Free Sinful Rewards 11 by Cynthia Sax

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
    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