Sinful Rewards 6

by Cynthia Sax

  Seconds later, the phone rings again. The screen displays Unknown Caller with a different phone number.

  I take a deep breath, count to five, and exhale. “Belinda Carter.”

  “You are a whore, an immoral creature, and you will go to hell,” a female voice screeches. “The lips of a forbidden woman drip honey, and her speech is smoother than oil, but in the end she is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death—”

  “You have the wrong woman.” I interrupt her spiel, having heard similar verses from women disapproving of my mom. Since I was old enough to understand the words, people have been telling me that my mom will be tossed in a pit of snakes and eaten by hungry jackals.

  Now they’re attacking me. Bile rises in my throat, burning my flesh. “I’m not a hooker.” I press End, my body quivering.

  The phone rings. It’s another unknown caller, another person harassing me, thinking I’m a whore. I forward all of my incoming calls directly to voice mail, my fingers clumsy, trembling with anger and outrage and terror.

  Needing some contact with the outside world, I allow the text messages to reach me. As Lona is contacting her clients, I expect the communications from strangers to slow. Instead, the messages multiply, the words ranging from sad and poetic to crude and hateful.

  More Google alerts arrive. That damn blog post is being replicated, other bloggers covering the news. I’m the talk of the gossip rags.

  My fingers twitch, the urge to call Hawke, to ask him for help, intense. It’s offset by the fear that he’ll reject me too. I couldn’t handle that, not now, not on top of everything else.

  Pull yourself together, Bee. I give myself a good shake. Your mom dealt with this persecution for decades, alone, without the technology you have. You can handle this.

  Braced by this pep talk, I wade through the deluge of text messages and open the remaining boxes. There are no diamonds. I could have thrown all of the packages in the trash, saved myself the unwanted glimpse into other people’s sexual fantasies.

  Men have sent me naughty nurse costumes, handcuffs, a vibrating octopus. Some of the presents could be perceived as threatening. All of them make me uneasy. My perversions seem normal by comparison.

  The text messages don’t stop. They might never stop. I’ll always be labeled a whore, won’t ever escape this reputation while I live in Chicago. There might be multiple Belinda Carters in the world, but there is only one in this city. I have to leave.

  In preparation for my departure, I order groceries online, selecting easy-to-make meals for Cyndi, my culinary-impaired best friend. She’ll suffer because of the gossip, my reputation also damaging hers. I won’t allow her to starve.

  I sweep the floor yet again, tidying the mess the flowers are creating. Many of them are already wilting, dropping petals on the hardwood. As I’m cursing the inconsiderate Johns, Cyndi’s name flashes on my phone’s screen. My man-crazy roommate has texted me from her departure gate at LAX. A photo of a handsome male pilot follows, accompanied by “I’d like to see his cockpit.”

  Shit. Cyndi will be home in six hours, maybe sooner, depending on traffic. She’ll find out the chaos I’ve created and the harm I’ve put her in.

  Because I have placed my best friend in peril. I gaze at the damn flowers. One of the bouquets could have been sent by Lona’s stalker. This scary individual would know where I live.

  The urge to run, to leave Chicago as I left Happydale, escaping the gossip, the drama, the pain, compounds within me. Taking this easy way out isn’t an option, not this time.

  It wouldn’t take much more effort for the stalker to find out that Cyndi is my roommate. Unable to reach me, he might redirect his attentions toward her. I can’t allow this.

  I don’t know how to safeguard her, but I know someone who does. Sucking up my fear, I phone Hawke and ready myself for his rejection, for his harsh words.

  “I’m on my way home,” he answers, his voice barely audible under the roar of an engine and the chop, chop, chop of metal slicing through air.

  Hawke hasn’t yet abandoned my notorious ass. He’s on his way home. My breathing slows, my anxiety level lowering. “How much would it cost to protect someone for a month?” The stalker should lose interest in that length of time.

  “You’re safe, love,” he assures me. “Stay where you are. No unauthorized visitors can get into the building.”

  Cyndi won’t remain in the building.

