Love For Sale (11 page)

“Yum.” She unzipped his jeans, slid her hand beneath the waistband, closing her fingers on his hot shaft. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“This.” He kissed her, the passion in her resonating in him, and lifted her, laying her gently on her back on the floor.

For a moment, he held his breath, simply worshiping the woman gazing at him reverently. If she returned him, only Mayfair knew what would happen to him, but more than that, much more, dear God, he loved her.

Eyes hooded, lips parted, she tugged the caftan to her waist, wriggling into position. This was going to be hot, hard, and fast. Balanced on his arms, gazing into her eyes, he thrust into her. Her head drifted to the side, her eyes closing as her hips lifted and a moan tempted him to feather kisses to her parted lips. He drifted down on her, relishing her softness. Her nails raked his butt, urging him to satisfy her.

He stroked in tempo to her groans. She rose up beneath him, wrapping her arms and legs around him. Her mouth opened on a silent scream. His body trembled as release swept them into ecstasy.

Chapter 7

March’s cell phone chimed Paul’s ringtone.

“Crap.” She gasped, still breathing hard and fast in the afterglow.

“Who is it?” Christian rolled off her, arm flung across his eyes, lying on his back fully clothed except for the good parts. “Have you noticed how a phone always interrupts important things?” he muttered.

“I’m tempted not to answer, but it might be about the boys.” She struggled to her feet, and cursing silently, rummaged in her handbag for the obtrusive phone. “Hello, Paul.”

“Damn.” Irritation was obvious in Christian’s voice.

Annoyed that Paul had, yet again, intruded on her intimate time with Christian, she flopped onto the sofa, tickling his belly button with a toe. The symmetry of that small V of skin, showing where his shirt had come unbuttoned, made her want to lick him all over. He laughed, squirmed, and leapt to his feet. When he slid a classic Peter, Paul and Mary CD into the player, she tossed him a smile and a thumbs-up. The song was
Blowin’ in the Wind. How many roads must a man walk down…

“March, your doctor’s office has been calling here looking for you.” Paul used the scolding tone he sometimes gave the boys. “No message. Call and give them your new contact information. Write this number down.”

Feeling unreal, she pointed at a ballpoint with the oil company’s logo. “Christian, please hand me the pen.”

“Oh, he’s there? Living with you, is he?” Paul sneered.

“We’ll talk later, Paul.” Every second ratcheted her nerves tighter. “I need to reach my doctor before six. Sorry, I forgot to update my personal file.”

“What’s wrong, March?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

“I don’t know yet.” Her heart beat a symphony of dread. “I need to go.”

Frowning, Christian strode to her side. He didn’t speak but slid a comforting arm around her waist. In the heaven they had carved for themselves, she’d forgotten about the biopsy. God, she was scared to death. Linda McCartney had died of ovarian cancer, and several of the women at work had suffered from breast cancer. One of them didn’t survive.
It can’t end now that I found him.

“I’ll be right back, darling. I need to make this call immediately.” Dialing the number with shaking hands, she hurried to the doors, flung them open, closing them behind her.

On the patio, she leaned on the frescoed iron railing and prayed. Fear boiled in her stomach. She hit call, and the receptionist answered with a cheery greeting.

“This is March Morgan. I understand Dr. Lancaster has been trying to reach me. I’m sorry I missed her calls. I have been out of the country.”
Out of reality. Out of my mind happy.

“Yes, Mrs. Morgan, hold please. I’ll transfer you to the nurse.”

The anxiety in her tone chilled March’s bones.
Dear God
,
if the biopsy was negative, they…
And she’d thought the intermittent breakthrough bleeding was early menopause.

“Mrs. Morgan, this is Jane, Dr. Lancaster’s nurse. Yes, we have been trying to reach you about the results of your biopsy. May I put you on hold? Dr. Lancaster would like to speak to you.”

March’s throat closed, tears welling in her eyes. Her lips and her hands trembled. She glanced over her shoulder. Christian slid a fresh salad onto the pass-through. Their eyes met. He smiled, but his face was tense. Holding her gaze, he strode toward the door. Bless his heart—circuits—he looked worried. She shook her head, waving him away. He hesitated, frowning, then turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

“March, Andrea here. Please come in as soon as you can. Today, if possible.”

