by Cynthia Sax
The doorbell rings. A black ball of fur streaks across the floor, dashing into the bedroom I share with Hawke. “It’s Lona, Gisele,” I tell my nervous cat. “She’s a friend.”
I gaze through the peephole and inwardly groan, wondering if Lona will be a friend for long. The escort is her usual immaculate self, perfect hair, perfect makeup, and from what I see, perfectly dressed.
I open the door and my trepidation increases. She’s wearing a drool-worthy Dolce & Gabbana floral brocade dress with a fitted bodice, an empire waist, and a softly flared skirt. I’m in a tacky silk robe. “Afternoon, Lona.”
“Afternoon, hon.” She hugs me. Her floral perfume fills my nostrils. “I was able to pick up everything you need.” The high-class escort lifts a large Chloe tote.
“Come in.” I glance around the main room. The furnishings consist of a worn leather chair, a dozen metal folding chairs, two bar stools, and a trunk turned litter box. I inwardly cringe. Lona is stylish and our place is . . . not.
“I apologize for the state of the condo.” I shift my weight from my right foot to my left, dreading her judgment. “Our furniture hasn’t yet arrived.”
“Oh, how sweet of him.” Lona’s lipstick-covered lips curl into a small smile. “Hawke said he was waiting for you, that he wanted you to decorate, to make the space your home, but I thought he’d buy the bare necessities.” She touches his leather chair. “I can’t imagine living like this for months.”
What does she mean he was waiting for me? I gaze at her. “He hasn’t lived in this condo for months.”
“He lived in another unit.” Lona waves her finely manicured hands. “He thought you would be more comfortable here.” She strides to the window. “Living across from your bubbly little friend.”
Hawke bought this condo for me, to make me happy? Warmth spreads across my chest. “Cyndi is in LA.” I stand beside Lona.
“She’s with her movie star. I know.” She turns to face me. I suspect she knows everything that happens in the complex.
A crash comes from the bedroom and I wince. “That’s Gisele, our cat.” I resist the impulse to run to the newest member of my family, to protect her. Instead I give Gisele the space Hawke says she needs. There isn’t anything expensive she can damage. We don’t have many pieces of furniture, and my things are packed in the storage boxes.
Lona lifts one eyebrow. “Cats shed on fabric.”
“Gisele is very neat.” I defend my fur-baby. “I excel at cleaning, and we have grooming supplies for her.”
I wander to the counter and sift through the box Hawke’s men stocked for me. The cat toys have a distinctly military theme, as if the men are training my adorable pet for combat. I palm a small plush grenade.
“Speaking of grooming.” Lona follows me. “How are you styling your hair for tonight?” She touches the damp tendrils.
Yes, my hair.
“I have a comb I’d like to wear.” I bounce on the heels of my feet. Lona will take one look at the luxurious reward and she’ll tell me that Hawke loves me, that I don’t have to hear the words, this gift is proof of his caring.
“Wait here and I’ll get it.” I rush into the bedroom, carrying the cat toy.
I enter a domestic war zone. The plastic fishbowl container previously filled with condoms is on the floor. The blue packages are strewn across the hardwood.
“What did you do?” I place my hands on my hips and survey the carnage. Gisele hides under the bed, gazing at me with wide eyes. There’s no need to yell at her. She knows she’s been bad.
“This is a toy.” I drop the plush grenade in front of my cat. She bats at it with her little paws. “These are not toys.” I grasp the fishbowl and gather the condom packages, as a mother might round up her child’s toys at the end of a play date. Love is as messy as passion is. It’s a nice type of mess, a mess I could embrace.
I twist the previously unneeded lid onto the fishbowl and place it on the makeshift nightstand. “Leave that alone.” I bend over and wave my finger at Gisele. She takes a swipe at me. “Play with your grenade.” I realize what I’ve said and my lips twitch. Hawke’s men have sick senses of humor.
Gisele sticks her cat chin in the air and struts to the window, her tail flicking. She sits with her back facing me, ignoring my presence.
My cat is a diva. I grin. “Fine. Be that way.” I retrieve the diamond comb and return to the main room.
