Sinful Rewards 6

by Cynthia Sax

  Nicolas doesn’t answer my question, my billionaire going silent.

  I tighten my grip on my phone. “Nicolas, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  “I’ve drafted a plan to fix this,” he finally says. “When I see you in forty minutes, I’ll share it with you.”

  Nicolas wants to see me. He has a plan to stop the gossip, to make our relationship work. I stare at him, the pane of glass and three floors separating us. That’s what I should want also—to make our relationship work. The resistance I’m feeling is due to confusion. I thought he’d walked away from me. I’d accepted it.

  But he hadn’t abandoned me. That’s significant, isn’t it? “Cyndi is here.” She hasn’t abandoned me either, not yet.

  “Then you’ll meet me,” Nicolas amends, his tone allowing no refusal. “I’ll give you access to the penthouse floor. Wait for me there.”

  I blink, my thoughts spinning. Nicolas never allows anyone into his penthouse.

  “I’ll ask my driver to buy some Heavenly Hash ice cream for you.” My normally serious billionaire sounds almost chipper. “That will make us both feel better.”

  “You’ll ask Isaac to buy ice cream,” I correct him. He never calls his driver by his name, and this bothers me.

  “I will,” Nicolas vows. “I’ll see you in—”

  “Shit,” Cyndi screams. Glass shatters and a bone-deep terror grips me. My best friend is in trouble.

  “I have to go.” I end the call and run across the room, blasting through the bedroom door. Cyndi is sprawled on the hardwood floor, alone, tears running down her cheeks. Emotionally, she’s a wreck. Physically, she appears unharmed, and the tension in my shoulders eases.

  A brown cardboard box is set beside my sobbing best friend, the font on the plain white label familiar. Friendly has sent me another reward. Nicolas truly has forgiven me.

  “It wasn’t Cole.” I state the obvious as I sit beside Cyndi on the floor. Red wine drips down the far wall, staining the white paint, the mess making my fingers twitch.

  Cyndi continues to cry, the sound tearing at my soul.

  “It was Jacob with our morning deliveries.” I ignore my urge to clean, hugging my distraught best friend close to me.

  “It was Jacob with your morning deliveries,” she mumbles into my shoulder. “I wasn’t sent anything because no one loves me.”

  “I love you.” I rest my head against hers. “But that’s not saying much, as everyone in Chicago thinks I sell my love for a few bucks.”

  “You’re a dirty whore.” She hiccups, her unhappiness weighing on me.

  “Yes, I’m a dirty whore.” If it makes her feel better, I’ll allow her to call me names. “We’ll get through this, you and I.” I pet her golden curls, the tendrils sinfully soft.

  “Is Rainer the man you love?” Her voice is small. “I heard you talking to him.”

  “I should love Nicolas.” My lips flatten. “No, I will love Nicolas,” I say louder, trying to convince myself. “He has a plan to stop the gossip, and his plans always work. That’s how he became so successful.”

  Everything will return to normal. I look toward the window, toward Hawke. That’s what I want . . . isn’t it?

  “Rainer’s a prig.” Cyndi sniffs. “And he hates me. He’ll make you hate me too, and then I’ll be alone.” Her shoulders shake. “I can’t stand to be alone.”

  “You won’t be alone,” I assure her. Cyndi is being paranoid again. “You’re my friend, and Nicolas has learned to value friendship.”

  “I threw your bottle of wine against the wall. What type of friend does that?”

  “A friend who loves me and is looking out for me.” I bump against her. “I’m a lightweight. I don’t need more wine.”

  “You could fall in love with the Frenchman instead of Rainer,” she suggests, her voice flat. “He might like me.”

  “Francois would adore you, but Nicolas is the man I’m determined to love.” I pull the box toward us. “I’m almost certain he’s Reward Man.” I wait for Cyndi to wrestle it out of my grip. She doesn’t move. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  She shrugs, her apathy worrying me.

  “If you won’t open it, I will.” I tear at the flaps, peer inside, and gasp, unable to believe my eyes. “Cyndi.”

