Love For Sale (13 page)

She halted in front of him, studying him with gray eyes. Her features were classic, beautiful. “Do you need someone to talk to?”

He nodded, not knowing he needed comfort until she appeared. “My wife’s in surgery.”

“She’ll be fine. I had a double mastectomy. The doctors are very good. I waited in this little garden while my friend had surgery. She did the same for me.”

“Breast cancer?” He unwound his arms and long legs.

“Yes. I was a two. She was a stage four. She…” The woman’s gaze fled, her face crumbling.

From her reaction, it appeared that her friend had not survived, and a trill of sheer horror shot through Christian.

“I’m sorry. My…wife has ovarian cancer.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Frankly, I’m terrified.”

His visitor extended her hand as if to touch him, but he sat too far away. “I’ll pray she gets along fine. I come to this garden to pray.”

“Yes, please, pray for her. Religion isn’t something that was pro…I know much about.” He plucked a nearby flower, and, rising to his haunches, handed her the purple bloom. “I’ll learn, and I’ll pray for you, too. Her name is March. Yours?”

“Stacy. I’m glad I passed your way.” She turned, venturing deeper into the garden toward the busy street.

Weary of battling tears, he clicked into sleep mode, grateful for the relief of nothingness. One hour fifteen minutes and two seconds later, a buzz along his message circuits woke him. They were to notify him by phone when March reached Recovery. Christian grabbed his mobile.

“Yes?” He blurted without a greeting.

The nurse said, “Mr. Aguillard, March is in recovery. Hold please, the doctor would like to speak with you.”

A pain drove through his chest, a reaction to utter terror. He’d expected a call from a nurse in Recovery. What kind of news would the doctor himself deliver?

“Mr. Aguillard? Ms. Morgan is doing well. We’ll speak later, but I thought you’d like to know. We feel we got it all. The nurse will call you when you can pick your…her up from Recovery.”

“Thank you, doctor.” As relief flooded him, Stacy’s face flashed through his mind. His throat closed.
Thank you, God.
Man, not God, had created him. Would God listen to a nuts-and-bolts invention?

Christian buried his face against his knees and wept, hot tears wetting the dark blue trousers March had insisted he wear with a crisp pin-striped oxford shirt. If anyone saw, no one intruded. An hour later, the nurse called from Recovery. March was awake and asking for him. Controlling the urge to move with mechanical speed, he jogged into the hospital to the reception desk in OR. An orderly guided him to Recovery. Looking drugged and woozy, March sat propped in blue pillows. His pulse skipped faster. Her smile was the most beautiful he’d ever, or was ever likely to behold.

Christian recorded the doctor’s assessment and orders. He didn’t think his darling girl would remember. Each time he looked at March, he recalled Stacy’s prayers. He wanted to ask his wife if she believed in prayer but her eyes were still dull, and he suspected her thoughts unfocused.

When she recovered, one issue needed to be resolved: the different surnames had confused the doctor. Or was the rush simply that Christian was anxious for her to bear his name, not her ex-husband’s?

A different nurse appeared at the foot of the bed. “Mr. Morgan, if you’d like—”

“Aguillard.” He corrected her. “My surname is Aguillard.” He flashed a grin. “Temporarily, she is Ms. Morgan, but only until I have the time to remedy that.”

“I want a big wedding.” March’s smile slid a little sideways.

Yes, the medications were definitely at work!

The nurse glanced at March, then her admiring gaze returned to Christian. “Congratulations. My name is Ana, and I’ll be taking care of Ms. Morgan. Dr. Belzar would like to keep her overnight. More or less standard procedure. She’ll be moved to her room soon. If everything goes well, as expected, she can go home tomorrow or the next day. Mr. Aguillard…did I say your name right?”

With another lopsided grin, March waved a hand. “Hey, I’m still here. I know he’s good-looking, but could I be included in the conversation, please?”

Ana’s petite, rather round body stiffened, her dark brows raised. “I’m sorry, Ms. Morgan. I thought you might still be a little lightheaded.”

March huddled deeper in the heated blanket around her shoulders. “I’m high as a kite or I wouldn’t have said that, Ana, but I felt ignored. Anyway, since you’re my nurse, call me March.”

