Love For Sale

by Linda Nightingale

  “I’ll be right back, darling. I need to make this call immediately.” Dialing the number with shaking hands, she hurried to the doors, flung them open, closing them behind her.

  On the patio, she leaned on the frescoed iron railing and prayed. Fear boiled in her stomach. She hit call, and the receptionist answered with a cheery greeting.

  “This is March Morgan. I understand Dr. Lancaster has been trying to reach me. I’m sorry I missed her calls. I have been out of the country.” Out of reality. Out of my mind happy.

  “Yes, Mrs. Morgan, hold please. I’ll transfer you to the nurse.”

  The anxiety in her tone chilled March’s bones. Dear God, if the biopsy was negative, they… And she’d thought the intermittent breakthrough bleeding was early menopause.

  “Mrs. Morgan, this is Jane, Dr. Lancaster’s nurse. Yes, we have been trying to reach you about the results of your biopsy. May I put you on hold? Dr. Lancaster would like to speak to you.”

  March’s throat closed, tears welling in her eyes. Her lips and her hands trembled. She glanced over her shoulder. Christian slid a fresh salad onto the pass-through. Their eyes met. He smiled, but his face was tense. Holding her gaze, he strode toward the door. Bless his heart—circuits—he looked worried. She shook her head, waving him away. He hesitated, frowning, then turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “March, Andrea here. Please come in as soon as you can. Today, if possible.”

  “It’s almost six.” March paced the confines of the narrow balcony. “Doesn’t the office close at six?”

  “I’ll wait for you. Can you come now?”

  “Yes, of course. What’s wrong, Dr. Lancaster?” She leaned against the brick wall, closing her eyes. “The biopsy came back positive, didn’t it?”

  “We’ll talk when you get here.”

  It is positive or she’d tell me on the phone.

  Shocked numb, March wandered to the door. A step over the threshold, she ran out of courage. She needed Christian’s support, but didn’t want him to know the truth, that she had cancer. He captured her in an intense gaze, waiting as motionless as an exquisite statue.

  She tore her gaze free of the question in his eyes. Face and voice remarkably composed, she said, “I have to go to my gynecologist for some test results. She’s fitting me in. I might have to wait.”

  “Gynecologist? What kind of tests?” He strode across the room, seizing her arm in his firm but gentle grip. “I’m going with you.”

  “I’m okay to go alone. We’ll talk when I get back.”

  “March.” The hand on her arm trembled, but command echoed in his voice. “I am going with you.”

  ****

  “Oh, my God.” March gasped, collapsing into the cushions of the pastel floral sofa. “I’ve got ovarian cancer?”

  Christian inhaled sharply, his hand tightening on hers. She risked a glance at him. Tears shimmered in his blue eyes, his exquisite face a portrait of fear. Her knees felt like unset Jello. Unbridled terror paralyzed her, but only one silent tear drizzled down the side of her nose.

  Dr. Lancaster closed a manila file. “It’s not a death sentence as it once was. We’ve caught it fairly early on. What cancer hospital would you like to go to?”

  March shook her head numbly. “We have the number one cancer center here in Houston.”

  “I’ll write the orders now, phone, and get you in as soon as possible. You may have to undergo chemotherapy. Surgery is a given.”

  “I’ll lose my hair.” March’s voice trembled. What will happen with Christian? Oh, what will happen when I’m bald and sick?

  Finally, he spoke, his beautiful voice choked. “Whatever it takes to get you through this, March.”

  Andrea Lancaster said, “Listen to him.” She studied Christian as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m glad you won’t face this alone.”

  March squeezed his hand. “I’m not alone.”

  He glided to his feet, lifting her with him. God, he was beautiful and elegant, even in his distressed jeans. If I hadn’t bought him, dear fate, I would be alone. As the full realization struck her, March’s knees buckled. The sheer horror of the future, if there was one, knotted in her stomach. Her sentient android slid a comforting arm around her waist, steadying her. His sympathetic expression wrung her heart. Tears blurred her vision. Sadness and compassion brimmed in his eyes.

