Sinful Rewards 2

by Cynthia Sax

  This knowledge thrills me, too much. I’m fighting a losing battle against passion, panic swelling within me. Retreat is the only alternative.

  “See how straight and even the seam is?” I ask, determined to teach this valuable design lesson and then move the hell away from him, away from the seductive heat of his body, from his shoulder pressing against mine. “It’s not mass-produced by some uncaring machine. A craftsman poured his heart and soul into creating this purse.”

  Hawke bends his head lower, his stubble-covered cheek a whisper away from mine. His hot breath wafts against my shoulder, a gentle alluring caress, pulling me further under his magnetic spell. I’m agonizingly aware of how close we are, of the scent of leather, engine grease, and virile man surrounding me, stamping his being all over my consciousness.

  “The zipper is gold. The leather is the finest one can buy. That can be duplicated,” I explain, clinging to fashion, a subject I understand, a place in this world where I’m comfortable and safe, the design rules never changing.

  “But the craftsmanship, the . . .” I search my brain, unable to find the right word, my thinking hindered by his proximity.

  “The love,” Hawke supplies.

  “Yes, the love.” I lift my head and meet his gaze. A slow smile spreads across Hawke’s rugged face and a piece of me, a part I didn’t even know was missing, shifts an inch downward and clicks into place. He understands about the purse, about me. A connection hums between us, a low-droning awareness. It delights me, scares me, makes me feel poignantly alive.

  These feelings are dangerous, tempting me to act foolishly, to encourage a man I should avoid. “The love can’t be faked,” I doggedly continue. “It’s either there or it isn’t.”

  I push the purse back into the crook of my arm, the slide of leather over skin grounding me. Another man gave me this gift, I’m almost certain, and he’s a constant man, a worthy man, a wealthy, handsome man.

  “My purse is a functional work of art.” I pause and then mumble, “Sort of like your bike.”

  Hawke’s motorcycle is the prettiest machine I’ve ever seen. The head of a silver hawk is perched between the handlebars, its feathers etched in the metal, its large eyes reflecting the light, the bird almost appearing alive. Fierce talons grip the front wheels. Images of the soaring predators decorate the blue gas tank. Every nook and cranny of the bike appears customized and clean, lovingly assembled and cared for.

  “You like my bike, huh?” Hawke grins, one corner of his lips quirking endearingly higher than the other. The stubble shadowing his square chin accentuates his broad cheekbones, the darkness contrasting vividly with his pale eyes.

  “Yep.” I don’t like what his bike symbolizes—his chosen means of transport is built for one person—but I admire the workmanship. “It’s very pretty.”

  “Pretty?” He scowls, appearing deeply offended, lines grooved around his mouth. “Paintings are pretty. You’re pretty.”

  He thinks I’m pretty. My soul fills with happiness.

  “Bikes aren’t pretty, sweetheart. They’re powerful machines.” Hawke turns the key in the ignition, clutches the throttle and revs the engine, the sound vibrating through my chest. “One thousand CCs, like having a beast between your legs,” he shouts, quieting the machine once more.

  He’s a beast, all leather and denim and muscle, and I’d like to have him between my legs, our two naked forms fused into one, his rough hands cupping my ass cheeks, lifting me into him.

  God, I want this man, yet I can’t have him. I squeeze my thighs together, struggling to contain my urge to touch him, to stroke him, taste him. He’s wrong for me in so many delectable ways, and I shouldn’t be thinking of him. Nicolas, my stable, serious billionaire, should own my thoughts, my body, my heart.

  “I have to go to work.” I step backward, retreating as I always do from temptation, and never have I been as tempted as I am right now.

  My gaze lingers over Hawke’s wide leather-clad shoulders, massive arms, scarred knuckles. His tattoos remain hidden, but I know they’re there, decorating his golden skin, as detailed as the designs on his bike. He’s big and broad, a mountain on wheels, giving the illusion of solidity yet destined to leave, the combination confusing my bad-boy inner warning system.

  “Hop on the back.” Hawke twists his torso and pats the tiny wedge of seat behind him, his palm smacking hard leather. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  I skim my tongue over my bottom lip, the thought of sitting behind him, straddling his big body with my legs, pressing my breasts against his back, thrilling me.

