Love For Sale

by Linda Nightingale

  ****

  The first day’s journey glancing at Texas in the rearview mirror was long, tiring, and boring but uneventful. Texas 36 North, the road less traveled, took twenty-seven hours, covering 1,779 miles through the tip of New Mexico, across Colorado and Wyoming. The scenery scrolled by unbroken by anything of particular interest. They couldn’t afford the time to stop overnight, but switched drivers with Christian behind the wheel most of the time. The specter of failure rode with them.

  “Here’s to Bonnie and Clyde.” March saluted him with an empty bottle. “Next opportunity, let’s stop for gas. I need water and a quick pit stop.”

  “Are you hungry? You scarcely ate yesterday.” He glanced at her smiling beside him.

  Her courage, her belief in him warmed Christian more than the sun streaming through the window screen.

  She stuffed the bottle into the grocery bag serving as their traveling garbage bin. “I’ll grab some beef jerky.”

  “Sounds disgusting.” Christian steered the dusty car into a petrol station in what he considered the middle of nowhere. “I’ll handle the pump while you refresh yourself.”

  He filled the tank and slid into the car to wait. March was notoriously selective in her choice of bottled water. Switching on the engine, he leaned his head on the window and closed his eyes, basking in the whir of the AC and enjoying the soothing strains of a harp on CD.

  A commotion snapped his eyes open. A policeman seized March as she exited the convenience store. She flinched back, dropping her water and beef jerky. The officer—with a robot’s voice—tried to calm her.

  It’s happened. They’ve come for me. All our desperate plans for naught. Mayfair had wasted no time finding them. If only he and March had been capable of disabling the damned tracking device installed at his birth. Another robot cop rounded the corner of the building. Mayfair must have expected trouble to send two droids to apprehend him.

  He hated to disappoint his creators. If they wanted trouble, he’d oblige.

  Anger and outrage twisted inside him. He was determined to be the last one standing. He slammed the door open, left it swinging, and raced toward his new destiny.

  Two uniformed androids faced him with stoic expressions, their hands hovering over stun guns designed for his kind. They were taller, thicker and wider than Mayfair’s usual productions, and they were ugly. Effortlessly, with one arm, an auburn-haired droid restrained March. She shot Christian a terrified, pleading glance. Everything inside him coiled into a sizzling electric rope searing his stomach and his heart.

  I can’t bear for her to pay for my sins.

  His hands fisted at his sides, his rigid jaw aching from gritting his teeth. “Free her. I’ll come quietly.”

  “No,” March screamed, struggling in the redhead’s grip. “He belongs to me. I have the documents to prove it.”

  The taller android turned a penetrating dark gaze on March. “You will receive a full refund or a replacement Special Edition if you wish.”

  “Listen, stupid.” March’s hands clenched. “I don’t want a freaking refund or another freaking robot. I want that one, and you can’t take him.”

  “Oh, but we can,” her captor said, pointing his gun at Christian. “Don’t do anything foolish, Ms. Morgan. You’re in no danger from us, but he is.”

  “March, it’s done.” Christian spoke around the tears knotted in his throat. “I can either walk out, or they’ll carry me out. I prefer to walk.”

  The cashier rushed to the door. “What’s going on here?”

  “We’re arresting this man for assault and battery with the intent to kill.” The redhead flashed a very realistic badge.

  The man nodded, retreating into his store. He would watch the drama play out from behind his closed door.

  March sagged in the droid’s grip, a ragged sob shaking her entire body. On another, louder cry, tears flooded down her cheeks. He loosened his hold, and she melted to the ground.

  “March.” Christian stepped toward her.

  The redhead pointed his weapon. “Don’t move.”

  The tall robot seized Christian’s arms, tying his wrists behind him with specially manufactured piano wire. He fought the urge to kick the bastard in the groin. If he resisted, he’d slice his hands off. Flanking him, the two droids half dragged him to a black van. On the telly, he’d seen the police use such vehicles to apprehend criminals. He’d never expected to ride in one.

  March climbed to her feet. Anger flushed her cheeks and flamed in her eyes. “If you think this is finished, think again.”

  The redhead opened the door and shoved Christian inside. “Don’t try anything, Christian. Our orders came from the CEO himself.”

  “I’m bloody impressed. Didn’t realize I was quite so important.” Heart aching, Christian flung the other androids a sardonic smile. “I was under the mistaken impression that Mayfair only designed beautiful droids. You must be a new line. Police bots?”

  “You can call us Blade Runners, wise ass.”

  Christian arched a brow. “Many, many other names come to mind.”

  An angry laugh rumbled from the blond’s broad chest and he tossed Christian a rude gesture. “I’m sure a Pleasure Droid knows lots of bad words.”

  “Bad words?” Christian sneered. “Oh, please, big, terrible Blade Runner.”

  “Shut up, pretty boy.” The redhead jabbed him with the stun gun.

  The door snapped shut. Darkness closed around him. In nerve-eating silence, they escorted him down the road to nowhere.

  Chapter 16

  “March, this is Joan. Something bad has happened to Paul.”

  Paul’s mother’s voice snapped March awake from a dream of Christian in thousands of pieces. “Paul?” She battled the tangled sheets to sit up. “What?”

  The nightmare had left a lingering sadness, and March couldn’t seem to shake sleep. Oh, yes, I took a sleeping pill last night. Since she returned from their aborted escape, she hadn’t been able to get any rest, day or night.

  “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 li
ne. 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 t
o 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.”