  Even if I am sick and bald, he can’t leave me. I own him. Or does he own me?

  “I’ll phone you with your appointment date.” Dr. Lancaster stood, strode around her desk and hugged March. “Try not to worry.”

  “I’ll try.” Self-pity lumped in her throat.

  Why me? A strange anger and outrage filled her. March wanted to scream at the universe, cry…yet beg for her life.

  The long journey home with the terrifying news echoed silent. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of the uncertain future. Later, she’d talk with Christian about the possible death sentence. Right now, he respected the tense stillness and her introspection.

  On the balcony, she gave him a quick hug. “You go in, darling. I want some time alone to think.”

  He nodded, looking reluctant. “Are you sure?” A stubborn note shaded his voice. “I want to be with you and help you.”

  “For a short time, I need to be alone.” She watched him open the door.

  He glanced over his shoulder, offering a second chance for comfort, but she shook her head. Like a knife, a sudden thought thrust through her guts.

  What will happen to Christian if I die?

  The landlord would throw him out onto the streets. He had no friends, nowhere to go. She knew he’d grieve for her. If anything tragic happened, he must return to Mayfair. Tomorrow at work, she’d email the company and forbid them to deactivate him. He must be reprogrammed, sold to another. That thought cramped her heart.

  Until that minute, March had been able to control the tears. A sob broke from her, rasping her throat. I mustn’t let him see me cry. She whirled to face the stone lanes winding through the overshadowing oaks. Thunder rumbled in a dark sky. Lightning blazed heaven to earth, a deadly trident striking the sidewalk across the street. A banshee wind screamed, ripping leaves from trees and tossing them at her balcony. The storm lashed out in full fury. Rain whipped her, mingling with her tears. Instantly, she was soaked to the skin, but she scarcely noticed. March buried her face in her hands and wept aloud.

  Inside, faint in the storm, the satellite radio was playing Pachelbel’s Canon. She loved the piece, but today it sounded incredibly sad. Marooned in the center of the living room, Christian stood staring straight ahead, his beautiful face betraying his pain and anxiety. It was wrong to leave him worried while she indulged in useless self-pity. March schooled her expression, swallowed her tears. One more deep steadying breath, and she strode to the door, slid it open, and stepped over the threshold of a new life…and new fears.

  Christian rushed to her, his arms open in invitation. He didn’t speak, but his eyes said what his lips did not. March collapsed into his embrace, battling the dreaded tears. He hugged her tight to his body, her clothes soaking his crisp white shirt and faded jeans. She lifted her head from the crook of his shoulder, took his face—so beloved her heart wrenched—in her hands.

  Lower lip trembling, she said, “We have to talk, my love.”

  His face blanched pale. He captured her hand and led her to the sofa, sank down and pulled her onto his lap, cradling her in his arms.

  Her throat closed, and she had to hesitate until she could speak. “Christian, I don’t want you to worry. I’ll be treated at one of the world’s top cancer hospitals.”

  Tears glittered on his long lashes. “I’ll do anything. March, we shall see the end of this.”

  She nodded, caressing his cheek. “I’ll have chemo. My hair will come out.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” He swallowed hard.

  Alarm and pain chased across his face. She knew that he tried to control his expres
sion, but concern pinched the skin around his eyes. He does genuinely love me. Her heart swelled until she thought her chest would burst.

  For a long moment, he was silent. “I want to be reprogrammed as a cancer specialist.”

  A laugh burst from March. “Darling, you couldn’t get privileges at a hospital without credentials.”

  His eyes lit a brighter blue. “I made you laugh.”

  March buried her face in his hair and kissed his neck. “I’ll be fine. I have you.”

  Christian stroked her back. “Always.”

  ****

  Christian accompanied March on her first visit to the hospital. She met the surgeon and the oncologist, and a date for surgery was set. The procedure would be a total hysterectomy. Except for the extent of the surgery, after the appointment, she felt a little more hopeful.

  “The cancer is stage three.” The oncologist suggested chemotherapy, and she tried not to cry as Christian held her hand.