  “This isn’t for me,” I clarify. “I have five thousand dollars. Is that enough? She’ll need around-the-clock protection, and I don’t want her to know she’s being watched,” I stress, wishing for her life to remain as normal as possible. “She’ll require her e-mail and phone to be monitored also.”

  Hawke doesn’t say anything, silence following my rambling.

  Five thousand dollars must not be enough. I chew on the inside of my cheek, my bank account balance near zero. “Does the Organization take credit cards?”

  “You’d use all of your savings and put yourself in debt to protect your little friend?” Hawke asks, the annoying background noise making his words difficult to hear.

  “Of course.” I shake my head, wondering why this would surprise him. Cyndi is my best friend. I’ll do anything to protect her.

  I’ll do anything. “If I moved now, would a stalker follow me and leave her alone? Or would he fixate on Cyndi, putting her in more danger?”

  “Do not move,” Hawke yells. “Don’t do anything until I get there. My team—” The noise increases even more.

  “I can’t hear you,” I shout into the phone, frustrated and anxious, needing my former marine’s expertise and reassurance. “Walk away from the giant fan.”

  The sound dampens. “I’m in a helicopter,” Hawke explains. “We’ll handle this, Belinda. Together.” His tone holds a comforting certainty.

  Because Hawke is a professional, I remind myself. He took care of Lona’s stalker, and he’ll take care of mine.

  My concerns vanish, my pent-up energy remaining. “What can I do?” I wiggle, grinding my ass into the couch cushion, needing to take action now. “Give me a task, something, anything.”

  “Grant me access to your condo.”

  “You can have total access.” I would do anything to keep Cyndi safe, and I trust Hawke with my life, with her life. “Should I talk to security?”

  “I am security,” he reminds me.

  “Right.” I’m losing my mind. “What else should I do?”

  “Clean your condo,” Hawke commands. “Eliminate any trace of the visitors you might have had this morning.”

  I’m being hounded by sex-crazed businessmen, possibly targeted by a stalker or two or three, and he’s worried about his rival. I roll my eyes. “How does erasing any indications of Nicolas’s presence protect Cyndi?”

  “It’ll allow me to concentrate.” Hawke’s voice lilts with humor. “And it will make you feel better.”

  He’s right. Cleaning does make me feel better. I ignore the constantly shedding flowers and stomp into my bedroom. “Nicolas kissed me and I kissed him back,” my inner bitch shares.

  Hawke’s rumble of discontentment crawls up my spine, the possessive noise reassuring me. Nicolas might abandon me, but my military man won’t.

  “Did you think of me while you were kissing him?” Hawke demands.

  I hesitate for a telling moment. “No.” I pull the sheets off the bed, the fabric smelling of Nicolas’s expensive cologne.

  Hawke barks with laughter. “You’re a terrible liar, love.”

  I press my lips together, unable to refute his comment. I had been thinking of him when I kissed Nicolas.

  “I’m thinking about you too.” Hawke’s gruff words warm my heart. “I expect gleaming floors when I arrive.” The line falls silent.

  My floors are always gleaming. I scowl as I carry the sheets to the washing machine. Today, they’ll fucking shine.

  Chapter Three

  I CLEAN TH
E condo from top to bottom, make the bed, and clean again because the damn flowers are dropping petals all over the place. Cyndi will love the bouquets, and that’s the only reason I’m keeping them. They’re a rodent-attracting nightmare. I call Lona’s clients every nasty name I know, saving my best curses for her stalker.

  The text messages continue, a never-ending flow of unnerving communications. My calls are forwarded, my phone eerily silent.

  My situation could be worse. None of the men can enter the building complex, and all of the deliveries are screened by security. My mom was never as protected as I am now. Hawke is right. My mom is a strong lady.

  I glance at my phone’s screen. It’s early in the day. Her shift at the diner doesn’t start for another two hours. I press her number and it rings four times.

  “What’s wrong, honeybee?” she answers, expecting the worse. There have been too many nasty surprises in my mom’s past for her to anticipate anything else.

  “There’s nothing wrong,” I lie, not wishing to add to my mom’s problems. “But you might hear some crazy rumors about me. Don’t believe any of them. They’re not true.”

