Suddenly, Christian stood in the bedroom door, bare from the waist up. “I’m glad you’re home.”
Something didn’t ring true in his tone. March tensed, recalling his independent thinking and emotions. God, she loved merely looking at him, but her wary heart shrank. Something was terribly wrong. He never lounged around half naked…unless they were together, then they liked to hang out nude. She tossed her handbag on the chair and strode toward him.
His hand shot up in the universal sign for stop. He stood straight, his tense body a barrier. In his crispest, most perfect English accent, he said, “You mustn’t come into the bedroom.”
Chapter 10
March’s heart skidded to a painful halt, lurched into a thundering rhythm. “Why not?”
A dark premonition prickled the back of her neck. The satellite radio was tuned to sensuous music. Ravel’s Bolero reminded her of making love slowly, deeply, her body in ecstasy as he rose and fell above her. I own this place, and, by God, I own him. Yet she couldn’t summon the courage to push past him.
His serious expression—the fear in his eyes—troubled her as much as the incense and passionate music. Then she saw the red rose lying on the highboy behind him. Another sound penetrated shock—a throbbing rock beat in the bedroom.
Staggered by a rush of anxiety, March just kept shaking her head. “What is—”
“March, close your eyes. Do not open them regardless of what you hear. I saw your face. You have misunderstood.” He reached for her, but she whirled out of range.
“What the hell are you talking about?” She backed away, threatening. “You don’t tell me where I can and can’t go in this apartment.”
“March…” Nervy creature actually sounded taken aback.
She buried her face in her hands, praying he wouldn’t see the tears leaking between her fingers. Behind her, she heard the scuffle of racing feet. The sliding door opened and closed. She felt it in her bones. Liz had made another move, and this time she’d succeeded.
At a light touch on her shoulder, she spun. He stood inches from her, the airspace between them electric charged. “Liz was here, and in my bedroom! Why? Were you doing her in my bed?”
“No.” He had the decency to look stunned, his eyes widening and darkening. “She was teaching me to dance. The closet doors are mirrors.”
March resisted the urge to slap his perfect face. “Why? You aren’t going to be a stripper.”
He shrugged. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust her. And you didn’t bother to tell me that you’ve talked to her again, after she tried to get you in bed.” March’s face felt hard and cold. God, how she hated the emotions seething in her. She was almost physically ill.
“I said I had to run. She continued talking. I couldn’t be rude. Liz cannot tempt me.” He shook his head slowly, his eyes glittering blue. “Don’t you understand I am attuned to you alone?”
“You weren’t supposed to be able to get angry.” She was unraveling, like a ball of yarn thrown across a room. “You did.”
Her heart shattered as he turned and walked away. Grief winded her. At the door, he glanced over his shoulder, again shaking his head. He was stunningly handsome, looked sad and hurt, but there was no apology in his intense gaze. Hands fisted at her sides, she tried to control the storm of fear, anger, resentment and pain.
“Where the hell are you going?” Her voice came brusque, short.
“For a walk to let you think and cool down.” Light and shadow chiseled his face, and her breaking heart skipped a beat. “I am not going to Liz. I have learned all I need to know from her. I shall never see her again.”
“You can’t walk out. It is impossible for you. You are faulty in some circuit somewhere. I’m going to return you.”
The most beautiful man in the world froze with his hand on the door. “Please don’t. This is a misunderstanding.” He blew out a long breath. “However, if that is what you want, I must advise you that Mayfair Electronics, 21 Dover Street, London, W1S 4LT will accept return of a flawed unit for a full refund.”
“Stop! You sound like a robot.” Her fisted hands struck the air.
He didn’t flinch. “I am a robot. That’s why this is an inane conversation.”
“Inane? I find you with another woman in the bedroom, and this conversation is silly? Oh, no, Christian. Did you invite her here?” Why couldn’t she stop hurting herself and let him go, lock the door and email Mayfair for a courier pickup?
Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the door. “She knocked. I answered and kept her outside until it started to rain. She was talking about the club and telling me, again, that I’d be a success as a male dancer. Being a success at something would be a bloody miracle. At any rate, half-jokingly, I asked her to teach me to dance. The End.”
“Not quite. Why did you slip her out behind my back?”
“I wished to avoid a scene like this.” His voice shaded deeper, darker. “And I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“There, it’s said. You can come back in now and stop pretending you’re leaving.” She waved a hand, half-heartedly beckoning. “You’ve got nowhere to go.”
He inhaled sharply as if she had punched him in the stomach. “I’m quite aware of that fact. I do not like seeing you this upset. Please call Mayfair tomorrow. I’ll voluntarily deactivate. They will dispatch a FedEx pickup for me.”
She raked a hand through her hair. “Oh, my God, what have you done and why? What have I done? Paradise Lost.”
“Why can’t you trust me?” His sad expression pierced her heart.
Nearly human. Though he didn’t have a heart, his emotions could be damaged.
“Because I don’t trust men.” An angry sob caught in her throat. When she could again speak, she croaked, “In general. Well, almost. I learned that lesson at my mother’s knee.”
“I’m not even almost any man.” He lifted his hands in a pleading gesture. “Return me to Mayfair for reprogramming. I don’t care. I only want to stay with you.”
“You have a funny way of showing it,” she said in a lethal whisper, her voice then rising in outrage. “If I’d been earlier or later, would I have found you bucking in bed?”
Looking stricken, he stood silent and straight, a bare-chested god with ice-blue eyes. Her temples throbbed, every organ it seemed aching. March’s knees buckled. Before she fell an inch, his arms were around her, lifting her up and over the back of the sofa, appearing beside her on his knees.
He bent and kissed her hand. “I can’t remedy the past. I can only assure that in the future you will have no reason to worry.”
“God, I hate being this way. I need a shrink.” She collapsed against him, sobbing.
“Then I wish I’d been programmed in psychoanalysis.”
March’s weeping hiccupped to a stop on a laugh. “You jerk, I was having a really good cry, and you made me laugh.”
Christian wisped the barest of kisses to her lips. “Please trust me again. I shall never betray your trust. I didn’t betray you this time. I was never, for one moment, tempted. And I promise always…” He lifted a hand in a vow. “To make you laugh and never cry.”
****
Ms. Morgan, we’ll be using the combination of a platinum compound, carboplatin, and a taxane, Taxol.
The oncologist’s prescription for chemotherapy echoed in March’s ears as she settled on the bed with Christian in a chair beside her, for her first infusion. The rift in their relationship had healed, leaving a scar of doubt. Feeling a little silly, a lot embarrassed and guilty, she’d emailed Mayfair for proof that his programming would prohibit cheating. They’d confirmed the impossibility. She was trying to convince her stubborn heart to listen.
March Morgan had to learn to trust. Christian Aguillard was eons ahead of her in that regard. He trusted her wholeheartedly.
As the nurse approached to insert the IV, March closed her eyes, her body rigid. God, she hated needles, and there’d be no
end to them for months unless she relented and had a central line port inserted. The thought of a catheter inserted beneath her collarbone sent a shiver through her.
March tried to be brave, but as the needle pierced the vein, she flinched, silent tears leaking from her eyes. Christian gave her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. The nurse started the chemotherapy and left the small room.
Christian broke the fearful silence. “Are you in pain?”
“No, hon.” She opened her eyes. “Now that the needle is in. I’ve always had this unreasonable fear and hatred of needles.”
His relieved smile comforted her. “Breathe.”
She exhaled a long breath, tension escaping on the sound.
Through it all, he held her hand. He lifted her palm to his mouth, his lips brushing her skin. A delicious shiver capered over March. Even here in a hospital bed, his touch thrilled her. The zing of excitement had nothing to do with sex. The intensity of his presence was like a golden aura. She was beyond glad he was with her in this horrible ordeal. Her handsome robot was good to her, good for her, and worth every penny she was paying.
