Christian heard footsteps on the stairs and swiveled the chair toward the tapping on the glass doors. “Joy! It’s Mr. Sunshine himself.”
March grimaced. “Oh, no, not this early on a Saturday morning.” She breathed a heavy sigh and faced the door. “Damn it, he’s bringing my mail. Our apartment numbers are only one digit apart. Both with the last name Morgan, Paul frequently receives my mail.”
He shrugged and turned back to the computer, studying a list of jobs for which he was overqualified. If only someone would give him a chance. She could read his frustration in the set of his jaw. With only a lamp, the light was dim, the scant illumination caressing the exquisite lines of his face. He cost her nothing except the monthly payment. Though she had insurance, the percentage of the co-pay had thrown her into financial difficulties. Primary responsibility for her money woes could be attributed to cancer.
Her desk overlooked the treetops. Once again, through the glass doors, the two men faced off. Paul’s eyes shot daggers at his opponent. Christian stared at the computer, ignoring the malevolent looks.
Paul tapped on the glass again, though he could easily see them. March belted her robe tighter, strode to the door and stepped outside onto the balcony. He held a stack of mail, the one prominently on top displayed a law firm’s embossing. Her ex pointed at that envelope, then glanced at Christian. He’d abandoned the computer and stood before the TV, remote in hand. He refuses to eavesdrop.
“If you weren’t supporting that worthless piece of crap, you wouldn’t be behind on your bills.” Paul’s voice carried, and March cringed.
Even with the noise from the TV, Christian’s phenomenal auditory perception would capture Paul’s degrading remark.
“Shut up.” March bit back a curse. “He’ll hear you.”
“Maybe that’ll get him off his lazy ass.” Paul’s frown darkened as he hurled a mocking, hurtful indictment. “I never thought I’d see the day when you were supporting a man.”
March retreated toward the door, but her ego still suffered a direct hit. “Thanks for the mail. Go. I don’t want to discuss this, now or ever.”
“Your choice.” He shrugged. “I’d put his Highness to work.”
March pointed at the stairs.
“I’m going.” He turned, turned back. “Do you want me to loan you some money to catch up?”
“Thanks, no.” She gripped the door handle, anxious to escape Paul’s accusing expression.
March didn’t watch her ex’s slow descent but whirled and hastened inside. Christian stood in front of the TV, staring at a situation comedy. He hated sitcoms. She tossed the mail, including the collection letter, on the table. Reluctance gripped her as she went to stand behind him. He flinched at the touch of her hands on his shoulders.
Her hand slid down his arm, gripping his wrist. “You heard?”
“Of course.” He patted her hand, faced her with a strained smile. “He’s right. He simply has the wrong reason why you’re supporting me.”
An ambulance siren screamed in the distance. March had always found sirens unnerving. In the early morning stillness, the shrill calls sent a shiver down her spine.
“Christian…” she brought his hand to her lips. “You are not responsible for my financial troubles. Cancer is. You eat nothing; drink nothing—”
“You’re making a payment on me.” Did he force his tense posture to relax? His expression softened, his bad boy grin captivating. “I simply want to help you buy me.”
“My darling, the payment to Mayfair is one I’d never miss.” She wound her arms around him, nestling her face into the crook of his shoulder. “We’ll manage just fine until the work permit arrives and you find something appropriate.”
He caressed her hair in long, comforting strokes but muttered under his breath, “The bloody day after never.”
Chapter 11
Liz hovered close—uncomfortably so—behind Christian as he examined one of the costumes he’d wear on stage. The black thong had a strap circling his neck and a small silver buckle at his navel. He longed to be able to indulge in second thoughts, but he was determined to succeed at something. Neither of his professions seemed willing to accept what they considered an inexperienced newbie requiring months, if not years, of training. This morning’s call to Mayfair New York produced merely another promise that the work permit was being handled as expeditiously as possible.
With the toe of his shoe, he ruffled the leather pants and vest that would be worn over a thong for his first performance. “I’ve never worn a thong.” And never planned to. He turned, almost kissing Liz’s nose. “Oh.”
