Sinful Rewards 12 (3 page)

I swing open the door and gaze along the empty hallway. “Hawke,” I yell at the top of my lungs. There's silence. He's gone, taking my heart, my hopes, my future with him.

I close the door and slump against the wood, the agony unbearable, tearing me apart. My knees buckle underneath me and I fall, smacking against the floor.

“Hawke.” I cover my face with my hands, my soul torn apart. How can I live without him? He's my home, my safe place, my morning smile and late-night snuggle.

My sobs start slow and soft, building, building, building, until the last wall inside me breaks and I howl, crying lustily, noisily, venting my grief. I've lost control, all of my emotions swept into a swirling vortex. This funnel lifts, detaching from me, from my inner self.

I'm left with nothing. There's a huge void where my feelings once were, my heart and mind empty. My frame becomes still, my limbs limp, my head falling forward, too heavy to lift.

I don't know how long I sit there, staring at the wood grain patterns in the floor, the swirl of knots and the stripes of tree rings. Tiny cat paws brush against the hard surface, taking a few cautious steps forward, stopping, taking a few steps forward, stopping.

I should talk to my skittish cat, comfort her.

I can't. I haven't anything left for her, for anyone, no willpower and no strength.

A small body rubs along my legs, her fur sinfully soft. Gisele moves back and forth, back and forth, caressing me with her entire form, as though she's trying to relay some of her energy to me.

Her bizarre method works. I lift my head and study her. She remains too damn skinny for my comfort, her ribs showing through her black fur. Her tail flicks from side to side, smacking me. Her yellow eyes glow.

She's all I have now that I rejected Hawke's proposal, doomed myself to a lifetime without company. “Without human company,” I amend, gazing at our cat. The chunk missing from Gisele's ear gives her a piratical appearance. Her scars remind me of my former marine, the man I turned down. “I love him so much, Gisele. What am I going to do without him?”

She doesn't answer. I reach out to caress her, and our perverse pet hisses at me. “Sorry.” I straighten. She can give me an all-over body rub, but when I try to touch her in return, she threatens to bite me.

She makes as little sense as the void inside me, the empty space where the pain should be. I stand, my legs stiff. “I'll survive. Carter women always do.” I walk toward the bathroom, cold and numb. A long, hot shower will put my world in perspective.

T
HE SHOWER DOESN
'
T
banish the numbness. I dress in a white blouse and black pants, the pair Hawke fixed for me days ago. My fingers skim over the stitches. My cheap ballerina flats complete the ensemble, my outfit similar to the one I wore when I first met him. My hair is loose, the way he likes it.

My military man doesn't return. I refill Gisele's food bowl, refresh her water. Then I inhale some yogurt and granola and wonder what Hawke is eating, who is cooking for him.

I should work. Cyndi has lined up a first remote consultation on Tuesday. A curvaceous thirty-something wife of a production accountant needs a glamorous- yet not-over-the-top evening dress for a movie premiere she and her husband are attending. I should search for dresses in full-figure flattering styles, in demure or classic colors.

But I can't concentrate, my mind on my military man. Instead, I clean every inch of the condo, make the bed. The floors gleam and the windows sparkle. I remain dead inside, detached from my actions and my surroundings. Even Gisele's antics don't lift the veil of gray draped over me.

Gritting my teeth, I resist the urge to call him, to tell him I changed my mind. My former marine was willing to sacrifice his happiness for mine. I can do this for him.

The doorbell rings and a swell of joy crashes over me, a marked contrast to my previous emptiness. Hawke hasn't forgotten my reward. He continues to care for me. I rush to the door and swing it open.

Nicolas stands in the hallway, a sheepish smile on his beautiful face, and my small burst of joy dissipates, replaced by the dreaded malaise. He's handsome, the lights shining on his black wavy hair, tanned skin, dark eyes. He's immaculately dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, pink tie. He's carrying ice cream, a small tub of Heavenly Hash cradled in his perfectly manicured fingers.

But he's not Hawke. He's not the man I love, the only person I want to see.

“Don't look at me like that, Bee.” Nicolas pushes his way into the condo. “I had that situation with the New York build last night. There will be fancy events in the future.” He holds up the tub. “I brought ice cream.”

I summon a smile. “You forgot about me.” I take the ice cream from the dashing billionaire. “What do those articles I sent you say about forgetting friends?”

Nicolas grimaces. “You knew I was a bad friend.” He walks with me to the kitchen, smelling of expensive cologne and wealth.

“You're not a bad friend.” I set two bowls and two spoons on the counter. “You're a terrible friend.” I open the tub of ice cream.

The real estate developer settles his long lean body on a bar stool and dips a spoon in the container. “You're not giving up on me, are you?” The lines carved between his perfect eyebrows belie his casual tone.

