by Holly Rayner
His For A Price
Holly Rayner
Contents
His For A Price
1. Julien
2. Ashlynn
3. Julien
4. Ashlynn
5. Ashlynn
6. Ashlynn
7. Julien
8. Ashlynn
9. Ashlynn
10. Julien
11. Ashlynn
12. Ashlynn
13. Julien
14. Ashlynn
15. Julien
16. Ashlynn
17. Julien
18. Ashlynn
19. Julien
20. Ashlynn
21. Julien
22. Ashlynn
Epilogue
Big Greek Baby Secret
Introduction
1. Maxine
More Series by Holly Rayner
His For A Price
Copyright 2018 by Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Julien
I didn’t quite know how Marc’s bachelor party had ended up at an operatic pop show. Before the trip, there had been talk of strippers and shots and all the debauchery Las Vegas had to offer, but somehow, there we were, shuffling into bar seats at some kind of live music club, surrounded on every side by couples as old as our parents.
“Is this seriously the best thing happening in Las Vegas right now?” Alain whispered loudly in my ear, a blond eyebrow raised in doubt. “Somewhere, a woman is taking her clothes off, and we’re at a middle-aged music festival. The sign out front said ‘operatic pop.’ What even is that?”
“It’s not our bachelor party,” I said with a shrug.
I’d been a fan of opera since I was a kid. Going to the theater with my parents had always been one of my favorite outings, so the idea of operatic pop was mildly intriguing, at least. Alain, however, seemed to have missed that particular cultural experience.
“Julien’s right,” Marc slurred. He leaned forward and pointed at his own chest, nearly falling out of his seat. “It’s my party. I’m getting married.”
This elicited a round of clapping and cheering from the rest of the men in the row, all of them glassy-eyed and red-faced.
Alain gave a few half-hearted claps and turned back to me, lowering his voice. “All I’m saying is, I didn’t come all the way from Monaco at the height of racing season to listen to opera.”
Racing season in Monaco was Alain’s life passion—the cars, the women, the notoriety. Everyone knew racing was dangerous, especially with the tight turns on the FP100, but it was what Alain lived for.
I lived for it, too. The rush of adrenaline as I sat behind the wheel of one of the world’s most powerful cars, the stands around the track packed with onlookers from around the world…there was nothing quite like the excitement on race day.
“You’ll be back in plenty of time to woo your many admirers, Alain,” I teased.
“If I can win this year, maybe I’ll even steal a few of yours,” he shot back, pulling a face. Then, he relaxed back into his seat, expression sobering. “I just want to get back to training. It’s important to stay in a good rhythm in the weeks leading up to the race.”
“Your rhythm is fine,” I said.
“You would say that,” he snapped. “You’ve won the last three years. My rhythm of coming in second to you would seem fine to you, but as I’m sure you can imagine, it isn’t fine for me.”
“Actually, I can’t imagine,” I said, pursing my lips in deep thought. “I’ve never come in second.”
Alain elbowed me in the arm and we laughed just as the house lights dimmed and the curtain around the small stage parted. In contrast to the Vegas shows known for being overly flashy—smoke and flames and strobing lights—the stage was dark except for one spotlight in the center. A steady hum of music played in the background, like a heartbeat for the entire bar, building up the tension as the audience waited for something to happen.
Then, just as the hum in my ears began to reverberate into my bones, setting my body on edge, a woman stepped into the spotlight.
The light caught the edges of her golden-brown hair and white dress in a halo. She looked angelic in the spotlight. My breath caught in my throat, anticipation pulsing through me. Alain whispered something to me, but I didn’t hear it. I was too focused on the stage.
The music cut out and silence sat heavy over the crowd. It was still and quiet, and I became suddenly nervous that the build-up for the performance would outmatch the woman’s skills and it would be humiliating for everyone in the audience. But then, she opened her mouth to sing, and my worries floated away.
It was beautiful. Her range was unprecedented and the power behind each word glued me to my seat. I couldn’t understand why she was performing at a hotel on the Las Vegas strip instead of selling out arenas around the world. Her talent shouldn’t have been wasted on a half-drunk audience of men like Alain who would find more beauty in a naked woman sliding down a pole. Or even on middle-aged couples in the city for a weekend away.
The woman was a marvel, and she should have been filling seats at the best opera houses in the world. She should have been at the Teatro alla Scala in Milan, the Palais Garnier in Paris, the Metropolitan in New York.
“Are you coming?”
I looked over to see Alain standing up, shoulders raised in a half-shrug, anxious to get past me.
“Going where?”
“We’re leaving,” he said.
I looked to my right and saw Marc and the rest of the party squeezing between other patrons and slipping through the door of the bar.
“You don’t want to stay?” I asked, confused. Had he not been watching the same performance I had?
