Sinful Rewards 12 (7 page)

“You have a deal.” I wiggle against him. “Why did you choose to have the party here? Why not have it at the Road Gator?”

“Everyone at the Road Gator already knows how I feel about you, love.” Hawke runs one of his calloused fingertips along my cheek. “And I want to make your fantasies a reality. When you dreamed of this moment, who else was there?”

Is the moment he's referring to a proposal, a forever commitment? “My mom and my friends watched us.”

“And?” He lifts one eyebrow. The damn man knows me too well.

“Tara was there,” I mumble, sliding my gaze from his. “Mrs. Davis also, and my other tormenters.” They all saw my happiness, marveled at my good fortune, knew I was worthy of love. “It's petty but—”

Hawke places a finger over my lips. “It's human. This is your hometown. Your mom still lives here. You want the gossip to stop, and today it will.”

“If it's possible to stop the gossip, I know you'll do it.” I walk with him toward the diner. My big, strong man can do anything, and he's put quite a bit of thought into this, arranging a party, dressing me from head to toe in sumptuous designer fashions. His team encircles us, looking for hostiles, protecting me from the judgments of others. I'm safe, loved and I belong.

As we approach the door, men and women snap into sharp salutes. I return their greetings, mimicking them as best I can. This most recent attempt must be another failure. Their lips curl into smiles and Hawke chuckles.

Prick holds the door open for us, and a rush of sound escapes the building. “Congratu—”

Mack's fist connects with his gut, and the smaller man doubles over. “It's too soon for that, jackass.” The bald man glares. The door closes once more, sealing the noise.

“You're wrong, asshole.” Prick wheezes, holding his stomach. “The party comes after the propo—”

Mack slugs him again.

“Men,” Hawke barks. Their spines straighten.

“Sir.” Mack sheepishly opens the door for us.

I press my lips together, trying not to laugh, giddy and nervous and a tiny bit terrified. What if he doesn't propose? Everyone is expecting him to do this and all of his comments point to a proposal, but I've been disappointed in the past.

Not by Hawke, though. I gaze up at him. I've never been disappointed by him.

“Sweetheart.” He wraps his arm around me and we step over the threshold together.

A
WAVE OF
cheers sweeps over us. Ellen's wolf whistle temporarily deafens me. The beautiful assassin stands behind the counter, next to Dawg, Hawke's second in command, and Karl, the diner's chef and my mom's good friend.

The weathered mugs of Hawke's team mingle with the familiar faces from my childhood, my past meeting my present.

Mrs. Davis, Happydale's biggest gossip, the woman who made my life a living hell, presides over a booth, her deceivingly sweet apple face puckered into a disapproving frown. Her compatriots hang on her every acidic word.

Tara, my nemesis, sits in her usual spot, alone. Her perfectly manicured fingers are curled around a white ceramic mug. Her phone is set flat on the tabletop. She's impeccably dressed in a sleeveless peach stretch-wool dress from Michael Kors and Gianvito Rossi python pumps.

Although Tara doesn't turn her head, doesn't look at me, I know she's aware of my presence. She's likely making mental notes, finding things to criticize about me.

I run my fingers through my hair, the strands sticking stubbornly to my skull. She won't have to look hard. I'm a mess.

“There are so many people here.” I turn. Screens cover the walls, familiar faces on the displays. “Is that my mom? Cyndi and Cole? Susan?” Susan's eyes are puffy and her nose red. She must still be sick. “Lona?” Although the escort wears a classy black lace mask, I'd recognize her face anywhere. “Your parents?” They appear as they did in his photo, smiling and wholesome and happy.

“You'll talk to them soon.” Hawke's grip on my hand tightens. “Right now, there's something I must do.”

He leads me into the middle of the diner. Dawg steps forward, his left foot dragging behind him. Hawke's second in command presses something into my big man's hand and then backs away. The hum of conversations fades. A door opens and closes. Everyone watches us.

Oh my God. My heart pounds in my chest. This is really happening.

Hawke lowers one of his knees to the tiled floor, kneeling before me. Excitement churns my stomach. He takes my left hand, his palm creased and calloused in mine, and I suppress the urge to throw myself into his arms and yell “yes, yes, yes.”

“Belinda.” Hawke's thick fingers tremble. Beads of sweat form on his forehead. He's nervous because he wants this badly. He wants me. “I love you. There's no other woman for me. You're my first and only choice.”

“You're my first and only choice also.” I cup his rugged face, gazing down into his faded blue jean eyes. “It was always you, from the beginning.”

“I can vouch for that,” a curt voice adds. “I didn't have a chance.”

I smile. Nicolas is here, the billionaire's presence communicating his acceptance, his approval. I don't look at him, my gaze fixed on Hawke. “Everyone knows I'm your girl.”

