Sinful Rewards 1
Authors: Cynthia Sax
To my dear, wonderful hubby for proving that love at first sight can last a lifetime; to my awesome editor, Tessa Woodward, for believing I could write this delicious story; and to the brave men and women who risk their lives protecting us.
Contents
An Excerpt from
White Collared Part One: Mercy
by Shelly Bell
An Excerpt from
Winning Miss Wakefield
by Vivienne Lorret
An Excerpt from
Intoxicated
by Monica Murphy
An Excerpt from
Once Upon a Highland Autumn
by Lecia Cornwall
An Excerpt from
The Gunslinger
by Lorraine Heath
F
OREVER CAN'T BE
purchased from a fast-talking street vendor outside Grant Park. Knowing this, I shouldn't feel betrayed or even disappointed by my designer-knockoff purse's deplorable state. I plunk the fake on the kitchen's bright red countertop. Quality lasts. Everything else, including poorly crafted copies, is temporary.
When I purchased the small black messenger bag, only the most gifted fashionista could have distinguished it from the Ralph Lauren original. Months later, I'm not fooling anyone. The logo has fallen off and been glued back on twice. The faux leather is worn around the edges of the purse, exposing the white interior. The strap clings to one of the metal loops by six fragile threads.
I can't do anything about the strap. When it finally snaps, my relationship with my purse will be over. I'll have to throw the fashion essential away and buy a replacement. The faux leather is fixed with a black marker. I carefully trace the piping, thankful that Cyndi, my extremely wealthy roommate and hyperactive best friend, isn't here to witness my purse doctoring.
She hasn't yet returned from her Tuesday night drunkfest. Her bedroom door remains open, her lights are turned off, and the place is tidy. There are no high heels kicked haphazardly over the gleaming hardwood floor, no cute little designer jackets tossed on the breakfast nook's custom-crafted bar stools, or candy-coated chocolate pieces skittered into every hard-to-reach corner of the room.
I long for these messes, for my best friend's presence, the silence in the space echoing the strain in our relationship, the widening gap caused by our very different financial situations. As Cyndi's token middle-class buddy, unable to pay for much more than the utilities on this luxurious condo, I'm often left home alone, excluded from shopping trips and fancy nights out.
Unless something changes, I'll face a fate similar to my purse. I'll be replaced and discarded.
I won't allow that to happen. Not again.
I place the cap on the marker, return the dollar-store purchase to the painstakingly organized junk drawer, and move toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Our third-floor condo overlooks a tiny park wedged between three high-rise buildings. Neither the wrought iron fence nor the thick green hedge surrounding the green space impedes my view.
It's a view any Chicago socialite would trade her string of Tiffany pearls to enjoy. Nicolas Rainer, the condominium complex's enigmatic owner, sits on the wooden bench positioned closest to our condo, his traditional black wingtips planted solidly on the ground, his finely groomed head bent over one of his tablets.
Papers and electronic devices radiate from the left and right of his long, lean body. These are carefully arranged in the same pattern every morning, smallest to largest devices, lowest to highest stacks of paper. Today is Wednesday, which means one of the stacks consists of invoices, printed on thin yellow paper. Tomorrow is Thursday. There's an additional stack of papers on Thursdays, widening the orbit around him.
The billionaire bachelor's routine is the same every week, rigid, unbending, reassuringly consistent. It was Nicolas's predictability that first snagged my attention, piquing my interest. In a world battered by broken promises and casual encounters, he's a man a woman can depend on, can trust not to change.
Then I watched an old interview Cyndi found online, and I was lost. While my roommate mocked Nicolas's curt, blunt responses, mimicking his voice and mannerisms, I saw the loneliness reflecting in his eyes, the hole in his soul. Having seen the same expression in my mirror, too many times, I knew we were meant for each other.
He's mine. He simply doesn't know it yet. I gaze at him with a warmth in my heart. The sun's rays shine on Nicolas's wavy black hair. Streams of gold dance over his fashion-model good looks, his high cheekbones, his deep even tan. His navy blue suit is formfitting, his white shirt immaculate, the design on his tie subtle. Light reflects off his metallic cuff links, adding a touch of shine, a hint of sparkle.
Nicolas frowns at the tablet, lines of concentration etched between his dark eyebrows. He's likely working on another one of his projects. His net worth is mind-boggling, his financial success a source of legend. When he finally realizes I'm perfect for him and we marry, I won't have to choose between helping my cash-strapped mom or indulging my love of fashion. I can do both, guilt-free.
And Nicolas will marry, maybe not tomorrow, but some day. His company develops properties, maintaining ownership of these prime locations forever. He's lived in the condominium complex since it opened, worked with the same management team since he founded his company.
His personal relationships won't be any less stable. I'm not in a rush to wedâI have my own career to establishâbut I won't waste my time on someone who is afraid of commitment. I won't make my mom's mistakes. It is forever or nothing for me.
I suspect Nicolas thinks the same way. There's only one obstacle standing in our wayâhe doesn't know I exist. I skim my fingertips over Cyndi's latest impulse purchase, a large brass telescope. Nicolas and I have never talked. We've never met, never passed each other in the hallways, never shared the same elevator.