  “I stopped listening to gossip when I was three months pregnant with you.” My mom sighs. Her shift hasn’t begun and she already sounds exhausted. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted to leave all of the gossip behind you and start fresh, pretending you had normal parents, parents who loved each other, who married and planned to have you.”

  Oh God. She realized what I was trying to do. I wiggle, uncomfortable, unable to remain still. I never intended to hurt her. She’s my mom, the only person who has ever loved me.

  “This is new gossip,” I assure her.

  “There’s always new gossip, putting a different slant on the same ol’ history.” She misinterprets my reply. “You’re my daughter. Someone will uncover our connection, tell others, and the talk will follow you. It will never end, you’ll never have a normal life, and it’s all my fault.” Her voice wobbles, and I feel like shit. I caused my hardworking mom pain, made her feel less than unworthy.

  “I’m so sorry, honeybee,” she apologizes yet again.

  “I’m not sorry to be your daughter.” As I say these words, I realize they’re the truth. A month ago, I might have wished I’d been born into a traditional family, but that wouldn’t have given me the skills, the backbone of steel, I need to manage my latest disaster.

  “I’m proud that you’re my mom,” I continue, wishing to tell her this, something I should have shared with her years ago. “You raised me on your own, sacrificing everything for me, teaching me that I can survive any situation. I need that now.”

  I take a deep breath, count to five, and release it. “Because this situation has nothing to do with you, Mom. I made this mistake, caused these rumors by having lunch with someone I shouldn’t have befriended.”

  There’s a long pause. I nibble on the inside of my cheek, wishing she’d say something, anything.

  “I taught you that also,” my mom states quietly. “You judged your friend based on actions, not on gossip, didn’t you? Was this friend kind to you?”

  I remember how Lona dried my tears after I lost my job. “She was very kind to me.”

  “Then having lunch with her wasn’t a mistake.” My mom’s voice warms with pride, and my spine straightens. “Let people talk. You know what you did was right, and that’s the important part.”

  The tension in my shoulders eases, a small part of me needing her approval, valuing the opinion of the wild woman of Happydale. “Don’t work too hard today, Mom.” I end the call.

  The lonely men continue to text me. Jacob arrives with another trolley filled with flowers and packages. There are no more containers for the blooms. I toss the bouquets into the trash and then gaze at the pile of boxes with dread, not wanting to open them.

  The doorbell rings mere seconds later. “Aargh.” I stalk across the main room, unable to handle more deliveries. “Make it stop.” I swing the door open, aggravated.

  “I’ll make it stop, sweetheart.” Hawke stands before me, clad in his ugly black T-shirt, his faded blue jeans, and big army boots, his tanned skin covered with a sheen of moisture as though he ran the entire way. He’s big and broad, a mountain of a man, and there’s no one I trust more with righting my world.

  “Hawke.” I throw myself at him, my heart pounding.

  He catches my smaller body, cups my ass, and lifts me upward, pressing me against his solid form, the barbed wire tattoo encircling his right bicep rippling.

  “I’m here.” Hawke walks into the condo, carrying me easily, and I link my fingers behind his neck, never wanting to let him go. “Everything will be okay,” he assures me as he kicks the door shut behind him.

  “I don’t know how anything will ever be okay again,” I mumble into his neck, inhaling his unique scent, a combination of engine grease, leather, and man. “I’ve put my best friend in danger.” I gaze up at his rugged countenance, the silver scar on his chin a reminder of his difficult life. “I—”

  Hawke covers my lips with his, the force of his kiss driving my head back, evaporating my thoughts and tightening my nipples. I open to him, welcoming my badass biker into my mouth, our tongues dueling, dancing, drawing us together, meshing us into one being.

  My fingers spread over his skull, his hair short and soft under my palms. Hawke’s chest flattens my breasts. His defined abs undulate against my fabric-covered pussy, the pressure exciting me. He strokes into me, the stubble on his chin blazing a trail across my skin, and I respond with no inhibitions, sucking on his tongue as I wish to suck on his cock, tasting him, savoring him.

