Love For Sale (2 page)

On the granite counter beside the ad, the microwave clock performed a countdown.
Five until eleven.
Five minutes to make the call.

Before she could change her mind, she grabbed her cell and keyed in the number in the ad. Her heart hammered as the connection clicked. Holding her breath, she listened to
pring
,
pring
, the distinctive ring of a British phone. Clutching the phone, she paced the confines of her tiny apartment. Dread and anticipation mingled, her emotions in a tangle. March’s finger hovered on the off button.

“Mayfair Electronics.” The crisp, formal English halted March by the front doors overlooking the park-like landscaping, but she couldn’t stand still.

In a blind haze, she wandered, her dry throat closing on her practiced speech. It was rude to hang up. If she did disconnect, she’d never know what the androids were like.

“Hullo? I can’t hear you.”

No, by God, she wouldn’t claim she’d reached a wrong number. She wasn’t a teenager, but her heart fluttered as it had years ago on prom night. Damn it, she was a forty-year-old woman come December, and she’d never had trouble talking to anybody.

“I’m calling about your androids.” Her voice sounded too abrupt, too loud, gravelly as a smoker. She pictured the woman at the other end of the line smirking.

“Yes, Madam.” The voice eased into a lilting friendliness. “You’re the first call from America. We offer five female models, five male, completely indistinguishable from human beings, except that they are programmed to please. They’re simply splendid, I must say. I’m saving to buy one myself.” A little laugh whispered into the phone.

“It’s no surprise—no calls from America, I mean. The ad was small. Why aren’t you promoting them? Let the public see them, that kind of thing.” What was she saying? She wasn’t asking any of the important questions.

“Bit controversial. Custom-made companions with the capacity to show sensitivity and love, wholly devoted. Could cause problems. There’d be the inevitable protests. So, Mayfair’s policy with regard to the Special Editions is rather like adoption.”

“They can pass for human?” March interrupted. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. You sound excited. We are very excited about the Special Editions. Companionship, love, so very difficult in this day and time, don’t you think?” But she didn’t pause for an answer. “Yes, they can pass for human in every way. As to the ads, given the personalities built into them, it would be vastly wrong to parade them before perspective purchasers in the malls and on the telly, you see? They have been programmed to feel, to react. Mayfair must select its clientele for these models.”

“Adoption?” In a lifetime long ago, March had worked for a lawyer who specialized in adoptions. Not an easy process. “I’d have to apply, be approved. All that legal stuff?”

The woman laughed. “Not quite. No barristers, no courts. More matching the right model to the right person.”

“Matching?” March’s heart sank. “You’d choose for me?”

“No.” The woman drew the syllable long. “The brochure will be mailed privately to you. You can peruse our offerings and choose your intended. The models can be customized. Each Special Edition is an individual. Of course, you must come to London and apply. Shall I mail you the information?”

“They can go out among real people and interact?” Her heart thump-thumped loud in her ears. The adrenaline rush dizzied March. Her knees liquefied, and she collapsed on the sofa.

“Without flaw.”

Without flaw
.
A perfect man dedicated to her
. Her heart was skipping now, dreams misting her eyes. She gripped the phone tight enough to crack the plastic cover. “I assume they’re very expensive.”

“Very.” The woman pronounced the word
veddy.
“But if you’re approved, we offer comfortable financing. If you’d prefer a personal viewing without the brochure, we can arrange everything for you.”

Thoughts chased around her numb brain. She couldn’t think of anything to say, except—I want one and don’t care how much he costs. Surely, when she hung up, she’d come to her senses. Two weeks for the mail, she didn’t want to wait that long.

“Wednesday? Do you have any appointments for this Wednesday?” She’d gone stark, raving insane. She was hot all over. In the mirror, her eyes were too bright. Pink splotched her neck and cheeks.

“Wednesday would be fine, Madam. Best time for you? I have ten o’clock and four. We’ve had quite a lot of interest as you may imagine. May I have your name?”

March considered saying Mary Smith. “March Morgan. Ten o’clock.”

“Shall I make your arrangements—flights, hotel?”

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 light-headedness 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 stairs.”

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.”