“Of course, March.” Ana had one of those smiles that lit her whole face and her black eyes. “Mr. Aguillard may stay with you overnight. There is a comfortable recliner in the room.”

“Thank you, Ana.” Christian slid a chair near March’s bed, claiming her hand. “I plan to stay with her.”

****

On the Wednesday following March’s surgery, Christian stood ready by the car in front of the hospital while a volunteer pushed her wheelchair through the front entrance. He’d spent both nights in her room, watching over her, never activating sleep mode to recharge. When he saw her, looking much better on this the third day, he forgot that his energy was depleted. The volunteer introduced herself as Bennie, and together, they helped March into the seat. Her breath caught as she winced and grabbed her stomach.

“Are you all right?” He rested a hand on her shoulder.

She nodded, and he bent to wisp a kiss to her bare lips. She tangled her hands in his hair and whispered, “It’s done,” her minty breath caressing his mouth.

He brushed the hair back from her face. “How does steak, baked potato, and salad sound for dinner?”

“After hospital food, like a feast for the gods. You spoil me.” She beamed a smile, her beautiful eyes bright and shining. “I meant to ask but always forgot. How long was the surgery?”

“Far too long. I waited in that small garden there.”
I don’t have a heart, but I ache for you.
Still and all, a heart isn’t just an organ.
“I confess I clicked into sleep mode. I couldn’t bear to sit idly by for hours, worrying.”
Or the fear something would go wrong.

Resting her head on the seat, she closed her eyes. “You were here. That’s all that matters.”

She was pale, fragile, and as vulnerable as a child. Worry was like a low-grade fever, but he must be brave for her. Was she out of danger? Or would the killer return when least expected? In the next months, his March would go through hell, and by all that was holy, he’d stand at the Devil’s throne with her.

“When we’re home, I’ll carry you up the staircase.” His fingertips glided over the back of her hand, worshiping her soft, smooth skin. “The doctor doesn’t want you climbing stairs.”

Her eyes opened slowly. “I never had children. Now, I never will.”

The sorrow in her voice buried deep in his heart. Did having children mean so much to her? Then why choose him? “Having children doesn’t make a woman more of a woman.” He nosed the car into traffic. “I can’t sire children. If you’d wanted them, you’d have required a human man.”

“I’m sorry, Christian.” She caressed his hair in long strokes. “I didn’t realize how that would sound. I’m not thinking clearly. Darling, I’m more than content with our life as it is.”

“You needn’t ever apologize to me.” Christian braked as a light flashed yellow to red, the hair at his nape quivering as if the color change were symbolic.

Her head drifted to rest on the seat again, her eyes closing. The pain meds made her drowsy, and rest would speed her recovery. In the interim, he’d miss the sassy, petite woman who’d signed a loan agreement to buy him. Sex, of course, was prohibited, but Christian was programmed to react to her needs. He’d click his sex drive to
nil.

On the drive home, she dozed, and his mind wandered from the past to the future. Timing was always the key. Someone else might have bought him. He’d have been encoded using the purchaser’s profile, but he’d never have loved as he loved March. The first time they met, the intensity of his feelings had surprised and confused him. Perhaps, some
power higher
than Mayfair Electronics had programmed him for March.

He swung the car into her reserved space, touching her shoulder to rouse her. Despite her protests, he lifted her gently and, cradled in his arms, carried her up the narrow staircase. At the door, he eased her to her feet and dealt with the lock. In silence, she waited, and in silence, she entered the apartment.

“Are you in pain?” He captured her shoulders in a gentle grip and turned her to face him. “Would you like to go to bed?”

At last, she smiled, albeit slightly tremulous. “Will you hold me until I fall asleep?”

He caressed her cheek, cradling her chin in his fingers. “It would be my greatest pleasure, Madam. I might fall asleep with you.”

“Both nights I was in the hospital, you stayed awake the entire time, didn’t you?” Her eyes were the warm color of milk chocolate. “I’m dying of thirst. Is there any Pellegrino?”

“The case we bought last week. You look a bit woozy.” With his arm around her waist, Christian guided her to the sofa. “Sit down. I’ll bring your drink.”