  There’s no fear of Hawke judging me, rejecting me. He embraces my wild nature, encourages my perversions. With him, I’m safe, accepted, worthy.

  He falls backward, his ass smacks against the leather couch cushion, and I bounce on top of him, the contact driving my arousal upward. His massive hands slide up my back, the friction delightful. I arch, rubbing my taut nipples against him, frustrated by the layers of clothing between us.

  He breaks our kiss and rests his forehead against mine, the tips of our noses touching, both of us breathing heavily. “Who are you thinking about, love?”

  “What?” I blink at him, my brain fuzzy with passion.

  Hawke smiles his lopsided smile, his white teeth flashing in his tanned face. “Exactly.” He nips my bottom lip. “When we kiss, you don’t think about anyone else.”

  “I don’t think about anything when you touch me,” I admit, staring into his brilliant blue eyes, his irises brightened with raw savage lust. “You make me crazy.” Nicolas disapproved of my lack of restraint. Hawke relishes it.

  “You lose control with me.” His voice is filled with pride. “Only with me.” He threads his thick fingers through my hair, his touch gentle, reverent, almost loving. “I won’t allow anything bad to happen to you or to the people you care about, Belinda.”

  “The men know my phone number, where I live.” I tug on his T-shirt, slip my hands underneath the soft cotton, caress warm skin stretched tight over hard muscle, and his shoulders shudder, his response gratifyingly intense.

  “Dawg is handling the deliveries to the condo, tracking down the senders and explaining about the misunderstanding.” Hawke pulls his T-shirt over his head, tosses it on the end of the couch, revealing tanned skin, silver scars, and black ink. “The packages will be returned. Do you want the flowers?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “They’ll make Cyndi happy but they’ll be wilted within the week.” I glide my fingertips over the wings tattooed over his collarbone, tracing each finely crafted feather.

  “And the wine will be consumed.” His eyes glitter like priceless gemstones. “I heard the son sent you both. He doesn’t realize you don’t form temporary relationships with people or fashion or things.”

  “We’re temporary, aren’t we?” There’s no future for me in Chicago. I’ll always be branded a whore by someone. Once Cyndi is safe, I’l
l leave the city, leave Hawke as Nicolas will leave me. I follow my fingers with my tongue, licking the salt off my big biker’s skin, and he trembles, his tremendous strength no match for my desire.

  “Are we temporary?” Hawke asks, his voice deepening. “Do you indulge in short-term flings, sweetheart?”

  “Sometimes I don’t have a choice.” I press my lips to the sun tattooed in the middle of his chest and suck, pulling a groan from his throat.

  “There’s always a choice.” Hawke shifts under me, the ridge in his jeans pressing against my mons. “I’ll call Ellen.” He fumbles with the high-tech military phone clipped to his belt, my normally adept man’s clumsiness revealing his growing desire. “She’ll screen the incoming calls to you and your roommate.”

  Incoming. Shit. “Cyndi is flying home today.”

  “One of my men will shadow her from the airport.” He’s thought of this also. “There’s no need to relay the flight information. Your overly trusting friend posted it online.”

  This doesn’t surprise me. Cyndi posts everything online.

  “What can I do?” I nip at the thick scar slashing through his right nipple and he jerks, his muscles moving against my palms.

  “Touch me,” Hawke rumbles, holding my head to his chest. “Reassure me that you’re mine, Belinda. Strangers are lusting after you and friends want you for themselves. I want to hurt them, kill them, and that would make matters worse.” I hear the torment in his voice, the jealousy, the rage. “Show me that you belong to me.”

  “I’m yours.” This should be a lie, yet it feels too much like the truth for my comfort. I skim the tip of my tongue over the letters inked on his left pec, a lasting reminder of his marine training.

  “Only yours.” I suck on his collarbone. There’s no guilt, no torn loyalties. My relationship with Nicolas is over. There’s only Hawke and the need building inside me.

  I explore his massive form with my mouth and hands, dipping my tongue into every valley, swirling my fingertips over every swell of muscle, memorizing every scar, every mark. His primitive strength captivates me, as timeless as nature itself.