Love For Sale

by Linda Nightingale

  “Fits well?” Christian startled March out of her reverie.

  She turned, and her heart caught. “Very well. You look splendid.”

  His slender, muscled physique made the rental tuxedo as handsome as a custom-made original. He strolled toward her, turned full circle for her to admire him.

  The sales assistant strode across the narrow room to fuss with Christian’s bow tie. “Yes, a perfect fit. Would you like for us to hem the trousers for you?”

  “Yes, please.” Christian inched back from the young man’s attentions and glanced over his shoulder at March. “We can kill an hour somehow.”

  March grinned at Christian’s discomfiture. “Early lunch and browse the stores?”

  He nodded, disappeared into the fitting room, and March found a chair to wait. Another customer had claimed the sales assistant’s attention. Christian emerged from the dressing room. In his light blue shirt and navy pants, he was still droolworthy. Each time he gazed into her eyes, her heart hitched. He’d hung the tux on the rack but carried the formal shirt, cummerbund, bow tie, and patent leather shoes. She met him at the register, flipping her AMEX on the counter before he could retrieve his wallet. Brows arched, he returned the card to her.

  The dazed sales assistant watched him counting the rental charge in twenties and the remainder in ones. “Thank you. We’ll see you in an hour.”

  March linked arms with Christian. “I can see you’re going to be independent now, Mr. Aguillard.”

  He squeezed her elbow against his side. “Lunch sans mimosa, Mrs. Aguillard?”

  She twirled on his arm, and he waltzed her back as if he were in his tux and she in her gown, alone and surrounded by some magical golden glow. When she was with Christian, she ceased to care what people thought. The others were ghosts in her peripheral vision.

  ****

  Saturday night, dressed in their finery, Christian and March mounted the staircase of the country club. As they ascended, she noticed coworkers’ curious glances. March didn’t gossip, staying primarily to herself with the exception of a couple of friends. The women taking stock of her hunk in a tux didn’t know her, but she felt she’d scored enough points to move up in their estimation. The snooty VP of HR actually tossed her a smile before her ravenous gaze slid down Christian. A black ribbon bound his hair in a ponytail. The pale blond gleamed in the light of the crystal chandeliers.

  White robed tables crowded the ballroom, but March was glad to see that there was a dance floor. Christian stopped a uniformed waiter with a tray of champagne and handed her a flute. She sipped as they wandered through the guests, looking for a table not too near the stage. When the band started, she wanted to be able to carry on a conversation.

  Her devil-may-care attitude deserted her, and March plucked up courage with both hands. “There’s Jim, my boss. Let’s sit with him.”

  What would Jim think of her new beau? He’d never seemed overly impressed with Paul, but Christian would stand out in any crowd. Mayfair hadn’t missed a detail in creating him perfect. He didn’t look younger than March, but, with his ponytail and his model’s body, he was a far cry from staid, old oil.

  Christian captured her hand, smiling down at her. “Are we having fun yet?”

  How could anyone not have fun with such a good-looking, charming man on her arm!

  “I am. Aren’t you?”

  He nodded, allowing her to lead him between the tables. “Destination pleasure.”

  “Hi, Jim.” March waved her glass over two chairs draped in dark blue silky material. “Is anyone sitting here?”

  “You.” Then her boss glanced at her escort, and his brows flickered in surprise.

  At fifty, gray streaked Jim’s mousy hair. He had a pleasant face with a ready smile. His most remarkable feature was beautiful, vibrant green eyes. A considerate, intelligent man, good at his job, he was a great boss and didn’t hold with formalities. Bless his kind heart, he looked out of place in the tux.

  “Jim, this is Christian and vice versa.” March set her champagne beside a program with the company logo.

  Christian leaned across the table, Jim half-rising to accept the handshake. “Pleasure, Jim.”

  “Same here. So, what part of England are you from?” Jim settled back as Christian held March’s chair. He glanced at her, then back at Christian.