In all of the Special Editions, Mayfair instilled the quality of nurturing. For Christian, March had requested other programs, like sexual performance, to be dominant. He hoped he was performing properly as a caregiver. March flinched when she eased down on the couch. He winced in sympathy as she grimaced in pain. Feeling somewhat helpless, he turned to fetch the sparkling water.

Neither expected a call. The jangling of the landline startled them. Christian’s heart caught, thinking of Daniel, but he’d ring on the mobile. The nearest phone set was across the room on her desk. She gripped the sofa arm as if to rise, but he gestured for her to remain seated.

“I’ll answer.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode to the window and grabbed the phone.

“If it’s Paul, don’t let him push your buttons.” A troubled expression shadowed her eyes. “In fact, please hand me the phone.”

He arched his brows. “I won’t allow him to push any buttons. You’re too weak for the confrontation that always ensues with him.” Staring out the window at the misty rain, he said, “Christian here.”

A long silence stretched his already tense nerves. Why didn’t the rude bastard speak? “Are you there?” He prompted.

“Paul here.” He mocked Christian’s terse greeting and his accent. “Jolly good, old chap, put March on.”

“She doesn’t feel like talking at the moment. We’ve only just returned from the hospital.” He paced in front of the glass doors, narrowly controlling his dislike for the other man. “Could you ring back later in the afternoon?”

“
Ring
back
later? Hell, no. I want to talk to her, ask how she is.”

“She’s doing nicely.” He picked up a pencil from her desk, twirling it through his fingers.

“Look,
Christian
, I want to talk to my wife.”

“Ex-wife.” He started when the pencil snapped in half.

“Christian,” March whispered urgently, extending her hand. “Give me the phone. I’ll talk to him before you two get into a verbal sparring match. That will do matters no good at all.”

Christian spoke aside. “I don’t want him to upset you.”

She shook her head, wriggling her fingers. “It’s okay. Really.”

“I am not happy with this.” Unwillingness and anger slowed his progress to the sofa, Paul babbling in the background. “Allow me to set him straight.”

Wide-eyed, she shook her head frantically. He plopped the phone onto her palm.

For heart-pounding seconds, their eyes locked, his defiant, hers wary. The shock and concern in her gaze stalled the angry words crowding his throat. He stared down at her, wishing she could read his thoughts. Her gaze slid to the blank TV.

“Hello, Paul. Only a few minutes ago. I’m a little sore but fine.”

Christian wandered to the kitchen for the Pellegrino, opened the green bottle, and poured the sparkling water into a tall glass. The last thing he wanted was to listen to the one-sided conversation between March and her ex, but the apartment was small and his hearing keen.

“Do not come over. As I said, I’m fine. I don’t need any help.”

He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to grab the phone and tell the bastard where to go. Instead, like a good little robot, he served her drink. Irritated, confused by her relationship with a man she’d divorced, he strode to the door, slid back the glass, and escaped to the balcony. As soon as she rang off, he’d return.

Still, he heard her part of the conversation.

“Today is not the best day for you to meet him,” Weariness echoed in March's voice.

“That bloody well does it. The jerk doesn’t care she had surgery two days ago. His only damn concern is to be in control.” He whirled, opened the door, and marched to the sofa. “Tell the bastard, in no uncertain terms, to go to bloody hell!”

March’s jaw dropped. He knew she was shocked. She didn’t expect his programming to permit hot expletives or displays of anger, but he’d had more than enough of Paul Morgan.

Christian,” she whispered his name in amazement. “I can’t do that.”

“Won’t.”

“Christian, please.”

“Please?” Christian longed to tell the man to get a life and leave them alone. He deliberately mistook her plea, extending his hand, palm up. “I’d be delighted to do so, March.”

She paled, and suddenly he realized he, not her jerk ex-husband, had upset her. His anger died, leaving him marooned in strange territory.

Chapter 9

March stared at Christian in disbelief. Was the android actually jealous—a flattering, but surprising, reaction? Programmed to love her, she supposed jealousy could arise. Still, couples loved without ever suffering the Green-eyed Demon. He certainly looked and sounded angry. Maybe his programming for passion had crept into his other emotions. As she watched, the hard expression faded, and he appeared, if anything, contrite.

“March, I apologize for overstepping my bounds.” He turned away, and, after a second’s hesitation, disappeared into the kitchen.

With a start, she remembered Paul on the phone. “Are you still there?”