Love For Sale

by Linda Nightingale

  Lord, it looked like she wasn’t going to come to her senses. Or maybe she’d wake up in the middle of a flight to London and regret would overwhelm her. If Mayfair made the arrangements, she couldn’t change her mind, could she?

  “Yes, thank you. Please make my arrangements.” Blind to detail, March stared at the tapestry of a piano she’d bought at the symphony. “My flight will be from Houston IAH.”

  “Perfect,” the woman said. “Do you have email? I can send your schedule in half an hour or so.”

  March gave the receptionist her email address. “Thank you. Very kind.”

  “Not at all. My pleasure.” The click of a keyboard sounded too close to be three thousand miles away. “Now, may I collect your credit card information to process? I’ll also need the security code on the back. Your name exactly as it should appear on the reservation as well.”

  Another tremor of excitement played over March as she fumbled in her handbag for her wallet. She extracted the card with total conviction of the heart and read the requested information to the receptionist. “For the reservation, just March Morgan.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and Madam, since you’ve booked an appointment, I am at liberty to tell you that tonight on the telly, we’re conducting a secret test. One of our male models will appear on a talk show. No one except Mayfair and those who’ve made appointments know he’s an android. You can see for yourself. You won’t be disappointed, Ms. Morgan, I can assure you.”

  Mayfair Electronics, Ltd. gave March the channel and rang off. The sudden silence sounded a wakeup call. She stared at the phone in disbelief. With this innocuous instrument, she’d just blasted her normal life to hell. Doubt crested on waves of humiliation. She hit the off button, wishing she hadn’t booked an appointment. Yet she was dying to meet these androids. And choose one for me.

  “Eager. I’m way past eager.” She tapped Favorites and scrolled to her boss’s number. “I was in such a hurry to be a fool I forgot to call and book time off.”

  March stunned Jim by requesting vacation starting tomorrow for two weeks. She’d worked for him and the oil company long enough to be able to pull off such a stunt. If she stayed insane, bought—adopted—a sweetheart, she needed time to get to know him and play with him. She flinched at the tail-end of that thought, but her pulse raced, and her hands trembled. In the year since her divorce, she hadn’t played with any man. She was a very sexual creature but too particular to spread her legs for the offerings.

  Nerves on end, she wandered the apartment. Sweat prickled her underarms. She took a mechanical sip from the abandoned mug. The coffee was stone cold. Marooned in her slip of a kitchen, she turned a full circle, studying the familiar walls. A small, rectangular mirror framed in stained glass captured her reflection. She looked like a sensible woman. Ah, but the romantic lurked behind those glittering brown eyes. The dreams that had fogged her vision and her brain faded, but it took a minute for her to realize that the lightheadedness was excitement not fear.

  She emptied the dishwasher, plunked the coffee cup on the rack and wiped the counters. Every five minutes, she glanced at the round face of the clock. Ten minutes dragged to fifteen, fifteen to thirty. Heart slamming her ribs, she strode to her computer, signed onto the Internet, and searched her email box. Her breath caught when she saw the Mayfair email. Tuesday, eleven o’clock British Airways flight from IAH to Heathrow, E-ticket; a reasonably priced hotel near the lab. The email included confirmation of payment, and March didn’t bat an eye at the expense. Rather, a tremor of anticipation pebbled her skin. The electronics company would send a car to the airport to pick her up. Details swam over her. The ground beneath her feet trembled as she exhaled a pent-up breath. Hot flashes of cold reality swept through March, a shiver rippling down her spine. It was going to happen. March Morgan was going to London to buy a man.

  Chapter 2

  Hugging her excitement, March waltzed around the living/dining room. The tabby cat cocked her head, staring at her owner’s antics, and meowed. She flung her arms wide, laughed aloud, and stopped whirling to dance in place.

  “Mail-order groom, Mugs.” She pictured a big cardboard box from FedEx on the stoop at the top of the spiral staircase and imagined sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to assemble a techno-wonder of legs and arms. Click Part A into Part B. The model will activate when you tighten Screw N.

  “I couldn’t even assemble the kids’ bicycles. He’d probably end up looking like one of those macabre toys in Toy Story!”