  Something in my voice stirs her from her Cole-induced coma. Cyndi hangs over the edge of the box and her eyes widen. “It’s from Hermès,” she verifies, sounding as excited as I feel. “It must be a scarf.”

  God, I’ve missed her. I blink back tears. Only she shares my joy over these rewards. Hawke expressed enthusiasm when I showed him the clothes Lona sent me. But he was more fascinated by my responses than by the outfits, his gaze lingering on my face. Nicolas doesn’t have the time or the interest to talk about clothes.

  Cyndi, my best friend in the entire world, understands why receiving a scarf from Hermès is a big deal. My fingers shake as I remove the lid of the distinctive orange box. Dark gray, clay, and pink powder twill silk is folded to fit the space perfectly, the delicate design featuring scrolling leaves, ribbons, and exquisite arabesques. It’s a work of art, the height of luxury, and it now belongs to me.

  “Can I touch it?” Cyndi’s hands hover over the box.

  Touching the handcrafted scarf might damage the silk, and part of me screams “No, it’s mine,” but this voice isn’t as loud as it has been in the past. Cyndi, my best friend, is hurting. She’s been rocked by heartache and disappointment. I can’t add to her emotional turmoil.

  I blow out my breath. “Okay.”

  “Yes.” She reaches inside the box and strokes the silk. I spot a streak of black grime on her right thumb and cringe, biting my lip to prevent a protest from escaping. “This scarf is beautiful, Bee.” Her eyes glow.

  Cyndi tumbles the rolled edges over her dirty skin, and I close my fingers around the dog tags hanging between my breasts, seeking reassurance that I’m doing the right thing.

  The oval pieces of metal belonged to Rock, Hawke’s friend, someone my big military man would give a thousand Hermès scarves to spend time with.

  Cyndi’s friendship is as valuable to me. I can do this. I can allow her to mangle my gorgeous gift.

  “It’ll look great with my hair and skin tone.” She removes the scarf from the box. The fabric floats in the air, rippling like a watercolor in the rain, and my anxiety spirals higher. “Can I try it on?”

  She smells like a club night, a combination of smoke and alcohol. That scent might transfer to the silk. “Ummm . . .”

  “Please.” Cyndi tilts her head and raises her eyebrows.

  Oh shit. She’s giving me the puppy dog eyes. “Okay,” I mutter through clenched teeth. Doing the right thing is absolute agony.

  Cyndi squeals and loops the scarf around her neck. She’s right. It does look good on her, but then, a Hermès scarf would look good on any woman. She knots it tightly, too tightly, tugging on the ends, and I clench the dog tags harder.

  “Be gentle,” I urge, my palms moistening.

  “Can I wear it to work today?” Cyndi’s eyes sparkle.

  She wants to wear my beautiful scarf to her family’s candy manufacturing plant. My spine straightens. She’ll expose it to chemicals, fragrances, and dirt. “Cyndi, I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”

  “I’ll be careful around the coloring tables, as careful as I can be,” she presses. “The dyes sometimes spray upward, coating everything and everyone around them but—”

  “No!” The refusal bursts from my lips. “You’re not wearing my scarf to work.” I reach toward her, anxious to remove the accessory.

  She laughs. “There’s my Bee.” Cyndi throws herself at me, hugging me with all her strength, squeezing the air out of my lungs. “You scared me. I thought you’d been possessed by some easygoing whore.”

  She was teasing me. My lips twitch. “You’re an idiot.”

  “But you love me.” Cyndi grins.

  I unknot the scarf, slippin
g the silk from around her neck. “But I love you.” I fold the fabric carefully and place it in the box.

  “Sorry about the wine.” Cyndi dips her head toward the puddle of red liquid on the hardwood. “I went a little nuts.”

  “I understand.” I nod, feeling my friend’s pain. Tattooed bad boys can make even the most rational woman crazy, tempting her to forget her plans, forget everything except him. “Get ready for work and I’ll clean up the mess.”

  Cleaning will allow me to handle this situation. I rush toward the kitchen alcove, preparing to scrub the wine stain off the wall and sweep up the broken glass, determined to put the condo and my life in order.

