Sinful Rewards 10 (2 page)

He gazes at me for one, two heartbeats. “Yeah, it's true,” he admits. “There are decisions I'm solely responsible for and duties I can perform better than anyone else, tasks that will reduce my team's risks and save lives.”

He's been thinking about what we discussed yesterday. Warmth spreads across my chest. He listened to me. “And you don't mind completing these tasks?”

“I prefer to focus on them.” Hawke's lips twist. “My specialty was intelligence, not reconnaissance.”

I stare blankly at him, not knowing the difference between the two.

“I'd rather uncover a hostile's identity and prevent incidents than deal with the fallout,” he clarifies, dragging his scarred knuckles along my cheekbones.

His touch isn't able to distract me. I'm wide awake and freaking the hell out. “Are you telling me you're not even trained to take these missions?” I push against his chest, attempting to get away from my suicidal man. “You'll die, get yourself blown up.”

“I'm a marine. I'm trained for any combat situation.” Hawke won't allow me to move him. “And I won't die.”

“No, you won't.” I wiggle under him. “Because you're not taking this assignment.”

“I have to take it.” He lowers, pinning my body against the mattress. “People depend on me.”

I depend on him. My mom and Cyndi depend on him. Guilt fills me. He's talking about us. Hawke is now our sole income earner, providing for three households, a responsibility I thrust on my honorable man.

“I see.” I lower my gaze, ashamed.

I see he's risking his life for the dollars we need, carrying this massive burden without any complaints, while I sit on my ass and wait for the paparazzi to disappear, for a prospective employer to call back, to offer me a job.

I'm a shitty lover. My eyes burn with unshed tears.

Hawke makes a strangled noise. “Don't look at me like that, sweetheart.” He presses his lips against my forehead. “I'm not in any danger. This situation occurred overseas. The hostiles are far away.”

They're far away
today
. I jut my jaw. Tomorrow, Hawke could face the enemy.

Because we need the money.

“I'm your partner, Hawke.” I tilt my chin upward, determined to fix this, to find a way to earn cash quickly so he never has to risk his life again. “You can depend on me.”

“I do depend on you.” He skims his lips over mine.

“I'll protect you.” I cup his rugged face with my hands, needing to touch him. “But you have to do your part too. Don't take any unnecessary risks or become distracted.”

“I'll be careful.” Hawke turns his head to the left and then the right, kissing both of my palms, his expression solemn. “I won't do anything crazy.”

He rolls off me and I miss his warmth immediately. “Don't put yourself in the line of fire either,” I add, thinking of the possibilities.

“No one will be shooting at me today.” Hawke takes care of the condom. “You don't have to worry about me.” He struts naked into the bathroom, his ass cheeks clenching and unclenching. “I'll come back to you.”

“You'd better come back to me,” I grumble, hugging the pillow. Water runs, my exhibitionistic male showering with the door open, daring me to watch him.

I wiggle to the foot of the bed and peer into the bathroom, unable to resist the sight of my man standing under the shower, water running over his closely cropped brown hair, his tanned skin, his bulging muscles. Steam softens his rough edges, creating a dreamlike image.

I'll do anything to have another moment like this, to keep him safe. The things I previously thought were important—fashion, money, pride, belonging—mean nothing if I lose Hawke.

To protect him, to give him the ability to turn down high-risk assignments, I have to be his equal and make some money fast. My lips flatten. I know what I must do.

I
PREPARE FRESHLY
squeezed orange juice and bagels spread with cream cheese for both of us. Hawke dresses in his usual hideous black T-shirt, ragged blue jeans, clunky army boots; devours his breakfast in less than a minute; gives me a mind-blowing kiss; and strolls out the door.

I clean the condo, shower, don a white blouse and black pants, delaying the inevitable until I can't wait any longer. My designer goods, the gorgeous rewards given to me by Friendly, have to be sold.