  “Do you have a helmet?” I ask, knowing the answer. Helmets aren’t mandatory in Chicago, and a man like him doesn’t wear unnecessary protection. He takes risks, flying as free as the bird he’s named after, untamable and wild.

  “No, I don’t have a helmet.” Hawke’s smile fades, his blue-jean eyes growing serious. “But you’re safe in my hands, Belinda. I’ll be careful with you.” He extends one of his arms, holding his hand out to me.

  I stare at his creased palm. It takes all of my willpower not to grasp his fingers, not to slide my hand in his, allowing him to pull me wherever he wants me to go.

  “I can’t risk it.” I force the words, my heart screaming in protest.

  “I see.” Hawke drops his hand. He doesn’t see. He thinks I’m talking about his bike. He doesn’t know the risk I can’t take is touching him.

  “Thank you, though.” I slide sideways along the sidewalk, my brain telling me to walk away, my body begging me to stay. “For the offer.”

  “Expect more offers. I can be a persistent pain in the ass, especially when it comes to pretty little women with long brown hair and big brown eyes.” One corner of Hawke’s lips lifts upward, giving me a glimpse of white teeth. “And love?”

  “Yeah?” I pause, wondering why I’m answering to this endearment. I’m not anyone’s love—not his, not Nicolas’s—not yet.

  Hawke shifts his weight, the movement rocking his bike. Denim stretches across his thighs, an oval-shaped object outlined in the front right pocket. “The bag looks good on you.” His voice is husky, filled with an emotion I suspect is lust.

  I ignore the answering tightness in my body and beam at him. “It does look good on me.” The Salvatore Ferragamo purse would look good on anyone.

  Hawke blinks, his short, thick eyelashes trimmed with gold, his jaw loose and his mouth slightly open. He’s struck speechless by my cocky response. My spine straightens with pride. My work here is done.

  I turn and stride toward the bus stop, a jaunty bounce in my step. As I reach the corner, Hawke’s laughter booms behind me, his joy open, expressive, pleasing to hear. I grin and don’t look back.

  It’s a great day, despite the dreary weather. I glance upward. The humidity in the air makes me grateful that I wore my hair slicked back into a tight ponytail, that simple style reducing the possibility of frizz. I watch for raindrops, fretting over my brand-new purse.

  My brand-new authentic Salvatore Ferragamo purse, I remind myself. It isn’t the imitation UGG boots I bought in my second year of college. My purse is real leather. It should survive the rain.

  It should, but I don’t want to take any chances. While I wait at the bus stop, I pet my treasure, unconsciously following the path Hawke’s fingers had taken, along the seams, over the stitches. I imagine I feel his warmth, his strength relayed to the leather, this illusion increasing my pleasure.

  Cars slow as they pass me. Their decrease in speed might have been because of the red light. I prefer to think the drivers are slowing their vehicles to look at my purse. It’s a thing of beauty, the most gorgeous object I’ve ever owned, a splash of color on a gray day.

  The bus arrives six minutes late. It’s crammed full of people. Painted faces are pressed against the steamed-up windows. I spot dorsal fin hats and giant foam fish, which can mean only one thing—it’s Shark Week at the Shedd.

  The driver opens the door, looks at me, glances b
ehind him at the masses of bodies wedged into the space. “You’re small. You might fit.” He flicks his fingers, ushering me onto the vehicle.

  “Thank you.” I’m average size but I don’t argue. I pay my fare and slide between a broad woman proudly wearing an I Heart Hammerheads T-shirt and a bearded man in a suit. My hand sticks out of the suffocating human sandwich, my purse hanging over the fare box.

  The bus jerks forward. I slam against the corporate lumberjack, my breasts smacking against his chest. “Sorry.” I widen my stance, better bracing myself, embarrassed by the contact.

  He grunts, his response swallowed by his beard. Moisture beads on his forehead. His suit jacket smells like wet wool.

  I stare at his lapels, trying to act as though I’m not pressed against him, as though I’m not sharing an intimate embrace with a stranger, our thighs, hips, chests touching. The floor vibrates under my shoes. I don’t know how fast we are moving, as I can’t see outside, my view blocked by bodies, my fellow passengers much taller than I am.