  My life isn’t a complete disaster. I have a Hermès scarf, Louboutin heels, a limited-edition Salvatore Ferragamo purse. My best friend didn’t abandon me, my handsome billionaire has a plan to restore my reputation, and my tattooed badass military man would kill to keep me safe.

  A job, a permanent home, security, and love will come.

  Want to know what happens next for Bee, Nicolas, and Hawke?

  SINFUL REWARDS 7 is available January 20th.

  About the Author

  CYNTHIA SAX lives in a world filled with magic and romance. Although her heroes may not always say “I love you,” they will do anything for the women they adore. They live passionately. They play hard. They love the same women forever.

  Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world together, meeting fascinating people and finding inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.

  Please visit her on the web at www.CynthiaSax.com.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Cynthia Sax

  Sinful Rewards 5

  Sinful Rewards 4

  Sinful Rewards 3

  Sinful Rewards 2

  Sinful Rewards 1

  Breaking all the Rules

  Flashes of Me

  The Seen Trilogy

  He Claims Me

  He Touches Me

  He Watches Me

  Give in to your impulses . . .

  Read on for a sneak peek at six brand-new

  e-book original tales of romance from Avon Impulse.

  Available now wherever e-books are sold.

  AN HEIRESS FOR ALL SEASONS

  A DEBUTANTE FILES CHRISTMAS NOVELLA

  By Sophie Jordan

  INTRUSION

  AN UNDER THE SKIN NOVEL

  By Charlotte Stein

  CAN’T WAIT

  A CHRISTMAS NOVELLA

  By Jennifer Ryan

  THE LAWS OF SEDUCTION

  A FRENCH KISS NOVEL

  By Gwen Jones

  SINFUL REWARDS 1

  A BILLIONAIRES AND BIKERS NOVELLA

  By Cynthia Sax

  SWEET COWBOY CHRISTMAS

  A SWEET, TEXAS NOVELLA

  By Candis Terry

  An Excerpt from

  AN HEIRESS FOR ALL SEASONS

  A Debutante Files Christmas Novella

  by Sophie Jordan

  Feisty American heiress Violet Howard swears she’ll never wed a crusty British aristocrat. Will, the Earl of Moreton, is determined to salvage his family’s fortune without succumbing to a marriage of convenience. But when a snowstorm strands Violet and Will together, their sudden chemistry will challenge good intentions. They’re seized by a desire that burns through the night, but will their passion survive the storm? Will they realize they’ve found a love to last them through all seasons?

  His eyes flashed, appearing darker in that moment, the blue as deep and stormy as the waters she had crossed to arrive in this country. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a guest here.” She motioned in the direction of the house. “My name is V—”

  “Are you indeed?” His expression altered then, sliding over her with something bordering belligerence. “No one mentioned that you were an American.”

  Before she could process that statement—or why he should be told of anything—she felt a hot puff of breath on her neck.

  The insolent man released a shout and lunged. Hard hands grabbed her shoulders. She resisted, struggling and twisting until they both lost their balance.

  Then they were falling. She registered this with a sick sense of dread. He grunted, turning slightly so that he took the brunt of the fall. They landed with her body sprawled over his.

  Her nose was practically buried in his chest. A pleasant smelling chest. She inhaled leather and horseflesh and the warm saltiness of male skin.

  He released a small moan of pain. She lifted her face to observe his grimace and felt a stab of worry. Absolutely misplaced considering this situation was his fault, but there it was nonetheless. “Are you hurt?”

  “Crippled. But alive.”

  Scowling, she tried to clamber off him, but his hands shot up and seized her arms, holding fast.

  “Unhand me! Serves you right if you are hurt. Why did you accost me?”

  “Devil was about to take a chunk from that lovely neck of yours.”

  Lovely? He thinks she is lovely? Or rather her neck is lovely? This bold specimen of a man in front of her, who looks as though he has stepped from the pages of a Radcliffe novel, thinks that plain, in-between Violet is lovely.

