Love For Sale

by Linda Nightingale

  “Our next guest is totally worth the wait. He is under thirty and…well, you shall soon see. Ladies, I give you Daniel De Bella, the Italian virtuoso who’ll capture your hearts. Gents, listen to a tenor to rival any star of the opera stage.”

  Svelte as a panther, he strode through the lights as if he owned the theater. A tuxedo a shade blacker than his hair emphasized his slim, muscled body. Tall, dark, and handsome, he bowed to his audience. Barker’s cover girl looked different with her jaw dropped. Daniel gave the other man’s wife a smoldering look and a sultry smile. Her Cleopatra-lined, blue shadowed eyes widened in admiration as he—man?—android?—settled on the couch beside her. March remembered to breathe. The host welcomed his latest guest and began the Q&A.

  “Where do you live, Daniel?” Merle asked.

  “London, but I travel quite a lot.”

  “What is your favorite food?” Merle twirled a gold pen on his desk. “Something Italian?”

  “Honestly…” He flashed a heart-stopping grin. “Lobster.”

  The host quizzed Daniel on everything from his music preferences to whether he had a girlfriend. He sat at ease, answered in his musical voice, expressions chasing across his exquisite face. When he talked, his hands illustrated with graceful gestures.

  “In women, what’s your type?” Merle fired the personal question.

  Daniel glanced at the camera and smiled. “All of them. I simply adore women.”

  “You know, Mugs. Daniel might be the robot.” March shook her head. “He’s dynamite, too.”

  Daniel delighted the audience with his dancing eyes, quick wit, and sexy smiles. The model gazed at him as if she could eat him alive. He appeared to be a living, breathing man, but then Mayfair claimed their androids were completely human. If there were no other male guests, it was a toss-up between the English D’Arcy and the Italian De Bella. Mayfair Electronics was in London, which might indicate the pianist, but Daniel had admitted that he lived in London.

  “I do not know, kitty cat. I simply don’t know which one it is.”

  The host laid his palms flat on the desk, leaning toward De Bella. “Daniel, will you sing for us?”

  “My pleasure.” The to-die-for creature rose, his movements fluid and refined.

  He strolled into the rainbow of spotlights and glanced at the orchestra.

  March dipped the last sliver of crab into melted butter. How many other prospective purchasers were watching this trial run? Daniel wasn’t her dream man, but he was gorgeous. His presence filled the stage, washed into her living room, and fed her craving for beauty. There were other models, four to be exact. One of them might be her perfect match—a mechanical soul mate. She smiled at her own joke. Lord, how she anticipated tomorrow! In a few hours, she’d be on a plane to London. Soon after, she’d meet these incredible androids. Yes, her 401K was on the endangered list.

  Daniel accepted a microphone, smiled at his listeners. His eyes were as black as his hair, his skin tanned and smooth. A red bow tie was a shock of color against his dark clothes and white shirt. The orchestra played the opening notes of the song. He tilted his head, slightly wavy hair brushing his collar. The romantic in March trembled as his voice rose like an angelic choir. His gorgeous body moved with his song. Nothing betrayed Daniel’s secret, if he had a secret.

  The secret belonged to Mayfair.

  To satisfy would-be buyers, the electronics company had recorded a message giving the android’s name on a special telephone number provided by the receptionist. March grabbed the phone and dialed. The line was busy. Other prospective purchasers checking in?

  “Well, damn.” She was off the sofa, striding for the bedroom. I should pack.

  Every five minutes, as she folded clothes into her case, she dialed again with the same result. She gritted her teeth in frustration, then returned to the pleasant task of choosing her wardrobe. What should she wear to meet the androids? She folded a dark blue pantsuit into the case, shook it out, and returned it to the hanger. Looking businesslike wasn’t the aim. She needed to be sexy, pretty, appealing. From the overstuffed closet, she chose a black dress with an asymmetrical hem and a matching shrug.

  Finally, packed and ready for adventure, at ten past midnight, the pring, pring chime of the British phone ended with one name. Daniel.

  March was so excited she was coming out of her skin.