  A lady grumbles loudly about great whites giving other sharks a bad name. “Everyone knows the great white is the only shark worth talking about,” a man snaps.

  Passengers gasp, their reactions encouraging the combatants. The verbally dueling duo exchange increasingly shrill insults, drawing oohs and aahs from the shark-savvy crowd. I wince, my eardrums ringing. Shark fans make Black Friday shoppers appear civilized, and these adversaries are locked in a to-the-death standoff, their hostility spiraling my anxiety skyward.

  The man finally calls her a seal lover, the ultimate insult. The woman shrieks. Foam slaps against foam. Bodies sway. The bus stops, and everyone groans.

  “Is this an incident?” the driver asks. “Do I have to notify dispatch?”

  Please say no, I silently plea, gazing upward, looking for divine intervention but seeing nothing but the bearded man’s frizzy facial hair. Incidents require statements and time I don’t have.

  “This is not an incident,” the man states.

  Good answer. I release my breath. Thanks to Dru, my troublemaking coworker, my boss already questions my commitment. Arriving late would have put my promotion to the full-time position at risk. Now—

  “She just needs to review Marine Biology 101,” the man adds.

  Oh, hell. I close my eyes. This is an incident. I’m so screwed.

  Chapter Two

  AN HOUR LATER, I exit the bus at the corner of Michigan and Huron, forgoing my usual calming stroll amidst the ritzy shops on the Magnificent Mile. I run the remaining block and a half, arriving at the office frazzled and wrinkled and moist. My feet hurt and my calves burn. Perspiration trickles down my spine.

  My friend Susan sits at reception, surrounded by an unruly crowd of bike couriers. Her eyes widen as I approach. “Nice bag,” she says, her voice edged with envy.

  With these two words, my world rights itself. “Thank you.” I run my left hand over the soft red leather, reminded of my good fortune.

  Even the harried volunteers navigating the narrow hallway notice my new accessory. They don’t say anything. They’re far too busy for conversation, acknowledging my good-mornings with tight smiles. But I see the appreciation in their eyes.

  My chin lifts and my spine straightens, my swagger returning. I’ll survive this. Mr. Peterson will be meeting with Dru as he does every morning. He won’t notice my late arrival.

  I enter the small workroom and my steps falter. Dru lounges behind one of the horrid wood-veneer desks, her feet propped up, her short black skirt hiked to obscene heights. “Someone’s in trouble,” she sings as she buffs her perfect nails.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I silently fume as I remove the supplies from my desk. There aren’t many supplies left. All of the reminder notices for the Magnificent Ball have been sent to the high-net-worth financial supporters. I’ve completed both of the lists, Dru’s and mine. There’s nothing more for me to do.

  For me to do. Dru has done nothing. This undeniable fact calms me. My troublemaking coworker might have arrived on time today, but she hasn’t done a lick of work. She hasn’t earned the one full-time position available. I’ve earned it, and I’ll prove this to Mr. Peterson.

  My confidence restored, I open my brand-new beautiful purse and extract the list I’ve drafted of possible next tasks. Our boss will love at least one of the fifteen detailed possibilities. My initiative will offset my uncharacteristic tardiness this morning.

  I place my purse carefully in the top drawer of my desk, lock it, and slip the key under my bra strap, the cool metal pressing against my heated skin. Dru can’t be trusted. She’s proved this point again and again. I’ll protect my reward and my job, using every resource I have.

  Mr. Peterson’s door opens and I look upward. My boss stands on the threshold, dressed in another ill-fitting suit, the pants pooling around his black shoes, the jacket pulling tight over his protruding belly.

  “I need to see you, Belinda.” His round face is sternly set.

  Dru is right. I am in trouble.

  And I know who caused this trouble. I cast her a hard glance and she smirks at me, unrepentant. I’m glad tomorrow is her last day. This job will be easier without her.

  I stride into the office, my list clutched in my right hand. Mr. Peterson closes the door and returns to his usual post behind his messy desk, his patched leather captain’s chair creaking as he sits. I lower into one of the guest chairs facing him, the seat hard under my ass.