  She settled her evening bag on the table, slid into the seat and looked up at her escort—Christian Aguillard, handsome, English, and not human.

  Elegant in his tux, he drifted into the chair beside her. “London.”

  “Really like London. Company has sent me there a couple of times.” Jim studied Christian, his expression unreadable. “How do you know March?”

  “Actually, we met in London when she visited earlier this summer.” Christian’s hand, as warm as mortal flesh, covered hers.

  “So, that’s where you went on that surprise vacation, Ms. I’ve Got a Secret.” Jim wagged a finger at March.

  March stiffened slightly, fighting a wave of dizziness and nausea. Sometimes, she could forget the effects of chemo. How she hated the thought that sickness and weariness might spoil her evening. Tonight, she was a princess in a fairytale complete with beautiful gown and Prince Charming.

  She shrugged, lifting her brows. “Just a spur of the moment decision. And no, I hadn’t met Christian on the Internet before I darted off to England.”

  “That would have been difficult since I’ve never registered with a dating site. Classified ads are more my style.” Christian shot her an amused glance, no doubt thinking of the Mayfair advertisement that had tempted her to London. “March, Jim, care for a drink? I’ll grab the first round.”

  Jim rattled the ice in his glass. “Vodka tonic, please.”

  “Make mine Crown Royal,” March said, batting her eyelashes at Christian.

  He kissed her cheek and rose. She and Jim watched him striding toward the bar, turning heads. The VP of HR cornered him in line for a chat. March wished she could hear the conversation, but the way Carole laughed and inched closer to him told the whole story. It was common knowledge that Carole and the VP of Downstream were an item. But apparently she likes my taste as well.

  She studied the glittering centerpiece, a silvery concoction resembling a tall, icy tree. “This is different.”

  “Looks like Carole has taken a fancy to your man,” Jim said. “How long is Christian visiting?”

  March started. “Oh, he…emigrated. He’s looking for work. Do we need an aerospace engineer?”

  “A rocket scientist?” Jim’s brows shot up. “Christian is a rocket scientist? He talks and acts like one of those English lords from Masterpiece Theater.”

  “One isn’t mutually exclusive of the other.” March laughed.

  “Don’t tell me he is English aristocracy.”

  “Okay. I won’t tell you.” She opened her beaded evening bag, fishing for her lipstick. “No, seriously, he is a rocket scientist but not aristocracy. He just sounds like he’s the latter. Great accent, huh?”

  “Very posh.” Jim tilted his drink to his lips and finished the watered down dregs of the vodka and tonic. “Where does he live? Near NASA, I presume.”

  She paused with her lipstick halfway to her mouth. “Well, no. Actually, he lives with me.”

  Jim’s face flushed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “I don’t mind. He’s going to be a permanent resident.” She applied the nice shade of pale pink to her lips and gave Jim a wide grin. “Why should I try to hide that I’m living in sin?”

  He chuckled, lifting a high five. “Sinners have more fun than saints. You go, girl.”

  As the clock neared eight, the crowd thickened. Christian had escaped Carole and was steering around the knots of people blocking his return. March looked at him and sighed. She’d never, never been this much in love, and inside he was a maze of circuits and computer chips. Some women loved drunks, some abusive fools. March Morgan loved a robot. And she didn’t give a
flying rip about others’ opinions.

  ****

  What did Jim think of him? Did he wonder at March’s taste in men? In her business suits, she looked ultra-professional. This evening, in her gown, she was a beautiful woman despite her illness, and Christian was sinfully proud to be her…Lover? Husband? At least fiancé. If he landed a position, he could buy a ring. Tonight was the night. He was dying to get her alone and propose. His heart swelled as he imagined her joy. Were his feet still on the floor or skimming above the floral carpet? Smiling at his thoughts, he halted at her side, delivering her Crown Royal and leaning across the table to hand Jim his vodka and tonic.

  “What is that Cheshire cat grin?” March trapped her lower lip between her teeth and winked.

  “Thanks,” Jim said, glancing from one to the other.

