're terrible at it.”

Am I? I frown. No one has ever called me on one of my lies before now. “You know I lied only because you were watching me. Otherwise, I would have fooled you.” I pause. “And you shouldn't watch me. It's not right.” My protest is weak, even I realize this. I'm a sick woman, and I want him to watch me.

“It feels right though, doesn't it?” The skin around his pale blue eyes crinkles. “And fair's fair. You watched me this morning.” The bike creaks as he shifts his weight, bringing my attention to his powerful thighs. Denim stretches across two oval-shaped objects hidden in his front right pocket. “Did you see anything you liked?” He touches his belt buckle.

“No, I didn't see anything I liked.” I press my lips primly together and look to my left, attempting to hide the fact I've lied to him again. I liked everything I saw, too damn much.

He laughs even louder, his big chest shaking. He's a beast, all muscle and denim and leather, and my response to him is primal and passionate. “You're priceless, love.”

“I'm not your love or your sweetheart.” Though part of me wishes I was. “I don't even know you.”

“I'm Hawke Masters, three eleven north.” He raises his hand once more. I don't shake it, not trusting myself to touch him. “Give me your purse, Belinda.” My name rolls sensuously off his tongue.

I give him my purse. Before I can pull my hand away, his fingers close over mine, his skin rough and warm, his grip tight. An electric charge runs between us, the bolt of energy shooting up my arm and across my chest. I suck in my breath. His body stiffens and his hand drops.

What the hell was that? “Hawke can't be your real name.” I cover my reaction with this bitchy observation. “Who in their right mind names their kid after a bird?”

“Who in their right mind uses black marker on a vinyl purse?” He reaches behind his back, under his jacket, and extracts a wicked-looking knife. I step backward and his grin dims. “I won't hurt you, sweetheart, ever. You can count on that.” He slices the strap into two pieces, straightening the ragged edge. “And Hawke isn't my real name. Someday, if you behave, I might tell you what it is.” He makes two slits in the vinyl.

“Someday, I might care . . . though that is unlikely,” I reply, enjoying this interchange more than I should. “And I always behave. I'm a good girl.”

“Could have fooled me this morning.” Hawke threads the shortened strap through the metal loop. “Good girls don't stare at a man's junk.” He strips a silver stud off the discarded piece of leather and wiggles it through the slits, using it to fasten the strap, his resourcefulness impressing me.

“I didn't stare at your junk.” I can't remember the last time I've told this many lies in this short of a time.

“Don't worry.” Hawke holds out my repaired purse. I clasp it and he pulls me forward, drawing me closer to him. Heat radiates from his big body, enthralling me. “I didn't mind that you looked.” He leans toward me. He smells of leather, engine grease, and man, a toe-curling combination. “I was hard for you.” His lips buzz against my left earlobe.

I close my eyes, wanting him, needing him. His hot breath wafts against my cheek. His distinct scent surrounds me. My chest rises and falls. My breasts brush against him, a slight, subtle caress lighting fires inside me.

He'll kiss me now, slant his smiling lips over mine, cradle my head in his big hands, not allowing me to escape him. I won't want to escape. I—

Somewhere in the distance, tires squeal, the sound bringing me to my senses. I pull away from Hawke, bewildered by my reaction.

What the hell am I doing?

The man isn't as handsome as Nicolas, his face broad, his nose flattened, his chin square. I doubt he has any money. Wanderers like Hawke never stick around anywhere long enough to build wealth. His motorcycle proclaims his permanently single status louder than a roadside sign. When he leaves, and he will leave, he'll have no room for passengers.

Yet I want him. Hot primal lust pumps through my veins, the crazy kind of desire that makes a woman do stupid things like contemplate one-night stands with unsuitable men.

I can't risk seeing him again. The best way to deal with temptation is to avoid it, and Hawke is a temptation, a tall, broad, too-sexy-for-my-senses temptation.

I take two more steps backward. “Thank you for this.” I wave my purse in the air, not meeting his gaze. “See you around.” I turn and hurry away from him.

“I'm sure you will see me around.” Hawke chuckles, the sensual sound following me into the building.

Chapter Four

I
'M STILL UNNERVED
as I walk through the front door of the condo unit. Cyndi lies facedown on the couch, her designer-clad ass in the air. The local entertainment news blares on the TV. An Al Capone movie is filming in the city, and a horde of reporters follows my best friend's Hollywood obsession, Cole Travers, down a busy Chicago street. The flick's lead actor repeats “No comment. No comment.” to every question. He appears harassed, his shoulders hunched over, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.

“You're early.” Cyndi lowers the volume on the TV and turns her head, her blonde curls bouncing around her rosy cheeks. “Dinner won't be ready for another thirty minutes.”

“You made dinner?” I glance upward as I kick off my heels. My culinary-challenged best friend can't be using the oven. The smoke detectors haven't been disconnected and the alarm isn't ringing.

“I ordered dinner.” Cyndi rolls her big green eyes. She isn't wearing contacts, and her hair isn't dyed. My roommate won both the good-looks and wealthy-parent lottery. If she wasn't so damn nice, I'd hate her guts. “It should arrive in thirty minutes or less.”