“I don’t bite.” She laughed at his retreat. “You’ll look great in that little black number. And Mr. Christian, you should be pretty proud of yourself. Randy gave you the tuxedo solo and this is your first night. That’s the highlight of the whole evening, so he must think you’re as good as I do.”
“I’m not exactly Jean-Mickel.” Christian had watched the other model practice. “He can dance. I feel like a frog in a blender.”
“If a witch turns you into a frog, I’ll kiss you and turn you back into the handsome prince.” She patted his cheek. “And Jean-Mickel’s real name is Earl. No wonder the fancy name, huh? You’re the best looking, even if you’re not the best dancer yet. Women don’t really care how well you dance. They’re focused on looks and sexy. Hon, you’ve got no problem in either department.”
If I access my pleasure droid programming… And study other dancers’ performances before I’m on stage.
Christian flashed back to seven o’clock that morning, the exact time his decision was made. A mere eleven hours ago…
****
Monday, Monday…can’t trust that day… The line from the classic Peter, Paul and Mary song scrolled through his head as he’d knocked on Liz’s door.
Today, a Monday, after March left for work, unaware he’d reached a turning point, Christian descended the winding staircase into another life.
As the smiling Liz opened the sliding glass door to her apartment, his heart dived thirty thousand feet, crashing on the cobbles.
“Is it a cold day in hell?” She smirked. “Should I be flattered?”
His jaw tightened. It took every ounce of his being to resist turning around and walking back up March’s stairs.
Liz swept a sexy hand through her hair. “Sorry about being snarky. Let’s start over. Well, hello there, come in. Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Could he really take that fatal step over her threshold?
Every program, every circuit screamed no. But what choice had he? He could no longer stand the humiliation, rejection, and final knowledge that he was, more or less, a liability to March. Staring at his damnation, he cursed the encoding ripping him apart. It choked him like a collar, throttling him and rooting him in place.
Apparently, his hesitation didn’t register on Liz.
A low whistle fluttered her full lips. “Don’t you look good in a suit? Where are you going all dressed up on this hot September morning?”
“To the club with you.” He’d worn the dark blue suit and crisp pin-striped shirt for an interview. Granted, he’d never foreseen this position in his future.
“I like that idea.” She saluted him with her Houston Texans mug.
He hovered at a door he didn’t want to enter. As Liz’s bold gaze drifted over him, her pink tongue traced her lower lip. Drowning in self-consciousness and guilt, he blew out a breath and accepted her invitation. She wriggled her shoulders, parting her Japanese print robe, immediately turning the visit into a seduction.
A step inside, she gripped his hand. “Welcome to my casa bonita.”
The bartender’s home was quite a contrast to March’s apartment. Probably, the sofa had once been expensive, but the olive color as well as the nubby upholstery belonged to another decade. Liz had stacked two open-ended wooden crates for a bookcase, filled with CDs and DVDs. Instead of classical satellite radio, rock music throbbed from
a surround sound system. There were few personal touches like photographs and decorations. The beige walls were bare except for a giant flat screen TV and one framed portrait of a man in a g-string humping a microphone on stage.
Liz pointed her coffee mug at the portrait. “He used to be the lead dancer at the club, but he joined Chippendale’s.”
“Liz.” He hesitated. The next question would change his life forever. “Are there any positions open at the club?”
Her brows shot up. “Only dancers.”
Christian nodded, swallowing the bitter confession that he needed a job. “I’d like to apply.”
The robe loosened, a V of pale skin in the sexy red satin, both breasts on exhibit. “Does March know you want to be a stripper?”
Want to be a stripper? Not in this lifetime, but…necessity is the mother of invention.
“I’m no longer with March.” Christian had stood in front of the mirror practicing, but still it sounded like the lie it was. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, hoping Liz hadn’t heard the sadness in his voice. “I’ll also need a place to stay. Small is okay. I don’t even need a bed.”
“Wow.” Her blue eyes widened. “I’m speechless. What happened to you and your sweetie?”