  Still smiling, she flopped on the sofa beside the cat and scratched the tabby’s ears. What should she do until nine o’clock when the talk show aired? If she thought too much about the appointment, she’d lose her nerve. She shot to her feet, wandered to the kitchen but was too wired to eat. In the fridge, she found an open bottle of red wine. She poured half a goblet and strolled to her office. Her desk faced the sliding glass doors, giving her a beautiful view of the ancient oaks that lined the stone paths. She logged into the network and tried to work from home, but her thoughts drifted to a tall, handsome young man with a computer for a brain. Affix his head to his neck and his package between his legs. If she made a mistake, would his thingy buzz and lights flash?

  Her giggles startled Mugs from a nap. “This is getting me nowhere. A walk is what I need.”

  Abandoning the wine on her desk, March pranced down the spiral staircase, strolled around the apartment complex, letting the wind whip her hair and caress her face. Wild fantasies spun through her mind. One minute in her thoughts, she was dirty dancing with her dream man; the next they were tumbling in bed, but her favorite fantasy was being wrapped in his arms and seeing the light of love in blue eyes. She smiled at her neighbors’ closed doors. Everyone was at work, but she was free. For fifteen minutes, she perched on the stone lip of the fishpond watching orange-and-white carp bubbling up for treats. How she looked forward to her nine o’clock treat!

  At six, when the commuter traffic hummed and the lemmings with briefcases hurried home, she climbed the stairs. The phone rang, startling her back to real life. She rushed into the apartment. Caller ID displayed a familiar number. The last person on earth she wanted to talk to now hung up and dialed back right away. The ringing jangled along her nerves. She dared not answer. Paul could puncture any balloon, and this dream was fragile. March and her ex had remained friends because of the children.

  What if something was wrong with one of the boys?

  “Hello,” she said with as much enthusiasm as a death-row inmate greeting the priest who’d administer last rites.

  “You didn’t go to work today.” Paul always managed to sound accusing.

  Bracing the phone between her chin and shoulder, she poured milk into a tall glass. “I had a doctor’s appointment.”

  “All day?”

  She heard the click of a lighter and the pop of a beer top. “Tests at the hospital.”

  March didn’t expect sympathy or any inquiry about her health. Paul wasn’t a nurturer and was clueless about how to show affection.

  “I went to a parent/teacher conference today.” Her ex paused, probably to take a long drink of beer. “Michael’s not doing well in school. Failing math, in fact. I think you should talk to him. He’s standing right here.”

  Guilt ripped through March. While she planned to gallivant all over the globe, Michael needed her. “Okay. Put him on the phone.” Why couldn’t Paul talk to the boys? They lived with him. “Hi, hon. What’s up at school?”

  “Nothing, Mom.” Standard reply, then a few tense words whispered aside to his father. “All right, Dad. I’m not doing well in math. Mom, when you coming to visit?”

  The question cut deep, bled into her voice. “My door’s always open.”

  “You could visit me,” Michael said. “And Paul Jr. and Dad.”

  “Michael.” She hoped he hadn’t heard the pain in her voice. “We live in the same apartment complex. You only have to walk half a block, and you’re at the foot of my stair
s.”

  She’d engineered the housing situation to be near the boys, maybe damn it, to be in some sort of lost-by-the-wayside comfort zone. They never came to her. She always had to go to them. Many late nights, she lay awake fearing she’d been a bad mom. Her stomach was the victim of this introspection.

  “So, Mom, whatcha’ been up to? I’ve got a new girlfriend.”

  “Me, nothing, same as always.” Except for buying a man. “I’d like to meet her. Can you bring her to dinner one night? Son, what grade point average are you pulling down in math?”

  “D.”

  “That’s not exactly failing.” She shook her head. Was this another of Paul’s attempts at a guilt trip? “But you can do better, can’t you? Please try. I’ll see if I can find a way to bribe you.”

  He laughed. “I’ll try, Mom. I need a car.”

  “Ouch.” March flinched.

  Her ex-husband was a hard taskmaster. Michael and Paul Jr. were good boys. Paul Jr. had inherited too many of his father’s anal retentive genes. She wasn’t his birth mother, but Michael was hers. She could hear it in his voice, the way he brightened when he spoke to her.