  Shedding my skin. Being reborn.

  ****

  Heathrow airport swam with travelers from every corner of the world. Veiled Indian women in rich embroidered dresses floated like flowers amongst Hasidic Jews and pale blond Norwegians. The noise and blend of languages confused and unnerved March, but she made her way through the throng of strangers, tugging her suitcase toward fate. She held firmly to Daniel’s TV performance. The flight was the first step in a quest of the heart. She scanned the placards claiming disembarking passengers, not one of them printed with her name. Never having been out of the country, she was battling a sudden wave of nervousness. As she swam toward the exit doors, she looked at no one.

  She felt like it was stamped on her forehead, “I’m going to buy a man, a love toy.”

  I mustn’t think of him as a sex machine.

  Anxiety prickled her skin. What if no one showed to pick her up? She didn’t even have the address for Mayfair. In her rush to pack, she’d forgotten to print their email, and she was way beyond her comfort zone. Yet excitement fluttered in her stomach. She was still determined, but her courage faded each minute the car didn’t arrive. Had they forgotten her? Would the driver secretly laugh at her? Maybe they’d send one of the gorgeous androids to take her to the hotel. How would she find the car? She felt like a grain of sand swept on the tide of people surging toward the exit.

  The doors swished open on a rainy night. She was actually in the U.K., had always been charmed by a British accent. Travelers dispersed to black English taxis and limousines lined along the curb. If worse came to worst, she had the name of the hotel in her bag. She’d take a cab. As she stepped off the curb, a man raced toward her, a placard in his hand. Embroidered in red on his stylish white jacket were Mayfair Electronics, Ltd. and a geometric logo.

  She waved her arm frantically. “I’m March Morgan, the one you came to pick up.”

  “Madam, I beg your pardon. I’m Ben from Mayfair Electronics. Please allow me to take your luggage. I apologize for being late. There was an accident and…” he studied her with a reserved smile. “Ms. Morgan, welcome to London.”

  “Ben from Mayfair.” She grinned. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “Well I can imagine! Again, my apologies.” He took the handle of her luggage, reached for the canvas bag slung over her shoulder.

  “I can manage. It’s not heavy. Only a book and my jewelry.”

  Ben’s round British face and twinkling blue eyes reminded her of an actor from the BBC channel. In tailored jacket and black pants, the man was as lean as a blade, his hair a thick gray, groomed stiff like a TV evangelist. “No, no, allow me.”

  He settled the bag on top of her case, and faultlessly guided her through the melee of sounds, sights and foreign smells. Alone, she had to navigate her tangled feelings. Dread blended with anticipation and an ample dash of guilt. Ben ushered her to a white Rolls Royce. The expensive car looked offended to be parked between lesser neighbors. With an old-fashioned bow, he opened the door and handed her into the luxury of soft, tan leather seats.

  “The bar is fully stocked,” he said. “I’ll pour if you like.”

  A drink might settle her nerves. “Champagne?”

  “Most certainly.” He walked around the hood, opened the door and flipped the latch on a polished wood compartment between the seats.

  Smiling, Ben presented champagne in a cut-glass flute then returned to the driver’s seat. Two minutes after his ass hit the leather, classical piano drifted through the vehicle. March rested her head on the back of the seat, closed her eyes, and let the music and motion lull her into a daydream of wh
at tomorrow would bring. Tonight, in a Rolls Royce, she imagined she could pay any price. At 10:00 in the morning, she was afraid any pretense would be shattered.

  The Rolls joined the stream of traffic toward the city. March peered out the window, but the misty rain obscured the treasures of London. A sea of taillights and headlights swept them down the motorway. She was happy with her champagne…and her decision to visit Mayfair. Almost too happy to wait or to sit still. Tomorrow seemed like weeks away. She dared not think too much, but she dared to dream. Sipping bubbly, she watched the shapes of the old buildings scroll by. The chauffeur probably knew why she was here. A thousand questions burned her throat.

  March swallowed hard. “Have you seen the Special Editions?”

