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  Can’t Buy Love

  Jayne Rylon

  Red Light Series, Book Three

  What man would be crazy enough to date a whore? Star is a sex worker in Amsterdam’s red light district. After an intimate exchange between her and Rick, she’s hoped to take their adventure into affection farther. Too bad he’s disappeared for weeks.

  When he resurfaces to deliver her portion of the paycheck they’d earned by starring in a live sex show together, the magnetism between them proves irresistible. In the wake of undeniable passion, they’re left wondering if they can make a relationship work in unconventional circumstances.

  They’re both convinced you can buy sex, but you can’t buy love. And nothing else will satisfy their hunger for each other.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  Can’t Buy Love

  ISBN 9781419933141

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Can’t Buy Love Copyright © 2011 Jayne Rylon

  Edited by Mary Moran

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book publication February 2011

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Can’t Buy Love

  Jayne Rylon

  Dedication

  To every reader who has sent me fan mail, from the most extravagant letter to a quick note. You keep me motivated and make my day. Thank you!

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Ducati: Ducati Motor Holding S.P.A. Corporation

  Yamaha: Yamaha Motor Co. Ltd.

  Bleeding Love

  I scour the bobbing faces that comprise the current of humanity streaming past my window. None of the unfamiliar features belong to the man I crave. Rick. Where is he? He should stride by my booth in Amsterdam’s red light district, or maybe hop inside for quick relief—his and mine—and end up being a few minutes late to his post as a bouncer for the live sex show debauching the other end of the block.

  Should.

  If he maintains his clockwork schedule. Sometime in the past three years since I’d opened my window to negotiate the first of a million not-so-standard suck and fucks with him, I’d noted his rock-solid patterns in the recess of my mind. Worse, I’d become accustomed to his routine. Until he let me down by withholding my glimpse of him.

  For two weeks straight.

  My cell phone’s simple bell tone startles me, jarring me from my obsessive inspection. I don’t have to leave my perch on my stool to reach the tiny stand holding my ledger, a lockbox, a clock and my phone. I tilt the screen toward myself, hoping the glowing readout proclaims Rick is attempting to contact me despite never having given him my unlisted number.

  Oh crap. Not only is it not him, but it also seems I’ve been busted.

  I hit the receive button, bracing myself for a typhoon of well-intended scolding.

  “Perk it up over there, sister!”

  I can’t help it. I laugh when Mari shouts so I can hear while I bring the device to my ear. She’s not psychic. She works the booth across the street from mine. I glance up to witness her blowing me a kiss. Instead of catching it, I bat it back with my middle finger.

  A couple stares at me as though I’m crass simply because of my profession. Well, if the gesture fits…

  “Don’t you have anybody else to harass? Your regular Tuesday-at-nine customer likes it when you spank him. Save it for someone who will reward your effort.”

  Mari sticks her tongue out at me, catching the interest of a young man in ripped jeans who probably couldn’t afford a fifteen-minute session with the high-end workers in this section of the district. Too bad, he seems cute and frisky. Exactly the type Mari prefers and attracts with her lighthearted, playful offering.

  “Seriously, Star.” Mari pauses her habitual swaying to meet my gaze across the canal and the river of people passing us by. “Are you all right? I’ve never seen you so solemn. No dancing, no flirting, no smiles for the shy guys…”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Just lovesick.”

  “How the hell did this happen?” I massage the ache at the base of my neck.

  “Well, you met this smoking-hot guy who doesn’t seem to mind that you service other men for a living. Then somehow you left him hanging.”

  “Mari—”

  “Sorry, Star, I’m just joking. Not the right time. I know.” She’s seldom serious and I can’t fault her for it now. Men adore banging her silly. Perky and intelligent don’t often pair up. And it’s not as though she’s entirely wrong. “I hate that you’re hurting. It’s like the time that drunk bastard hit me when I wouldn’t agree to anal and you flew off the handle. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t chased him off with your wicked heels. I just… Let me be here for you?”

  “I appreciate the thought. But there’s no bad guy this time. No one to hunt and destroy.”

  “More like someone to hold hostage and perform all your tricks for until he sees what a mistake he’s making. Look, maybe Rick’s spending an extended time with his family. You said he’s close to them, right? He headed home for the holidays. I’m sure…”

  “I convinced myself that was the case for the first week. The holiday season is peak time around here, sex shows included. Tommy can’t be down his best bouncer for that long. Rick has to be back by now.”

  “Do you want me to ask around? I can take a break later tonight and run over there quick. I can be stealthy.”

  “What part of daisy dukes and two sunflowers on fishing line covering your ginormous tits will camouflage you in the middle of winter?” I glare at her from my post. “Don’t you dare. No way. I won’t be that girl. Come on, how attractive is it when one of our clients turns clingy? Takes things too far. Rick and I fucked. Onstage. For a ton of cash. And celebrated afterward in private. It might not have meant anything more to him.”