“I'd never give up on you.” I knock his sucked-clean spoon away and huddle over the tub, protecting the ice cream from impatient-billionaire-induced contamination. “Hawke doesn't love me,” I blurt, needing to voice this, to share this with someone.

“He said that?” Nicolas steals a spoonful of ice cream from the bowl I'm filling.

“No.” I frown, scooping as fast as I can. “But he's never said he loves me, either.” I push Nicolas's bowl toward him.

His eyes sparkle. “I've never said I love ice cream.” He shovels the sweet treat into his mouth with a boyish glee. “But I do. Very much.” His lips curl upward. “The name of this flavor is perfect. It
is
heavenly.”

“Hawke doesn't love me,” I repeat stubbornly, dishing out a smaller portion for myself.

“A good friend would agree with you.” Nicolas's head is bent over his ice cream.

“You're not a good friend.” I place the tub in the freezer compartment of the fridge. “What would you do?”

“I'd tell you that neither of you are acting rationally, that if craziness is a sign of love, Hawke has it much worse than you.” Nicolas licks his spoon. “He guards you like you're the last piece of prime real estate on the planet. I'm taking my life into my hands by simply eating ice cream with you.”

I climb onto the bar stool beside him, his observations about Hawke's protectiveness appeasing me, banishing some of my melancholy. “He cares about me.”

“No, he cares about his team.” The billionaire's lips flatten grimly. “Disregarding all of my advice about maintaining his distance.” Nicolas believes remaining aloof from his employees makes painful staffing decisions less traumatic. “What Hawke feels for you is in an entirely different category.”

“It isn't love.” Or is it?

Nicolas shrugs his suit-clad shoulders, not answering. He's said more than he normally does. We eat our ice cream in silence as I mull over the situation with Hawke. Could he love me?

“The men in the movies make grand gestures when they're in love,” I point out . . . to myself. Nicolas doesn't care.

“That's your point of reference—the movies?” The billionaire lifts one finely arched eyebrow. “Don't you have an article on this?”

“Fine.” I pick up my phone and search through the back issues of my favorite online magazine. “Here's one. Five signs he's in love with you.” I scan the article.

        
1. A guy who loves me cares about my feelings. Check.

        
2. He makes me a priority. Check.

        
3. He desires what's best for me, even when it isn't best for him. Check.

        
4. He's trustworthy and loyal. Check.

        
5. He wants people to know about me. Check.

“Oh, shit.” The cuss word escapes my lips before I remember I'm not alone. “Hawke might love me.”

“Good,” Nicolas replies. “Now we can stop talking about him.”

“He could genuinely love me.” I ignore my insensitive friend. “I could have thrown away our forever.” I had it all and I tossed it in the trash. Feeling nauseated, I set down my spoon, unable to eat more.

“Are you eating that?” Nicolas gazes longingly at my ice cream.

“No.” I nudge the bowl toward him. “You can have it.”

The billionaire hooks one of his palms around the white china, happily commandeering my portion.

“How do I fix this?” Can my relationship with Hawke be saved? Or did I fuck it up beyond redemption?

The sweet-loving real estate developer eats faster, not answering.

I don't need any contribution from him. This is my problem to work out. I know Hawke better than Nicolas, better than anyone. “I shredded his pride, broke—”

The doorbell rings.

“Saved by the bell,” the billionaire mutters.

Hawke has finally remembered my reward. I haven't destroyed his love for me. I run to the door and swing it open.

Francois stands in the hallway, the tortured Frenchman holding cut flowers and a bottle of wine. He wears a navy blue suit, white shirt, violet silk tie.
“Ma petite.”
He smiles, the scar on his cheek creasing. “The security guard in the other building told me you now lived here.”

Jacob told him where I was. “This is a surprise, Francois.” I force my tone to lighten, hiding my disappointment. He's not Hawke, will never be Hawke, but that's not my friend's fault.

“I have business in Chicago, and couldn't visit the city without seeing you,
mon mignon
.” Francois kisses me on my forehead and both cheeks, murmuring more words in French, the vineyard owner smelling of soil and sun. I stand stiffly, enduring his greeting, my mind filled with thoughts of another man's face, another man's touch.

Metal scrapes against wood behind me and I remember our audience. Nicolas is watching us. He'll wonder about my relationship with Francois, question my loyalty to Hawke.

“It has been too long since I've seen this beautiful face.” Francois cups my chin, lifting my gaze to his, and skims his lips over mine.

I pull away from him. My mouth belongs to Hawke. “Francois—”

“Bee, introduce me to your visitor.” Nicolas's tone is edged with steel. He commands the space beside me, holding his phone.

“My name is Francois Dubois.” The Frenchman introduces himself. He passes the wine and flowers to me and extends his right hand.