Alain screwed up his face, hesitated for a moment—clearly trying to decide if I was kidding—and then frowned.
“No, this is not the way I want to spend one of the few nights we have in Vegas. One of the guys met a dancer earlier who invited us to a party tonight. It might be lame, but anything would be better than this.”
The people sitting behind Alain began to grumble, waving their hands to urge him along and out of their way. He stepped over me.
“So, are you coming?”
I thought about leaving. It was Marc’s party, after all. At the same time, something about the woman kept me in my seat. She captivated me. I had to see more.
“No, I’ll stay,” I said. “I’ll see you back at the house.”
“You want to stay?” he asked, forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Yeah, you guys go ahead.”
Alain was still staring at me as the music transitioned from one song into another, and I turned my attention back to the stage. I don’t know how long he stood there, but when I looked over after the next song, he had gone.
My life had been filled with beautiful women and opulent parties for as long as I could remember. I’d grown up in a wealthy family and had then started a business that had grown larger than I
could have ever imagined. I’d traveled the world, exploring the seas in my yacht, tasting the nightlife in every large city across Europe. Alain liked to joke that I had a woman waiting for me in every city in the world, and he wasn’t so far off.
Yet, the woman on stage, whose name I didn’t even know, felt elusive. She felt unattainable in a way that only made me want her more.
The way she moved across the stage, her gown rippling behind her, was classic. Her voice, effortless and powerful, sounded timeless. I had spent my life chasing after the best things in this world. The best experiences, best cars, best people.
This woman was the best, and I knew instantly that I needed to have her in my life. I just had to figure out how.
Chapter 2
Ashlynn
By the time I walked offstage to a standing ovation, I could barely see. My eyes had adjusted to the lights while I was on stage, and as usual it took a few minutes for my pupils to dilate to a normal size. Of course, the lights of the bar had nothing on a proper theater venue—though I hadn’t performed in one of those in months. The bar gig was the first thing that had come along since my divorce had been finalized, and I was desperate enough for cash to accept it.
No matter the venue, it was always nice when the audience responded well to my shows, but the praise still felt hollow compared to the roar of the black-tied audiences in New York City.
“Great show,” Mike said, helping me untangle the cord of my microphone from my dress strap. He loved making jokes about being a sound guy named Mike, but thankfully I’d heard the joke enough times in the previous week to be officially pardoned from having to hear it again.
“Thank you. It wasn’t too bad. No one fell asleep tonight,” I said. “So, that’s an improvement.”
“I still think the old man meant that as a compliment. Your voice is soothing,” he said.
“Perhaps I’ll record an album of lullabies.”
“Hey, now there’s an idea!” Mike waved as I ducked through the curtain and into the general mill of the crowd.
Everyone was rising out of their seats and stretching, heading for the bar or the bathroom or the door. Most people imagined the acts as these separate non-human entities to the point where almost no one noticed me slip out from behind the stage and walk over to the bar. I’d been singing at the club for a week, and only a few people had recognized me from the stage and asked for an autograph or a picture.
I think part of it was also the stage lights. Rather than enhance flaws, the intense white light masked them, giving me a pore-free, porcelain complexion. In real life, standing less than two feet apart from one another, they could see the sweat across my forehead and the unblended lines of my makeup, and think, “No way, that can’t be the same woman.”
Not being recognized was actually my preference. Doing bar gigs was far from the highlight of my career. One year before, I’d been Gilda in a production of Rigoletto by Verdi. Now, I was basically an opera jukebox.
The bartender nodded at me and I gave him a thumbs-up. The usual. A glass of warm lemon water with honey to help my vocal chords cool down and a glass of wine to help me cool down.
I used to never drink while I was on tour. I’d heard women groan after a long day at work that they needed a glass or three of wine and a bar of chocolate, but I’d never felt that way. I’d liked my job. I’d toured the country for performances with different troupes and solo shows. Being on stage had left me lightheaded and giddy. It was a natural high that alcohol could never equal. Drinking was reserved for my time off.
Back then, I’d been gone a few weeks out of every month, and when I was home, I’d tried to spend all my time with my husband. That had become difficult, though, when his band had made it big. He’d been with the same group of bluegrass musicians since college, and it had always been a local thing; they’d played county festivals, flea markets, restaurants. But then, they’d found an agent, and suddenly, they were touring. It had been great, but it had also meant we didn’t see each other often.
Jonathan had wanted me to tour with him, but that would have meant I was never home. Not to mention, my own work commitments had required me to be available at a day or two’s notice, as when I wasn’t on tour, I’d been an understudy. One weekend, the lead soprano had broken her leg the day before opening night. I’d had to bolt out of bed, jump on a last-minute flight, and had only just made it in time for curtain.