  She shook off the distracting thought. Virile stable hands like him did not look twice at females like her. No. Scholarly bookish types with kind eyes and soft smiles looked at her. Men such as Mr. Weston who saw beyond a woman’s face and other physical attributes.

  “I am certain you overreacted.”

  He snorted.

  She arched, jerking away from him, but still he did not budge. His hands tightened around her. She glared down at him, feeling utterly discombobulated. There was so much of him—all hard male and it was pressed against her in a way that was entirely inappropriate and did strange, fluttery things to her stomach. “Are you planning to let me up any time soon?”

  His gaze crawled over her face. “Perhaps I’ll stay like this forever. I rather like the feel of you on top of me.”

  She gasped.

  He grinned then and that smile stole her breath and made all her intimate parts heat and loosen to the consistency of pudding. His teeth were blinding white and straight set against features that were young and strong and much too handsome. And there were his eyes. So bright a blue their brilliance was no less powerful in the dimness of the stables.

  Was this how girls lost their virtue? She’d heard the stories and always thought them weak and addle-headed creatures. How did a sensible female of good family cast aside all sense and thought to propriety?

  His voice rumbled out from his chest, vibrating against her own body, shooting sensation along every nerve, driving home the realization that she wore nothing beyond her cloak and night rail. No corset. No chemise. Her breasts rose on a deep inhale. They felt tight and aching. Her skin felt like it was suddenly stretched too thin over her bones. “You are not precisely what I expected.”

  His words sank in, penetrating through the fog swirling around her mind. Why would he expect anything from her? He did not know her.

  His gaze traveled her face and she felt it like a touch—a caress. “I shall have to pay closer attention to my mother when she says she’s found someone for me to wed.”

  Violet’s gaze shot up from the mesmerizing movement of his lips to his eyes. “Your mother?”

  He nodded. “Indeed. Lady Merlton.”

  “Are you . . .” she choked on halting words. He couldn’t be. “You’re the—”

  “The Earl of Merlton,” he finished, that smile back again, wrapping around the words as though he was supremely amused. As though she were the butt of some grand jest. He was the Earl of Merlton, and she was the heiress brought here to tempt him.

  A jest indeed. It was laughable. Especially considering the way he looked. Temptation incarnate. She was not th
e sort of female to tempt a man like him. At least not without a dowry, and that’s what her mother was relying upon.

  “And you’re the heiress I’ve been avoiding,” he finished.

  If the earth opened up to swallow her in that moment, she would have gladly surrendered to its depths.

  An Excerpt from

  INTRUSION

  An Under the Skin Novel

  by Charlotte Stein

  I believed I would never be able to trust any man again. I thought so with every fiber of my being—and then I met Noah Gideon Grant. Everyone says he’s dangerous. But the thing is . . . I think something happened to him too. I know the chemistry between us isn’t just in my head. I know he feels it, but he’s holding back. He’s made a labyrinth of himself. Now all I need to do is dare to find my way through.

  An Avon Red Novel

  He said no sexual contact, and a handshake apparently counts. I should respect that—I do respect that, I swear. I can respect it, no matter how much my heart sinks or my eyes sting at a rejection that isn’t a rejection at all.

  I can do without. I’m sure I can do without, all the way up to the point where he says words that make my heart soar up, up toward the sun that shines right out of him.

  “Kissing is perfectly okay with me,” he murmurs, and then, oh, God, then he takes my face in his two good hands, roughened by all the patient and careful fixing he does and so tender I could cry, and starts to lean down to me. Slowly at first, and in these hesitant bursts that nearly make my heart explode, before finally, Lord; finally, yes, finally.

  He closes that gap between us.

  His lips press to mine, so soft I can barely feel them. Yet somehow, I feel them everywhere. That closemouthed bit of pressure tingles outward from that one place, all the way down to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my toes. I think my hair stands on end, and when he pulls away it doesn’t go back down again.

  No part of me will ever go back down again. I feel dazed in the aftermath, cast adrift on a sensation that shouldn’t have happened. For a long moment I can only stand there in stunned silence, sort of afraid to open my eyes in case the spell is broken.