Love For Sale (23 page)

“He was in England.” Joan paused to sniff. Her voice came strangled. “His rental car was found wrapped around a pole. They said he left the road doing eighty miles an hour. March, he wasn’t in that wreckage. He has disappeared, presumed dead. Who’d steal my son’s body?”

The woman sobbed, calling her son’s name.

Stunned, March slipped from bed, glanced at the clock flashing four in red. In the distance, the early morning train whistled, a lonely, mournful sound. Horror seeped through her veins, but she couldn’t feel sad or sorry for Paul. Her heart was a hard kernel, boiled down by hatred. Paul had destroyed her life. Now, he was dead.
Karma is a bitch
. The bastard was in England to collect his filthy bribe money.

“I’m sorry, Joan.” Her next words should be
Can I help in any way?
but March refused to do anything for Paul, even comfort his grieving mother.

She felt as much for Paul as the ceiling fan whirring overhead. Bitterness simmered in her stomach. Tears threatened. Two interminable days had passed since Christian was arrested. Presumably, he was dead. Without him, she was dead, too. She said nothing as Joan cried. Even her weeping failed to awaken March’s pity.

“I have the boys.” Joan gasped between sobs. “What will those poor children do without their father?”

The mention of the boys pierced her lethargy. Finally, sorrow gripped her as grief for what she’d lost assailed her. The tears came then. She wept for the boys, for herself, but most of all for Christian. Of course, Joan misread March’s feelings. Paul’s mother stopped crying to try to comfort her. She was deaf to the woman’s whispered reassurances.

“Maybe they’ll find him.” Hope brightened Joan’s voice. “It could be he hit his head, was stunned and doesn’t know who he is. Just walked away. Sweet Jesus, I hate the thought. But that way maybe he’ll be home soon.”

I hope they never find him. In fact, I hope he’s dead.

“Joan, my condolences, but I have to go. I don’t want to tie up the line. Take care of the boys. I’ll…see them soon.” March dropped onto the side of the bed, buried her face in her hands and wept. “Christian, are you still alive?”

The day after Mayfair stole him, she’d retrieved her contract. Not only did one provision give Mayfair the right to recall, but, when her senses returned, she realized a lawyer was out of the question. If she consulted legal counsel, she’d effectively expose the androids to the world and the rabid media. No recourse existed. They were simply going to murder the only man she’d ever loved.

In a daze, March dragged her weary body into the shower. She hoped Paul was in Hell. His ghost tried to haunt her, but she could exorcise that spirit with a wave of her hand. It was Christian who’d haunt her forever. She spread her arms and stepped under the hot spray peppering her. Today was chemo, and for the first time, she’d be alone. Christian wouldn’t be there to comfort her when they brought the needle or hold her hand while the toxic chemicals dripped into her veins. Her stomach knotted as she battled tears. Self-pity didn’t help. Her lips, her hands, and feet were now numb and tingly. For him, she’d continue treatment, but she really didn’t care anymore.

On the vanity, her cell phone rang. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the cold wash of sheer horror.

The ringtone belonged to Paul.
Is the son of a bitch still alive?

Dead men didn’t stalk ex-wives. What if the body thief had stolen his phone and was in possession of her contact information? Or more precious information? Had Paul talked, revealing Mayfair’s secret? A shiver rippled over her tense body as the phone finally stopped ringing.

Grimly disdainful, March dressed in Christian’s favorite of her jeans and a silk blouse for her appointment. Before she left for the hospital, she checked her bank account online. As her site key appeared on the screen, a dark premonition prickled the hair at her nape. She hurried to the account screen. A refund of every penny she’d paid Mayfair along with five thousand dollars blood money had posted.
He’s dead.
She ran to the bathroom, knelt by the john, and threw up her meager breakfast.

When she could stand, she climbed to her feet, staggered to her desk, and seized the phone. In a way, she didn’t want to know. In another, she died every second they kept Christian’s fate secret. She could no longer resist. Scrolling through the phone log, she located Mayfair’s number. A rich mixture of anxiety and hope simmered beneath abject terror. With a trembling finger, she pressed dial.

The distinctive British ring sounded twice, and a cheerful voice said, “Good morning, Mayfair Electronics.”

