Can't Buy Me Love. HEATHER MACALLISTER

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      Beaming, Sunshine bounced on the edge of the bed.

      Alexis was taken aback. The maids were very friendly here.

      Sunshine leaned forward, revealing an alarming expanse of pushed-up bosom. “How did you do it?”

      “Do what?”

      “Get him to keep paying!” Sunshine giggled. “Just getting him to marry you is what we all hope happens one day before we lose our looks, but how did you get him to agree to keep paying you afterward? Everybody knows it’s supposed to be free then.”

      Alexis opened and shut her mouth. Twice. She should be offended, but this young girl was so good-natured and so eager and, well, the fan thing was flattering.

      “I’m making a lot of money now and won’t be working after I’m married.”

      “Exclusivity, yeah, I can see that. But marriage is usually enough.”

      “That is where women go wrong.” Alexis warmed to her theme. “It should be enough. But what happens when you get a little older, you have a couple of kids and things begin to sag and hubby turns you in for a younger model? There you are with your best earning years behind you, and what have you got?”

      The awestruck look on Sunshine’s face was exactly the balm Alexis’s frayed nerves needed. Her headache receded. Her self-confidence blossomed.

      “And it’s good for him, too,” Alexis continued. “Think about it. He knows darn good and well you can afford to walk out of the marriage if you don’t like it, yet you choose to stay. Frankly, it’s got to be a huge ego boost.”

      Were those tears in Sunshine’s eyes? “You’re such an inspiration,” she whispered.

      Somebody finally got it. The last of Alexis’s headache eased.

      “You’ve got to meet Miss Arlotta.”

      Miss Ar—oh! That must be the wedding coordinator. Alexis was late. “I know.” But how did Sunshine know?

      “She’s in the attic. I’ll take you there.”

      The attic? There had been talk of choosing between two trellises. Maybe that’s where they were stored. Alexis stood and stepped into her shoes. “Thanks.”

      “This is such an honor,” Sunshine said.

      She was piling it on pretty thick, Alexis thought, then wondered if maybe meeting Miss Arlotta was the honor. She might be very exclusive. Quite honestly, sometime last week, Alexis had stopped asking the price of things.

      As they walked down the hallway, Alexis looked to the smiling girl bouncing along next to her. “Great costume.”

      “I know.” Sunshine raised a diaphanous panel of the long wrapper she wore. “I was going for innocent naughtiness. The old guys love it.”

      The maid sure was blunt. “Good tips, huh?”

      She shrugged a milky-white shoulder. “I did okay. Better than some, not as good as others.” She poked Alexis with her elbow. “They love it when they see something they think they’re not supposed to be seeing. You might remember that.”

      “Uh, okay. I think it’s a very clever marketing strategy for the hotel to play on its infamous past. I was looking at all the memorabilia in the little parlor downstairs.”

      “It was the high rollers’ parlor. For the best customers and, of course, the best girls. Now, me, I figured it was the old guys and the widowers who had the money to spend and I got them to askin’ for me special. Smart, huh?”

      Listen to her. She was so into her part. Alexis was charmed. “Very.”

      “’Cause once I got to the high rollers’ parlor, other high rollers could see me and some of them would ask for me, too.” She looked momentarily wistful. “Some of them were mighty fine o’ face. Like your beau.”

      Alexis knew she was referring to Dylan. Were there cameras in that private dining room? “How did you know?”

      Sunshine stepped aside and indicated a door near the fire exit. “Attic stairs.”

      Alexis didn’t open the door. “Sunshine, how did you know about Dylan?” If their privacy had been invaded, she wanted to know about it.

      “I saw your face.”

      Her face? She’d always thought she was good about masking her emotions. And, hey, there weren’t any emotions to mask here, at least not the nostalgic kind. “Was it obvious?”

      “Only to me, honey.”

      A stranger could figure out that there had once been something between Dylan and Alexis? That was not good.

      “Let’s go,” Sunshine urged.

      Maybe she should bring it up with Vincent. That would probably be best, Alexis thought as she opened the door and started up the stairs. A casual mention that they’d dated in law school—but then he’d wonder why she hadn’t brought it up before. As she’d explained to her mother, the problem here was that there was no problem and as soon as you tried to explain that there wasn’t a problem, people immediately thought that there was a problem, only you were trying to hide the size of it.

      Alexis was so lost in thought that she’d climbed halfway up an extremely dark and dusty staircase before the rickety handrail had her thinking that this couldn’t be meant for guests. Talk about a lawsuit waiting to happen. She turned around to mention it to Sunshine. It was so dark, Sunshine nearly disappeared in the gloom. In a trick of what light there was, Alexis thought she could see the stairs right through her. She blinked.

      “Just a little farther,” Sunshine said.

      “You should tell the manager to install more light here. I’m surprised the building inspectors have let this go.”

      “I don’t think the building inspectors see this staircase.”

      “That’s not really the point.” Alexis came to the door at the top of the stairs. She reached for the old-fashioned door handle. “Is that original to the building?”

      “As far as I know. I’ll get the door.”

      Alexis never saw her touch it, yet the door creaked open. “That sounds like original hardware, too. I can’t believe the owner isn’t maintaining it.”

      And then Alexis forgot about hotel-maintenance problems because the sight of the attic room rendered her mute.

      It was as though the picture of the former brothel’s soiled doves, which hung in Sunshine’s high rollers’ parlor, had come to life. A group of young women, dressed in Victorian dishabille, lounged around boxes, trunks, old sheet-covered furniture and generations of castoffs.

      “I—I thought this was a private meeting…”

      “Hey, girls! Here she is! This is Alexis O’Hara.”

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