“I want you to be more than that, love.” Hawke uncurls the fingers of his left hand, the finger tattooed with my name covered with white gauze, and he reveals a distinctive sapphire blue leather ring box with an HW etched on the top.

My breath catches. He bought the ring from Harry Winston, jeweler to the stars.

“I want you to be my wife.” Hawke opens the box, and the room spins merrily around me. There are diamonds, diamonds, and more diamonds, the sparkle almost blinding me. A massive round center stone is framed by diamonds and set on a diamond band. The stones are so closely set, I don't see the precious metal.

“You like it.” His voice is husky.

“I love it.” I smile, light-headed. He knows I adore his choice. Hawke has always been able to read me, to realize my truth before I speak a word. “And I love you.”

“You're my everything.” He removes the ring from the box. “This is a small token of what I plan to give you.”

His beautiful diamonds can't compare to the love in his eyes.

“Belinda Carter.” He slides the band onto my finger, pushing the circle of diamonds past my knuckle. It fits as perfectly as it looks, the lights making the gems glitter. “Will you marry me?”

This is a life-changing moment and shouldn't be taken lightly. I should approach it in a calm, sensible, rational manner, take a moment to think about my decision, to appreciate the impact on me, on my mom, on everyone who relies on me, to ensure myself that this is the correct thing to do.

This is what I should do. But I have no doubts. Hawke is the right man for me, the only man. Shit. I can't temper my reaction, and I don't want to.

“Yes.” I throw myself into his arms, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist, holding nothing back. My mountain of man doesn't even move, his big form and solid muscle absorbing all of my weight. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” I cover his blunt, scarred face with fervent kisses. “I'll marry you.”

The diner explodes with hoots and hollers and eardrum-bursting whistles. Men and women rush forward, pounding Hawke's shoulders, slapping my back. My fiancé folds his body around me, protecting me as he always does, not allowing me to be trampled. I trust him to safeguard me, and I'm too dazed to feel fear.

Because I'm marrying this brave, wonderful, honorable man.

I sit on his knee and we kiss amid the chaos, our lips fused together, our tongues twining. The stubble on his chin leaves a burning trail on my skin. The taste of him fills my mouth. I want him, need him.

But we're not alone. I reluctantly draw back from him. “I'll have my wicked way with you later.” I drag my fingernails through the short coarse hair on his cheeks, and his eyelashes lower, his face softening. “We shouldn't ignore our guests.”

“Some of your guests aren't used to being ignored.”

“Nicolas.” I bounce off of Hawke's knee.

The billionaire stands to the right of us, his long, lean body clad in a more formal suit than the one he wore this morning, the fabric rich, his tie matching the ebony hue.

“I'd like to be the first to congratulate you.” Nicolas's words are clipped and curt. His beautiful face is set in solemn lines, his lips flat, his emotions closed to me, to everyone. “Bee.” He extends his hand.

“Do I have to send you another article on friendship?” I gaze pointedly at his palm. “Friends don't shake hands.” I wrap my arms around his stiff form and squeeze him hard. “They hug.”

Nicolas hesitates for a moment and hugs me fiercely back, the rigidity easing from his muscles. “I'm a terrible friend.”

“Good.” I smile up at him. “I need a terrible male friend to go wedding gown shopping with me. I expect you to be brutally honest.”

“I'm always brutally honest with you.” Joy flares in his eyes and then is abruptly extinguished. “But Hawke will want to go wedding gown shopping with you.”

“He will.” My possessive man steps forward.

“Hawke can't see my dress before the ceremony.” I level a speaking glance at my fiancé, trying to convey my intentions through my eyes. Nicolas needs to be included, to be reassured that he remains our friend, that he'll always be a part of our lives. “He knows that.” My gaze returns to the billionaire. “You'll have to be the first man to see me.”

Nicolas gives me one of his rare, breathtaking smiles. “I do like to be first.”

“You'll be the first to see her.” Hawke bumps his shoulders against Nicolas's, moving the smaller man to the side. “You don't touch a friend's girl.”

“That girl doesn't want me to touch her.” Nicolas holds his gaze. “She's yours, has always been yours.” He holds out his hand. Hawke grips the billionaire's palm tightly. “You'll need a venue to hold the reception. R seats a few hundred.”

I stare at him. He's offering his beloved club to us.

“I'll also need a best man, someone who doesn't mind wearing a tux and can make it through an entire speech without cussing.” Hawke looks at the rough, tough military men around us. “The pickings are slim.”

Nicolas turns his head, stares at the wall for one, two, three heartbeats, before facing Hawke again. “I'll be a terrible best man.” His eyes shimmer with moisture.

Those can't be tears. The billionaire would never cry.

“I'll send you some articles.” I force the joke. This pulls a laugh from Nicolas's grim lips, allows him to tuck his emotions back behind his protective wall.

“Short-stack.” Ellen slams into my body, knocking the air from my lungs. I gasp. The beautiful assassin puts me in a headlock. “Bet you're in girly paradise now, huh?”