“It’s almost six.” March paced the confines of the narrow balcony. “Doesn’t the office close at six?”

“I’ll wait for you. Can you come now?”

“Yes, of course. What’s wrong, Dr. Lancaster?” She leaned against the brick wall, closing her eyes. “The biopsy came back positive, didn’t it?”

“We’ll talk when you get here.”

It is positive or she’d tell me on the phone.

Shocked numb, March wandered to the door. A step over the threshold, she ran out of courage. She needed Christian’s support, but didn’t want him to know the truth, that she had cancer. He captured her in an intense gaze, waiting as motionless as an exquisite statue.

She tore her gaze free of the question in his eyes. Face and voice remarkably composed, she said, “I have to go to my gynecologist for some test results. She’s fitting me in. I might have to wait.”

“Gynecologist? What kind of tests?” He strode across the room, seizing her arm in his firm but gentle grip. “I’m going with you.”

“I’m okay to go alone. We’ll talk when I get back.”

“March.” The hand on her arm trembled, but command echoed in his voice. “I am going with you.”

****

“Oh, my God.” March gasped, collapsing into the cushions of the pastel floral sofa. “I’ve got ovarian cancer?”

Christian inhaled sharply, his hand tightening on hers. She risked a glance at him. Tears shimmered in his blue eyes, his exquisite face a portrait of fear. Her knees felt like unset Jello. Unbridled terror paralyzed her, but only one silent tear drizzled down the side of her nose.

Dr. Lancaster closed a manila file. “It’s not a death sentence as it once was. We’ve caught it fairly early on. What cancer hospital would you like to go to?”

March shook her head numbly. “We have the number one cancer center here in Houston.”

“I’ll write the orders now, phone, and get you in as soon as possible. You may have to undergo chemotherapy. Surgery is a given.”

“I’ll lose my hair.” March’s voice trembled.
What will happen with Christian? Oh, what will happen when I’m bald and sick?

Finally, he spoke, his beautiful voice choked. “Whatever it takes to get you through this, March.”

Andrea Lancaster said, “Listen to him.” She studied Christian as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m glad you won’t face this alone.”

March squeezed his hand. “I’m not alone.”

He glided to his feet, lifting her with him. God, he was beautiful and elegant, even in his distressed jeans.
If I hadn’t bought him, dear fate, I would be alone.
As the full realization struck her, March’s knees buckled. The sheer horror of the future, if there was one, knotted in her stomach. Her sentient android slid a comforting arm around her waist, steadying her. His sympathetic expression wrung her heart. Tears blurred her vision. Sadness and compassion brimmed in his eyes.

Even if I am sick and bald, he can’t leave me. I own him. Or does he own me?

“I’ll phone you with your appointment date.” Dr. Lancaster stood, strode around her desk and hugged March. “Try not to worry.”

“I’ll try.” Self-pity lumped in her throat.

Why me?
A strange anger and outrage filled her. March wanted to scream at the universe, cry…yet beg for her life.

The long journey home with the terrifying news echoed silent. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of the uncertain future. Later, she’d talk with Christian about the possible death sentence. Right now, he respected the tense stillness and her introspection.

On the balcony, she gave him a quick hug. “You go in, darling. I want some time alone to think.”

He nodded, looking reluctant. “Are you sure?” A stubborn note shaded his voice. “I want to be with you and help you.”

“For a short time, I need to be alone.” She watched him open the door.

He glanced over his shoulder, offering a second chance for comfort, but she shook her head. Like a knife, a sudden thought thrust through her guts.

What will happen to Christian if I die?

The landlord would throw him out onto the streets. He had no friends, nowhere to go. She knew he’d grieve for her. If anything tragic happened, he must return to Mayfair. Tomorrow at work, she’d email the company and forbid them to deactivate him. He must be reprogrammed, sold to another. That thought cramped her heart.

Until that minute, March had been able to control the tears. A sob broke from her, rasping her throat.
I mustn’t let him see me cry.
She whirled to face the stone lanes winding through the overshadowing oaks. Thunder rumbled in a dark sky. Lightning blazed heaven to earth, a deadly trident striking the sidewalk across the street. A banshee wind screamed, ripping leaves from trees and tossing them at her balcony. The storm lashed out in full fury. Rain whipped her, mingling with her tears. Instantly, she was soaked to the skin, but she scarcely noticed. March buried her face in her hands and wept aloud.