  Stage three echoed in her thoughts, fear clutching her heart in its icy hands.

  On the return to the car, he didn’t force conversation, seeming to understand her need for time to think and absorb the magnitude of what she faced. The nurses and doctors had been caring and interested in answering her questions and listening to her fears. Now, she had to accept what she’d learned.

  In the hospital garage, he hugged her. “It’s going to be all right, you’ll see.”

  She fisted her hand below her lips, battling the hot tears stinging her eyes. “I know, dear. Thanks for being here, for being you. I know it sounds petty, but I hate the thought of being bald.”

  “You’ll be just as beautiful.” A soft light shone in his eyes, his expression tender. With the back of his hand, he traced her cheek. “I read up a bit. When the time comes, to lessen the trauma, one woman, a Barbara V. from here in Houston, recommended cutting the hair short.”

  “Good advice. You wouldn’t see it on your pillow or in the shower. I’ll have it buzzed and dyed pink!” She laughed at his horrified expression. “I’m serious. Might as well have fun with it.”

  He framed her chin between his thumb and index finger. “That’s the spirit. I’m quite sure you’ll be a trendsetter with short, pink hair. I might dye mine to match.”

  “No,” March grabbed his arm. “I want you exactly as you are. If you haven’t noticed, I like looking at you. Let’s go find a gorgeous wig.”

  He opened her door and handed her into the car, bending to whisper a kiss to her lips. “You’re amazing.”

  Acting more cheerful than she felt, March watched her lover and best friend glide around the front of the car. She bit her lower lip, giving the scared March Morgan a pep talk. “I’ve always wanted a wig. Finding one, particularly with Christian making me laugh, should be a blast.”

  March shouldered back in her seat and closed her eyes. “Damn, telling Paul is going to be a real bitch.”

  She hadn’t intended Christian to hear, but he’d slipped quietly into the car. When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with a confused frown and a dark look on his face. March straightened, sensing his sudden withdrawal. His dynamite body was rigid. She was sure he modulated his voice, still his response held a slight edge.

  “Why must you tell him?” He concentrated on starting a car he’d driven numerous times. “He is your ex-husband.”

  His tone was surprisingly possessive. Was Christian capable of jealousy? That emotion, though she’d entertained it herself, served no one and seemed out of place in a man customized to love and respect one woman. Or was it? Jealousy grew from possessiveness.

  She shifted in her seat, leaning against the locked door. “Because of the boys. I must tell them. They’ll find out I’m ill.”

  “I see,” he said, but clearly he didn’t.

  Battling self-pity and tears, she choked out, “If anything happens to me, what will become of you?”

  He pressed the lever for the windshield washers, watched the wipers swish back and forth. Almost matter-of-factly, he said, “I shall be deactivated. Permanently.”

  Her gaze snapped to his face. A surge of dread and sorrow winded March. It was a moment before she replied. “I won’t allow that. My Will can provide that you be returned to Mayfair without any explanation why. They will reprogram you for another.”

  A blue crystal tear escaped, drifting down his cheek. He made no move to wipe it away. “It would never work. Never. They couldn’t reprogram what I feel for you. If you instruct Mayfair, they will deactivate me; otherwise they will try to reprogram me, refund your money and sell me to someone else. They’d be selling that purchaser short. Please…if anything, please, I want to be deactivated. Anything else would be torture.”

  “You can’t die. You’re immortal.” She seized the hand on the console, squeezing his fingers.

  He looked distant, thoughtful, a little frown creasing his brow. “If only there was a way to make you immortal, too. Mayfair was working on a daring project…but it was in its infancy. Risky. Probably illegal. Quite mad, in fact. So, you must stay with me.” He slid his hands into her hair, gripping the back of her head, kissing her with all of the passion in his voice.

  When he released her, she sank back in her seat. “What kind of project? Could it be the reason Daniel is afraid?”

  Christian tensed. “Dear God, they wouldn’t dare.”

  “Dare what?”

