by Cynthia Sax
Damn it. When had Hawke become my ideal man? I hold out the shaving kit. “Here it is.”
“Thank you, Bee.” Nicolas’s fingers brush mine, his skin soft and smooth. This is wrong, my foolish heart screams.
“Thank you for everything. I feel human once more.” His smile illuminates his handsome face, dazzling me. The drops of water in his hair reflect the light, making the strands sparkle. He looks better than any human should.
“I’m making you a bagel with cream cheese,” I blurt, saying the first thing that enters my brain. “Would you like it topped with strawberries or with raspberries?”
Nicolas plugs his shaver into the outlet, the movement shifting his towel a smidgeon lower. His abs ripple, every muscle defined. “I don’t have time for breakfast.”
He’s putting work before his health. My lips flatten. My busy billionaire doesn’t take care of himself. “You’re having breakfast,” I insist, and his brown eyes flash with rebellion.
“Bee—”
“I’ll put your coffee in a travel mug and you can eat the bagel as you walk,” I offer him in compromise.
Nicolas studies me for one long moment, his forehead furrowed with thought lines. I lift my chin, unwilling to back down.
His lips curl upward into one of his breathtaking smiles. “I’m being an asshole, aren’t I?”
“You are.” I nod, returning his smile. “But even assholes have to eat.”
“You’re worrying about me again.” Nicolas skims his fingertips over the coarse hair shadowing on his jaw. Having gained an appreciation for the feel of stubble against my skin, I wish he wouldn’t remove it. “If I was a nice man, I’d tell you not to concern yourself with me, but I’m not a nice man.” His brown eyes gleam. “I’ll take the strawberry option and my coffee black.”
“Okay.” I gaze at him, yearning to stay in the bathroom with him, watch him put his handsome self together. The hum of the electric shaver prevents more conversation, and there’s no reason for me to remain in the small space.
I return to the main room and prepare Nicolas’s breakfast, wondering when I’ll fall in love with my dashing billionaire. He’s a gorgeous man, everything a woman should ever want, and only an idiot would desire someone else.
The love will come . . . eventually. I’m certain of this.
Chapter Two
NICOLAS EMERGES FROM my bedroom twenty minutes later, clean-shaven, dressed in a charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and lilac silk tie. He’s male-model gorgeous, fit to be seen on the cover of GQ magazine, and I gaze at him with open admiration, unable to believe this superb male is interested in me, Belinda Carter.
“I needed that break.” Nicolas strides toward me, gold specks dancing in his dark eyes. The scent of sandalwood and exotic spices fills my nostrils. “I needed you.” He hooks his arms around my waist and pulls me to his long, lean body, his aggression exciting me.
I tilt my head back and gaze up at his beautiful face. He’ll kiss me now and this kiss, unlike its predecessors, will erase all remnants of Hawke and win my complete loyalty. I place my palms on his lapels, the fabric sinfully soft under my fingertips, his form hard, and I wait, allowing him to take the initiative, to seduce me as I long to be seduced.
Nicolas’s phone rings, the device concealed by clothing, and a part of me, the foolish part loyal to Hawke, is relieved. He’ll take this call. He always does, putting his company before his personal desires, before me.
Indecision flickers in my billionaire’s eyes and my heart beats faster and louder, silencing the rumblings of guilt, the murmurs of discontent in my soul. Nicolas is torn between business and me. This is how important I’ve become to him, how much he wants me. I part my lips in invitation and he draws me deeper into him, splaying his fingers over my back.
The phone continues to ring, and I should say nothing. I should welcome his kiss and not question his decision, not put doubts in his mind. Shit. I’m asking him.
“Do you have to answer that call?” My voice is husky.
“I have to do this.” Nicolas lowers his head and covers my lips with his, choosing me. I open to him, ignoring my foolish heart’s protests, embracing him with all of the pent-up passion in my soul, passion for another man.
Nicolas is more restrained than I am, stroking carefully into my mouth, his seduction smooth, controlled, perfect. Too perfect. He doesn’t sweep me off my feet, doesn’t numb my brain with his touch, doesn’t demand my full attention with the force of his kiss. Thoughts of Hawke remain, the guilt, the comparisons, the wanting dampening my desire.
