by Cynthia Sax
“I returned a lost phone.” I slide closer to the door, seeking to put more distance between us. “I don’t need a reward.”
“But you want a reward.” Nicolas’s eyes gleam. “A new purse, perhaps?” He waves his long, slender fingers at my purse. “I can give you that.” His gaze drops. “Or would you like new shoes?”
I frown down at my feet. What’s wrong with my shoes?
“Perhaps you’d prefer to have use of my limo and driver,” Nicolas continues, his voice cold and businesslike. “I’m wealthy, Miss Carter. What do you want?”
If he offered me a reward with genuine gratitude, I might allow him to buy me a new purse, but he isn’t happy about making this offer.
“Okay, I’ll tell you what I want.” I cross my arms in front of me, fed up with his bullshit. “The next time someone does something nice for you, I want you to say thank you.”
Nicolas blinks, his eyelashes obscenely thick and long. “Is that all?” His voice is edged with irony.
“No, that isn’t all.” My rage boils over, fed by guilt and disappointment and betrayal. I gave him my loyalty. He should deserve it. Damn it. “Introduce yourself when you call that someone. Ask her when it is convenient to meet with you.”
Nicolas’s eyes widen. He’s shocked I’m talking to him this way. Well, he should brace himself. I’m not done with him yet.
“Don’t make her wait on a street corner as though she’s a two-bit hooker. Pick her up at her workplace.” I glare at him, wondering how I ever found him attractive.
Nicolas smiles and the mystery is solved. The man is drop-dead gorgeous. “I was kind of a jerk, wasn’t I?” he admits sheepishly.
“No, you weren’t kind of a jerk.” I won’t let him off that easily. “You were a complete asshole.”
Nicolas stares at me. I meet his gaze squarely, not hiding any of my irritation. His lips twitch. Is he laughing at me? I narrow my eyes even more, and his shoulders shake. My fists clench, the temptation to jab him in the eyeballs compounding by the second.
Nicolas throws his head back and barks with laughter, breaking our silent standoff. “He’s right.” His eyes sparkle with mirth. “You’re priceless.”
I don’t know who he is, and I don’t ask. I doubt I’ll like the answer.
Now that Nicolas is no longer in such a pissy mood, his good looks improve even more, the skin around his eyes crinkling, his lips curling upward. “Let’s try this again.” He leans forward and I breathe deeply, filling my nostrils with his expensive cologne. “Hello. I’m Nicolas Rainer.” He holds out his hand.
I glide my palm against his, and his fingers wrap around mine. His grip is solid and sure, an embrace a woman can rely on. This, at least, is as I expected.
“Thank you for retrieving my phone,” he murmurs. “I appreciate it.”
“I would have done that for anyone, Mr. Rainer.” I eye him warily, not trusting his sudden amiability. “Clearly,” I mutter under my breath.
His eyes glow. He heard me. “Call me Nicolas, please.” He releases my hand. “I’m . . .” He shifts in his seat, appearing uncomfortable. “I’m not accustomed to people doing nice things for me without wanting something in return.”
This heartbreaking confession deflates all of my anger and bolsters my battered opinion of him. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Red streaks across his cheeks. “It doesn’t excuse my actions.” Nicolas meets my gaze, holding it. “I’m sorry.” Sincerity reflects in his eyes. “If I ever act like that again, tell me.” I open my mouth. “In private,” he adds. “In public, we should act more dignified.”
By we, he means me. “I don’t normally use profanities,” I lie. I’ve worked my damnedest to curb the cuss words from my speech. Nothing can purge them from my brain. “And I will tell you. You can count on that.”
“Good. I will.” Some of the stress lines ease from Nicolas’s face.
I caused him that stress, because he didn’t know me, didn’t trust me. My billionaire thought I was trying to take advantage of him. He doesn’t yet realize that I consider him mine, that I’d never hurt him.
“Can I call you Bee, or do you prefer Belinda?” Nicolas asks.
He cares about my preferences. He must care about me. My chest expands, filled with hope and optimism. “My friends call me Bee.”
“That’s what I’d like to be—your friend,” he shares.
