The Business of Sex

By Rhonda Leah

With Lee in her life, Laurel doesn't need the props she peddles.

Laurel Delacroix owns and operates The Rubber Tree, a sexual necessities shop, on Bourbon Street. She's spirited and independent, but when the man by whom she measures all others reappears in her life, she can't resist tempting fate. She might not do relationships, but she craves sex. And sex with her inspiration for The Rubber Tree is the best she's ever had.

Lee Carter is used to women dropping at his feet, but Laurel is different. She's a challenge in every way. When he finds out about the threats she's receiving, along with her store being vandalized and her condo torn to shreds, he'll do anything to protect her. . .and make her see they belong together permanently.

WARNING: This story contains explicitly fun sex and strong language.

30,373 Words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: Oct 19, 2009
• ISBN: 9781616500863

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http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

Dedication To my family for their support and understanding

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgements The Business of Sex is a work of fiction. Please be aware I have taken a few liberties with some specifics in reference to post-Katrina New Orleans to suit the story.

Thanks to everyone at Lyrical Press, Inc., especially Emma Porter. I’d also like to extend a special thank you to Renee Rocco for the wonderful cover art.

To Jeri for providing me with much needed inspiration at the right time. I don’t think I would have stayed on track without you.

In addition, I’d like to extend a very special thank you to a wonderful group of writing friends who have supported me for years—to the ladies of FY—each one of you holds a special place in my heart. Thank you for the continued support through it all.

Chapter 1

Let’s mark these down for quick sale. Laurel handed a box of candy cane condoms to Amanda, her assistant and best friend.

You don’t think they’ll fly off the shelves with Valentine’s Day around the corner? Amanda asked.

Those might, but the Rudolph ones won’t. Slash the price and put them by the register. She pointed to the antique oak sales counter. A modern cash register sat on one end, and beside it, a stack of new mail.

Drat, I missed the hunk-a-luscious mail guy, Amanda said, tossing the condoms into a white wicker clearance basket. She picked up the mail and flipped through the stack, stopping at a card-sized envelope. Cherry Laurel? Is this for you?

Hearing her childhood nickname for the first time in years, Laurel looked up. Her cousin Beau had tagged her with that name back in Madison Creek, the small town where she’d spent summers with her grandparents.

She took the envelope from Amanda to examine the postmark. Local New Orleans sender, but no return address. It could be from Beau, though she didn’t think he’d been in town recently.

Must be from someone I know. She shrugged. If you’re finished with the mail I’ll take it to my office. I’ve got to get some paperwork done this afternoon. I want a free weekend.

Laurel went to tackle her least favorite part of business ownership: the paperwork. The phone rang as soon as she sat down, and a half hour passed before she turned her attention back to the mail.

She examined the envelope again. The computer-generated black text looked generic, and gave no hint of who might have sent it. Her curiosity piqued, she slipped a letter opener under the seal and sliced it open.

Inside, she found a note on plain beige cardstock.

The Rubber Tree is hung full of protection. Can it protect you?

The eerie words were in the same generic font, centered on the card. A shiver snaked down Laurel’s spine. Taking a deep breath, she pushed away from the desk.

As she stalked to the sales floor, her temperature rose. Cripes. She thought the lewd comments had ceased. Granted, when The Rubber Tree opened two years ago it had stirred remarks from all types. Even a French Quarter location couldn’t guarantee acceptance for some business ventures.

Finding Amanda still straightening displays, she handed the card over. Get a load of this.

Amanda read, pursing her lips. Uh... That’s original. Any idea who might have sent it?

No. It’s odd, though. No one calls me Cherry Laurel except for people in Madison Creek.

Weird nickname. How’d you get it?

My cousin nicknamed me Cherry Laurel as a kid. I love cherries, and the Cherry Laurel is a type of tree. It sort of stuck. But not many people know.

Maybe it’s a coincidence. Have any customers been hitting on you lately?

She thought a minute. No more than usual.

Are you sure? We get all types in here, Amanda said, examining the card again. Maybe you should call the police. You know, to be safe.