“Don't hog the bride-to-be.” Mack rescues me from her not-so-gentle clutches.

I'm passed from well-wisher to well-wisher, hugged, kissed, tackled, years of being Cyndi's best friend having prepared me for this moment. Hawke's hand is vigorously pumped. We're surrounded by happy faces.

Karl prepares heaping platters of pasta, singing loudly, happily feeding our guests. The food is placed on tables and guests serve themselves, the men issuing eating challenges. Glasses of ginger ale flow, poured by Eighty Proof, the Road Gator's bartender. The soda resembles champagne but lacks the alcohol content, ensuring all of our bikers return to Chicago safely.

I salute Eighty Proof. He grins. I turn around and find myself face-to-face with Tara, my high school nemesis, the girl who relentlessly criticized my imitation fashions, ensuring I never fit in.

“Your hair is a mess.” Her lips curl. “And your makeup is ghastly.”

Did I wear makeup today? I touch my kiss-swollen lips. I can't remember applying any. My focus wasn't on my appearance. It was on Hawke.

As I think this, the air shifts around me, an exciting energy lifting the small hairs on the back of my neck. I react this way to only one person. Hawke, my fiancé, the man I love, is near.

“You look stupidly happy with your security guard.” Derision glitters in Tara's cold, brittle eyes. “How long will that last, I wonder? Will it be months or weeks before he hops on his bike and leaves you?”

She hates me. For the first time in my life, I ask myself why. I've never done anything to warrant her loathing. Could her attacks be a deflection, as Mrs. Davis's were, as Mr. Wynters's were? Were her criticisms about herself, not me?

Have I been trying to impress someone who is more fucked-up, more miserable and self-loathing, than I've ever been?

“He clearly spent every last dime he had on your ring.” Tara's gaze flicks to my finger. “Enjoy the diamonds now, because they'll soon be pawned to pay the rent on a pitiful apartment in some nasty neighborhood.”

“Tell her who I really am, Belinda.” Hawke's voice is edged with anger.

“You'd do that for me?” I glance over my shoulder.

“I'd do anything for you.” He's serious. I see this in his eyes. He'd reveal his ownership of the Organization, his vast wealth, to give me one moment of satisfaction, the glory of seeing Tara realize that I now have everything—wealth, power, a man who would do anything for me.

A man I love, a man I wouldn't ever put in danger. My gaze returns to the beautiful blonde. I don't need Tara's approval. I have Hawke's love.

“I'll tell Tara who you really are, Hawke.” My voice grows louder. I want everyone in the diner to hear this, to never doubt his worth. “My husband-to-be is more than a security professional, much more.” I lift my chin. “He served in the marines, traveled overseas, saw combat, war. It doesn't matter what he's doing now, how much money he is or isn't making. He was prepared to die for our freedom, to protect you and me. That alone earns him our respect and my love.”

“Hear! Hear!” Men and women raise their glasses, clinking them together.

Tara's face reddens. Her mouth opens. She looks at the men around us and presses her lips together. That's a smart decision. Whatever hurtful comment she was about to make wouldn't find any support with my new friends.

“I love you, Belinda Carter,” Mack calls, and the men laugh.

“I'm taken, Mack.” I smile at him. He smiles back at me.

I then pivot on my designer heels to face Hawke, ignoring the team's gibes, teasing, laughter, turning my back on Tara and on my past.

My military man's face glows with pride, with love.

I did that, put that lopsided smile on his lips, that warmth in his eyes. “Let's show my mom the ring.” I curl my fingers around his worn, weathered palms.

He leads me through the crowds. Our progress is slow. Men ask me if I have any single friends, tease Hawke about securing a prize. That prize is me. I stand taller. They think I'm worthy of their leader, worthy of forever.

We stand in front of a wall of screens. My mom's beaming face appears on the first display. Her hair is loose. Her smile reaches her eyes. She looks a decade younger than she did a week ago.

My relationship with Hawke did that, took the worry from her heart, her soul.

“Hi, Mom.” I wave at her, thrilled to have her with me on this special day.

“Hi, honeybee.” She waves back. “You're famous. You're on TV.”

“So are you.” I grin, her excitement escalating mine. “Did you see Hawke's proposal?” I hold up my ring. The diamonds catch the light, splitting it into a rainbow of colors.

“I saw everything.” She sniffs. Moisture glistens on her cheeks. “He's such a good boy. When he said there was no other woman for him—” Her voice breaks.

I swallow the huge lump of emotion forming in my throat. “He wants to marry me, Mom.” My vision blurs. I can't believe this has happened, that all of my dreams have come true.

“He
will
marry you.” Hawke wraps his arms around me, his chest warm against my back. “You're my girl, Belinda.” He rests his chin on the top of my head. “That makes you one of my girls, too, Ms. Carter, and my girls don't worry about anything, understand?”