Seeking to purge these feelings, I close my eyes and concentrate fully on Nicolas’s lips, his tongue, the taste of mint and man. This is a mistake. Visions of Hawke fill my mind, escalating my arousal, my overactive imagination replacing one man for the other. Nicolas serves as Hawke’s proxy and I relay all of my need to him, sucking on his tongue, wiggling into his body, warmth and wanting cascading over me.
Nicolas indulges my unruly desires for three heartbeats and then pulls away, his eyes as dark as a starless night sky. “You’re wild this morning, Bee.”
I hear the disapproval in his words. He thinks I’m a slut. My face heats. “I’m sorry.” I twist out of his grip, move to the kitchen counter, and pour the coffee into a black travel mug, my hands trembling. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“It wasn’t a criticism.” Nicolas follows me, his gaze fixed on my face. “You surprised me. That’s all.”
He slides one of his hands down my arm and I feel nothing, only shame and abandonment. That makes no sense, as I’m not alone. Nicolas is here.
“You constantly surprise me,” he murmurs.
I didn’t surprise Nicolas. I shocked him. My cheeks burn as I read this truth in his beautiful face. My billionaire expected the chaste kiss a good girl would give him. Instead, he experienced the out-of-control responses of a sexual pervert.
“I’m not feeling like myself today,” I lie my ass off. “Last night was . . . unsettling.” I glance pointedly toward the window, toward the park, the site of his fallen tree.
“It was unsettling for everyone.” Shadows pass over Nicolas’s eyes, revealing his sorrow, his regret, and I wriggle with guilt, knowing I deliberately brought this subject up, inadvertently hurting him.
“The generators failed and then the tree . . .” His voice chokes.
I feel like shit for having mentioned it. “You couldn’t save your tree?” I lean into him, trying to comfort him, to ease the pain I revived.
“The tree would have never looked the same.” Nicolas rests his hands on my hips, his hold frustratingly loose. “It would have decreased the property value of the site.”
He loved that tree yet he discarded it, putting his business first. Why didn’t he discard me when he heard the gossip? Has he heard the gossip?
I shouldn’t ask him. I chew on the inside of my cheek. I know I shouldn’t but I have to know. “If being with me decreased the property value of your buildings, would we remain friends?” I hand him the travel mug and the paper bag containing the bagel.
Nicolas chuckles. “Being with you could never decrease my property value.” His phone continues to ring and he continues to ignore it, his focus on me flattering, buoying my flagging confidence. “You’re a good girl.”
He doesn’t know. My body temperature drops, a wave of ice sweeping over me. Nicolas doesn’t know about my lunch with Lona, doesn’t know that Chicago’s polite society now thinks I’m a whore, a woman who has sex with men for money. My knees threaten to buckle under me, the dreams I have of a lasting love, security, a comfortable future vanishing.
“Would you be spending time with me if your friends, business acquaintances, employees didn’t think I was a good girl?” I ask, knowing the answer yet needing to hear it, to eliminate all doubt.
“That won’t happen.” Nicolas strides toward the door, unaware that our relationship is destined to implode.
I walk with him, wishi
ng I could stop him from leaving, from communicating with others, from finding out about the situation. “It could happen.” It did happen. “Even good girls make mistakes.”
“Make your mistakes in private,” Nicolas declares as though this is an easy feat to accomplish, as though he hasn’t ever made a mistake. “Your reputation is your most important asset.”
My reputation has been destroyed. I blink back tears, struggling to control my emotions. We won’t survive this. When Nicolas finds out about the lunch, he’ll end our relationship, then Cyndi will evict me from the condo, and I’ll have nothing, no home, no job, no hope of being loved.
I open the door and lean into the wood, my legs trembling. “I understand.”
I don’t like it, but I understand. My billionaire has an empire to protect, tenants and employees to safeguard. He can’t risk all of that on a woman he barely knows.