“We had…a disagreement.” He resisted the urge to fold his arms across his chest, not wishing his body language to shout stay away from me.
“You don’t have to tell me.” She fingered his lapels. “As far as a place to stay, you can stay here, hon. I don’t have a spare bedroom but…”
He shook his head. “That would not be appropriate with March upstairs.”
March was right. Liz was hot enough to burn your hands. Her hair, brushing her trim waist, looked soft, shiny, and silken. Long lashes fringed deep blue eyes with a mischievous tilt at the corners. Her body would tempt any man. Yet no other woman attracted him, as it should be, and he was determined to survive this close encounter with the sensual blonde.
“Too bad.” Her hand ventured from his neck to his zipper. “We could have a really good time. Oh well, write in a heavy sigh here. There’s an apartment above the club. Randy might let you rent it. The digs have been vacant since Samuel went big time.”
Despite his heavy heart, he smiled. In the UK, randy meant horny, an amusing coincidence. “I have no money.”
“He’ll probably let you move in as an advance. Hell, you’ll pay him for six months rent with your first night of tips. If not, I’ll loan you the money.” Her gaze swept down him, lingering on the front of his trousers. “Wow, they won’t have to stuff your costume.”
Humiliation knifed through Christian. God, why had he come? He was breaking tradition, violating his programming, and he hated the idea of working in a strip club. At some time, he needed to determine how he’d overcome his encoding, but Liz was danger, up close and present. If only he could hurry upstairs, shred the goodbye note, and be waiting when March returned from work.
Pride wouldn’t allow him to run back to her arms. She’d spent far too much money on the purchase, and he needed to help her recover. If Liz’s predictions weren’t ego boosts, soon he could return home and comfort March through her treatment. A chill rolled over him. What if she won’t take me back? I’ve nowhere to go except Mayfair, and she’ll face cancer alone.
“Christian, you’ve gone awfully quiet.” A fingertip traced his ear, ending his wishful thoughts.
He forced a smile. “I thought I’d allow you to take a good look without interruption. I have a feeling that my being hired will depend a lot on you.”
Before he could react, she applied her body along his length, threading her fingers into his hair. He watched helplessly as her mouth closed in on his. For a long moment, he refused to embrace her, then his arms slid around her waist, but he did not react to her feverish kiss.
She stood back, gazing into his eyes, her hands still tangled in his hair. “If you’re not engaged anymore, you could have kissed me back. You don’t like me, do you?”
“You are very attractive, Liz. I like you. It’s simply…I’m still in love with March. I know time heals, but not much time has passed.” Fifteen minutes to be exact. A vision of March as she closed the door leapt in front of his eyes. His heart clenched around the low-grade, ever-present ache. The saints knew he longed to yield to the urge to return, seek comfort in the softness of her lips, but he simply could not expose her to more emotional damage.
“Do you want to hang out here until this afternoon when we can see Randy?” She moved in on him again, rotating her pelvis against his.
Christian tilted his hips away, his arms falling to his sides. “Thanks, but I need to dash off.” He’d find a quiet nook, switch into sleep mode with a wide radius warning of anyone approaching. “What time should we visit Randy?”
“I don’t go to work until six thirty, but we can try him around three.” She shrugged, wriggled her shoulders, rubbing her large breasts against his chest. “We can always have a drink.”
Yes, he was dying to have a drink with the woman all but raping him! “I’ll pop around about three, then.”
He considered asking if her breasts were real. Touching them was the only way to confirm or deny. Asking would either encourage or offend her. He suspected the former but was in no position to take chances over trivial questions. The hooters, he’d heard them called, appeared too large for her slimness. He bit back a laugh, imagining her boobs overbalancing her and Liz tipping over. Then he’d only have to catch her!
She delved her hands beneath his coat, stripping it off his shoulders. “Stay awhile. You have to know I really want you to—what do you say in England—shag me?”
“I can’t, Liz.” He shrugged out of her grasp. “Please try to understand.”