Wishing to hold my beautiful red Salvatore Ferragamo purse in my arms one last time, I remove it carefully from the plastic storage box. God, it's exquisite. I sit on the bed and pet the luxurious leather, running my fingers over the seams, memorizing every detail, the tiny stitches, the finely crafted handles, the gold zippers, the new-purse scent.

Tonight, this limited-edition purse will belong to someone else, a woman who can afford both fashion and rent, who doesn't have to worry about her man taking dangerous missions.

That woman isn't me, not yet, perhaps not ever. I straighten my shoulders, pull my laptop closer to me, and submit my listings to a classified ad website dedicated to Chicago-area buyers and sellers.

Then I wait, refreshing my email every thirty seconds, gazing down at my phone, wondering who the lucky woman will be. She'll love the purse as much as I do. I caress the leather. How could she not? It's a work of art.

No one contacts me.

I look at my listings. They're live. The photos are stunning, my inner fashionista drooling over my own items. Yet no one is making an offer.

Maybe my cell phone is broken. Using Hawke's landline, I call my number. The call goes directly to voice mail. I leave a message and play it back. It's working, but no one is calling me.

Maybe the timing isn't right. Maybe prospective buyers are busy. Maybe there's a huge sale in town that I'm not aware of and every fashionista in Chicago is attending it. I list excuse after excuse, justifying the lack of interest.

By eleven o'clock, I force myself to face the truth. No one wants my designer goods. I can't count on the sales to provide much-needed fast cash, buying me time to find a decent job.

My shoulders slump. I have to land a not-so-decent job, the type of position employers hire on the spot for, not caring which warm body fills the role. I make a sour face. That will be retail. Or worse.

First, I have to blast past the paparazzi barricade. The gossip-rag goons have been stalking me since Nicolas offered me a billion dollars to have sex with him. If I venture outside and they recognize my face, they'll trample me.

I need a disguise, the more hideous, the better. Grabbing one of Hawke's ugly black T-shirts, I hold it up to my much smaller body. This could work. I nod. All of his security team wears equally heinous shirts, and he claims no one ever pays them any attention, treating bodyguards as though they're invisible.

Normally I wouldn't wear anything so horrific. As a child, I saw how fashion affected attitudes. My mom was always happier on the days she didn't wear her cheap uniform.

But this is an emergency. I remove my blouse, folding it neatly and placing it in the laundry basket. Hawke needs me.

I pull his shirt over my head and tuck the bottom of the garment into my waistband. The excess fabric folds over my pants, making it appear as though I'm much larger than I am. I look at myself in the mirror and cringe. My torso is one big black square.

I don't have the mass-murderer boots Hawke's crew wears, and his footwear won't fit me. Improvising, I pair black socks with my black ballerina flats. That works. I nod, pleased. My disguise is coming together nicely . . . or hideously.

I collect my hair into a low ponytail and jam a baseball cap on my head. This headgear must be Hawke's. I found it in the corner of his closet and it's designed for a giant's skull, the cap sitting low on my head, shielding my face.

My entire body is covered in black, cheap material. I gaze at myself in the bathroom mirror. The woman in the reflection is a fashion disaster, my outfit offending every aesthetic sense I have.

The strange thing is—I feel proud of myself, not depressed with my reflection. I'm doing what I have to do to protect the people I care about.

The doorbell rings. I freeze, debating what to do. Should I change, hide my disguise from the visitor, or answer dressed as I am?

The doorbell rings again. I move to the door, peek through the peephole, and relax. Jacob, the security guard from the south building, stands in the hallway, his uniform stretched tight across his stomach. Jacob is a friend. He won't rat me out. I swing the door open.

“Good morning, Jacob.” I smile.

“Good morning, Miss Bee.” The middle-aged man grins, the skin around his brown eyes crinkling. “Thank you for the macaroni and cheese. I shared it with the missus, and now she wants to adopt you.” He doesn't seem to notice my unusual outfit.

“My mom might have something to say about that.” I laugh.