“My name is March Morgan. May I speak with Melissa?”

Did she imagine the hesitation at the other end of the line?
Am I that paranoid to think the receptionist knows what happened?

“I’m sorry, Ms. Morgan, Melissa is out of the office at the moment.”

“Please ask her to call me.” March recited her telephone number, hope fading to gray.

****

After chemo, March felt sick and weary, but she hurried home, and, with her handbag still slung over her shoulder, checked voicemail. Melissa hadn’t bothered to return her call. She could imagine Mayfair might be reluctant to talk to a client they’d screwed. Anger simmered beneath her lethargy. Damn Mayfair and their blood money. Damn the whole world. She needed to shout at someone or scream until her throat was raw. Lonely and lost, she wandered to the sofa and dropped her Coach bag. For a long time, she stood staring at the phone.

In a rage of emotions, she jerked the receiver from its cradle and hit redial. She held her breath as the phone rang twice. Her nerves were stretched as tight as piano wire, and her temper was short. The same cheery English voice greeted her.

“March Morgan,” she said with an edge. “I phoned earlier, but Melissa hasn’t…” She swallowed the caustic phrase burning her throat. “Had time to return my call. This is urgent.”

Tempted to say
she has a very unhappy client on the line
, March listened to the elevator music while her call was transferred. Visions of Christian in the living room, in the kitchen, in her bed, tortured the endless wait time. If hearts could weep, hers had cried an ocean as wide as the one between England and the United States. Mayfair and Paul Morgan had destroyed her dreams. She was glad Paul was dead. If she could bring Mayfair to its knees without destroying the androids, she’d be on national TV tomorrow.

“Good morning,” Melissa said at last. “I’m sorry I haven’t rung you, but it’s been hectic here today. We’re completing the first lines, and our last two Daniels were born this morning. We have only a couple of the original Special Editions remaining. Then I had meetings with clients about the new models. March, if you’re calling about a replacement, in a few weeks, we’ll launch our latest lines, and you may choose your favorite at no cost.”

March gritted her teeth while the android rambled on. “Is Christian still alive?”

A long, painful silence followed. Her lower lip trembled, tears stinging her eyes. Her throat tightened, choking on disappointment and sorrow.

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.” Melissa’s formal reply annoyed March. Had the droid been programmed to lie? “March.” Her voice softened. “Please let this be. We’ve refunded your purchase price. We will send a replacement to you, free of charge, once the new lines launch. I know your type.”

She managed a strangled, “Don’t you understand?” Her voice broke as tears spilled down her cheeks. “I loved Christian. I don’t want another robot or another man. No one, nothing, can replace him.”

“I am so sorry. I wish I knew what to tell you.” Melissa managed to sound sad.

“You know.” March found herself in the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. “You know. You
won’t
tell me. Melissa, damn you, I need to know if he is dead. For God’s sake, I need closure.”

“I can’t tell you Christian’s status. Please take that as closure and go on with your life.”

March couldn’t think of a single curse word to express the hatred boiling in her chest. “Go on with my life?” She screeched, then regained some poise and dignity. “This isn’t a promise. It’s a threat. Somehow, I will find out what you’ve done to him.”

She slammed the phone down, fell onto the sofa and allowed the tears to come. No amount of weeping could wash away the emptiness inside her. The missing half of her ached like a severed limb. When she couldn’t breathe and her eyes burned red, she climbed to her feet. As the day faded to sunset, the lost soul March Diane Morgan wandered the apartment, picking up things, putting them down unremembered.

The phone startled March from her trance. The pretty glass paperweight the boys had given her one Christmas slid in her fingers, very nearly crashing to the floor. Not caring who was calling, she set aside the present and slipped her cell phone from a side pocket. Before she answered, she checked the identity of the caller.
The same international number. UK country code. Not Mayfair. Paul? The body thief?

Her nerves ratcheted tighter. She slid the circle across the screen. The instant the call connected, the line went dead. Fear trickled down her spine. Who was trying to reach her from the UK? She knew no one there except Mayfair. As she tucked the phone away, a roll of thunder shook the glass, rain battering the doors. A thunderstorm suited her mood, and numbly she gravitated to the front of the apartment to watch the fury of nature.