“You're the idiot who mistook Bee for a whore.” Nicolas clips his phone to his belt and clasps Francois's palm. The skin turns white around their fingers. “I'm Nicolas Rainer.” His voice is curt, his gorgeous face hard. He's no longer my easygoing friend. He's the arrogant billionaire, the master of his domain, demanding respect from everyone around him. “Hawke Masters will be joining us in a few minutes.”

What does he mean, Hawke will be joining us? I narrow my eyes at the billionaire. “What did you do?”

“Hawke is my friend, and I'm an asshole. What do you think I did?” Nicolas doesn't shift his glare from Francois, the two men continuing to squeeze the shit out of each other's hands. “I sent him a video of our visitor's arrival.” His dark eyes gleam. “Hawke has spent some time in France. He should find your greeting as illuminating as I did.”

“Merde.”
Francois finally breaks the handshake of death.

Merde
indeed. Hawke won't appreciate arriving home to find two men in our condo. “This is America.” I take a couple of steps backward as the young vineyard owner farther invades my personal space. “Why does everyone know how to speak French?”

“I'll teach you some words,
ma belle
.” Francois pursues me.

Nicolas slides between us, his maneuver smooth and graceful. “That will be difficult to do with your jaw broken.”

“Are you threatening me?” Francois straightens.

“Me?” The billionaire coolly, calmly straightens his cuffs. “No. I leave the physical skirmishes to my
very
large friend. Being a former marine, he has more training in that sort of brutish activity.” He shrugs his elegantly clad shoulders. “I prefer to destroy a man financially.” His sleepy, almost bored expression scares me. “Wine is a precarious business, isn't it?”

“Why are you here?” Anger edges the Frenchman's voice.

“A moment ago, I was eating ice cream.” Nicolas settles on his bar stool once more. “Right now, I'm attempting to be a good friend. Soon, I'll be driving you to the hospital.”

“No one is going to the hospital.” Retreating behind the kitchen island, I stuff the flowers into the vase with the previous bouquet Francois sent me. “Should I open the wine?” I attempt to distract them.

“S'il vous plait,”
Francois purrs, back to being his charming self.

I stare at him blankly. Is that a yes?

“You truly don't know any French.” Nicolas's eyes gleam. “Open the wine, Bee.”

“This is America.” I extract wineglasses from the kitchen cabinets. “I shouldn't need to know any French.”

“You don't know wine either.” Francois moves beside me. “This glass is correct.” He taps the stem of the glass with a wider opening and large bowl. “These two glasses are not.” He returns them to the cabinet and chooses two different glasses. “The wine I brought you is red.”

My face heats. I had no idea that different wines required different glasses. Alcohol isn't served at the diner my mom works in. “Okay.”

Francois opens the wine bottle, holds the cork for me to smell, describing the aromas I should be noting. I detect wine. That's it. Judging by the amusement sparkling in Nicolas's eyes, I'm not fooling anyone.

We go through the rest of the bizarre wine-tasting ritual. Francois tries to include me, and I try to look as if I know what the hell he's talking about. My ignorance finally overwhelms his gallantry and he concentrates on Nicolas, the two chatting about rare wines, expensive restaurants, exotic cities they've enjoyed. I don't belong, not in Francois's world, and, I suspect, not in Nicolas's.

With Hawke, I always belong. I fit. I feel comfortable and safe and special. Wetting a paper towel, I clean the counter, halfheartedly listening, missing my former marine. I doubt Nicolas and Francois would notice I was gone.

I stop. Then why am I standing here? Why am I listening to them when I could be talking with Hawke, making our relationship right?

“I need to make a private call.” I offer this as an excuse to escape. Francois waves his hands. Nicolas nods. They don't care. No one, except my military man, cares about me.

Leaving my guests to entertain themselves, I hurry into the bedroom I share with Hawke and close the door, feeling deliciously naughty, as though I'm playing hooky from school. Gisele stares at me accusingly, her body curled into a small ball under the bed. She doesn't want visitors either.

I press Hawke's number. It rings and rings and rings. I tap my right foot. Where is he? The call finally goes to voice mail, the robot man reciting Hawke's name.

“Hi. Ummm . . . ” Shit. I don't know what to say. “About this morning . . . I really wanted to say yes.” I pause again. “Call me.” I end the call and stare at my phone.

What do I do now? Wait for him to call back, for him to return to me?

“Fuck that.” I'm tired of sitting on my ass while the people I love physically or emotionally abandon me. Hawke is worth fighting for, and I have the strength to win this battle, to claim the happiness I deserve.

I'm not fighting only for me. My fingers splay across my fabric-covered stomach. I have a family to protect—Hawke, Gisele, possibly a child.

This thought doesn't freak me out as it once did. I love my former marine. A child, a blue-eyed, brown-haired baby boy, would be a part of him I could cherish forever. Every time I look at our child's face, I'll see Hawke, be reminded of our love, of the time we spent together.