  “Transfer the consciousness of a mortal into the body of an android.”

  “That’s insane.”

  He arched a brow. “They weren’t even on the doorstep. It was merely a spark in my namesake’s brilliant mind. I don’t think even Mayfair would be that mad.”

  “Mind transfer would raise a bigger hue and cry than cloning. But it’s impossible, so…” March sighed heavily. “Tonight, I must visit the boys. Better sooner than later.”

  Christian shifted to Reverse, reluctance in every line of his body. “I’ll accompany you.”

  “That will only aggravate matters.” She waved a hand in a helpless gesture. “This part of it, I’m afraid I’ll have to endure alone.”

  Chapter 8

  “How’s your young man?” Paul greeted her at the door to his apartment with a smirk.

  March bristled but quelled a scathing comeback. Mustn’t let her ex push her buttons and divert her from her duty. “He’s fine.” She squared her shoulders, and her voice took on an edge. “Everyone had better get used to seeing him around. We’re going to marry. Paul, that’s not why I needed to drop by.”

  His mocking expression changed to a look of concern. “Come in.” He stood back for her to amble into the bright light Paul preferred. In fact, it appeared that every light in the house was on. The electric company loved him.

  The instant she was inside, the mouthwatering fragrances of fresh baked bread and beef stew tempted her stomach to a low growl. The man could cook when he took a fancy. Fancy? I’m not British. Christian’s vocabulary is invading my subconscious. A fleeting smile brightened her mood, then her heart plummeted into the quiet despair that now possessed her.

  He mistook her smile, his expression warming. “I’ve made a big pot of beef stew. Are you hungry?”

  She shook her head, looked away as she settled her handbag on one of the massaging recliners and faced him, her gaze glued to the floor. “I saw my doctor yesterday. I have news I must share with you…and the boys, of course.”

  Her ex gripped her arm. “What’s wrong, March? You’re as pale as a ghost.”

  She swallowed a sob and plunged. “I have stage three ovarian cancer.”

  “Oh, my God.” Paul tried to pull her against him, but she resisted. He shook his head, his eyes tearing. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “Thank you, but we are yesterday. And, today, I have—”

  “You have Christian.” He spat out his words.

  “Yes, Paul, and he’ll be with me, see me through this.”

  “Well, jolly good, you’ve got the Brit, Marc
h.” He swung around, stomped to the kitchen, and slid into oven mitts. “Must give the stew a stir.” He continued talking, “What about the hospital bills? Surgery’s expensive, I hear. And treatment? Is he going to pay for that, too?”

  “I have insurance. I’ll be okay.” She shrugged, feeling as limp and wilted as the white roses at the center of the pine trestle table. “Those flowers have about had it.” She sought his gaze. “Should I tell the boys? It’s your call. You’re their father.”

  “Care to stay for dinner? You always loved this beef stew.” He exhaled a long breath, shaking his head. “Dear God, March. I’m sorry. So sorry. You’ve got enough on your mind. I’ll tell the boys.”

  She touched his arm. “Paul, I want to remain friends. Please don’t make this difficult.”

  His face screwed into a painful grimace. “Of course, March, of course. You take care of yourself and let us know if we can do anything or if…you need money. You’re going to be fine.” He stroked her hair as he had when they were married. “Just fine.”

  She smiled, feeling less confident than she sounded. “I will be fine. Surgery is Monday.”

  “I’ll book the day off and take you.” He rested his hands on the countertop and sagged against his knuckles. “Never mind. I remember you have someone to be with you.”

  Through it all, she guessed, he hadn’t stopped loving her…in his own way.

  “I appreciate the offer, Paul. Yes, he will be with me.” She fiddled with the electric salt and pepper grinders on the counter. Paul had more kitchen equipment than Williams & Sonoma. “Thanks, but I won’t stay for dinner this time. If the boys need any reassurance…”

  “Take care of yourself, March.” His gaze lifted to hers, hazel eyes misted. “I hope this young man doesn’t break your heart. That’s the last thing you need right now. If he does, I’ll…”