Something you can’t possibly know or understand. I’m not programmed to love you, and even if they tried, the reprocessing wouldn’t work.
His tormentor swept a hand through her hair, pointing her breasts at him. “Don’t tell me the handsomest man in Houston has erectile dysfunction.”
“Not that. Liz, I love March.” He accented each word. “Don’t you see?”
“But you’re not together.” She unzipped his trousers.
He zipped. “Take me at my word.”
If persistence was a virtue, Liz was a saint.
“Okay, hot stuff, three o’clock. You won’t need that suit. At least, I’ll get to see you naked, or nearly naked.”
Feeling dead inside, Christian trudged up the winding stairs to March’s apartment, collected his things, and went in search of a place to hide until the dread hour of three o’clock.
****
“Hi, babe,” March called. “I have a present for you.”
An ominous silence greeted her.
“Christian?” A dark premonition slithered down her spine.
The apartment felt as if it had been deserted for years.
It was the Monday following the charged conversation about a job. Heart pounding, March tossed the gift bag on the sofa and ran from room to room. The house was quite simply…empty. Every trace of Christian was gone—his clothes, his toiletries and toothbrush—had disappeared. Stunned, she fell across the bed, letting emotions wash over her until one struck. Grief. Her heart actually, physically ached. Unable to remain still, she climbed to her feet and paced to the door, turned back to the window.
Rubbing the tightness in her chest, she asked the emptiness, “Where is he? He’s not supposed to be able to leave me, but I feel it in my bones. He’s not coming home.”
Her stomach wound into a painful knot. Tears scrolled down her cheeks, but she stood motionless in the bedroom where they’d shared love and pleasure, her hands hanging helplessly at her side. Why had he run away? What had driven him to flee? Damn Paul, he had shamed Christian with his accusations about her supporting a man. Nothing had happened between Christian and March to cause this disaster. In rapid succession, she recalled the obstacles her ex-husband had thrown in the path of t
heir happiness.
“Somehow, I must find him.” Her knees turned to jelly, and she collapsed on the bedroom floor. “I wonder if Mayfair has a way of tracking him.”
She shot a frantic glance at the clock, but it was too late to call England. Sitting on the floor wasn’t achieving anything. As she climbed to her feet, she saw something that had escaped her notice in her frantic search. On the dresser was a folded piece of printer paper. Her heart sank to the bottom of her feet. Staring at the note, she rubbed her aching belly. Then she watched her numb hand reach for whatever message he’d left for her. Holding her breath, she unfolded his goodbye note.
In his perfect cursive handwriting, the message read, “Since I arrived, you’ve had nothing but trouble from your boys, your ex, the downstairs neighbor. And finally from me. I’ve found a job and will send you money to make the payments to Mayfair. Please believe my heart is breaking with each word. I miss you already. Perhaps, one day I can come home. I love you. Christian.”
A sob broke from her. She clutched the note to her breast. “I hate you all. You’ve lost me the only man I ever loved. Your selfishness drove him away. I see that now.” In the beginning, even the boys had manipulated her feelings, trying to destroy her relationship with Christian. Fear fell into step in the parade of her emotions. “And I’m sick and alone.”
March Morgan, cancer survivor by three months, fell on the bed and cried herself to sleep. Later that night, she awoke to the nightmare of an empty bed and emptier house. Stumbling to the kitchen for milk, she stopped to listen to the lonesome whistle of the four o’clock train.
****
Six hours earlier, a troupe of four men dressed in black leather pants and black leather vests mounted the stage. Christian Aguillard, lately of Mayfair Electronics, Ltd., rotated his hips, enticing the women gathered at the foot of the stage to stuff money into his pants.
In a fierce gesture, the men ripped off their vests to cheers and whistles from the audience. Each one, cued by a certain note, danced to the front, perched on their haunches and teased the girls. He could almost smell the sexual tension in the booze-scented semi-darkness. Watching David, a darkly handsome Greek, drop to the polished floor, kick his legs over the stage and shed his pants, Christian dreaded his turn.
Love For Sale Page 13