He leaned close to whisper, “What do you think they’d say if I crawled into bed with you?”
Mesmerized in his gaze, she laughed. “That I was a lucky dog.”
Yes, even now, he could make her laugh.
“Mrs. March Aguillard sounds lovely.” His eyes were the softest, most enchanting blue.
She glanced at the IV and shuddered. “We’ll go for the marriage license Friday.” Finally, she’d overcome her fear of taking that second walk down the aisle. This time, she’d be with the man she loved. And who loved her. She had that statement in black and white.
“Close your eyes. Try to relax. This will be over soon.”
March didn’t know how long she lay in the bed with poison flowing into her veins, but Christian’s presence kept her from thinking about the nightmare. In a soothing voice, he talked about their wedding and a honeymoon in the Caribbean where she could paint seascapes at dawn and dusk.
Thereafter, he accompanied her to each treatment, holding her hand through the trial of needles and toxic drugs. Between the third and fourth infusions, her hair began falling out. Trying to cheer her, he went along to the beauty salon. As she’d vowed, she had her hair buzzed and dyed pink. They then bought a beautiful lace wig that could be glued on when she was bald. A complete contrast to her medium-length brown hair, the wig was long and a blend of three lovely shades of blonde.
“We’ll look like brother and sister.” Christian winked.
“How incestuous of us.” She hugged him from behind.
They hopped into their car, drove too fast downtown, and had lunch at Charivari, one of March’s favorites. She with her pink hair and he with his long tresses, they drew many a curious glance from the businessmen and women. With chemo symptoms beginning to manifest, March felt like she was living on the razor’s edge. That day, they laughed and kissed often, heedless of watchers.
Hugged close, they were laughing as they strolled along the cobbled path to their apartment. As it often does, when least expected, tragedy struck.
“What the hell have you done to your hair?” Paul, laden with Randall’s grocery bags, blocked their way.
Unconsciously, March stepped between the two men. “Had fun with it. My hair is falling out anyway and will until I’m bald. Chemotherapy isn’t a walk in the park.”
“I’m sorry, March. It took me by surprise. How’s the chemo going?” Paul glanced over her shoulder at Christian, but said nothing.
“It’s going.” She gestured at a spot behind her ex. “Excuse me, Paul. I want to get inside before the storm breaks.” Mischief made her say, “Rain might wash the pink out of my hair.”
Christian laughed, and Paul cut him a glance brimming with animosity. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Paul.” March scolded. “You know his name.”
“I forgot.” Paul scowled, as if trying to recall when she knew he damn well remembered.
“My name is Christian. I suppose we haven’t been formally introduced.” He didn’t offer a handshake or any Nice to meet you.
“You always did like Brits. Now, you’ve got one.” Paul fired at March, the insult actually aimed at Christian.
“Yes, I do.” She propped her hands on her hips. “Now, please let us by.”
Grudgingly, her ex stood to the side. “Oh, by the way, your creditors are calling me. Seems you’re behind on your credit card and your rent.”
Hot color flooded March’s face. She didn’t dare glance at Christian, but she felt his eyes burning her back. Damn, she hadn’t wanted him to know they were short of money. He’d definitely be upset. She straightened to her full five feet five, trying to temper the resentment in her voice.
The attempt failed, her tone making it clear her finances were none of her ex-husband’s business. “I’ll catch up. I missed a lot of work because of the chemo.”
Paul glared at Christian. “Where do you work, Christian?”
A flicker in her peripheral vision snapped March’s attention to Christian. Angry with Paul, she hadn’t noticed him appear at her side. She cringed as he stiffened, looking as if the other man had slapped his face and tossed down the gauntlet.
The rancor between the men echoed in Christian’s cold voice. “I’m looking for work.”
Behind the chill, March heard Christian’s frustration, knew the embarrassing exchange was meant to, and had, struck his—indeed most men’s—Achilles’ heel, professional success.