  “All will be known later.” Still grinning, Christian resumed his seat. “Did you tell Jim I’d relocated to Houston?”

  “I told him we were living together,” she said, looking terribly mischievous.

  “Excellent.” He could barely contain his secret. “Did you tell him we were engaged?”

  March shot him an odd look, surprised no doubt that he was proclaiming publicly to be her fiancé when he hadn’t formally, on bended knee, asked her to marry him.

  Jim raised his glass in a toast. “Sounds like congrats are in order. Don’t you drink, Christian?”

  “Designated driver,” he said. “To commemorate the occasion, I’ll have a sip of March’s CR.”

  “CR? Oh, Crown Royal. I guess rocket scientists speak in acronyms.” Jim tapped his glass to March’s. “To your health and happiness.”

  After she sipped, Christian pretended to drink from her glass. “Looks as if the buffet is open. Shall we?”

  As they strolled to the tables laden with shrimp on ice, roast beef au jus, and an array of delicious smelling food, Christian whispered to March, “Choose two plates of something you like. You’ll have to eat whatever is on my plate. I can explain not drinking. Not eating is more difficult.”

  She linked arms with him. “You’ll have a little roast beef, mashed potatoes and asparagus. I’ll have shrimp and any other seafood on offer.”

  During dinner, a string quartet played Mozart. As the attendants cleared the plates, the classical musicians left the stage, and a band began setting up. Their first song brought the audience flooding onto the dance floor. March danced in her chair to Mustang Sally. Christian extended his hand and for the remainder of an evening that to him seemed far too long, they danced. When he held her close in a slow dance, excitement almost betrayed him, but he was determined his proposal would be romantic…and one to remember.

  In the car on the short drive home, March captured his hand. “Christian, if you’re ready, I’m ready to get married.”

  Damn, he didn’t want to propose in an automobile. He needed red roses and champagne, both of which he planned to dash to an all-night grocery and buy once they were home.

  Eyes glued to the road, he simply said, “Yes.”

  March stiffened. For a long moment, she stared at him, frowning. A tense silence resonated in the car. She was waiting for him to say more or show some excitement, but he couldn’t or the big production of asking her to marry him would be spoiled. Finally, she turned her head to gaze out the window. The late night streets were virtually empty. In the stillness, he heard the tires whispering away the miles.

  With this turn of events, perhaps, it would be preferable to stop at the grocery on the way home. He could ask March to remain in the car, promising a surprise. At this perilous juncture, a surprise was needed, and a proposal would indeed astonish.

  When he whipped the car down the wrong street to return to their apartment, March shot him a questioning look. “Where are you going?”

  “I need to stop by the all night market. Would you please wait in the car? I think you’ll be pleased with what necessitates this quick detour.”

  She smiled, and his mechanical heart skipped a beat. “How mysterious.”

  “I am a man of great mystery. Here we are. See you in a bit.” He hopped from the car and darted into the store.

  Exactly seven minutes later, he trotted across the parking lot with a dozen red roses and a bottle of Moet & Chandon, a good champagne. The grocery didn’t stock Dom Perignon, and their budget would scream at the price. March was staring out the window screen, appearing deep in thought. He opened her door, knelt on the asphalt and handed her the roses and champagne.

  “Christian, what are you doing?”

  “Put the champagne on the floor and give me your hand.”

  He took her hand and pressed his lips to her palm, then gazing into her eyes, he said, “March, I love you. Will you marry me? You know I’ve nothing but myself to offer.”

  “Oh, my God, Christian.” She twined her fingers with his. “Of course, I’ll marry you. You’ve got more to offer than any other man in the world.”

  Christian gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You didn’t say you loved me.”

  She bent, the roses tickling his face, and touched her lips to his mouth, whispering, “I love you more than I should. We’re going to be very happy.”

  “I’m already happy.” Happy? If he was any more so, he’d float off the ground. He tweaked the end of her nose. “I’d planned my proposal to be a bit more romantic, but you seemed to think I didn’t want to marry you.”

