Love For Sale
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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.
Praise for Linda Nightingale
“The characters are brilliantly penned, every detail of their being painted like a beautiful picture, exposing their strengths, weaknesses and emotion.”
~Cocktails & Books
~*~
“Linda Nightingale knows how to lead the reader into the world she creates for her characters and story. Her writing style keeps the reader turning the pages, always wanting more and more.”
~Julianne Keller, For Whom The Books Toll
~*~
“Nightingale’s writing is beautiful and descriptive. I was mesmerized from the start. The novel’s twists and turns are enough to keep readers engrossed as well as the heights of emotion in which the story is conveyed.”
~Vampire Romance Novels
~*~
“Ms. Nightingale has a way with words, making it difficult to put the book down.”
~Author Karen Michelle Nutt
~*~
“The world the author has created is a captivating story with a steady paced plot, vivid details and compelling characters that grab the reader’s attention and keep it to the very end. The author portrays the characters’ emotions and personalities with an intensity and clarity that bring them to life, making it easy for the reader to relate to them. The conflict…is well developed and the author paints the action and suspense with great detail engaging the reader’s imagination.”
~The Romance Reviews
Love For Sale
by
Linda Nightingale
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Love For Sale
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Linda Nightingale
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2015
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0180-8
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0181-5
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
Dedicated to all who pursue their dreams.
Chapter 1
It is said you never forget your first love.
Turning forty, looking thirty, March Morgan didn’t have anything to forget. Finally, the years and disillusionment had eroded her youthful vows. She’d been married, but she’d never really been in love. As a girl, she’d argued passionately with her cynical friends about the existence of true love. She’d fended off her mother’s sensible advice to lower her standards, survived unscathed into her mid-twenties when the biological clock and Paul’s crooked grin enticed her to take a walk down the aisle.
The end of her marriage happened as fast as their whirlwind courtship. One summer evening, long-lost determination whispered into her ear. Standing at the sink washing dishes, March gazed out the window at the stars, and her heart made the decision. She had two sons and a husband. That the boys were Paul’s from a previous marriage didn’t matter. March loved them. Paul was content with their life. Both had good jobs, March as a contract administrator for an oil company, Paul, a Senior Systems Analyst, but she felt trapped. The day-to-day reality of cooking, cleaning, working full time, and sleeping with a man she no longer loved had worn her dreams thin.
In
An Essay on Man,
Alexander Pope had written,
Hope springs eternal in the human breast
. Because of the boys, she’d tried hard to ignore the whisperings of hope, but her belief in passion and undying love betrayed her.
That night, she asked Paul for a divorce.
Two months later, she strode from a divorce court into the August sunshine, feeling guilty but relieved. Needless to say, Michael and Paul Jr. had elected to live with their father. She regretted losing them, but few other doubts pursued her through the revolving doors. A cloud floated across the sun, darkening the day, and the full realization of what she’d done stopped her in her tracks. She’d given up everything for a dream. Knuckles white, she gripped the rail, her heart thudding. Passersby tossed her curious looks. Fear of the future held her motionless. As the summer sun broke from behind the clouds, any hesitation fled.
I’m free.
On the courthouse steps, she surveyed her new world. A man with long, softly wavy hair smiled at her. He was darkly handsome but ten years younger than she. Her fingers itched to glide through his black mane. March studied the men her age, most of them balding and sporting beer bellies. Her spirits sank. How was she to find her soul mate in this selection?
****
So, it was a miracle really to find that fantasy existed on the last page of a glossy women’s journal.
Waiting, as one always did in a doctor’s office, March thumbed through a magazine. A small display ad in the classifieds caught her eye. Actually, the miniature of a beautiful man with long hair freed the caged romantic. He looked like a hero in a romance novel. Mayfair Electronics, Ltd., in black and white, offered
Love for Sale
.
The London firm claimed to have engineered sentient androids indistinguishable from humans. She glanced around the waiting room. None of the other women were watching. Feeling foolish, she ripped the advertisement from the magazine and quickly stuffed the shiny secret into her handbag.
The doctor drew blood, March’s worst nightmare, took the ritual slice of flesh for a biopsy, and sent her home with a promise they’d phone with the results. She was worried about the biopsy, but as a summer breeze whipped her hair, a feeling of peace warmed her. She was alone, but she was happy.