My husband had thought I wasn’t supporting him when I couldn’t make it to more than one or two shows from their tour, and I’d felt he didn’t take my career seriously enough. Towards the end, even when we were together, there had been little to talk about. Our lives were like two parallel universes sitting side by side, but never crossing. We had drifted too far apart.
Rafael slid my warm water across the bar and gave me a thumbs-up—his sign that my performance didn’t entirely suck—and I smiled in thanks. I sipped the water and wrinkled my nose. It was a little heavy on the lemon, but it still felt good going down.
When I’d suggested a divorce to Jonathan, I’d expected him to agree wholeheartedly. Instead, we’d spent several hours screaming at one another, though I still couldn’t say now what we were fighting about. I think, to Jonathan, divorce meant failure. It meant he’d made a mistake, and he didn’t want to admit that to everyone. To his family. So, he’d contested.
By the end of the whole thing, it had felt like he was doing it purely out of spite. The lengthy legal process decimated the money I’d been able to save throughout our marriage. By the time I was ready to perform again, the troupe had found someone else to fill in for me and the hiring season for opera productions was over.
There had been nowhere for me to go. My reputation had taken a hit, and I’d had to start over to build it all back up again. I’d found myself accepting the sort of jobs I wouldn’t have even considered at the height of my Rigoletto days. I felt like a failure.
“Your performance was captivating.”
The French accent caught my attention first, but when I looked over to see the speaker lean forward, elbows resting on the bar top next to me, I had no choice but to forget his words entirely and devote all of my attention to his face. The man was gorgeous. Beyond gorgeous. He had perfectly tousled black hair, so shiny it belonged in a shampoo commercial, with ocean-blue eyes and a perfectly square jaw. Even stooped over the bar as he was, the man towered over me, well over six feet tall.
“This is the second night in a row I’ve come to see your show,” the man continued when I still didn’t respond. “My friends think I’ve gone a little wacky.”
“Thank you,” I said, finally finding the mental acuity to respond to his first statement.
He smiled, and I thought I’d melt on the spot. It couldn’t be legal for someone so handsome to just be wandering around with all the normal people. With a face like that, he was bound to start a riot.
“You really were incredible,” he repeated, waving to the bartender and ordering a drink with a few words and nods of his head. He was effortlessly cool, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why he was talking to me. “Have you been performing long? You seemed perfectly at ease on stage. It’s a beautiful show.”
“I’ve been singing since I was able, but opera specifically since college. Twelve years, give or take.”
I’d jumped at the chance to answer a simple question, trying to make up for my idiotic silence when he’d first arrived, but now, I worried I’d said too much. It was embarrassing to admit I’d been singing for twelve years but was still performing at bars. I only hoped he didn’t think too much on what I’d said.
“I’m Ashlynn, by the way.”
He smiled and took my extended hand, wrapping it in the warm expanse of his own. I moved to pull my hand back, but he maintained his grip on my fingers for a few more breaths, his thumb pad brushing across my knuckles before letting go.
“Yes, I read it on the marquee before coming in. I’m Julien.”
&nbs
p; “Where are you from?” I asked. “Your accent is French, right?”
“Very good,” he said. “I’m from Monaco.”
“As in, Monte Carlo? As in, world-renowned for casinos and nightlife?” I asked, eyebrows drawn together. “Why would you come to Las Vegas when you have the same kinds of things in your own backyard?”
He laughed. “Are you trying to say you don’t want me here? I can leave if I’m bothering you.”
“No,” I said, half in a panic. “I didn’t mean, well, I only meant—”
“I’m here for a bachelor party,” he said, interrupting me before I could make a blubbering fool out of myself. My emotions must have been smeared all over my face, because Julien leaned forward to catch my eye. “A friend’s bachelor party. My friend Marc is getting married,” he said.
I bit my lower lip, trying and failing to hide my smile. “I see.”
“Are you from Las Vegas?” he asked.
“No. I’m only here for a few weeks, and then it’s on to the next show.”
“So, you tour often?”
I nodded. “Wherever they’re willing to pay me, I show up.”
His eyebrows shot up in amusement, and then it was my turn to clarify.
“To sing. They pay me to sing. I sing for money.” My cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“Well, that’s great to hear, because I actually have a business proposition for you.”
I’d been flirting. After six years of marriage, I had nearly forgotten how to date or flirt. That muscle had gone unused for so long that I was liable to sprain it, so there was a chance my intentions hadn’t been obvious to the man.
But to me, we had been firmly in flirting territory. Now, suddenly, we were talking business.
“Okay?” I said, drawing each letter out until I ran out of breath.
“What would you say to an all-expenses paid trip to Monaco, where you will sing at the opening of the FP100? And, of course, you will be paid a fee befitting your extraordinary talent,” he said.