  “And you?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he never shows up at my window again. He’s allowed to change his mind.”

  “Shit, and he was a loyal customer too. Maybe your best.”

  “No kidding. I’ll miss…” I can’t bring myself to admit it. “The income.”

  “Liar.”

  “Bitch.” I smile as I deliver the lighthearted curse. “Pay attention. The younger, blond-haired guy approaching from the north looks interested. He’s done a not-so-subtle browse twice already, debating. Seems like he could be a fun one. Nice body under that soft gray fleece.”

  “Damn, you’re right. I gotta go. I’ll check in later. Maybe we can grab
some breakfast?”

  “Sure.” If my appetite for nourishment in forms other than a hunky bouncer reappears anytime soon.

  Why did Mari have to plant her wild ideas in my brain—in my heart? She couldn’t have known Rick’s boss Tommy had arranged to drop off my check from the Kinkmas pageant in less than a half an hour. How hard would it be to ask, casually, if Rick had made it home yet?

  Damn it, no. If my costar—my client, my friend and the only true lover I’ve ever had—cares for me to know where the hell he’s vanished to, he’ll impart the news himself. Did my decision to walk away after a night of public thrills and private sharing kill any chance we had to sustain even our casual relationship? Had he realized dating a sex worker couldn’t lead to anything but disaster?

  Truth is, I’m afraid to ask. I’ve nurtured the fuzzy tingles in my belly, hoping for another chance to stretch our boundaries or at least return to the intimate exchange of pleasure we’ve perfected over numerous sessions in my window.

  The answer could fracture the delicate spark glowing in my core. It’s too new, too brilliant for me to take the chance.

  So, I stand here, wearing the platform-heeled boots that make me the perfect height for Rick to fuck while I’m standing, bent over on my loft stairs. I wait—not so patiently. I dream—of what might have been with one special partner while hundreds of others consider purchasing the goods I would freely give my absent lover. A fraction of what I’d gift him with really since our trust ensures I’d journey deeper into kinky sexuality in his arms than I would with the average patron.

  Our electrifying Christmas show had proved the extremes we were willing to indulge in onstage before the admiring gazes of a thousand or so strangers. Could Rick abandon what they’d all applauded, the chemistry arcing between us as bright as the sparks he’d harnessed to thrill me? My hand slips over my ribs to cup my breast, rubbing my straining nipple.

  A man crashes into the bicycle rack in front of my window.

  Not the first time that’s happened. Mari and I have joked about strapping a pillow to the weathered metal or covering the flaking paint with a coat of florescent orange to avoid a negligence lawsuit.

  Even the unintended compliment can’t inspire my smile for long. I miss the radiance of Rick’s eyes, the imperfection of his twice-broken nose and the well-muscled frame he fills out so damn well. Almost as much as I mourn the loss of his open-minded acceptance, genuine attentiveness and the natural attraction that billows between us like a mushroom cloud whenever we enter the same space.

  A gnawing ache twists my stomach. Hunger has built inside me since I rejected the feast Rick offered on Christmas day. Despite my ironclad belief it had been the right decision for Rick and his family, fifteen days have oozed by with the bizarre unnaturalness of ultra-slow-motion video. By running out on Christmas day, I sacrificed my chance to go back for seconds, thirds or five hundred and seventy-sixths of the passion he inspires in me, sweeter than any dessert. Like a woman on a restrictive fad diet, the longing for a taste of him—even just a quick blowjob—is driving me insane.

  When did I become the sort of woman who reconsiders her outfit in case a particular male happens to catch a glimpse of it? Or one who fusses with arranging herself at the best possible angle for viewing from his usual direction of approach?

  I can’t pinpoint the exact moment he altered me.

  Still, that doesn’t stop me from scrutinizing each tall tourist with close-cut yet messy hair or wilting a tiny bit more with each near miss.

  I glance at the clock beside my ledger. Quarter after nine. His shift has already begun. He’s never late—too dependable for tardiness. A do-gooder bad boy, if such a thing is possible. He’s not coming. Again.

  My sigh buffets the soft, natural waves of my hair, which hides my eyes as I study the ancient hardwood flooring. Until a familiar triple knock rattles the glass.

  Snapping to attention, I lift my face. The neon lights outside blind me for a moment as my pupils dilate. I can’t mistake the distinctive rap of one of my key customers.

  Oh thank you, thank you.

  Despite three hundred and sixty-three hours of imagining this instant, I’m stuck drifting like a sailboat with no wind when it finally arrives.