“Good.” Nicolas smiles, his face so damned handsome, not a hint of worry in his brown eyes. “Your wild-child roommate can risk her reputation. You and I can’t.”
He dips his head and brushes his lips over mine, a brief sweet kiss I’ll savor forever, our last embrace. My eyes sting with unshed tears. I suppress the urge to cling to him, to hold him close and never let him go.
“My driver will pick up my things,” Nicolas continues, unaware of my inner turmoil. “I’ll be busy today, but I’ll call you if I have the opportunity.”
“I’d like that.” I gaze up at him, hope flickering inside me. Maybe he’ll be too busy to listen to gossip. Maybe the gossip will dissipate and Hawke can delete the blog posts. Maybe this has all been a bad dream. I’ll wake up and my life will be normal once more.
I don’t believe any of these maybes. This will be the last time I talk with him, see his handsome face. This is my reality, my future. My heart aches.
“Don’t count on hearing from me.” Nicolas strides along the hallway, juggling his coffee and breakfast in his left hand, fumbling inside his pocket with his right hand. “I’m an asshole, remember.” He laughs as he presses his phone to his ear. “Nicolas Rainer.”
“Good-bye, Nicolas,” I whisper as I watch him walk away, imprinting his handsome face, well-dressed form, confident swagger on my brain. He turns the corner and disappears from my life, forever.
Having studied my billionaire for months, learning his values and his truths, I know our relationship is over. I close the door and sag against the wood. A teardrop trickles down my right cheek. The world tested me and I failed. I’ve been deemed unworthy, not good enough for him, for anyone. I won’t see Nicolas Rainer again.
That relationship is over. I no longer have to split my loyalty between two men. My gaze turns toward the window, a tinge of relief tempering my sadness. Hawke will have my entire soul . . . until I leave Chicago, leave him. We’ll indulge in a whirlwind affair. I’ll reward him for his loyalty, his kindness, his everything, and add memories I can relive during the lonely nights ahead.
The doorbell chimes and my heart leaps. Nicolas must have forgotten something. I brush the moisture away from my cheeks, fix a smile to my face, and swing the door open. “Did you—?”
Jacob, one of the building’s security guards, stands in the hallway. The luggage trolley is positioned behind him, piled high with flowers and boxes.
“There are more deliveries for you, Miss Bee.” He hands me a big bouquet of blood red roses, the fragrance wonderfully strong, the blooms perfect. “It must be your birthday.”
“No, it’s not my birthday.” Even on my birthday, I’m not this popular. I read the card, seeking the reason for the deliveries. The script is sloppy, the words barely legible.
Beautiful Belinda,
I look forward to knowing you.
Robert
A special friend of Lona’s.
(312) 555-8969
Oh God. I drop the flowers on the floor, my body temperature plummeting. Special friend must be a code for client. This stranger is sending flowers to me because he thinks I’m a hooker. He expects me to call him, to arrange a meeting, to sexually service him. I sway on my feet, my legs weak.
He knows my name, where I live. I glance at the trolley. And judging by the deliveries, he’s not the only man. The damn blogger mentioned my name. My address is listed on the Internet.
“Are you feeling ill, Miss Bee?” Jacob peers at me, the kindly man’s eyes filled with concern. Does he think I’m an escort also? Does everyone think this?
“I’m fine.” I force a smile, silencing the howl of outrage rising within me. “There’s been a terrible misunderstanding. These aren’t for me.”
“They’re addressed to you.” The security guard glances at the trolley and his forehead furrows with thought lines. “None of the deliveries had return addresses. I could track the senders through the couriers, but that will take time.”
I eye the pile of flowers and brown boxes, trying to calm myself, to think rationally, sanely. “Nicolas mentioned every package coming into the building is scanned by security.”
“They’re safe, Miss Bee.” More lines form between Jacob’s eyebrows. “Though I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt you.”
He can’t imagine this because he doesn’t know all of Chicago thinks I’m a prostitute. The hookers on TV shows are always the targets of serial killers, angry Johns, and jealous wives. They’re the first to die in any movie, victims no one misses.