Lona has arranged containers of makeup and jars of nail polish on two folding chairs. “I heard your voice. Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” I wave my hands, not wanting to be seen as insane for talking to a cat. “I received this today.” I proudly hand Lona the comb.
She examines the piece, turning it in her hands. “Someone treasures you.”
Someone treasures me. My shoulders slump. He doesn’t love me. “You must have been given similar gifts in the past from . . . ” I stop, not knowing what to call her Johns.
“From my clients.” Lona supplies the words. “It’s not the gift that matters. It’s the meaning and the man behind it.”
Shit. My head hangs. She has received diamond combs from her clients, men who merely wanted sex and temporary company.
“Sit.” She sets the comb aside and pats a seat. “I’ll attach your new toenails.”
I lower into the chair and stick out my feet, feeling awkward. No one has ever waited on me. “What do I do?”
Lona gives me an emery board. “Buff your fingernails.” She places my hideous feet in her lap and I want to curl up and die. She’s perfect and I’m not. “So, tell me why you’re attending this fancy ball with another man.”
I stiffen, hearing the disapproval in her words. “Nicolas is a mutual friend.”
“Ahhh . . . ” She inserts the foam toe separators. “Your date is the mysterious Mr. Rainer, our handsome and elusive landlord.” She prepares my feet for the fake toenails. “He offered you a billion dollars to have sex with him and you refused.”
“He knew I would.” I lift my chin.
“Because you don’t have sex for money.” Lona’s lips flatten. She thinks I’m judging her, criticizing her life decisions.
She doesn’t know I’m a pervert, that if another man—if Hawke—had offered me the money, I would have agreed, played that kinky game.
“I refused Nicolas’s offer because I love Hawke.” I skim the emery board across my fingernails.
“Yet you’re spending the evening with another man.” She pushes back my skin with a cuticle stick. “You’ll be photographed with your Mr. Rainer, associated with him. The world, including many of Hawke’s friends and clients, will assume you’re a couple.”
Hawke is a possessive man. Why would he allow this? Oh God. My chest aches. “Hawke doesn’t care about me.” He’s with me because he feels he has to be, because he promised not to leave me.
“I suspect the opposite is true.” Lona’s gaze meets mine, her eyes older, wiser. “Hawke cares so much for you, he’s willing to sacrifice his pride to make you happy. He’d do anything for you. The question is—what would you do for him?”
I’d do anything for Hawke. “I told Nicolas I’d be his date. I can’t back out now, can’t abandon him.” As I’ve been abandoned in the past, left without a friend in the world.
“Nicolas Rainer would survive,” Lona says dryly. “And he won’t be alone for long. He’s handsome, young, and wealthy.”
Nicolas is handsome, young, and wealthy, but he’s also lonely and feels he’s unworthy of love, of mere friendship. I exhale heavily, my breath lifting my hair. Leave no friend behind. Hawke often teases me about my unspoken motto. It’s a part of me . . . as he is.
But I don’t want to embarrass Hawke, to damage his pride while I attempt to make another man happy. I chew on the inside of my cheek.
Oh shit. Hawke puts me first. I should do the same.
“I have to make a call.” I scroll through my phone and press Nicolas’s number. It rings three tim
es.
“Nicolas Rainer,” my billionaire friend barks into my ear, his voice a smidgeon louder than the men yelling around him. “This isn’t a good time, Bee.” The shouting fades. “The New York build is on the verge of collapse yet again. Nothing is going right with this project.” He sounds exasperated.
“You’re in New York?” That’s a two-hour-plus direct flight. Even if he left immediately, he wouldn’t arrive in time for the ball. “And you’re not close to any resolution?”
“We’re nowhere close to a resolution.” Nicolas snorts. “They won’t agree to any of my terms. We’ll be here all night.”
He says nothing more. My lips curl upward. Nicolas has forgotten about our pseudodate, his mind focused on his real estate empire. I’ve been worrying for nothing. He won’t be returning to Chicago tonight, won’t feel abandoned.
“Do you need ice cream?” I ask. “I’ll deliver a tub to your room.”
“I won’t see my room tonight,” he grumbles. A man yells his name and Nicolas sighs. “Why do I bother, Bee?”
