Sinful Rewards 10 (8 page)

Forty-two worry-filled minutes after Nicolas's call, the doorbell buzzes. I peer through the peephole and see a giant brown eye. My control freak billionaire is trying to look into the condo.

I swing the door open. “Hawke doesn't require a retinal scan.”

“Hawke requires much more than that before he allows anyone to approach you.” Nicolas crosses the threshold, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie. He carries a brown cardboard box filled with bags of sugar, chocolate chips, flour, a huge ceramic mixing bowl, and other baking supplies.

My billionaire is dependable. He arrives when he says he'll arrive. He thinks I'm important, blocking time in his busy schedule for me. He's so damn handsome, his face masculine perfection. If I was his girl,
he
wouldn't allow another man to meet with me.

“I sent an intern to pick up everything we should need.” Nicolas places the box on the kitchen counter. “It took her the entire afternoon. She returned with all of this, a jumbo-sized iced coffee, and a bright pink shopping bag from Victoria's Secret.”

“Your intern is an idiot.” I rummage through the contents of the box. “I guess you won't be calling her by her name.” Not using his employees' names makes firing them a little bit easier.

“No, I won't ever use her name.” Nicolas frowns, deep grooves bracketing his lips. “I'll have to fire her. That type of behavior is contagious.”

“She'll survive.” I press my body against his, hugging him close to me. He smells like expensive cologne and clean man. “Being fired didn't permanently damage me.”

Nicolas wraps his arms around me, gripping me tightly. “It hurt you.” That he has to hurt someone, even his incompetent intern, bothers him.

“It did hurt me,” I admit, savoring his embrace, needing this contact. “But I survived.”

I'll survive the talk with Hawke also. I rest my cheek against Nicolas's chest. The two of us comfort each other, not speaking, lost in our equally grim thoughts.

“I don't have a date for tomorrow.” Nicolas props his chin on top of my head. “Attend the ball with me, show your former coworkers that you survived.”

Arriving at the Magnificent Ball, a ball I helped plan, with Chicago's most eligible bachelor on my arm would make jaws drop and Dru, that job-stealing slut, swallow her tongue. I pull away from Nicolas and study him. He appears serious. “You'd do that for me?” I ask.

“I'm an asshole.” He removes his suit jacket and drapes the luxurious fabric over a bar stool, avoiding my gaze. “There isn't much I wouldn't do.” He rolls up his shirtsleeves, folding the crisp white fabric neatly, revealing tanned, unblemished skin. “Think about it and give me your answer by noon.”

“I will.” I won't think of much else. The Prada gown Friendly rewarded me with this morning would be perfect for the ball. Nicolas would wear one of his beautiful tuxedos. We'd arrive in his limousine. Heads would turn.

Hawke wouldn't care. A sharp pain slices through my body. There's no reason to mention it to him.

“This is for you.” Nicolas hands me his beloved phone. “I have half an hour.”

“That's enough time for one batch of cookies.” I place his phone in a kitchen cabinet, hiding it from him. My own device continues to hum. “But we have to work quickly.” I remove a square of black fabric from the box and unfold it. “Mr. Good Lookin' Is Cookin'.” I read the message on the apron. “This must be yours.” I toss it to Nicolas, forcing a smile.

Crimson creeps up his neck. “I asked her to buy a plain apron,” my billionaire grumbles, donning the garment, looking adorably casual. “She can't follow simple instructions.”

“She has a sense of humor.” I unfold the second apron and my smile fades. “His Bitch” is written across the bib. I stuff the apron back in the box. “I don't need an apron. I'll be supervising.”

“What did she do?” Nicolas reaches for the apron.

“Don't look.” I grasp his wrist, stopping him. “If you don't know about it, you don't have to do anything.”

My control freak billionaire narrows his eyes.

“Wash your hands.” I try to distract him.

Nicolas glances at the apron and then at my face. “You're taking care of me again,” he decides, moving toward the sink.

“Yep.” I remove the butter from the fridge. “Someone has to.” Because his flaky intern certainly isn't taking care of him. She doesn't know her boss well, if she thinks he'd find the message on my apron amusing.