Would anyone miss me? My heart aches. Nicolas wouldn’t publicly acknowledge having known me. I close my fingers around the dog tags dangling between my breasts. Hawke would add me to the list of people he couldn’t protect.
“What would you like me to do?” Jacob asks.
I don’t want the flowers or packages brought inside the condo. Simply looking at them makes me nauseous. But not accepting the deliveries would force Jacob to contact his manager. He’d ask for next steps, the manager would inform Nicolas, embarrassing my billionaire, and more people would know of my shame.
“I’ll take the deliveries,” I reluctantly relent, inwardly cringing. “We’ll stack them here.” I wave my hand over the floor, not caring if the flowers are damaged. “I’ll sort through them after you leave.”
It takes us several minutes to relay all of the bouquets and boxes. I don’t recognize any of the names on the attached cards. Some of the messages are creepy, hinting at sexual acts I’ve only heard Cyndi, my more experienced best friend, mention. A few of the notes are gushingly romantic. Most of the communications are polite, worded as business introductions.
None of the attention is wanted, the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach intensifying. Jacob leaves, rolling the empty trolley away, and I survey the mountain of gifts. All of these men are willing to pay for sex. I never realized there were this many desperate people in Chicago.
I decide to keep the flowers. They’ll make my best friend happy, and she deserves some joy to compensate for the mess I’m making of her life.
As there aren’t enough vases in the condo to hold the bouquets, I place the brightly colored blooms in glasses, mugs, bowls, any containers holding water. The main room resembles a florist shop, the air scented with roses and other fragrant varieties. Cyndi will be ecstatic.
I collect the cards, uncertain as to what I should do with them. Do I call or e-mail the men and tell them this is a misunderstanding?
I glance at the pile of packages, equally confused as to their future. Do I toss them unopened into the garbage? Some of the deliveries are chocolates, the boxes branded with the pricey company logos. Those can be trashed. The contents of the remaining packages are mysteries. They could be more expensive items. In the movies, rich Johns send their high-class hookers jewelry. I can’t throw diamonds away.
First, I should stop any future deliveries. I text Lona, asking her to contact all of her men. She replies within seconds, apologizing profusely, stating that she’ll speak to her clients and explain the situation.
This eases some of my concerns. On
ce she talks to them, there should be no more flowers or mysterious packages delivered to the condo.
Lona then sends me a second text, telling me not to leave the building for a few days, that it might not be safe. This freaks me the hell out. I’ve seen the TV shows and I know my friend’s history. Hawke once helped her with a stalker. Could that stalker now be following me?
Was he responsible for one of these deliveries? I discard the boxes of chocolates, not chancing my health or anyone else’s by keeping foodstuff possibly sent by a raving maniac.
Then I cautiously open packages. The first box contains a black leather whip and a note.
My New Pet,
You’ve been a very bad girl. I look forward to punishing you.
Your Master
Is this a gift from Lona’s stalker? I drop the torture device back into the box, uncertain. The message sounds threatening, but, having a slut for a best friend, I also know this could be some sort of kinky-sex thing. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. I push the box away from me.
The next present is more my style. The pale pink satin and lace babydoll is exquisite, and if I had received it from a man I loved, I would have been thrilled. But a stranger sent this intimate piece of clothing. He pictured me wearing it, my slight curves and bare skin exposed, grew hard fantasizing about looking at me, touching me. I toss it into the garbage bag and reach for the next package.
The lingerie, sex toys, body lotions, perfume, and some items I can’t identify accumulate. At twelve minutes after ten o’clock, the phone rings, Unknown Caller appearing on the screen. It must be Cyndi. She’s lost her phone again.
“Belinda Carter,” I answer.
“A beautiful voice for a beautiful lady,” a man purrs, his accent thick and exotic. “Lona couldn’t have chosen a more suitable replacement.”
It’s one of her clients. He tracked me down. Is he the stalker? A tremor of fear streaks up my spine. “I don’t know how you got this number, but there’s been a mistake. I’m not an escort.” I end the call, my hands shaking.