Nicolas Rainer, successful real estate developer and one of the most sought-after bachelors in Chicago, wants to be my friend. This concept blows my mind.
“I don’t have very many close friends.” He stretches his arms along the back of the seat, visibly growing more comfortable with me. “You’re friends with your roommate, Harry Wynters’s girl.”
“Cyndi,” I supply, suspecting Nicolas knows her name.
“Yes, Cyndi Wynters.” He plays with his cuffs, appearing almost bored with the conversation. “The two of you have very little in common. She’s a constantly partying, man-crazy daughter of a multimillionaire. You’re a good girl, a hard worker—”
“And the daughter of a waitress,” I finish the sentence for him. If Nicolas had me thoroughly investigated, as he claims, he’ll know about my mom. “Cyndi and I were roommates in college. Her father wanted her to live with a normal student during her first year. I’m about as normal as a girl gets. We clicked and have lived together since then.”
“You must have the patience of a saint.” Nicolas shakes his head. “She’s a handful.”
I hear the disapproval in his voice and straighten. “She’s fun and kind and has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. She doesn’t judge me like some people do.” I gaze pointedly at him. His lips lift, my accusation amusing him. “I’m lucky to have her as my friend.”
Nicolas nods as though I’ve confirmed something he suspected. “He said you were loyal.”
I frown. “Who is he?” Nicolas says nothing. “Who said I was loyal?” I clarify. He doesn’t answer this question either. “The investigator made that observation, didn’t he?” Nicolas hesitates for a heartbeat and then inclines his head. “Why did you have me investigated?”
“I have everyone living in my buildings investigated.” Nicolas plucks at his shirt. “I don’t leave anything to chance.”
He’s careful, as am I. “Maybe I should investigate you.” I hurl this challenge at him, expecting it to be rejected.
“Maybe you should.” Nicolas’s jaw juts. He’s handsome and I want him.
Not with a raging-wildfire lust as I experienced with the tattooed stranger. This isn’t the scary type of passion that might cause an otherwise rational woman to throw her life away on a reckless one-night stand, leaving her pregnant and alone.
No, what I feel for Nicolas is a low-burning, lasting type of yearning, an ember of desire we can carefully coax into an eternal flame, binding us together forever. It’s soothing and controllable and right, exactly what I should want, what I should need.
“If I investigated you, what would I find?” I ask my billionaire, eager to learn more about him.
Both of Nicolas’s fine black eyebrows lift. “Why would I tell you my secrets?”
“You said you wanted to be my friend.” I mimic his incredulous expression. “Friends share secrets.” Not all secrets. Cyndi doesn’t know about my sexual perversions or about my mom’s financial situation.
“Ask your roommate about my secrets.” Nicolas gazes at me, his forehead furrowed with thought lines, as though he can’t quite figure me out. “Her dear father has uncovered all of the dirt on me.”
“Is there dirt?” No one in his building dares to talk badly about him. There are rumors floating around the Internet, but there are also articles on alien abductions and two-headed dragons. I don’t trust everything I read.
“There are buckets of dirt.” Nicolas’s lips quirk upward. “Some women think I’m a complete asshole.”
I laugh. “Some women have been given a good
reason to think that.”
“True.” Nicolas’s grin spreads, his good looks making my head spin. He’s gorgeous, wealthy, and smiling at me, Belinda Carter, daughter of a waitress and some badass biker who hit the highway as soon as he found out about me.
I’ll convince Nicolas that I’m not like my mom, that I’m a good girl, worthy of a commitment. We’ll take our relationship slowly, not rushing the sex. When we finally decide to get naked, I’ll act as innocent, as pure as I can, even dressing the part, wearing the boring white cotton undies Nicolas expects.
I’m patient. Eventually, he’ll desire a more seductive, more sophisticated look. I’ll demur at first, when he gives me that wine-red satin slip from La Perla, the one with the slit over the left thigh and black fretwork lace inserts. He’ll ask me to wear my hair up, twisted loosely at my nape. My slippers will—
“What are you thinking about?”
I blink at Nicolas. “I forgot you were there.” Then I realize what I’ve said, and I slap my hands over my mouth. “I mean—”
“You meant exactly what you said.” Nicolas laughs. “You’re . . .” He hesitates, clearly not knowing what I am. “Refreshing, and I’d like to do this again tomorrow, without the misunderstandings.”