I teach Nicolas how to make cookies. The billionaire is surprisingly willing to follow my orders, measuring each ingredient carefully, working silently by my side. I talk about my adventures at Chicago Jim's Burger Barn, my new cat, my mom's blooming romance.

If I had chosen Nicolas, every day would be like this, serene and comfortable, a sliver of togetherness tucked between his meetings and other business.

This isn't enough for me, not anymore. That former marine of mine has trained me to want more, to crave the energy surrounding him, his scent, his rough hands, his everything.

I place the first baking sheet in the oven, disgruntled with him and with myself. Although Hawke isn't here, he's intruding on my evening, disrupting my happiness.

Nicolas plops spoonfuls of dough onto the second sheet, the mounds placed evenly apart, the chocolate chips glistening, slicked by the melted butter. “We won't get two dozen cookies out of this batch.” He sticks the spoon in his mouth and sucks on the metal, looking more handsome than any man should.

“The recipe doesn't factor in Mr. Good Lookin's sweet tooth.” I hold out a clean spoon. Nicolas's fingers fold over mine, his grip firm.

We stand inches apart, the air between us heated, thick with emotion. The hem of my full skirt grazes his dress pants and I'm acutely aware of my lack of panties, that the billionaire can access my bare pussy with a mere flip of the flimsy fabric.

This is wrong. My heart screams a protest as his fingers stroke mine. His caresses are slow, steady, reliable, but he's not Hawke.

Hawke's not here. I tilt my head back. My former marine doesn't care that I'm meeting with another man. He doesn't care about me.

Desire flares in Nicolas's brown eyes. The billionaire dips his head. He'll kiss me now. I'm hurt and angry and I'll allow his seduction.

Fuck that. I'll encourage it. I step forward, our hips brush, and Nicolas hesitates, his gaze fixed on my lips.

“We can't do this.” He pulls away from me and cool air sweeps between us. It doesn't restore my sanity. “I promised Hawke I wouldn't touch you.”

“He won't mind,” I state a little too loudly, my crazy showing.

Nicolas raises one of his eyebrows.

“He won't,” I insist, my voice firmer, calmer, less nuts. “When we first met, he was superjealous but now . . . ” I shrug, trying to act casual while I'm dying inside.

Silence stretches. Nicolas picks a mound of cookie dough off the sheet and eats it, not saying a word.

I summon a smile. “You can kiss me.” The billionaire glances at me, his expression openly skeptical. “Hawke will probably thank you.” I feign a perkiness I don't feel. “It'll give him an excuse to end our relationship.” He'll no longer feel restricted by his vow.

“It'll give him an excuse to remove my head from my neck,” Nicolas mutters. “Hawke will never give up on you or on your relationship.” There's no doubt in his voice.

“How can you be so certain?”
Tell me Hawke loves me
, I silently beg the billionaire.

“He knows I want to marry you. Hawke is too honorable to offer you a less permanent relationship.” Nicolas bends over, sticking his dress-pant-clad ass in the air, and he peers in the oven. “The cookies are ready.”

I glance through the glass. “Give them three more minutes.”

My impatient billionaire scowls.

“You're saying that Hawke is with me out of honor.” I return the discussion to my military man, trying to hide my pain.

“No, I'm saying that he would have stepped aside, allowed me to pursue you, if he only wanted a short-term relationship.” Nicolas pops a chocolate chip into his mouth. “He's not as selfish as I am. He puts you first, always.”

“Hawke
has
stepped aside,” I point out. “He's not here, is he?”

“When I called him, he was stuck in Milwaukee, which is a forty-five-minute direct flight from Chicago.” My billionaire takes another look at the cookies. “That's the only reason he isn't looming over us right now.”

Hawke is in Milwaukee. He's not avoiding me. One of the knots in my stomach loosens. “He wouldn't loom over us. Duty is dictating that he stay with me. He doesn't care about me, about us.”

Nicolas looks at me as though I've lost my mind, which I suppose I have. “Hawke has every inch of the north building monitored, breaking I don't want to know how many privacy laws. Five of his best men are positioned downstairs, irritating my security guards. Yes, he clearly doesn't care for you,” the billionaire drawls, his sarcasm thick. “Does love make everyone this crazy?”