“I wouldn't want to upset your mom.” Jacob chuckles. “Your secret admirer sent you another package.” He holds out a large brown box.

I stare at the delivery, confused. Friendly couldn't have sent me a reward. Yes, I completed yesterday's challenge but, during this sexual show, I called Hawke's name multiple times. Friendly, my mysterious texter, is Nicolas. I'm almost certain of this. My billionaire is a possessive, proud man. He wouldn't tolerate or reward that behavior.

“Miss Bee?” Jacob lifts his gray eyebrows.

I'll think about this later. “Thank you.” I grasp the box.

“My pleasure.” He studies me. “Are you okay?”

I summon a smile. “I'm feeling a bit off today. I don't know why.”

“Ahhh . . . ” The security guard nods. “There are quite a few paparazzi outside. That could be the reason.”

“It could be.” Has he heard the gossip? Does he know they're waiting for me? I don't meet his gaze. “I hope the paparazzi didn't cause you any problems.”

“No problems at all, Miss Bee.” Jacob gives me a toothy grin. “I used the side door to the left of the elevators and bypassed the crowd.”

“That's smart.” I note this escape route, hoping my friend won't get into trouble for sharing it. “Have a good day.”

“You too.” Jacob waves as he walks down the hallway.

I close the door and kneel on the floor, placing the box in front of me. My stomach flutters from uncertainty, not from fear. Nicolas would never hurt me. I know this in my soul.

Nicolas also wouldn't reward me. I've studied the handsome real estate developer for months, watched him daily, read articles on him, and have grown to consider him a close friend.

He would never compensate me for betraying him, for calling another man's name as I found release. I know this with the same level of certainty as I know he wouldn't harm me.

I jostle the box. It's too heavy to be empty. Perhaps this is a severance gift, a memento of my sexual exploration.

I take a deep breath, count to five, release it, and pull on the flaps.

A piece of ivory card stock is set on top of a folded brown tissue paper. I pick up the stationery. Your Reward is written in black font.

A chill sweeps over me.

Nicolas isn't Friendly. The rewards, the missions, have been sent by someone else, a stranger. Oh my God. I stare unseeingly at the bare wall. Another person has been watching me.

Watching me. I press the card stock to my heaving chest, forcing myself to calm the hell down. That's all he or she has done. The mysterious Friendly hasn't touched me, hasn't talked to me, hasn't approached me.

But I
have
been performing for a stranger. I trust Nicolas. He's my friend. I know he won't hurt me, won't use my nudity for diabolical purposes. I also thought he understood me, accepted my inner freak.

He doesn't. Nicolas doesn't know about my exhibitionistic tendencies, about this part of me. The person I've trusted with this secret is an unknown.

The tension inside me rises once more and I fight to control it, to think rationally. All Friendly has done is look at me, I remind myself. Anyone gazing at our bedroom window could do the same.

Needing a distraction, I part the brown tissue paper. My eyes widen. As a thank-you for performing for my unidentified texter, I've been sent the most beautiful gown I've ever seen. I remove the garment from the box, shaking the black flimsy fabric as I stand. It's a pleated Grecian-styled gown from Prada, the length exactly right, the hem skimming the floor.

It'll go perfectly with the Giuseppe Zanotti T-strap sandals Friendly awarded me yesterday. I trace the draping around the low-cut bodice, the seams hidden, not one loose thread marring the dress. I yearn to try it on, to feel the sumptuous fabric against my bare skin, to swirl until the skirt billows.

If I wear the dress, selling it will be even more difficult than it already is. I clutch the dog tags hanging between my breasts. People before things, before fashion.

Pushing away my regret, I put the dress back in the box and transfer the entire delivery to one of my plastic storage containers. When I return to the condo, I'll add this latest reward to my listings on the classified ad website, along with my Louboutin heels and my Salvatore Ferragamo purse.

