by Cynthia Sax
The doorbell rings. I frown, setting the empty bread and butter plate on the counter. Cyndi’s friends know not to bother her before noon.
“If it’s Angel, tell her I’m not talking to her,” she calls, my best buddy having the uncanny ability to sense visitors. “She can apologize to me later.”
“If it’s Angel, I’ll eat my shoe,” I mutter. Angel is even more of a diva than Cyndi is. I peek through the peephole. Jacob, the security guard, jiggles a brown box on his hip. We have a delivery.
I open the door. “Good morning, Jacob.” I smile.
“Morning, Miss Bee.” The older man smiles back at me, his wrinkled face creasing even more with his genuine joy. His gray uniform stretches tightly over his protruding stomach, and a gold band gleams on his ring finger, the security guard having been happily married to his loving wife, Jolene, for thirty-two years, their marriage lasting longer than I’ve been alive.
“Delivery for you.” Jacob holds out the box.
Expecting the box to be heavy, I brace my legs and grasp the corners securely with both hands. Then I feel like an idiot because my crammed messenger bag is heavier than this package.
“Delivery for Cyndi, you mean.” I cover up my embarrassment with a laugh. “She does love to shop online. Don’t worry. I’ll give it to her.”
“Your name is on the label, Miss Bee.” The security guard lifts his cap and scratches his balding head. “I don’t know where the package came from. It was left on my desk this morning. There was no note, no return label. I didn’t notice anyone carrying the box through the doors. Maybe you have a secret admirer.” He grins.
“Maybe I do.” I study the large white address label. It’s typed, not handwritten. There are no other markings on the box. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, miss.”
I shut the door and stare at the box. My heart pounds. Good girls earn rewards. Is this a reward I want to open? What if Friendly is a stalker? There could be something dead inside, something dangerous. My palms moisten. It could be a bomb.
“We got a package,” a very wet, towel-wrapped Cyndi squeals. She rushes across the room, her green eyes sparkling. “Gimmee. Gimmee. Gimmee.”
“Cyndi, no.” I yank the box away. “It could be—”
My dainty little roommate jabs her pointy elbow into my stomach. I bend over, the air whooshing out of me. She wrests the box out of my hands, plunks it on the floor, and tears the flaps open.
“Oh my God.” Cyndi stares into the box, her mouth dropping open.
Everything inside me constricts. It’s a bomb. The room spins merrily around me. I’ve killed us all. “Is it—”
“It’s beautiful!” She dances around in a tight circle and then takes another look. “So beautiful.” She flips one of the flaps over, reads the address. “Bee, you sly dog, and you said you couldn’t afford a new purse.”
It’s not a bomb. I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. It’s a . . . “What?” I step forward and peer into the box, spotting distinctive red leather, dual top handles, zippers made of real gold. It isn’t merely any purse. I sink to the floor, my knees smacking against the hardwood. It’s the purse, the Salvatore Ferragamo I’ve been lusting over for days.
It’s a work of art framed in delicate brown tissue paper. My eyes sting. And it’s here in our condo. This must be a dream.
“Can I touch it?” Cyndi asks.
“No!” I drape my arms over the edge of the box, guarding its perfection from my hyperactive friend. “I mean we shouldn’t touch it.” I try to soften my response, the moment unreal. Is it mine? It can’t be mine. I’ve never owned anything so beautiful.
“Awww . . . Bee, you’re crying.” Cyndi hugs me from behind. Her chin rests on my shoulder. “There’s a note.” She reaches out with her hand and flicks her fingers. “Can I read it?”
I retrieve the rectangular piece of heavy card stock. Two words are written in black arial font across the unmarked white surface.
Your Reward
This exquisite bag, a limited-edition piece of functional art, is mine, simply because Cyndi accidentally left my curtains open. Stunned, I hand the note to my friend.
“Your reward,” she reads. “He’s not a big talker, is he?” Cyndi tosses the note back into the box. “So spill.” She smacks my shoulder. “Who sent the purse, and why is he rewarding you?” She pauses. “It’s Rainer, isn’t it? This must be your thank-you gift for retrieving his beloved phone.” She releases a heartfelt sigh. “We’re never getting into R, are we?”
“The purse might not be from Rainer,” I confess. It definitely wasn’t a thank-you gift for retrieving his phone. This reward was sent by Friendly.
“What do you mean the purse might not be from Rainer?” Cyndi circles me, her eyes wide. “Did you meet another guy and you didn’t tell me?” Her bottom lip curls. “I thought we were friends.”
“You’re my best friend, idiot.” I look down at the purse, reassuring myself that it’s still there, still gorgeous, so very gorgeous.
“Earth to Bee.” Cyndi snaps her fingers in front of my face.
“I’m here.” Barely. I lift my gaze to hers. “You’re right. It must be from Rainer. Who else could have sent it?”
“You could have a secret admirer.” Cyndi shakes with excitement. “He saw you on the street. You shared a glance.” She clutches her chest. “It was love at first sight, and this is your reward for being wonderful you.”
