Authors: Cynthia Sax
“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?”
L
ONA 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 fingers.
“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.”
Hawke is risking everything for me—the exposure of his identity, the well-being of his loved ones and his business. He’s uncomfortable in his tuxedo. This is obvious by the way he’s plucking at his sleeves and rolling his shoulders, his muscles straining the seams of his jacket. He’s worried about our safety, his body tense with trepidation.
Why is my former marine making these sacrifices? So I can walk into a room and feel like I belong. There will be no one in the ballroom I like, very few people I know. Some of the attendees think I’m a whore. Some of them treat Hawke and his team like shit. Some of them didn’t return Cyndi’s phone calls when her father disowned her.
I lift my chin. We’re going out, but not to the Magnificent Ball.
Hawke presses the button for the elevator, the doors open, and we enter. He selects parking level one. I gaze at our reflections in the mirrored walls, admiring the fit of his jacket, the line of his pants, the shine of his shoes.
The sophisticated clothing barely contains my primitive man. My toes curl in my heeled sandals. The tuxedo doesn’t conceal the bluntness of his features, the scars on his skin, his flattened nose, or closely cropped hair. He’s a brute and he’s mine and I wouldn’t want him to be anyone other than who he is.
“I have an urge to lick you all over,” I whisper. “From the tip of your toes to that thin scar on your hairline.”
Lightning flashes in his blue eyes. “None of that talk tonight.” He waves his right index finger back and forth.
I yearn to draw it into my mouth and suck. My eyelashes lower and my lips part.
Hawke groans. “You’re killing me, love.” His voice deepens. “I can’t be distracted.”
“Then you shouldn’t have worn that sexy tuxedo.” I give him my most seductive smile. “I want to yank the sleeves off your jacket and bare your massive arms.”
“That would be a more fuckin’ comfortable style,” he murmurs, fidgeting.
“I could make you
very
comfortable.” I turn to him, press my breasts against his chest and trace his lapels, savoring the rich fabric.
“Stop teasing me.” Hawke catches my wrists, removing my hands from his body. “This isn’t a game, Belinda. There could be hostiles at the event tonight. They could . . . ” He swallows hard, his jaw working. “They could hurt you.” Emotion chokes his voice.
“They won’t hurt me,” I insist, gazing at his black bow tie.
“They won’t because I won’t allow it.” Hawke’s grip on my wrists intensifies. “I can’t lose you, sweetheart,” he whispers, his words barely audible, as though saying them louder will make this possibility occur. “I can’t hold you as you bleed out, watch the sparkle fade from your brown eyes and the life seep from your face, knowing I’ll never kiss your lips again, never hear you laugh. I wouldn’t survive.”
I tilt my head back and meet his gaze. Oh my God. I reel backward, pummeled in the gut by the fear in his eyes. He’s scared, no, more than scared. My brave military man is terrified, his big body trembling.
I exhale slowly, light-headed. Hawke has seen war, urban terrorism, the worst violence humankind can dish out, and the possibility of me dying frightens him.
“You care for me,” I state, needing to hear this.
Lines appear between his thick eyebrows. “I would die for you, love.”
He would die for me. I’m his apple blossom future, his dirt path home. He bought a home for me, safeguarded my mom, made my wickedest fantasies come true. If that isn’t love, it’s damn close.
The doors open. Hawke takes my hand, walks with me into the underground parking level. A sleek black limousine takes up three spots. Mack, dressed in a black blazer, black crew neck shirt, and black dress pants, stands by an open door, his eyes twinkling.
The limousine is a stretch Hummer, of course. I shake my head, not knowing why military men are attracted to this brand.
“Are you ready for the ball, Cinderella?” Mack grins, the lights reflecting on his bald head.
“We’re not going to the ball,” I declare, standing before the vehicle.
Hawke stiffens. “We’re going. I can protect you. Trust me to do this.”
Oh shit. Now he thinks I don’t have faith in his abilities. “I trust you to protect me. You’re the best, and no one makes me feel safer than you do,” I assure him. “But I want to know what it is like to belong, to walk into a room filled with important people and feel like I deserve to be there.”
“You told me that.” He nods. “And we’ll make that happen . . . safely.”
I rub my hands over his sleeves, needing to touch him, to strengthen my connection with him. “That won’t happen at the charity ball.” I smile at my confused man. “That’s not where I belong.”
More lines etch around Hawke’s mouth and eyes. “I won’t bring you to an unsecured location. It isn’t safe and—”
I place my fingers over his lips, stopping his panic spiral. “We’re going to the Road Gator.”
“Fuck, yes.” Mack cheers, ripping his jacket off his big body. “I love you, Belinda Carter.”
Ugh. I glare at the man. Does everyone use those three words casually?
Hawke levels an equally hard glance on his subordinate. “We aren’t going to the Road Gator.” His gaze returns to my face. “You wanted red carpets and diamonds and beautiful gowns. You won’t find those there.”
“I will find some very pretty bikes there,” I tease. His tense expression doesn’t change. I sigh. “I can see gowns and diamonds and red carpets on TV. It’s the sense of belonging I truly want.” I place my palms on his tuxedo-clad chest. “Will I be accepted at the Road Gator?”
Hawke’s eyes soften. “They’ll welcome you with open arms, love.”