A strange excitement quivered inside March. Should she follow duty and go to work or follow her heart and go home?
On the fifteen-minute drive to work, she tried not to envision her own version of the handsome android, but her reckless friend
hope
fed her images of a tall, blond beauty. She wheeled her sensible sedan onto the street in front of her office, but freedom called louder than duty. The weather was spring-like, and she had vacation time to burn. Today, she couldn’t bear sitting in a cubicle—life in a fish bowl.
An image of the handsome man in Mayfair’s ad flashed through her mind. She glanced at her watch.
Ten, Houston time.
Four o’clock in London
. Feeling giddy and girlish, she backed the red sedan out of the parking space and dodged into traffic.
Windows down, sunroof open, sunshine gliding in, and fresh air whipping her light brown hair—life was good.
Homeward bound!
She inserted the Simon and Garfunkel CD and sang along.
The torn edges of the ad peeked from the top of her handbag. The photo and the promise of
Love for Sale
had captured her imagination. The very thought of human-like robots sent a thrill coursing through March. All of the books on her shelves were paranormal or fantasy. Her heroes had always been otherworldly. The latest such love affair was with Marek, the vampire in Tony-Paul de Vissage’s
Shadow Lord.
Not that she could own one of the androids. They were probably skyrocket expensive.
March stopped for a red light and glanced in the rearview mirror. Her reflection studied her with accusing brown eyes. “I’ll just call and ask for literature.”
****
Ten fifteen. Only forty-five minutes to make the call.
Rummaging for her door key, she dropped her handbag. Keys, coins, lipsticks and a compact spilled onto her deck, glass shattering.
Great! Seven years bad luck!
As if in answer to the thought, the breeze captured the snippet of paper. She stood frozen, watching the crumpled ad flutter toward the balcony railing.
“No!” She scurried after the scrap of paper, slamming her foot down on the ridiculous claim that love, like any luxury, could be purchased. “Damn you for a fool, March Morgan.”
Fool or not, her fingers shook as she stuffed the ad into her pocket and bent to scoop the spillage into her purse. She waved to her next-door neighbor, closing the door quickly as her cat raced to greet her. Stroking Mugs, she glanced at the gold Anniversary Clock on the mantel. The clock was a present from her ex on their tenth and last anniversary.
Ten forty-five. Four forty-five in London.
She tossed her handbag onto the red leather sofa, smoothed the ad on the kitchen counter, and microwaved a cup of instant coffee. A too-hot sip burned her tongue.
Why fight it, March?
She studied the photo, then reread the text. Were the androids capable of normal sexual activities? Her sex life was nonexistent. It wasn’t as if she never met anyone or that men showed no interest. One guy at work did everything but dance to catch her eye.
None of them sparked anything inside her. Where was the man who could turn her knees to jelly, make her want to strip and lay naked, craving his touch?
“Silly woman,” she whispered, judging her face in the mirror. Hair in a sensible angled bob swung chin-length. Brown eyes, large and round. A few wrinkles marred her ivory skin. Okay for forty. She turned, giving her body the same scrutiny. At five-five, she was taller than petite, her figure curvy rather than the slender in vogue today. In her dark blue business suit, March decided she was reasonably pretty, but there was a hungry look in her eyes.
The day she divorced Paul, the dream had been strong. The desire remained, but the intervening year had chipped away at her faith in finding her soul mate. She’d seen too many marriages and love affairs flounder and crash into painful rubble. Were men and women actually supposed to live together? Neither sex understood the other. What was the name of that book,
Men are from Mars; Women from Venus
? The premise rang true.
She sipped her coffee. “Too weak. Tomorrow, I’m buying a real coffee maker and a coffee grinder.”
March lifted the small glossy photo of the handsome android.
Love for Sale.
Could one buy happiness? Was love happiness or Romeo-and-Juliet despair? To be willing to die for love would be…stupid, but she longed to feel that way. In her heart, she carried a definite image of her perfect man. He would be tall. Though March was only five-five, she liked men at least six feet. He’d be blond with blue eyes, long hair, sense of humor imperative. Were the androids charming? Could they carry on a conversation?