“Jacob said the box was left inside the building.” I interrupt my friend’s Hallmark moment with this more practical insight. I can’t tell Cyndi the real reason I was sent the purse, that someone is watching me.
And I like it.
“He saw you in the elevator,” she amends. “Fell in love instantly and decided to save you from your fashion disasters. He’s your knight in designer armor.”
I ignore Cyndi’s unhelpful musings. “He has to be wealthy.” I peek into the box one more time. The red leather begs to be petted, stroked, caressed, but I don’t dare touch it. It’s too perfect. “This purse isn’t cheap.”
Cyndi adjusts her towel, her breasts threatening to escape from their terry cloth confines. “Everyone living in the buildings is wealthy.”
“Except me,” I mumble.
“And Jacob, your security guard friend.” Cyndi hooks her fingers over the edge of the box. “Can I touch it now?”
“No.” I lean across the opening. The leather scent reminds me of Hawke, and that’s too damn appealing for my comfort. “I don’t think the tattooed hunk in three eleven north has money either. His kind never do.” Building wealth requires staying in one place.
“He doesn’t have much furniture.” Cyndi, disappointingly, doesn’t argue with me. “It’s almost as though he’s squatting in the condo.”
That’s great. Hawke’s a criminal. My libido sure knows how to pick men. I push thoughts of him out of my mind and concentrate on the mystery before me.
“Rainer must have sent this purse,” I decide. Nicolas had me investigated, and I’ve made no attempt to hide my fascination with the purse, lingering in front of the Salvatore Ferragamo window every morning. He’d know that I wanted it, that this would be the reward I would have asked for. As he told me multiple times, he doesn’t leave anything to chance.
“Or it could be from a secret admirer,” Cyndi argues.
“No, it’s from Rainer.” The more I think about it, the more I’m certain. The request to keep the curtains open was one of his tests, and I must have passed it or he wouldn’t have sent me such a beautiful object.
What was he testing? With the phone, it was obvious—my honesty. With the request to leave my curtains open—I tap the brown cardboard as I consider the values a reclusive billionaire might wish for in a partner—likely obedience. Will I follow him unquestioningly?
I suspect, in the future, there will be more tests and more rewards. This possibility excites me more than it should, more than I can ever allow Nicolas to see
. Tests are supposed to be arduous, not stimulating, and there are costs if I fail, if I succumb to the wrong man. I gaze at the window, wondering if Hawke can see us, if he’s watching me, and then I look at Cyndi, my best friend, appearing as happy as I am with my new purse. I can’t lose her. I can’t return to my small hometown, work at the diner, reside in a crappy, creepy apartment, live my mom’s life.
“Touch it, Bee,” Cyndi urges. “It’s yours.”
The purse is mine. Unable to resist the red leather a second longer, I skim my fingertips over one of the handles. The stitching is impeccable, perfectly spaced, not one thread loose. My vision blurs, tears running down my cheeks. The craftsmen put a piece of their hearts, of their souls into creating this exquisite purse, and now it belongs to me.
Whoever sent it to me thought I was worthy of such beauty.
I won’t disappoint him.
Want to know what happens next for Bee, Nicolas, and Hawke?
SINFUL REWARDS 2
is available August 12
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.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by Cynthia Sax
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 five brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
WHITE COLLARED PART ONE: MERCY
By Shelly Bell
WINNING MISS WAKEFIELD
THE WALLFLOWER WEDDING SERIES
By Vivienne Lorret
INTOXICATED
A BILLIONAIRE BACHELORS CLUB NOVELLA
By Monica Murphy
ONCE UPON A HIGHLAND AUTUMN
By Lecia Cornwall
THE GUNSLINGER
By Lorraine Heath
An Excerpt from
WHITE COLLARED PART ONE: MERCY
by Shelly Bell
In Shelly Bell’s four-part serialized erotic thriller, a young law student enters a world of dark secrets and seductive fantasies when she goes undercover at an exclusive sex club in order to prove her client is not guilty of murder.
After three hours of computer research on piercing the corporate veil, Kate’s vision blurred, the words on the screen bleeding into one another until they resembled a giant Rorschach inkblot. She lowered her mug of lukewarm coffee to her cubicle’s mahogany tabletop and rubbed her tired eyes.
Without warning, the door to the interns’ windowless office flew open, banging against the wall. Light streamed into the dim room, casting the elongated shadow of her boss, Nicholas Trenton, on the beige carpet.
“Ms. Martin, take your jacket and come with me.” He didn’t wait for a response, simply issued his command and strode down the hall.
Jumping to her feet, she teetered on her secondhand heels and grabbed her suit jacket from the back of her chair. As Mr. Trenton’s intern for the year, she’d follow him off the edge of a cliff. She had no choice in the matter if she wanted a junior associate position at Detroit’s most prestigious law firm, Joseph and Long, after graduation. Because of the fierce competition for an internship and because several qualified lackeys waited patiently in the wings for an opening, one minor screwup would result in termination.