“I’d like that also.” He wants to see me again. I wiggle in my seat. He knows that I’m perfect for him, even if this knowing is buried deep in his subconscious.
The vibrations under my ass cease, and I glance out the window. “We’re here.” We’ve arrived at the condo’s front entrance.
“We’re here.” Nicolas’s dark eyes sparkle. “Tomorrow, I’ll pick you up at your office. I won’t make you wait on the street corner as though you’re a two-bit hooker.” He repeats my words, and my face heats. “I can’t guarantee there won’t be any asshole moments though. That seems to be my default setting.”
I grin, enjoying his playfulness. “I consider myself warned.”
“You should be warned.” Nicolas’s smile fades. “I’m not as loyal or as nice as you are, Bee.” Deep grooves form around his lips. This troubles him. “When I see something, someone I want, I’ll do anything, even destroy long-lasting friendships, to stake my claim.”
I stare at him, confused. Which friendship is he destroying? My friendship with Cyndi? “Why are you telling me this? What do you want?”
Nicolas searches my face, and an uncomfortable silence stretches. I won’t allow him to destroy my relationship with Cyndi. She’s been my best friend for years.
“I haven’t yet decided what I want,” Nicolas finally admits.
He raps his knuckles against the window, and the door opens. A smartly uniformed driver stands beside the vehicle, a cap on his gray hair, his face carefully blank. Nicolas doesn’t move.
“You’re not returning to the condo?” I ask.
“No, I’m not.” He slips one of his hands into his suit jacket, removes his phone, and gives the small screen all of his attention, saying nothing more. His lips flatten and his head bows. Lines appear between his eyebrows.
Physically, he remains in the car, his right foot positioned inches away from my right. Mentally, he has walked away from me, leaving me sitting here.
Alone. Again.
My shoulders slump. I swing my legs to the left and take the driver’s hand, allowing him to help me from the vehicle.
The older man smiles at me.
I smile back. He notices me. “Thank you, Mr. . . .”
“I’m plain ol’ Isaac, miss. Not a mister.” The driver taps his cap with his fingers.
“Isaac,” I repeat, memorizing his name, this habit picked up from helping my mom at the diner. Knowing a customer’s name is often the difference between a great tip and an average tip.
Isaac closes the door and returns to the driver’s seat. Nicolas doesn’t roll down the window, doesn’t say good-bye. I stand on the sidewalk and watch as the limo is sucked into the constant stream of traffic. Does he realize I’m gone? I scowl.
“Do you want me to have him killed?” a man rumbles.
I squeak, startled, and I pivot on my high heels. A man in a black leather jacket and faded blue jeans sits on the shiniest, prettiest motorcycle I’ve ever seen. Silver talons grab the metal axles. Finely drawn birds decorate the blue gas tank.
“Sorry. I didn’t see you there,” I mumble, embarrassed. Although his tattoos are covered, I recognize his square chin, the stubble on his tanned cheeks, the broadness of his shoulders, the strength in his powerful body. It’s the tattooed man from three eleven north, the hunk I saw naked this morning.
“I’m surprised you didn’t see me, sweetheart. I’m easy to spot.” He flashes me an adorably lopsided smile and my heart skips a beat. Up close, he appears even bigger than he was this morning, the man built solid, like the side of a mountain.
A fit, sexy mountain. I allow my gaze to linger on his impressive physique. The body parts I can’t see, my mind remembers, my pussy moistening and my knees weakening. I want him. Desperately. I clutch my purse, holding on to my self-control with everything I have.
The strap snaps. The purse drops to the sidewalk, the contents spilling. I watch, mortified, as a gold tube of lipstick rolls toward the tattooed hunk. He nudges the sidestand into place, stretches out his right leg, and stops the lipstick’s escape with one big black boot.
“You’re a hot mess, aren’t you?” He bends over and retrieves the wayward tube.