Maybe the gown will sell. Maybe this sale will pique interest in my other items. Unable to count on these maybes, I pluck my tattered black messenger bag from a storage box. Hawke fixed this bag for me on the day we met. I touch the mended strap. It's an eyesore, yet I couldn't let it go.

As I couldn't let him go, my equally battered man. I stuff my passcard, emergency credit card, and just-in-case limo chits into this purse.

My fingertips linger over my phone. I want to call Hawke, to let him know what I'm doing and ask for his advice, but I have to become accustomed to making decisions on my own, as a woman worthy of being his equal would. Distractions might kill him.

The phone is added to the rest of my things. I place the shortened strap of my purse around my neck. It hugs my T-shirt-covered hip, putting the finishing touch on my hideous outfit.

The things I do for the people I love. I march out the door.

The people I love. My stride slows. There's that word again.

My feelings for Hawke aren't love. Love is steady and constant, not the wild excitement I experience whenever I'm with him. What we have is lust stabilized by a mutual respect.

Satisfied with this relationship prognosis, I press the button for the elevator. The doors open. I select the ground floor and try to avoid looking at my reflection in the mirrored walls. This is almost impossible to accomplish, all angles of my body displayed.

I have no breasts, waist, or hips, the top half of me engulfed by Hawke's huge T-shirt. The short sleeves reach my elbows, the blackness of my ensemble making my skin appear paler than it normally does. The brim of the baseball cap casts a shadow over most of my face. The piping on my cheap purse is worn white, drawing attention to its poor design.

Before I met Hawke, I would have never left the building looking like this. I'd be too terrified of what people might think, their hurtful comments, the disgust in their eyes.

Today, I have bigger concerns. My mom depends on me to pay her rent. Cyndi, my best friend, needs my help with our business start-up expenses. Hawke considers me a partner, and he deserves a woman who will work as hard as he does.

The elevator doors open. I exit, turn to the left, and spot the side door. As I push it open, an electronic buzz sounds a warning. Shit. I hurry through the door, not wishing to set off an alarm.

There's no one outside. I gaze around me. This is the employee entrance, a side of the condo complex tenants never see. A huge gray Dumpster looms to my right, the stench making my nose wrinkle. Cracks radiate from a round hole in the pavement as though a heavy object was accidentally set on the surface. The beep, beep, beep of a truck backing up breaks the silence.

I clomp away from the building, imitating Ellen's I'm-angry-at-the-world style of walking. Hawke's coworker scares the shit out of the rest of his team. No one dares to approach her, and this is exactly the response I want.

A group of men and women with cameras and microphones harass a confused-looking, well-dressed dark-haired man as he tries to enter the condo complex. I ignore them, keeping my shoulders hunched and my head down.

Am I being followed? Sweat trickles down my spine, sliding between my ass cheeks. I can't risk looking behind me. That would appear too suspicious. I don't hear any footsteps or voices or rattling of cameras or other recording devices. That's a good sign.

My phone hums in my purse. I don't answer. The caller might be Hawke, and I don't want to tell him where I'm going, what I wish to accomplish, not until I'm successful. The last time I told someone I was landing a full-time job, I returned home with no position and a condo decorated with big bright banners congratulating me. I'd rather not experience that humiliation again.

I turn right on Michigan Avenue and scan the storefronts, searching for help-wanted signs. A ritzy boutique's window display draws my attention. The printed sundress on the brunette mannequin is divine, the garment handcrafted by an unknown designer, the colors reminding me of the Mediterranean. Not that I've ever been there, but I've seen photos, dreamed of the place, of the exquisite European fashions.

In these dreams, every dress fits exactly right, tailored for my proportions. My hair is loose, as Hawke prefers it, and I—

A man bumps against my shoulder. I apologize, look up, and my stomach sinks. Mack grins at me, sunlight reflecting off his bald head, his big body clad in an army-green T-shirt, black cargo pants, and monstrous boots.

“That's a great disguise.” His gaze drifts over me. “If your height hadn't given you away, you would have escaped unnoticed.”