“I'm not in love—” I stop, unable to lie to my friend. “I do love him,” I admit, sheepish. “And it
is
making me a bit insane.”

“I know you love him, Bee.” Nicolas touches my upturned face. “Part of me has always known that.”

My love for Hawke was obvious from the beginning. I press my cheeks into my billionaire's palms. “That's why you never kissed me senseless.” For a sophisticated, worldly man, he moved extremely slowly with me, insisting on playing the asshole, only showing me glimpses of his charm.

Red streaks across Nicolas's cheekbones. “He's the better man.” He drops his hands and steps backward. “He deserves your love. I don't.”

“You're a good person too.” I follow him, not allowing his escape. “You're a better person than you realize.”

“No, I'm not.” Nicolas's expression is bleak. “Hawke protects you, ensures you're safe.” He turns away from me. “I can't keep a tree alive.”

“Nicolas—”

“It's time.” The billionaire dons black oven mitts. “I'm taking the cookies out.” He removes the baking sheet. The heat from the oven sweeps upward, vanilla and chocolate scenting the air. I watch him, seeing the sadness he won't talk about.

“You miss your tree.” I state the obvious.

“It stood there for over a century.” Nicolas places the sheet on the oven top. “And now it's gone, with no trace it ever existed. That will be my fate also.”

“That won't be your fate.” I stand beside him. “You're constructing homes, creating memories that people will pass along for generations. Even if your beautiful buildings collapse, those memories will live on.”

Silence stretches, both of us gazing down at the tray of cookies. We should put the next batch in the oven, but my billionaire isn't ready, not yet.

“Will you remember me?” Nicolas's voice is soft, tinged with a heartbreaking yearning.

Oh, God. Why couldn't I love this man? “I won't get a chance to forget you.” I bump my shoulder against his. “We'll be talking every day.”

“Every day?” He glances at me.

“At least once a day, every day, for the rest of our lives.” I nod.

“For the rest of our lives,” my lonely billionaire repeats, as though this is a treasure to be cherished.

“You'll require updates on Gisele, my cat.” I grin. “I'll send you more photos.”

“I'll need an article on appropriate replies,” he counters. “Because I don't know what I should say about the photos. It's a cat.”

“She's a cat,” I correct.

“Exactly.” He nods.

“I'll send you some links,” I promise, not knowing if such articles exist. “I also promised to teach you how to become a good friend.”

“That could take decades.” Nicolas's eyes sparkle. “I
am
an asshole.”

An asshole wouldn't sound so relieved that the unemployed daughter of a waitress continued to be his friend.

“And I'm a damn-good baker.” His lips curl into a smug smile. “Look at my cookies, Bee. They're perfect.”

I smile at the pride in his voice. “Let them cool.” I swat his fingers away from the cookie sheet. “Put the other—”

The door swings open, the wood crashing against the metal stopper. “Step away from my girl,” Hawke barks.

I pivot on my heels and suck in my breath. My former marine stands at the threshold to the condo, his eyes blazing with fierce emotion, his fingers clenched into massive fists. Beads of sweat glisten on his broad forehead. He ran up the stairs again, unable to wait for the elevator.

“Nicolas didn't touch me.” I rest my hands on my hips. “All we did was bake cookies and talk.” I tilt my chin upward and meet his gaze. “There's no need to threaten him.”

“There's a need,” Hawke growls. “He's standing too close to you.”

Nicolas removes his phone from the cabinet. I don't look away from my military man, returning his glare with one of my own, trying to hide my happiness. He
does
care for me.

And I love him. Damn it.

“Am I still your girl?” I skim my hands over my skirt, reminding him of my lack of panties. “Or have you grown tired of me?”

Hawke strides toward me, his tread silent and his expression solemn. “I'll never grow tired of you, sweetheart.” He hooks his arms around my waist and pulls me to him. Our bodies smack together, my breasts flattening against his muscle. “You'll always be my girl.”

Hawke covers my lips with his, claiming my mouth. I open to him and he surges inside me, tasting of mint and man, his tongue sliding along mine. My fingers splay over his hideous black T-shirt, his chest solid, hard, heaving. The ridge in his jeans presses against my stomach, this physical proof of his desire reassuring me.