“Because you’re building homes for families, creating memories that people will pass along for generations,” I remind the tired executive. “You’ll save your build. You’re Nicolas Rainer. You can do anything.”
“I am an asshole.” He treats me to one of his rare laughs. “Thank you, Bee.” There’s a click, followed by silence. The billionaire has hung up on me yet again.
I lower the phone and meet Lona’s gaze. “I won’t be attending the charity ball tonight.” I feel more relief than disappointment. “I’m sorry you went to all of this trouble.” I wave my hands over the cosmetics. “I’ll reimburse you.” I pull my feet out of her lap.
“No, you won’t.” Lona grabs my ankles, holding my toes in place. “You’ll sit in that chair until I’m done with you.”
I blink. “You don’t understand. I’m not going to the ball.”
“No, you don’t understand,” the escort retorts. “We dress up for people, not for events. Your Hawke deserves to see you in your gown, with his comb in your hair.”
I want to wear my gown for him, to see the appreciation in his pale blue eyes. My fingers curl around my phone’s metal case. “I should tell him—”
“Nothing,” Lona says. “Hawke will return home before your date was scheduled to arrive. He’ll want to be the first man to see you.”
If I was still attending the ball, she’d be right. Hawke would wish to stamp his ownership all over my lips, my body, my soul.
But his team continues to monitor my calls. They would have overheard my conversation with Nicolas, realize that the billionaire isn’t returning to Chicago tonight. “Hawke will know my date bailed on me.”
“Then he’ll return home to console you.” Lona shrugs her shoulders. “The result is the same. He’ll see you in your gown.”
Hawke will arrive, expecting me to be devastated, not dressed up. I could surprise him, creating a magical evening for the two of us. I wiggle, liking this plan. “Which color should I paint my toenails?”
Chapter Seven
LONA DOCUMENTS MY transformation, snapping photos as she fixes my makeup, fusses over my hair, smooths my dress. I send the images to Cyndi, including her in the process. My best friend captions each photo with her brand of sexy snark, making Lona and me laugh.
We’re an unusual trio—the unemployed daughter of a waitress, the disowned movie-star-dating socialite, the sophisticated middle-aged retired escort—yet somehow we fit, we belong together. They’re my girls, standing by my side when others turned away from me, and they have my loyalty.
I gaze at my image in the bathroom’s full-length mirror. My straight brown hair is swept upward, off my neck. The loops of tendrils softening my profile are pinned in place by the diamond comb. The dusting of glitter on my cheeks and the pink shine on my lips create an otherworldly effect. The black Grecian Prada gown clings to my slender curves, allowing a glimpse of pale cleavage. The skirt’s soft folds flutter around my ankles. My strappy sandals are barely visible, my fake toenails painted pink.
I stare, unable to believe my eyes. “I look like a movie star.”
“Your look is almost perfect.” Lona’s critical gaze lowers.
“It’s the dog tags, isn’t it?” I close my fingers around the dog tags hanging on the ball chain around my neck. “I should remove them.”
She nods.
I hesitate. They don’t go with my dress or my hair or my makeup. I know this yet I feel naked without them, missing that connection to my military man.
“Are those Hawke’s dog tags?” Lona’s voice is soft.
“They belonged to Rock.” They’re Hawke’s most treasured possession, a reminder of the friend he loved and lost.
“You’re wearing another man’s dog tags?” She shakes her head. “What are you doing, Belinda?”
My forehead furrows. “Hawke gave me the dog tags to hold for him. Rock was his best friend.” Am I the only person he’s told this story to?
“Ahhh . . . ” Lona sweeps her hands over my shoulders.
“I’m wearing them.” I release my hold on the oval pieces of metal and on my quest for perfection. “Hawke will—”
The door handle jiggles.
“He’s here.” I rush out of the bathroom, through the main room. The door swings open before I reach it.
An extremely well-dressed Hawke stands on the threshold, his shiny black Salvatore Ferragamo oxfords braced apart, his massive body squeezed into a black tuxedo, crisp white shirt, and a black bow tie.
“Wow.” I gape at him, absorbing how his well-crafted jacket accentuates his broad shoulders, narrow hips. The darkness of the garment highlights his tanned skin, his silver scars. Every mark is highly visible, his rugged face cleanly shaven, no brown coarse hairs covering his chin and cheeks. I sigh, having gained an appreciation for stubble.