  “I have.” He glanced at her in the rearview. “They are called Special Editions for a reason. They are totally amazing. If my wife would allow it, I’d empty my savings account to buy Monica. She’s exquisite.”

  “I’m sure any wife would be jealous of perfection. I know I would.” Paul would dismantle the android limb by limb. She laughed, enjoying the feel-good moment. “Monica? So, they are named?”

  “Each of the model lines is named. The females are Monica, Dawn, Georgia, Marguerite and Samantha. It is anticipated that the purchaser will give his or her companion a personal name. They can be custom ordered as well.”

  “That’s good to know.” March refilled her glass. “What are the male model names?”

  “Trevor, Stuart, Marcus, Daniel and Christian.”

  “Nice strong names. In fact, Christian is my favorite name.” The champagne warmed her stomach, flushed her cheeks, and loosened her tongue. “I might buy one.”

  He captured her gaze in the rearview, smiled, and nodded. “I’m sure you will.”

  The man sounded confident she’d return home with an android. Which model would catch her fancy? Long after Ben’s attention returned to the road, March studied her reflection in the window. She decided she didn’t look like a fool. Would Trevor, Stuart, Marcus, Daniel, or Christian notice her light brown tresses were due a highlighting? Were they programmed not to care?

  Ben swung the Rolls to the curb in front of a Georgian building, opened the door and walked her to the checkin counter.

  “Goodnight, Ms. Morgan.” He turned her luggage, except the canvas bag, over to a bellman. “I hope you enjoy your stay in London.”

  “Thanks, Ben.” She slipped ten dollars into his hand.

  He shook his head and returned the money. “Thank you, Ms. Morgan, but no.”

  “I insist.” She extended her hand, folded bill in her fingers.

  “You wouldn’t want to endanger my position with Mayfair.” When he smiled again, she noticed his front teeth were quite prominent.

  It seemed that everything about Mayfair Electronics spelled classy.

  The hotel was suitably old, smelled of history, and looked like a page plucked from a travel guide. Not exactly the Ritz, but the ambiance appealed to March more than a modern hotel. Her room was small, the bed antique. The community bathroom was down the hall. Tucked in an alcove were a round porcelain sink and a gold mirror. A radiator hissed along the wall beneath the window.

  “I’ll skip dinner. I’m too excited to eat,” she told the woman smiling at her in the old-fashioned looking glass.

  Chapter 3

  “Ms. Morgan.” A pretty Asian girl in the Mayfair uniform of red and white gestured for her to rise. “My name is Melissa. If you’ll follow me, we’ll meet the boys.”

  March’s stomach flipped. The expectation and anticipation would soon be satisfied. She stood, picking up the completed documents from the inlaid desk. On the numerous pages, March Morgan was set forth in intimate detail.

  “Hello, Melissa. Call me March. Ms. Morgan sounds old.”

  The application consisted of an initial interview, the ton of paperwork, and a final interview when she’d chosen a companion. Mayfair didn’t call the Special Editions androids. Her hand trembled as she handed the forms to the girl. The time had arrived. She could scarcely hear over the pounding of her heart and rush of blood in her ears.

  Walking ahead, Melissa glanced over her shoulder. “Things like hair and eye color can be customized as can the features if you wish and have a photograph of what you want. Mayfair plans to sell only ten Special Editions initially. In the second production, none will be an exact replica of the first in that particular line.”

  “Why only ten?” March learned what it meant for your heart to skip a beat. What if she hadn’t surrendered to impulse—fate—and hurried to England?

  “Society isn’t advanced enough to accept androids as a different race, if you will.”

  March studied her guide as she followed Melissa along a Jacobean paneled corridor decorated with Impressionist art. She envied the other woman’s haircut. The black straight hair swept into a nice angle at the collarbone. March’s style was much the same, but her baby fine hair had a mind of its own. Their footsteps on the polished oak floor echoed in the silence. Melissa paused at ornate brass double doors and flashed her badge at the card reader. She stood aside, waving March ahead.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. A tremor passed through her as she stepped over the threshold into old world glamour. A round mahogany table with gargoyle feet claimed center stage in the expanse carpeted with exquisite Persian rugs. Walls of pale blue silk soared to a plastered ceiling. Two brocade sofas flanked the crackling fire. The opulence was overwhelming.