Muffled in the handbag, her cell dinged for a text alert. A disquieting feeling coursed through her. She crossed her arms, hesitating. Something told her not to open the message. Her steps faltered several times before she reached the sofa. A trembling hand fished the phone from its pocket.

I’m alive
.

The two words sent a cold chill down her spine. The text originated from the same international number as the mysterious, aborted calls.

“Christian?” she whispered, her heart racing.

The number wasn’t his cell. Mayfair would have confiscated a defective unit’s phone. The disappointment was almost too much to bear.

“Paul? I wished you dead. Why can’t you stay in Hell?”

****

An hour later, March forced herself to drive to her ex-mother-in-law’s house in The Woodlands. The forty-five minute journey from the Galleria sped by to the sound of tires on the interstate. Did dread always make a trip shorter? This was the first time she’d faced the boys since the ordeal that had cost her Christian. As expected, they were sad and afraid but put on a brave face. She comforted them as best she could, but teenagers aren’t too receptive to coddling, and young men are resilient. Tension sizzled among them, but, for March, the visit soured when Christian came under attack.

“Is that guy still around?” Paul Jr. asked, his lips tight.

She heard the unspoken accusation.
The guy who beat up my father.
How would she ever reconcile them to the fact that her fiancé had whipped their father’s ass? With Paul dead, wasn’t reconciliation a moot point?

March took a deep breath, and, gazing at a spot over the boy’s shoulder, said, “He’s gone.” Heart in her throat, nerves raw, she folded her hands in her lap, hoping they didn’t see the sudden tremor.

“He dump you?” Did Paul Jr. have any idea how cruel he was and how that question cut through her like a dull blade?

“She dumped him,” Michael defended his mother, and tears sprang to her eyes.

She swallowed hard and told a partial truth. “He had to return to England.”

To be put to death.

“England?” Paul Jr. arched his brows. “Did your boyfriend have anything to do with Dad’s death? I know he beat the crap out of him.”

“Christian had nothing to do with Paul’s accident.” She found herself on her feet, arms crossed, glaring at Paul Jr. “Your father deserved what he got. He came to my apartment drunk and angry. He tried to grab me, and Christian hit him.”

Paul Jr. shrugged, but anger sharpened his tone. “I don’t believe you.”

“Paul Jr.” Michael gasped. “How can you talk to Mom like that? Say you’re sorry, or you’ll never ride in my car again.”

“As soon as I got my license, Dad was going to buy me a car.” Paul Jr.’s voice hitched, his gaze locked on her face. “Guess that won’t happen now.”

“I think this has gone way too far.” March was wounded but as angry as Paul Jr. “I’ll say goodnight.”

Her chest cramped, the pain shooting down her left arm.
And maybe goodbye.

March stalked out of the room, her back rigid, and didn’t look back. Her entire life seemed to have been devoted to looking back.

“Mom, wait.” Michael caught her arm. “Don’t listen to Paul Jr. I’ll make sure he apologizes.” He shifted his weight from his left to his right foot, staring at the carpet. “We both love you.”

She hugged him close, the ever-present tears choking her. “I love you, too, son. Never forget that.”

The forty-five minute drive home gave her far too much time to think. Tomorrow, she’d return to work, and the day after, on and on. A bleak landscape, her life stretched before her.

Weary and dizzy, she trudged up the stairs and into her apartment. A soft glow from the nightlight in the bedroom welcomed her but reminded her of the ecstasy she’d known in that soft illumination. An army of memories tried to overwhelm her. In self-defense, she switched on the lights, reset her phone from vibrate to sound.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She’d missed an after-hours call from Mayfair. Excitement zinged over her, hope rising from the ashes. Her fingers fumbled over the number for voicemail.

In her crisp English voice, Melissa said, “Watch Channel 14 tonight at nine.”

Leaving March yearning to snatch the android through the receiver and choke her, the call ended with that cryptic message.

“Melodramatic bastards.” Pulse racing, she glanced at her watch. “Five after nine. Damn.” She kicked off her shoes and grabbed for the remote. “Now the stupid remote is missing?”

Failing to find the remote, March switched on the TV manually and punched the miniscule button until she found the right channel. Overheated and frustrated, she perched on the edge of the sofa. A glint of orange caught her eye. The missing remote was wedged between the cushions.