Free Sinful Rewards 11 by Cynthia Sax Page A

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