  Frozen, I stare into his usually welcoming face. Tonight it suits the blustery weather better than the radiance of my sheets after his skin has infused them with his heat. Enthralled by his odd grin, tinged with more than a dash of grimace, I don’t notice his gesture immediately.

  This time it’s his palm pressed to my window. I lift my hand toward it, prepared to meet him halfway, before I realize there’s a light blue piece of rectangular paper trapped between his broad fingers and the chilled glass.

  Not a social call.

  And not the kind of business transaction I’d have settled for, attempting to hide my disappointment over. This is why every hooker knows better than to allow attachment.

  Every one but me.

  I should have refused to service him the moment affection developed between us. But if I’m honest, I often rely on empathy to mold myself into the perfect partner for my guests. Wise or not, I’m connected to almost all the people who request my services whether they seek physical relief, companionship or something more complex. It’s one of the reasons I command top prices in the district and have so many repeat clients.

  Like the one I spot approaching behind Rick.

  No, no, no. Not now! I never refuse a prospective client I have a positive history with. Reputation precedes me.

  There’s a handy weathered wooden bench right beside the infamous bike rack. Men have oftentimes sat and waited for an availability, occasionally meeting a fellow flesh connoisseur who they share their session with or join afterward at the bar for a beer and a fond recounting of the services they selected.

  I try to focus on Rick. Still, he must notice my gaze flicker to the man settling in for the long haul. The guy on deck withdraws a fancy phone from his pocket and tinkers with the screen. Reading, checking the stock market or surfing porn, I have no idea. Not likely to bore quickly and give up in any case.

  Rick angles his muscular chest to block the guy’s view of the document he slips through a crack in the glass. I attempt to open the door. He pins it closed.

  “Take it.” His low speech is muffled by the window. Good thing I’m used to translating.

  “Tommy sent you to do his bidding?” I can’t help it. I wallow in my disappointment and frustration for one moment of snarkiness.

  “I think he’s trying to play matchmaker.” Rick frowns. “Put that away before anyone notices.”

  I glance at the five figures handwritten on the check.

  I blink.

  Then I raise my wide eyes.

  “I know.” He laughs. A real laugh. The deep rumble I’ve dreamt of for two long weeks. “I think I almost crapped my pants when Tommy handed me mine.”

  “I told you, I’m giving you half my cut.”

  “I would refuse except…” He winces. “Tommy already paid me fifty percent of your take. That is your portion, as we defined it.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah. He says you’re welcome to guest star anytime you like.”

  “Only with you.” I would drop to my knees and beg him for an encore presentation if I thought it would persuade him. Disgust at my weakness follows quickly, spinning my carousel of emotions faster and faster until I’m dizzy and can’t tell which direction to turn.

  “My acting days are over, Star.”

  “So now it was all for show? Bullshit. The magic between us had nothing to do with pretense.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then what did you mean, Rick? Why won’t you come inside?”

  “Because I can’t fuck you and pretend it doesn’t mean anything anymore. I stayed away because I knew if I saw you, I’d have to have you,” he whispers. I can hear every phrase as though he etches it onto the wreckage of my heart.
>
  I press on the window frame. He leans against it with equal and opposite force. “I’m not asking you to hide from what’s evolving between us.”

  “Then why did you leave my house?”

  “You know why. It wasn’t the right time. I had to think. So did you, Rick.”

  “And now I have.”

  “What did you decide?” A lump the size of the knot that had blocked my windpipe the first time I climbed the narrow staircase to the infamous bookcase in the Anne Frank house nearby lodges in my throat as I wait for him to enlighten me.

  “Nothing. I’m not sure that what I want and what I should do are the same thing.” He sinks forward, resting his forehead on the glass of my booth. “No matter how long or hard I consider the situation…us…I can’t decide what’s right.”

  “Can we talk? Figure this out together?”

  “If I step over this threshold, I’ll be buried inside you in two seconds flat. I won’t even bother to shut the curtain. Mari and the rest of the world will watch as I show them how badly I need you.” He growls. “Don’t tell me it’s any different for you. I swear I can smell your pussy from here.”

  “I’ve ached for you since the moment I crawled from your bed.” I slip my hand between my legs, pressing on the bare, puffy lips of my cunt through my skimpy bikini bottoms.

  “Excuse me.”

  Rick’s head swivels sharply. For a man always aware of his surroundings, he’d been as oblivious as I was to the approach of my waiting guest.

  “I was wondering…”

  The would-be customer stalls when he catches an up-close-and-personal glimpse of the raw need raging in Rick’s eyes. Impressive, I agree.

  “Oh sorry. It seemed like you weren’t intending to… I mean, I sort of have an appointment elsewhere later and I’ll have to… I’ll stop by another time, Star. Sorry to interrupt.”