You’ve got to be kidding. Don’t you remember how supportive they were when we opened?

Amanda snorted, but the phone interrupted what promised to be a spectacularly sarcastic comment.

Laurel grabbed the card from her hand and stepped behind the counter to answer the phone, a supplier calling with questions about an order. Knowing she’d never get out of here until he was dealt with, she slid a long file box from beneath the sales counter and settled herself on the floor to dig through purchase orders.

With February quickly approaching, they would need the extra massage oils, body butters and the assortment of sex games she’d ordered. She was still digging for her copy when the bell chimed over the door, signaling a new arrival.

A moment later, she heard Amanda ask, Can I help you?

I hope so.

Laurel frowned. There was something familiar about the voice. The tone. She was just about to have a peek at the customer when her caller began spewing out the numbers she needed. Laurel finished the call and was stowing away the purchase order box when Amanda came behind the counter, almost stepping on her.

She swatted Amanda’s leg as the customer with the familiar voice said, I’m looking for someone. Maybe you can help?

Possibly. Big city, Amanda said.

Look, I’m trying to find an old friend. Laurel Delacroix. Do you know her?

She exhaled. She would know that voice anywhere. He was the man she’d been head over heels in love with, the man she had wanted above all others. And the man who was serious about everything in life...except her. What the hell was Lee Carter doing here? In New Orleans? In her shop?

Laurel scrambled to her feet. He looked good, better than he had the right to. His dark hair was longer, his tan darker, and those sexy eyes as serious as ever. Lee, what are you doing here?

Laurel. His green gaze swung to hers and she could feel her body heat from the intensity. I uh... We’ve had some staffing problems at the office here, and I transferred to deal with it, he explained. When I talked to Beau, he suggested I look you up.

She sucked in a deep breath. The crown price of Madison Creek, in the flesh. She rolled her shoulders and walked around the counter, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing a kiss on his cheek.

His slightly stunned look told her he was still as uptight as he’d always been.

Damn, she’d missed him. I’m glad you did. You plan to be in town long?

Yeah. Permanently. But I’m looking for a place to live.

Ah. Well, great, she said. God, it’s good to see you.

She let him go and stepped back to the counter, grateful for its support. Her stomach dropped to her toes as she drank in the sight of the man she’d spent too many nights fantasizing about—the man she’d used as a measuring guide for all others.

A crazy curl of thick, almost black hair fell onto his forehead. It triggered memories of their last summer together, threatening her concentration. They were no longer in the shelter of Madison Creek. They were in a city where anything was possible. When his lips slid into a familiar long-line smile, her shoulders relaxed.

A movement by the door caught her eye as Tom, one of their regulars, stepped inside. He was dressed in a white button down shirt and black slacks, his normal work-wear as maitre d’ at one of her favorite restaurants.

Hello, lovelies, Tom said.

Hi, Tom. What can we do for you today? Laurel asked automatically. She had not built her business by ignoring her customers. While Lee’s appearance had her off kilter, she still had a job to do.

Tom’s hand closed on her shoulder, and squeezed. She tried not to cringe. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but he regularly invaded her personal space. She shifted positions, gently knocking off his hand.

Big night, must gather supplies, he said, and winked. He knew his way around the store and left her side to collect his loot.

When he returned with an armload, she asked, Are you on your way to work?

I am, he said, dropping everything onto the counter. She didn’t ask what her customers did with what they bought, and in all honestly she didn’t really care. But some regulars almost frightened her with their never-ending need to restock. These people were certainly having more sex than she was.

The new night chef does magical things with shrimp. You should drop in. I’ve always got a table with your name on it, sweet Laurel.

Thanks for the heads up. I’ll be by soon, she said, and left Amanda to ring him up.

She rejoined Lee, who was studying a piece of modern art she’d hung above a display case. After taking a deep breath, she asked him, Would you like to have dinner?

Lee’s easy smile sent her pulse racing. Magical shrimp?

She laughed. Sounds good, yes?

"Yes. It’ll give us a chance