“I could have cooked.” I frown. Cooking is one of my contributions to the household, to our friendship. I push her legs off the couch and sit down.

“It was my turn.” She slips to the hardwood floor. “What happened to your shirt?”

“You noticed the stain. Hawke noticed the stain,” I grumble. “That nasty piece of work Dru didn't notice.”

“Oh, I bet she noticed. She just didn't care enough to tell you.”

Nicolas must not have cared enough to tell me either. My foul mood increases.

“Who is Hawke and how do you know him?” Cyndi asks, her eyes wide with curiosity. If I had an all-night drunkfest, I'd look like a cross between a ghost and a raccoon. She appears fresh, as though she spent the evening at home.

“Hawke is your hunk from three eleven north,” I share. Gossip runs rampant in the buildings. She'll eventually discover I know him. Hiding our connection will only hurt her feelings. “He fixed my purse after the contents splattered all over the sidewalk.”

“He's noble and hot.” She sits upright. Princess is written across her bright pink T-shirt, the letters curved around her huge breasts. “That's a delicious combination.”

“He has a motorcycle,” I mutter.

“Even hotter.” The motorcycle doesn't dim Cyndi's interest. She doesn't have my hang-ups about bad boys. Her dad stuck around. “I'll ask him to give me a ride sometime.”

I want to say no, he's mine, but he isn't mine. He isn't anyone's. Bad boys like Hawke don't make commitments. “Motorcycles are dangerous.” I try a different tactic.

“Crossing the street is dangerous, yet we do it all the time.”

I lift one of my eyebrows. Cyndi doesn't walk anywhere.

“Okay, you do it all the time,” she amended. “Yet here you are, alive and well.” Her gaze lowers to my blouse. “Maybe a little smudged.” She grins. “But otherwise fine.”

“You're an idiot.” I laugh. Cyndi always makes me feel better.

“This idiot brought us candy.” She bounces to her feet and crosses the room to the counter. “More jelly beans.” Cyndi holds up a bag labeled Wynters Confectionary. “I don't know what happened to the last batch.” She pours the candy into a crystal bowl.

“You dumped them out of the window, making it rain jelly beans, and then wore the bowl as a hat,” I remind her. “The next day, every occupant of the south tower received a memo from management forbidding us to throw candy or any other food item off our balconies.”

“That memo was a waste of paper.” Cyndi pops a handful of gourmet jelly beans into her mouth and chews. “And it clearly didn't refer to us. We don't have a balcony, thanks to Rainer's wacky sense of design, and he said nothing about throwing candy out of windows.”

“I met him today, you know.” I feign interest in my newly repaired purse.

“What!” Cyndi shrieks, rushing toward me. Jelly beans skitter everywhere, bouncing on the counter, pinging against the hardwood floor. “You did not!” She tackles me, her technique honed by dating half of the college football team. “Rainer doesn't meet anyone.” She shakes my shoulders.

“Rainer met me.” I push her off me. “I found his phone.” I leave out the bit about the lost phone being some sort of test. “After he retrieved it, he gave me a ride home in his limo.” Everyone in the building will know this story by breakfast tomorrow, if not earlier. “He says your dad has all of the dirt on him, so give it up, girl.”

“Why do you want to know?” Cyndi's eyes sparkle with mischief. “Do you love him? Do you want to have his baby? Be Rainer's first wife? Rainer and Bee sitting in a tree,” she sings.

“I just met him today,” I answer, not addressing any of her questions. If Cyndi knows I'm interested in Nicolas, she'll say something superembarrassing to someone, likely during one of her drunkfests, and I won't be able to show my face outside the condo ever again.

“I'm teasing you, goof.” Cyndi slaps my arm. “He's not your type, at all. My dear daddy won't even allow me to talk to him, says all of the money in the world won't make up for Rainer's naughty past. Nope, he isn't one of your safe, accountant-wannabes. He's done stuff.”

This worries but doesn't shock me. A man doesn't become a self-made billionaire by taking the safe route. “What kind of stuff?”

“Bad stuff.” Cyndi scrunches her nose as she thinks. “He's broken laws, harmed or destroyed competitors. Daddy didn't go into details, but I got the impression from him that Rainer doesn't always play fair.”

When he sees something or someone he wants, he'll do anything to stake his claim. I shiver. Nicolas warned me. “Is this bad stuff in his past?”

“Hell if I know.” Cyndi shrugs. “I'm surprised it's even in his past. I can't imagine Rainer doing anything more than writing his competitors one of his incredibly boring memos. He's such an uptight prig.”

Nicolas had acted like an uptight prig when I first met him. “He smells nice,” I say in his defense, my loyalty to him having survived our first encounter.

“And he's handsome.” Cyndi sighs. “It's such a waste of hot-titude. Prigs should look like prigs, wear a sign or something.”

“Maybe have big warning labels plastered across their T-shirts?” I gaze pointedly at her chest. My best buddy has no qualms about being a princess. She wears her status proudly.