I stroke the metal tube back and forth, back and forth, the surface soothingly smooth. My name isn't even on the condo agreement. Our luxurious, fully furnished two-bedroom suite is owned by Mr. Wynters, Cyndi's multimillionaire father.
I lean my forehead against the cool windowpane, openly admiring the flawlessness of Nicolas's suit-clad shoulders. The thin wall of glass between us might as well be constructed from solid concrete. There's no busting through the barrier, no contacting the condo complex's number-one bachelor directly.
I've watched in the past as other residents tried to enter the park while Nicolas sat alone on his bench. His passcard locks everyone else out of the space, giving the reclusive billionaire the privacy he values.
A twinge of guilt shoots down my spine. He won't like that I'm looking at him. Not everyone associates being watched with being cared for.
I pivot on my six-inch heels. When I was a child, the other girls would complain about their mothers hovering by their front doors, watching, waiting for them to return home. I envied them, wishing someone waited for me. My mom was never home. She was always working, struggling to pay the rent, our tiny, rodent-infested, one-bedroom apartments changing often. Landlords would tolerate only a few missed payments before they started the eviction process.
I survey the main room of the condo unit, the open-concept space larger than any of my childhood homes. An original Andy Warhol hangs on the far wall, the bright colors popping against the white drywall. I'd dusted its narrow metallic frame last night. A comfy purple couch hugs the wall to my right. Its cushions have been plumped, the leather showing no ass indents. Not a single set of fingerprints mars the assortment of blue enamel appliances lining the left wall. The waist-high red counter separating the kitchen nook from the living room has been cleared, the matching bar stools tucked under the ledge. The massive TV screen in the corner is switched off.
No morning program is as interesting as the man outside. I glance over my shoulder, unable to resist another peek. Nicolas's bench is empty, his arrangement of papers and devices missing. He has left the park. A wave of disappointment sweeps over me. I'm alone. Again. I've spent too much of my life alone, waiting for roommates to come home, for my mom to finish yet another double shift, for my dad to realize he has a daughter who needs him.
Nicolas isn't like my dad. The billionaire will return to his park tomorrow. I stare at the green space, comforted by this fact. He's a man I can count on.
The view is slightly different this morning. I frown. Something isn't quite right. I lean against the window, taking a closer look. A small black rectangular object rests on the paving stone, partially hidden by the bench's wooden slats. I can't determine what it is.
The object could be important to Nicolas. If that's the case, he'll want it returned to him. I press my fingertips against the cool glass. This could be the opportunity I've been waiting for, the excuse I've needed to meet with him.
Or it could be a scrap of garbage, a shadow, a waste of time. I chew on the inside of my cheek. The park is out of my route. It'll take ten minutes, maybe longer, to investigate. My fingers curl around the telescope's brass tube.
I'd told Cyndi I'd never use it, that it was an instrument purchased by perverts to spy on their neighbors. She'd laughed and called me a prude, not knowing that I'm one of these perverts, that I secretly yearn to watch and be watched, to care and be cared for.
If I'm cautious, and I'm always cautious, she'll never realize I used her telescope this morning. I swing the tube toward the bench and adjust the knob, bringing the mysterious object into focus.
It's a phone, Nicolas's phone. I bounce on the balls of my feet. This is a sign, another declaration from fate that we belong together. I'll return Nicolas's much-needed device to him. As a thank-you, he'll invite me to dinner. We'll talk. He'll realize how perfect I am for him, fall in love with me, marry me.
Cyndi will find a fiancé alsoâeveryone loves herâand we'll have a double wedding, as sisters of the heart often do. It'll be the first wedding my family has had in generations.
Everyone will watch us as we walk down the aisle. I'll wear a strapless, white Vera Wang mermaid gown with organza and lace details, crystal and pearl embroidery accents, the bodice fitted and the skirt hemmed for my shorter height. My hair will be swept upward. My shoesâ
Voices murmur outside the condo's door, the sound piercing my delightful daydream. I swing the telescope upward, not wanting to be caught using it. The snippets of conversation drift away.
I don't relax. If the telescope isn't in the same spot as it was positioned last night, Cyndi will realize I've been using it. She'll tease me about being a fellow pervert, sharing the story, embellished for more dramatic effect, with her stern, serious dad or, worse, with Angel, that snobby friend of hers.
I'll die. It'll be worse than being the butt of jokes in high school because that ridicule had been about my clothes and this will center around the part of my soul I've always kept hidden. It'll also be the truth, and I won't be able to deny it. I am a pervert.
I have to return the telescope to where it was positioned. This is the only acceptable solution. I tap the metal tube.
Last night, my man-crazy roommate had been giggling over the new guy in three eleven north. The previous occupant had been a gray-haired, bowtie-wearing tax auditor, his luxurious accommodations supplied by Nicolas. The most exciting thing he ever did was drink his tea on the balcony.
According to Cyndi, the new occupant is a delicious piece of man candy, tattooed, buff, and head-to-toe lickable. He'd been completing arm curls outside and she'd enthusiastically counted his reps, oohing and aahing over his bulging biceps, calling to me to take a look.