  “You noticed.” She laughed. “You are very intuitive.”

  He glided to his feet, bowed over her hand and kissed her fingers one by one. “Let’s go home and drink champers in bed.”

  Chapter 14

  At the touch of Christian’s soft lips on her hand, a shiver of excitement capered over March. She was to marry the man of her dreams! Marry? Lord, she’d thought she’d never want to take that long walk down the aisle again. Now, she could barely contain the joy swelling in her heart. Except for the handful of flowers, she’d surrender to the urge to leap from the car and hold her future husband tight against her body. He was smiling at her with the light of love in his eyes.

  Tears blurred her vision, a lump of emotions rising in her throat. “I love you,” she whispered gruffly.

  Somehow, he managed to lift her from the car without bumping her head, fold her in a heated embrace, and kiss her. She wound her arms around his neck, the flowers dangling from her hand. As always when they touched, passion sizzled between them. She felt him becoming aroused and deepened the kiss. He broke away, more than a little breathless.

  “Sealed with a kiss.” He swept an old-fashioned bow.

  March’s laughter died on a sudden realization. She hated the thought of wearing the wig in her wedding pictures. She would much prefer her own hair, but she was bald. Regrowth to a nice length would take at least a year. The cancer had robbed her of so many things, but thankfully not her life. She refused to allow that dark shadow to hover over her now. At the end of the day, as Christian was fond of saying, did the length or color of her hair matter a great deal? It was going to be the biggest, brightest day of her life.

  “Mrs. Christian Aguillard.” Lovingly, she traced the chiseled line of his jaw, and a beautiful smile fired his eyes brighter blue.

  How she wished she’d waited for her Prince Charming, not surrendered and married Paul. All the wasted years reared up to torture her.

  “You look as if you’re going to weep.” Christian slid a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face, gazing into her eyes with an enchanting intensity. “Don’t tell me you have reservations.”

  “None. I was simply wishing you’d come along earlier. Before I met Paul.”

  He grinned and tweaked her cheek. “I was probably only a twinkle in some scientist’s eye.”

  “Let’s go home, get these roses into water, and I like your idea of drinking champagne in bed.” Bumping him with her hip, she laughed. “And plan our wedding.”

  In the two-block drive to their apartment, Christian chatted happily about th
eir upcoming nuptials. “You’ll have to choose your dress.”

  “Yes, ivory, of course, but I want something sexy.” She undulated her shoulders, feeling frisky. “I saw one I liked in a magazine. Finding it may be a problem.” Her hand snaked up his thigh. “Let’s keep it small. My parents. My sister will be my maid of honor. Too bad you can’t invite your siblings.”

  “We can always try. Mayfair might consider it another beta test and allow at least one of my brothers or sisters to attend.”

  “Or think it’s an attempt at escape if Daniel is being watched.” March settled back against the door. “Is there any chance he might have been kidding?”

  He glanced at her, the worried look returning. “None.”

  Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. The quote from Hamlet could be applied to Mayfair, but why had she reminded him of those worries, particularly on this special night?

  He glanced in the rearview mirror and frowned. “I sincerely hope he is…okay.”

  “Why the pause?”

  “I don’t trust my mother company. In fact, I am afraid for Daniel and the others.” He blew out a breath. “Very afraid.”

  She patted his hand on the wheel. “The hardest part is the waiting.”

  “And there is absolutely nothing else we can do without revealing my identity.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his gaze soft and warm. “We mustn’t allow this to spoil our happiness in the meantime. We are engaged now, my wonderful, beautiful, sweet and spicy March.”

  ****

  Sunday morning, they sat in the dining room, March drinking coffee while they discussed the wedding. She glowed with happiness, her feelings resonating in Christian. He couldn’t resist stretching his arm across the table to touch her hand. First, they settled on a date in early December, the service at 6. She ran to the nearby market to buy a bridal magazine. When she returned, she switched the station to intimate piano, settling on the sofa to choose a gown.

  From the kitchen, he called, “More coffee?”