Most of the other interns ignored the interruption, but her best friend Hannah took a second to raise an arched eyebrow. Kate shrugged, having no idea what her boss required. He hadn’t spoken to her since her initial interview a few months earlier.
She collected her briefcase, her heart pounding. As far as she knew, she hadn’t made a mistake since starting two months ago. Other than class time, she’d spent virtually every waking moment at this firm, a schedule her boyfriend, Tom, resented.
She raced as fast as she could down the hallway and found her boss pacing and talking on his cell phone in the marbled lobby. He frowned and pointedly looked at his watch, demonstrating his displeasure at her delay. Still on the phone, he stalked out of the firm and headed toward the elevator. She chased him, cursing her short legs as she remained a step or two behind until catching up with him on the elevator.
When the doors slid shut, he ended his call and slipped his cell into the pocket of his Armani jacket. She risked a quick glance at him to ascertain his mood, careful not to visually suggest anything more than casual regard.
He was an extremely handsome man whose picture frequently appeared in local magazines and papers beside prominent judges and legislative officials. But photos couldn’t do him justice, film lacking the capability of capturing his commanding presence. Often she’d had to fight her instinct to look directly into his blue eyes. At the office, his every move, his every word overshadowed anyone and everything around her.
Standing close to him in the claustrophobic space, she inhaled the musky scent of his aftershave, felt his radiating heat.
Mr. Trenton spoke, fracturing the quiet of the small space with his deep and powerful voice. “This morning, our firm’s biggest client, Jaxon Deveroux, arrived home from his business trip and found his wife dead from multiple stab wounds.”
Once the elevator doors opened, they stepped out into the bustling main floor lobby, and she fought to match Mr. Trenton’s brisk pace as they headed toward the parking garage. “While typically I would refer my clients to Jeffrey Reaver, the head of our criminal division, Mr. Deveroux and I have been friends for many years, and he requested me personally. Jaxon’s a very private man, but those who are in his circle are aware of certain . . . proclivities that may come up in the police’s line of questioning.”
What sort of proclivities?
An Excerpt from
WINNING MISS WAKEFIELD
The Wallflower Wedding Series
by Vivienne Lorret
When her betrothed suddenly announces his plans to marry another, Merribeth Wakefield knows only a bold move will bring him back and restore her tattered reputation: She must take a lesson in seduction from a master of the art. But when the dark and brooding rake, Lord Knightswold, takes her under his wing, her education quickly goes from theory to hands-on practice, and her heart is given a crash course in true desire!
“Now, give back my handkerchief,” Lord Knightswold said, holding out his hand as he returned to her side. “You’re the sort to keep it as a memento. I cannot bear the thought of my handkerchief being worshipped by a forlorn Miss by moonlight or tucked away with mawkish reverence beneath a pillow.”
The portrait he painted was so laughable that she smiled, heedless of exposing her flaw. “You flatter yourself. Here.” She dropped it into his hand as she swept past him, prepared to leave. “I have no desire to touch it a moment longer. I will leave you to your pretense of sociability.”
“ ’Tis no pretense. I have kept good company this evening.” Either the brandy had gone to her head, impairing her hearing, or he actually sounded sincere.
She paused and rested her hands on the carved rosewood filigree edging the top of the sofa. “Much to my own folly. I never should have listened to Lady Eve Sterling. It was her lark that sent me here.”
He feigned surprise. “Oh? How so?”
If it weren’t for the brandy, she would have left by now. Merribeth rarely had patience for
such games, and she knew his question was part of a game he must have concocted with Eve. However, his company had turned out to be exactly the diversion she’d needed, and she was willing to linger. “She claimed to have forgotten her reticule and sent me here to fetch it—no doubt wanting me to find you.”
He looked at her as if confused.
“I’ve no mind to explain it to you. After all, you were abetting her plot, lying in wait, here on this very sofa.” She brushed her fingers over the smooth fabric, thinking of him lying there in the dark. “Not that I blame you. Lady Eve is difficult to say no to. However, I will conceal the truth from her, and we can carry on as if her plan had come to fruition. It would hardly have served its purpose anyway.”
He moved toward her, his broad shoulders outlined by the distant torchlight filtering in through the window behind him. “Refresh my memory then. What was it I was supposed to do whilst in her employ?”
She blushed again. Was he going to make her say the words aloud? No gentleman would.
So of course he would. She decided to get it over with as quickly as possible. “She professed that a kiss from a rake could instill confidence and mend a broken heart.”
He stopped, impeded by the sofa between them. His brow lifted in curiosity. “Have you a broken heart in need of mending?”
The deep murmur of his voice, the heated intensity in his gaze—and quite possibly the brandy—all worked against her better sense and sent those tingles dancing in a pagan circle again.
Oh, yes, the thought as she looked up at him. Yes, Lord Knightswold. Mend my broken heart.
However, her mouth intervened. “I don’t believe so.” She gasped at the realization. “I should, you know. After five years, my heart should be in shreds. Shouldn’t it?”