“Wow.” Hawke repeats my exclamation, his pale blue eyes conveying lust, appreciation, and that additional something I dare not name.
“I know when I’m de trop.” Lona’s husky voice pierces our bubble.
I don’t look away from Hawke. I can’t. My T-shirt and blue jean-wearing man is in a tux. He’s big and strong and he dressed up for me. I know this in my heart.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Belinda.” My friend squeezes my arm and slides around Hawke’s huge form, leaving the two of us alone.
Caught in the magic of the moment, neither of us moves. I gaze at Hawke and he looks back at me, not speaking, not touching. Energy and awareness flows between us, linking our two souls, binding us together.
“You look . . . ” He pauses, considering his words. “You look like an apple blossom.”
My lips twitch. That’s better than looking like dirt. “My gown is black.”
He lowers his gaze and crimson creeps up his neck. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Because you were looking at my face,” I muse. My face stopped him in his tracks, rendering him speechless. “Thinking I look like an apple blossom.”
“You’re as pretty as a flower, pink and fresh and perfect,” Hawke explains. “Dew dots your petals, the drops of moisture reflecting the sunlight.” He steps forward and nudges the door closed with his foot, shutting out the rest of the world. “You appear delicate and fragile.” He breathes deeply, his nostrils flaring. “And you smell delicious.” His lips curl into a lopsided smile. “Yet you’re strong and resilient.” He pats his jacket. “You’re the future of the orchard, determining a farmer’s prosperity, his happiness.”
Oh my God. He knows what to say. I glide toward him and grasp Hawke’s hands. His palms are reassuringly rough and calloused. This hasn’t changed. “Am I your future?” I lean into him, brushing my breasts against his tuxedo-clad chest. The core of him remains the same.
Hawke’s eyes glow. “You’re my past, present, and future.” His lips flatten, his face darkening. “I’ll protect you, love.”
“I know you will.” I squeeze his fi
ngers.
“Nicolas isn’t coming.” His tone is solemn.
I smile. “I know that also.”
“You knew that?” His forehead furrows. “You’re wearing your pretty gown.” He slips one of his fingers between the collar of his shirt and his neck and tugs. “Did you assume I’d take Nicolas’s place?”
“No, I didn’t assume that.” Though I should have. My honorable military man would never allow me to be disappointed. “I dressed like this for you,” I say softly.
“For me,” Hawke murmurs, holding me at arm’s distance. He drifts his gaze over my form, his slow perusal as arousing as a caress, his need open and intense. My body responds to his unveiled appreciation, my nipples tightening and my back arching.
A strangled sound comes from Hawke’s throat. “I want to kiss the sparkle off your lips, rip your pretty gown off your body, and take you against the wall.”
Yes, please. My pussy moistens. “What’s stopping you?”
Hawke’s fingers clench into fists and release, clench and release, as though he’s trying to control his passions by sheer willpower. “We’re going to the charity ball. I’ve modified this morning’s plan. Originally, I was to be your bodyguard while Nicolas was designated as your date. The team would watch you at the distance.”
“I’m not another client,” I realize. My possessive, protective man always planned to stand by my side, to attend the ball with me.
Hawke’s eyebrows lower. “You’re my girl.” He brushes his scarred knuckles over my cheek. “Clients can be replaced. If I lost you . . . ” His voice chokes.
I hold his hand to my face, nuzzling into his palm. “You won’t lose me.”
His fingers tremble. “I’ll be your date now. Mack will be your bodyguard.”
“Bodyguards might be ignored, but dates are noticed. The media could dig into your background,” I warn my spotlight-shy military man. “They could uncover that you own the Organization. All of your efforts to be invisible will be undone in one night.”
“My efforts are worth nothing if you’re harmed.” Hawke’s lips are set in a grim white line. “The limo is waiting for us.” He grasps my hand and leads me through the door, into the hallway. “You’ll stay by my side at all times.” We walk toward the elevators, his stride shortened to match mine. “I need for you to pay attention. If you spot anyone or anything out of the ordinary, tell me and we’ll leave.”