“I’m not normally a mess.” I stuff my brush, wallet, passcard, and, oh my God, my emergency tampon back into my purse. My hands tremble. “The strap broke and—”
“You have black ink all over your pretty white shirt.” He skims the unopened tube of lipstick down my cotton-covered side, leaving a trail of sweet sensation. My nipples tighten and my spine arches, my body instinctually responding to his touch.
“Give me that.” I snatch the lipstick from him, unnerved by my reaction, and I glance down at my blouse. “Oh, God.” Black ink is smudged over the fabric. “You’re right.” My heart sinks. Has it been there all day? Since I doctored my purse this morning? Nicolas, my boss, everyone must have seen it, and no one said anything, no one except my badass biker. “I am a mess.” My voice wobbles.
“You’re a hot mess,” he corrects. “There’s a big difference between the two.” His eyes are a faded blue, matching his jeans. “Let me see your purse.” He holds out one large hand. Calluses and scars mar his skin.
I eye his palm with suspicion. “Why do you want to see it?”
“I need to use your brush,” he jokes. “Why do you think?” I think he’s full of shit. His brown hair is buzzed close to his head. There’s nothing for him to brush. “I’ll fix the strap for you. There’ll be less of it.” His gaze drifts down my body, his perusal more stimulating than any touch. “But then there’s less of you.”
“There’s the perfect amount of me.” I put my free hand on my hip. “I’m average height.”
“You are average height . . . for a munchkin.” The tattooed stranger stares unabashed at my chest. My taut nipples press against the cotton, begging for his attention. “A shapely, sexy—”
“You’re one wrong word away from a slap across the face.” I glare at him.
“You’re feisty. I like that.” He grins. “Give me your purse. I’ll repair it for you and then we can play.”
“We’re not playing, ever, and why would you repair my purse for me?” I ask. He’s a leather-clad tattooed biker. I’d be an idiot to trust him. “You don’t even know me.”
“You’re Belinda Carter from three eleven south,” he recites. “You spend every evening tidying the condo you share with a bouncy blonde. The black stretchy pants you wear while cleaning, the ones that cling to your every curve, have a quarter-sized hole right under your tailbone. Sometimes when you bend over, I can see your panties. Last night, they were red silk.” His gaze lowers to my hips. “Tonight—”
“I don’t wear red silk panties,” I retort, lying my ass off. I
have to lie because everyone knows good girls wear white cotton bikini panties and I’m supposed to be a good girl.
“I know what I saw, love,” tattoo man drawls, his endearment curling my toes. “Last night, there was red puckered silk nestled snugly between your tight little ass cheeks.”
He thinks my ass cheeks are tight. Pride heats my chest. “I was in the privacy of my own home,” I tell him self-righteously. “You shouldn’t be spying on me.”
“And you shouldn’t lie to me.” He chuckles, the soulful sound making my stomach flip. “You’re terrible at it.”
Am I? I frown. No one has ever called me on one of my lies before now. “You know I lied only because you were watching me. Otherwise, I would have fooled you.” I pause. “And you shouldn’t watch me. It’s not right.” My protest is weak, even I realize this. I’m a sick woman, and I want him to watch me.
“It feels right though, doesn’t it?” The skin around his pale blue eyes crinkles. “And fair’s fair. You watched me this morning.” The bike creaks as he shifts his weight, bringing my attention to his powerful thighs. Denim stretches across two oval-shaped objects hidden in his front right pocket. “Did you see anything you liked?” He touches his belt buckle.
“No, I didn’t see anything I liked.” I press my lips primly together and look to my left, attempting to hide the fact I’ve lied to him again. I liked everything I saw, too damn much.
He laughs even louder, his big chest shaking. He’s a beast, all muscle and denim and leather, and my response to him is primal and passionate. “You’re priceless, love.”
“I’m not your love or your sweetheart.” Though part of me wishes I was. “I don’t even know you.”
“I’m Hawke Masters, three eleven north.” He raises his hand once more. I don’t shake it, not trusting myself to touch him. “Give me your purse, Belinda.” My name rolls sensuously off his tongue.
I give him my purse. Before I can pull my hand away, his fingers close over mine, his skin rough and warm, his grip tight. An electric charge runs between us, the bolt of energy shooting up my arm and across my chest. I suck in my breath. His body stiffens and his hand drops.