  “Whew, Dad left the room. I think he wants you to come over here tonight.”

  “Not tonight, son, but soon. It’s just that…well, are you okay? And Paul Jr.?”

  “I’m fine. Paul Jr. is Paul Jr. Mom, don’t worry—oops.” His voice faltered, Paul speaking in the background. “Yeah, I’ll do my homework. I know I can do better. Dad tells me so all the time. I don’t need math to have my own fishing show on TV. Okay, Dad. Thanks anyway, Mom.”

  “Bye, honey.” She settled the cordless in its cradle, staring into space.

  Shaking off nostalgia, March shrugged, but her heart ached. Paul knew she loved and missed the boys. He used her affections as a weapon. Never in this lifetime would she go near another control freak. He always made her feel rebellious. She switched the stereo channel to music her ex detested. Knights in White Satin was playing.

  Thinking about the lyrics, she opened the bottle of Sheldrake Riesling she’d bought at the rodeo. “And now I will celebrate insanity.”

  Today, she’d stepped way out of the box, and even if it was only for one night, she intended to enjoy her walk on the wild side. She plucked a plastic bag of snow crab from the freezer, fished the steamer from the cabinet and filled it with water. Tonight was be good to March night. She planned to eat her absolute fav.

  Humming Born to be Wild, she sauntered to the executive chair at her desk and switched on the computer. Her fingers took her automatically to Google and the words Mayfair Electronics seemed to appear in the search box. She devoured the text and pictures on the web page, searching for any clue about the androids. Of course, there were none. The firm had branches in London and New York, specializing in refined electronics.

  At eight thirty, she settled a plate of steaming seafood, a wine glass brimming with the Houston Rodeo’s Double Gold winner on the TV table, and hit the remote. A scene burst to life on the twenty-one inch screen—another hand-me-down from the divorce. No prob, since she rarely watched TV. Reading and her hobby, painting seascapes in Galveston, occupied her spare time, or maybe she’d take up pole dancing.

  “And now…he-e-e-re’s…Merle!” The cameras swept the studio before spotlighting the host of a popular talk show she’d never watched, his thick white hair gleaming under the hot lights. Once, he must have had dark hair. His eyes were a deep, chocolate brown. His smile was implant perfect.

  Focused on the upcoming guests, March listened, laughing at his amusing monologue, but her dinner required a lot of work for a little crab, especially with Mugs nudging her shoulder.

  After a rousing applause, Merle lifted his hand, and March tensed. “Tonight, our show is live from New York. Allow me to introduce the first in a shining lineup of guests. You’re all familiar with Jonathan Barker. Please welcome him to the stage.”

  The well-known actor waved to the audience, then, taking his seat, beamed a smile at his host. March paid close attention to the conversation. There was no clue that the tall, sandy-haired Jonathan was the android. In her video collection, she had every one of his movies. The man was only twenty-eight and had been married five times. Surely, he wasn’t Mayfair’s debut. Or had the electronics firm and their robot managed to fool moviegoers around the world?

  “Well, Jonathan, I understand you have a big announcement.” The host signaled the orchestra for a drum roll.

  Barker saluted the orchestra leader. “I do, Merle, in fact, a huge announcement.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” Merle said.

  Jonathan faced the camera, a proud smile on his handsome face. “My wife Joanne and I are expecting our first child.”

  He rose, extending his hand to his pregnant spouse, the cover model for last month’s Cosmo. The tall, slinky redhead cat-walked across the stage, slung her luxurious hair over her shoulder and greeted Merle.

  One down. Surely, an android couldn’t sire children. Did they even have the right stuff? March rested her head on the back of the sofa and laughed, imagining a flood of motor oil from his mechanical shaft. Lost in thought, she missed the remainder of Barker’s repertoire, and suddenly, the actor and his wife moved down for the next guest.

  “Oh, I’m getting the signal. It’s that time. Stay around for a big surprise after these few words. We’ll be back with a couple of guests you will not want to miss.” He lifted a hand. “I promise.”