  What the hell am I doing here? I’m way out of my depth. She couldn’t even afford the gold-framed mirror capturing her terrified expression.

  “Melissa, I think I’ve made a mistake in coming.” She turned, but the other woman clasped her hand.

  “You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t take this chance.” She smiled encouragement. “I’m a Special Edition customized for our first client. Each one of us is different. The changes may be slight, but no two are alike, exactly as with humans. You wouldn’t want to show up at a formal party with the same dress as another woman.”

  March’s eyes widened in surprise. “It’s unbelievable.” She shook her head slowly. “You are a Special Edition?”

  The pretty android nodded and snapped the doors closed behind them. Here too was a card reader on the wall. The only way out was with a badge. A strange thought blazed through March’s mind. Was this the moment the door closes, and you discover you’re imprisoned in some bizarre experiment? Ridiculous, but a shiver played over her. What if one of the units malfunctioned?

  “Though you indicated your preference is for a man, we always introduce the girls as well to make the fellows feel less like they are on display.” Melissa strode across the room to an arched doorway. “Come, greet our visitor from America.”

  At the sound of footsteps, March tensed. She didn’t know what she’d expected, maybe for the androids to enter one by one for her inspection. An auburn-haired couple wearing jeans and Mayfair t-shirts were the first to step into the lamplight. In a tuxedo, the singer Daniel, laughing with a gorgeous blonde, came next. A stunning man with the high cheekbones and long straight hair of a Native American smiled at her.

  Motionless, she watched the parade of beauty, but none of them struck the special chord that would make her heart sing. They can be customized, she reminded herself. Still, it took more than looks to make her fall in love.

  Then he strode through the door, and her heart did a double backflip. She inhaled a soft gasp. He was perfect, no customization needed. The only programming required was a sense of humor and an intense libido. Lord, she wanted to touch him, run her fingers through his hair and kiss that luscious mouth.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” His voice defined musical and played that special chord she’d dreamed of. “I was on the phone.”

  The Special Editions had gathered around her. The auburn-haired woman whispered a laugh. “Is there any need for more than one introduction, Ms. Morgan?”

  That someone
was speaking barely registered. March didn’t respond. She was speechless and couldn’t peel her gaze off the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His eyes were crystalline blue, his hair wheat colored. She’d wanted sparks. She’d gotten fireworks! No way in hell was she leaving London without him.

  Spellbound, March was drawn one step toward perfection, her willful eyes traveling over his body, pausing at his zipper, sliding down his long legs. The wasted years looped through her memory, regret stinging her eyes.

  Melissa squeezed her hand. “Ah, you like our blond.” She beckoned. “Come, Christian.”

  In tight jeans and a tux jacket with plaid cummerbund and bow tie, her dream man paused in the light of a crystal and gold chandelier. His shoulder-length hair shone like silk. Mischief sparkled in his eyes. Full lips parted on a smile, his teeth white and even. March loved a beautiful smile, and everything inside her melted.

  Their eyes met and held. He strode toward her as if they were alone in the opulent room. Each step he took nearer, her body heated hotter. How could she so desire a man she was meeting for the first time? For forty years, I’ve carried his picture in my heart.

  He halted an inch outside her comfort zone, close enough to touch. March forgot to breathe. Mesmerized, she raised her hand to caress his cheek but let it fall.

  “Don’t be afraid.” His voice was as sensual as a lover’s whisper. “I won’t hurt you. Not now, not ever.”

  “My name is March,” she heard herself say.

  He grinned and winked, stroking her hair back from her cheek. “The wild, windy month of March.”

  Shocked that he was the living image of her dreams, she said breathlessly, “And you’re Christian.”

  “Christian is my model name. A name of your choice would be your gift to me.” He lifted his chin slightly and held out a strong hand with long, perfectly formed fingers.

  “My gift to you, if you were…” Mine.