  I take a deep breath, count to five, and exhale. “I’m sorry I’m late, sir,” I apologize. Managers appreciate employees with initiative. I’ll take the lead with this meeting. “There was an incident on the bus.”

  “You should take the possibilities of incidents into account when planning your commute.” Mr. Peterson moves a stack of papers a couple of inches to his right.

  “You’re right, sir.” I nod, contrite. “It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it won’t.” He studies an invoice. His hair appears sparser this morning, patches of bare scalp showing between the brown strands. Yesterday, Dru intentionally gave me the impression that she was sexually involved with Mr. Peterson. This is even more difficult to believe today.

  He isn’t unattractive for an older, settled man, but he doesn’t have the bad-boy personality necessary for an illicit fling. Mr. Peterson isn’t a tattooed, leather-clad former marine like Hawke. He’s a father figure, stable and nice, the type of man I wish my mom would have chosen for her wild one-night stand, someone who would have stuck around. He’d never break the rules, never violate any clause in the employee handbook, never be tempted by a beautiful young subordinate.

  Silence stretches. I squirm in my seat, anxious to impress my boss, to prove to him that I’m the best candidate for the full-time position. “I completed the last reminder notice yesterday.”

  “I assumed you had.” Mr. Peterson places the paper on the stack and picks up another invoice. “This isn’t college, and I’m not your teacher.” His tone is uncharacteristically curt. “I don’t need to check your work.”

  “I realize that, sir.” I swallow hard. The reporters in the college magazine mentioned that busy managers don’t want to be burdened with details. I should be more independent. “I was keeping you informed.”

  “This is the real world.” Mr. Peterson’s face reddens. “The real world isn’t always fair. The best employee doesn’t always get promoted.” A bead of sweat forms on his top lip. “There are other factors to consider.”

  “I understand, sir.” There are factors such as initiative and commitment. “I drafted a list of possible next tasks.” I smooth the crumpled piece of paper and slide it across his desk.

  “I’ve always considered myself a good boss, a fair boss.” Mr. Peterson doesn’t look at my list, the list I slaved over for hours late last night. “But I’m not perfect.”

  “No one is, sir.” I’m aware of my boss’s shortcomings, his regrettable choice in clothing, his awkwardness around people
, his messy office, but I’d never voice these criticisms to anyone. As he mentioned, he’s a good boss and he deserves my loyalty.

  “I’ve made mistakes.” He rakes his fingers through his thinning hair.

  “Everyone makes mistakes, sir.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. That damn Dru must have put these doubts in Mr. Peterson’s mind, making him second-guess his judgment.

  “You won’t make a mistake with this decision,” I murmur, weighing my words carefully. The reporters in my college magazine, my unwitting mentors in my quest to become the perfect corporate employee, cautioned readers not to overstep the boundaries of their manager-employee relationships.

  But they’ve never dealt with a coworker like Dru, an ethically challenged bitch who would do anything to land the full-time position I deserve. And they don’t need the income from that job to help pay their mom’s rent. I can’t lose this job. That isn’t an option.

  I take another deep breath and exhale slowly. This has to be said. “The person you hire will represent both you and your department.”

  I meet Mr. Peterson’s gaze, holding it for a second. He looks down at his papers, his fingers fluttering over his desk, his anxiety palpable.

  An anxiety Dru caused.

  “Whatever your new employee says or does will affect your standing within the company, permanently.” I press forward, determined to repair some of the damage she has caused. “There’s nothing more fragile than a person’s reputation.” I know this better than anyone else. My mom was unable to restore her good name once it had been lost. “Your full-time employee should bolster, not mar, your reputation. When you take that into consideration, do you truly have a choice about whom you’ll hire, sir?”

  Mr. Peterson lifts his rounded chin. “You’re right. I don’t have a choice.”

  Of course, he doesn’t have a choice. Who wants Dru representing him? No one. Certainly not my careful, conservative manager. She’d destroy his painstakingly built reputation within days, if she hasn’t already accomplished this feat. I press my lips together. Mr. Peterson would perish from embarrassment if he heard some of the rumors she’d circulated about him.