Staring at Christian, Paul huffed a condescending breath through his nose. “Take care, March. Be in touch.”
When they were out of earshot, Christian slipped an arm around her waist. “The man won’t give up. He still loves you.”
She paused with her foot on the first step and turned. “He wants to own me.” The instant she spoke, she realized her mistake and flinched. If only she could retract the words…
“Don’t worry. I don’t mind that you own me. In fact, I love it.” He pinched her ass. “I’ve never had sex with a pink-haired woman before.”
“We can remedy that.”
Like children, they raced up the stairs and into the bedroom, stripping as they ran, slapping each other’s butts and laughing. He seized her around the waist, folding her in a tight, feverish embrace. Trembling with desire, she watched his mouth coming to claim hers. When their lips met, excitement shocked through her, a fire sizzling deep inside.
He bent over her, his hair covering her face, his warm breath fanning her ear. “I’m all yours.”
Her mouth went dry. I’m all yours knocked the breath out of her. Heart thudding, she rested against him, drinking in his scent and warmth. He kissed her, his mouth satin, his tongue gliding between her parted lips. Her mechanical angel moaned into her as his hand closed on her breast.
She gasped his name, and he whispered, “March.”
She was ready, and dying to be filled by him. His mouth closed over hers, his tongue shafting into her. He backed her to the bed, and, as one, they tumbled onto the pristine white sheets. They were far too hot for each other to take it slow. Bodies tangled together, they rode each other’s rhythm until they collapsed in blissful satisfaction.
He kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, butterfly touches over her face. Peaceful and content, March threaded her fingers into the tide of silk cloaking his face. He caught her other hand, twining their fingers.
The phone rang. A knock sounded at the door. Neither of them moved. In the afterglow, he stayed inside her, each on the verge of sleep in that other world they’d carved from the mundane.
****
“Doctor, I’m afraid. My hands and feet tingle, feel like they are asleep.” She glanced at Christian. “I think I should stop the treatments.”
“Why do you look at him?” The doctor rested an elbow on his desk, a ballpoint poised as if to write in the air. “He doesn’t have cancer. I don’t have canc
er. You do. We can discontinue treatments if you prefer, but I wouldn’t advise it.”
March inhaled sharply, stunned at the unfeeling answer.
Christian sat forward in his chair. “That was not only rude but uncaring and totally uncalled for. I believe the first of the core values of this institution is Caring.”
The doctor retreated from Christian’s angry advance, shouldering back in his chair, for a moment gaping at the other man. At last, he said, “It’s her decision. We can skip one treatment, which is known to help prevent neuropathy.”
“Please. Even my lips are numb,” March said.
Skipping one dose, the freedom of one week, was a delightful reprieve. March felt as if she’d been pardoned from Death Row, but a nightmare of lying in that hospital bed startled her awake. In a dream haze, she ran her hand over the bed beside her, found it empty and lurched to her feet.
“Christian?” She whispered his name.
“Here. Living room. Good morning.” The sound of his voice always thrilled her, like music with a British accent.
She slid into a satin robe, belting it as she wandered to the living room. “Are you still at the computer? Did you even come to bed?”
He ran his hands back through his luxurious hair. “Looking for work. You need help, March. You didn’t tell me. You’re ill and shouldn’t be working at all.”
Damn Paul for putting her in this position. She didn’t know how to answer Christian, but hated for him to take the kind of job an illegal alien could expect. “We’ll be all right. Don’t worry. The work permit hasn’t yet come through.”
“I do worry. I want to work, March. From eight to five when you’re at the office, I need something to do that earns money, but all my applications are rejected. I think I have to face the fact that no one is going to hire an employee, or particularly a consultant, with no experience.” He snapped his fingers. “I need to retrieve some laundry from the dryer.”
Placing her hands on his shoulders, she leaned down to kiss his cheek. “If you didn’t do things around the house, they’d never get done.”
He turned his head and pressed his gorgeous lips to her hand. “That’s not enough.”
Love For Sale Page 12