Inside, faint in the storm, the satellite radio was playing Pachelbel’s
Canon.
She loved the piece, but today it sounded incredibly sad. Marooned in the center of the living room, Christian stood staring straight ahead, his beautiful face betraying
his
pain and anxiety. It was wrong to leave him worried while she indulged in useless self-pity. March schooled her expression, swallowed her tears. One more deep steadying breath, and she strode to the door, slid it open, and stepped over the threshold of a new life…and new fears.

Christian rushed to her, his arms open in invitation. He didn’t speak, but his eyes said what his lips did not. March collapsed into his embrace, battling the dreaded tears. He hugged her tight to his body, her clothes soaking his crisp white shirt and faded jeans. She lifted her head from the crook of his shoulder, took his face—so beloved her heart wrenched—in her hands.

Lower lip trembling, she said, “We have to talk, my love.”

His face blanched pale. He captured her hand and led her to the sofa, sank down and pulled her onto his lap, cradling her in his arms.

Her throat closed, and she had to hesitate until she could speak. “Christian, I don’t want you to worry. I’ll be treated at one of the world’s top cancer hospitals.”

Tears glittered on his long lashes. “I’ll do anything. March, we shall see the end of this.”

She nodded, caressing his cheek. “I’ll have chemo. My hair will come out.”

“That doesn’t matter.” He swallowed hard.

Alarm and pain chased across his face. She knew that he tried to control his expression, but concern pinched the skin around his eyes.
He does genuinely love me.
Her heart swelled until she thought her chest would burst.

For a long moment, he was silent. “I want to be reprogrammed as a cancer specialist.”

A laugh burst from March. “Darling, you couldn’t get privileges at a hospital without credentials.”

His eyes lit a brighter blue. “I made you laugh.”

March buried her face in his hair and kissed his neck. “I’ll be fine. I have you.”

Christian stroked her back. “Always.”

****

Christian accompanied March on her first visit to the hospital. She met the surgeon and the oncologist, and a date for surgery was set. The procedure would be a total hysterectomy. Except for the extent of the surgery, after the appointment, she felt a little more hopeful.

“The cancer is stage three.” The oncologist suggested chemotherapy, and she tried not to cry as Christian held her hand.

Stage three
echoed in her thoughts, fear clutching her heart in its icy hands.

On the return to the car, he didn’t force conversation, seeming to understand her need for time to think and absorb the magnitude of what she faced. The nurses and doctors had been caring and interested in answering her questions and listening to her fears. Now, she had to accept what she’d learned.

In the hospital garage, he hugged her. “It’s going to be all right, you’ll see.”

She fisted her hand below her lips, battling the hot tears stinging her eyes. “I know, dear. Thanks for being here, for being you. I know it sounds petty, but I hate the thought of being bald.”

“You’ll be just as beautiful.” A soft light shone in his eyes, his expression tender. With the back of his hand, he traced her cheek. “I read up a bit. When the time comes, to lessen the trauma, one woman, a Barbara V. from here in Houston, recommended cutting the hair short.”

“Good advice. You wouldn’t see it on your pillow or in the shower. I’ll have it buzzed and dyed pink!” She laughed at his horrified expression. “I’m serious. Might as well have fun with it.”

He framed her chin between his thumb and index finger. “That’s the spirit. I’m quite sure you’ll be a trendsetter with short, pink hair. I might dye mine to match.”

“No,” March grabbed his arm. “I want you exactly as you are. If you haven’t noticed, I like looking at you. Let’s go find a gorgeous wig.”

He opened her door and handed her into the car, bending to whisper a kiss to her lips. “You’re amazing.”

Acting more cheerful than she felt, March watched her lover and best friend glide around the front of the car. She bit her lower lip, giving the scared March Morgan a pep talk. “I’ve always wanted a wig. Finding one, particularly with Christian making me laugh, should be a blast.”

March shouldered back in her seat and closed her eyes. “Damn, telling Paul is going to be a real bitch.”

She hadn’t intended Christian to hear, but he’d slipped quietly into the car. When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with a confused frown and a dark look on his face. March straightened, sensing his sudden withdrawal. His dynamite body was rigid. She was sure he modulated his voice, still his response held a slight edge.