  “Damn, they always show a commercial when you’re on the edge of your seat.” March cracked another shell, disdained the butter and nibbled the succulent crab. She’d never watched such a long truck commercial. The vehicle pulling the space shuttle was not even American engineered. The ad was an affront to U.S. car manufacturers.

  “I’m tapping my watch here. Let’s get on with the show.” She sipped her wine. “This is way too good. I wish I’d bought two bottles.”

  Suffering through a second commercial about a popular household cleaner, she yawned. Finally, finally, the talk show returned. Her mother liked the phrase grinning from ear to ear. Merle was demonstrating the old saying.

  “We’re back!” He stood, strolled to the front of his desk and addressed the audience. “Moving right along, let me bring out our next victim—I mean guest. This man is a world-renowned concert pianist as well as English aristocracy. Please welcome, Lord Morgan D’Arcy.”

  March gripped the arm of the couch. “Dear God, he’s gorgeous. Mugs, I’d like to tuck that one in the sheets or do him on the floor.”

  Tall, blond, and blue-eyed, the pianist sauntered onto the stage, turned and bowed to his stunned audience. He straightened, shook back his long hair and smiled at Merle, but March felt that smile was for her only.

  “Am I licking my lips, Mugs?” She tousled the cat’s head. “That could definitely be the android. He’s too perfect to be human. And he’s wearing a tuxedo. I love a man in a tux.”

  When he drifted gracefully to the sofa, the host returned to his seat. Merle looked at the studio viewers, his brows flickering. “Morgan, I know one question the ladies in the audience want answered. Are you married?”

  “I am. My wife, Isabeau, is in the audience, in fact.” He rose, beckoned, and a beautiful woman waved from center stage, second row.

  “She looks like Michelle Pfeiffer in Lady Hawk.”

  Had pretty Isabeau bought her hunk? If so, March would order that model. Mayfair claimed their androids were capable of being programmed with any talent. A classical pianist would do nicely for me. Her imagination supplied a vision of beautiful Morgan and Isabeau strolling hand-in-hand, gazing at the Georgian architecture on historic Dover Street. Google had shown her Mayfair Electronics’ corporate offices, a handsome example of the style.

  “What is your actual title?” Merle asked the blond god.

  Mischief danced in those eyes, the color of a summer sky. He smiled again, and March’s heart stopped. His voice would melt a gla
cier.

  “Earl of St. Averil,” he said in his too-too aristocratic accent. “The ancestral estates are in Devon.”

  Could the electronics company secure an Earldom for a droid?

  “I understand you’re in a time crunch. Will you play for us, Morgan?”

  “I shall be honored, but I have to dash off immediately afterward to catch a plane to London. Tomorrow night, I’m performing Chopin at the Royal Albert.”

  March nodded, repeating herself. “He’s way too perfect to be human.”

  Okay, maybe they could buy a title, or they stole it from some dead earl. Mayfair seems to be powerful enough.

  Morgan D’Arcy, concert pianist, English lord—and android?—glided to the grand piano. With his hand on the wing of the glossy Steinway, he performed an elegant bow. He flipped the tails of his tuxedo over the seat, placed his hands on the keyboard, and spun magic. Could an android play with such heart? As if he and the music were one?

  March exhaled a pent-up breath as the pianist rose, bowed, and exited the stage. For an enchanted moment, there was silence on the TV.

  “That’s him, Mugs. Too bad he’s taken, but they did say they could replicate any model with minor changes, ensuring that no two are alike. As it is with people.”

  Merle joined in the loud applause. When finally the audience stopped clapping, he made a grand, sweeping gesture. “Mason, ask the orchestra to prime their instruments.”

  “We’re all in our prime, Merle,” Mason joked.

  “Indeed. I see a few there with hair as white as mine.” He addressed the camera. “After the commercial break, our guest is a rising star in the operatic field. Again, I promise you won’t want to miss him.”

  Fidgeting, March watched a golden lab playing with a handsome man and learned how the premium dog food extended the animal’s life. An older man and woman strolled along a beach in a long drug advertisement while the announcer rattled off side effects including death.

  “Yep, sign me up for that one.”

  At last, when she was ready to throw the dish of crab shells at the TV, the commercials were over, and the show resumed. The cameras swept the studio, then focused on Merle, standing behind his mahogany desk.