Free For All (Red Light, Book Four) by Jayne Rylon Page A

and the bright green of a new season of my life.
    “First one to Centraal Station wins.” I stand up, harnessing increased leverage to rocket me onward through the dappled light splattering on the cobblestones we roll over with a cathartic rumble.
    “What’s the prize?” His laughing shout draws glances from couples strolling hand in hand down Paleisstraat toward Dam Square, likely aiming for breakfast from one of the sinful pattiseries lining the narrow alley. Scrumptious.
    I don’t bother to answer. He knows. We’ve played all sorts of games. I would swear we’ve left no sexual stone unturned except he surprises me every morning with the dawning of his creativity and our limitless desire for each other.
    I spot the tram half a block away and zip across its path with a wave to the driver. Rick follows, gaining ground. Heat rises up my thighs. I lean into the handlebars as though that will improve the aerodynamics of my traditionally clunky bike. I blame the drag caused by the outrageous faux flowers woven around the pink frame and my pretty wicker basket attached to the front when Rick encroaches in my peripheral vision.
    Up ahead, the hulking stone mountain of the train station comes into view, complete with the tangle of transportation pipelines pouring people into the beast from every possible approach like a faucet stuck on full blast. Trams, roadways, sidewalks, bike lanes and canals all converge here, in the very core of the city.
    Just when I’m sure Rick will flash past me for the win, I hear him call my name, this time without a hint of playfulness. “Sarah! Look out!”
    The shrill alarm of his bell peals without any effect. A rogue tourist on a rented, candy-apple red Mac bike bobs and weaves the wrong way through our lane. Visitors are more dangerous than the tram. The only thing in the city with the right of way over bicycles at least follows some rules.
    Sure enough—in hideous slow motion—the newcomer topples. He wipes out, splaying the carnage of his pride across the narrow roadway.
    Without sufficient distance to brake, I yank my legs up to my chest and squeeze through the gap between his tennis shoes, which point straight up into the air, and the side of a building. Nightmare visions of a thirty-bike pile-up à la the Tour de France zip through my mind as I come to a stop past the tangle of man and metal, out of the trajectory of the steady stream of cyclists approaching. When I glance over my shoulder, Rick swerves to a graceful stop, hopping off his bike.
    “Are you all right?” He hauls the heavy fellow to his feet as though he weighs nothing. I make a mental note to worship those sleek muscles later. One good turn deserves another after all.
    As the guy tries to settle his shortish, dark, sprinkled-with-a-touch-of-silver hair, Rick dusts off the unfortunate man’s back and ass. His locks persist in their adorable spiky disarray, despite his attempts to snuff all the flair from them.
    “Yeah, thanks. I’m good.” The tourist flinches from Rick’s helpful hand when it nears the seat of his pants.
    His American accent comprises a less accurate indication of his origin than that silly evasive maneuver. Puritan beginnings make visitors from across the Atlantic as easy to spot as if they had stars and stripes tattooed on their foreheads.
    When I catch Rick’s gaze, he rolls his eyes.
    I can’t suppress a chuckle.
    The man glances toward me and smiles. Wide.
    Rick perks up. He speaks low to the visitor, too hushed for me to eavesdrop.
    The guy’s eyes bulge along with his pants. Road rash forgotten, he tries to disguise his crude junk adjustment behind surreptitious flicks of his fingers over the khaki of his cargo shorts, which have long since been tugged into some semblance of order. Or at least as close as the baggy, disheveled fabric can get anyway.
    From the inside pocket of his light blazer, Rick withdraws a business card. He slips it to the crash victim before clapping him on the